Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reckless. Idiot. Suicidal, the fishermen of a seedy little bar in Anchorage declared when Stan drunkenly announced his goal of sailing the rough, icy seas on a leaking crab boat nobody wanted anymore. A greenhorn like you won’t make it past the harbor, and yer stupid enough to think ya can cross the entire Bering Strait alone on that floating coffin? 

They could call it whatever they wanted. Stan had been nothing but stupid and reckless for all twenty-seven years of his shitty life, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stop now. 

He never bothered to explain the childhood promise he’d made on a New Jersey beach so long ago, in a world where nothing mattered except the grains of sand underfoot and the laughter of a boy with glasses too large for his face. 

One of these days, you and me are gonna sail away from this dumb town. We’ll hunt for treasure, get all the girls, and be an unstoppable team of adventurers!

Nothing more than empty words. Just a dumb kid saying dumb kid stuff. 

He shouldn’t have wasted his childhood on such a stupid fantasy. If he’d stopped to think about his lack of a future sooner, maybe he wouldn’t have been broke and homeless for the past decade. 

Why did he bother fighting tooth and nail to survive another day? A desire to prove himself useful to a family who couldn’t give a damn about him? Spite against the world for writing him off and acting like he never existed?

He didn’t feel the thrill of shoplifting a bag of chips from the gas station anymore, nor any actual joy when people slapped crisp green bills into his hand in exchange for a shoddy product. He’d slip into his larger than life salesman persona with practiced ease, throwing out an exaggerated, boisterous thank you and a friendly joke. But his smile was forced and unnatural, his teeth yellowing from nicotine and lack of dental care, though he always put on a huge, entertaining show to distract his customers from noticing. They only cared when the products fell apart and they came after him with personal injury lawyers and cops, which suited him just fine. 

A bag of chips was no substitute for a warm, homecooked meal. It didn’t fill his stomach, didn’t last long, and anybody with a craving for junk food could’ve grabbed it off the store shelf. 

And he’d never come close to earning one million dollars he needed before his old man would even think about letting him come home again. He saved what he could, but it would be gone in the blink of an eye. 

Sometimes he needed gas. Sometimes he had to pay off a debt, or cough up the money he’d earned to someone more powerful than he could ever be. Sometimes he was just stupid and impulsive and reckless, gambling away his casino earnings until he wasn’t left with a penny to his name. 

When that postcard slipped through the mail slot of his cheap motel room, he thought it was one of Rico’s tricks. He must’ve dredged up Stan’s family history and sent him a postcard with Ford’s name on it, baiting him into a trap that Stan wouldn’t be able to escape from. He’d want revenge after Stan ratted out three of his men to the US border patrol to save himself from being arrested again. 

That’s why he fled to New Mexico and found a crappy motel just off the highway in the desert. He only meant to stay one night, catch his breath before fleeing the southwest altogether, but one night turned into two, then three, until Ford’s postcard arrived on the sixth night. 

Sixer always had a knack for dramatic timing. Good to know that hadn’t changed, even when the rest of him was unrecognizable. 

The postcard didn’t contain any updates on Ford’s life, nor did it ask how Stan was doing. By the way, he was doing just fine, thanks for asking. 

It only contained an address to a place called Gravity Falls, the postal abbreviation for Oregon following the town name. He’d never heard of it, so he’d thought Ford had settled in a suburb of Portland or something until he remembered that the typical American dream of owning a white picket fence while juggling a nine to five job alongside marriage and parenting didn’t sound like something Ford would be interested in. 

But what did he know? He hadn’t seen Ford in a decade. Tastes change. 

People change. 

PLEASE COME!

For the first time, he’d felt a spark of hope. Ford acknowledged him. Ford needed him. And as usual, Ford wouldn’t tell him anything more than this. 

Maybe Stan should’ve asked more questions or ignored the postcard altogether, but he couldn’t fully rid himself of the dangerous hope that Ford wanted to talk things out, try to make something work between them even if they could never go back to being each other’s best friend. 

So he gave up the security of the motel and pushed his old El Diablo to her limits as flat desert turned into rocky, unpaved mountain roads. The fog, ice, and terrible visibility forced him to slow down, his heart nearly stopping as the worn tires lost traction multiple times. He missed good old Route 66, where he could floor the gas pedal at eighty miles per hour without running the risk of plunging to his death. 

He only stopped to ask for directions once, at a small tourist shop by a river that separated Idaho from Oregon. 

There was a cough from behind the counter, and Stan knew the cashier was getting more unsettled with his appearance, even though he only stopped to pick up a map of the area. He always had that effect on people. 

Nobody wanted a homeless bum in their shop. 

Drove away business and all. 

Stan heard three telltale beeps before the cashier raised the phone up to her ear with a frightened look on her face. He was no stranger to people calling the cops on him, but usually he had a few felonies racked up before it happened. 

And he really didn’t want to be arrested before he had a chance to check up on Ford. 

Stan hightailed it out of the tourist shop with the map clutched tightly in his hand, the sound of the cashier giving a general description of him fading away. He almost slipped on the ice as he rushed to his car, forcefully wrenching the door open when an icy layer wouldn’t give way. He jumped into the driver’s seat, thrust his keys into the ignition, and peeled out of the parking lot as fast as he could. 

He hit the opposite curb in the small lot when he backed out, which didn’t help the poor condition on his back tires, but his El Diablo had weathered far worse beatings before. She’d be alright. She’d get him to Gravity Falls in one piece. 

It was sobering to know that the most reliable relationship in his life happened to be with his car. At least the Stanleymobile always waited patiently to be sprung from the impound lot when he was incarcerated. 

Soon he crossed the frozen bridge and left Idaho behind for the thick forest of eastern Oregon. 

No police cars from Idaho or Oregon followed him. He’d overheard plenty of arguments about jurisdiction and who had the honor of bagging one of his countless identities, which sounded more like gangs arguing over territories than anything. 

It just happened to be legal for the boys in blue, that was all. 

If Oregon wasn’t busy telling Idaho to scram before they sent beavers to eat all their potatoes, then they probably didn’t feel like coming out of their cozy, heated buildings today. Everybody became sluggish when it was below freezing, regardless of how much training they received. 

Even if the cops tried to pursue him, they wouldn’t be able to catch him in this dense forest. There were an endless amount of places to hide in case he needed to temporarily ditch the car. 

The forest seemed endless, miles upon miles of barren, leafless trees passing by in the blink of an eye. They loomed over the unpaved road, crooked branches with slender, finger-like twigs reaching to the sky as if silently pleading to be rescued from some sort of danger.

Stan couldn’t tell if he was driving on the road anymore. Or if there was a road at all underneath the snow and ice. He shivered in his seat, flexing his frozen fingers against the steering wheel. The El Diablo’s heater busted a long time ago, and his red jacket was useless at keeping out the cold. 

He only caught fleeting glimpses of the wildlife, who weren’t eager to come out of their burrows on a cold day either. A squirrel, a doe, and a perched bird scattered as the El Diablo shuffled past them. 

The rational part of Stan’s mind denied the sight of a pack of little bearded men fighting a gopher by a small berry bush. 

He drove for a long time, cursing the lack of signs or landmarks that could point the way to his idiot brother’s house.

Soon less than a quarter of his fuel was left. 

There was no convenient gas station nearby. If Stan ran out of fuel now, he’d have to walk the rest of the way and take his chances with the wintry forest. It probably looked better during summer, when the trees were lush and full instead of dead leaves that clung by a fragile stem. Maybe there would’ve been more animals scurrying around, or more people who wanted to escape to the forest for a break from society. 

Either there were countless agonized, wailing faces etched into the bark of the trees, or his imagination was playing tricks on him. He didn’t dare peer at them for too long. 

Questioning how things worked in this fucked up forest would only lead to trouble.

The sky darkened with every passing minute, flurries falling from the sky and gathering on the windshield. An earsplitting, nails-on-the-chalkboard screech came from the wiper as it painstakingly tried to remove enough snow so Stan could see where he was driving. 

Stan was no stranger to near death experiences. He’d been battered, bruised, and stabbed more times than he could count from men who’d been in the business for longer than he'd been alive. He’d nearly suffocated in the trunk of a car. He’d been grazed by bullets when he escaped from prison in Columbia. 

He didn’t care if he died because he’d gotten mixed up in some dangerous shit. It was a risk he’d accepted long ago. 

At least somebody would know he’d died. They’d have to get rid of his body somehow.

But if he died here, there wouldn’t be a soul to find his corpse for miles. His car would be buried in snow, his body claimed by nature. 

Would Ford assume that his postcard never found its recipient? Or would he think Stan ignored his plea for help, until he hated him so much that he refused to even try finding his body?

The car jerked forward, startling Stan out of his thoughts. He’d pressed the gas pedal too hard. His lead foot habit finally bit him in the ass the way Ma warned him about when he first started driving. Useful when he needed to flee from the cops, but dangerous when the road was practically made out of ice. 

The steering wheel shuddered in his hands as the El Diablo tilted to the side, tires squealing as they slid across a large icy patch. Stan resisted the urge to slam the brake, learning from hard experience that he’d end up wrapped around a tree if he tried to forcefully regain control now. 

His stomach lurched, a sense of helplessness creeping into his mind. He never let himself think about being helpless and alone. It was the quickest way to drive anybody to madness. 

He’d never see those millions if he couldn’t keep his head in the game. 

A thin structure appeared from the darkness, though it was too blurry for Stan to make out. His eyes were shit when it came to seeing things from a distance, and the glare of the El Diablo’s broken headlight didn’t help either. 

A crash was unavoidable. 

Stan yanked the wheel so the passenger side would take the impact. Then a deafening bang echoed through the forest, the creak of metal on metal assaulting his eardrums. 

The car wasn’t moving anymore. 

He turned the engine off and slumped into his seat, one hand splayed across his chest to stop his pounding heart. 

That had been way too close. 

Then he glanced at the passenger side. 

The window was broken, jagged glass shards glittering among the empty bottles and chip bags on the floor. Protruding through the weblike cracks was the head of a mailbox, the flap hanging by a single hinge, stuffed to the brim with letters. 

A mailbox was a good sign, right? That meant someone had to live around here.

But his hopes sank as he noticed large, rusty patches on the metal and abandoned cobwebs clinging to the corners. Keeping up with their property or mail didn’t seem to be a priority for whoever owned this mailbox. 

Stan reached over and grabbed a fistful of the envelopes, ignoring the strain on his shoulder. 

Water bill. Citation. Electric bill. Advertisement for a new store. Electric bill again. Warning from the federal government about a misuse of grant money. 

All addressed to Stanford Pines of 618 Gopher Drive, Gravity Falls, Oregon. 

The last envelope in the stack contained no writing at all. There was only a single piece of paper inside. 

Stan regretted his curiosity, the crimson drawing of a crossed out eye staring back at him. Some kind of warning? Did Ford join a freaky cult when he was in college? 

He crumpled the paper and tossed it into the backseat, refusing to dwell on the possibilities anymore. 

The only way to solve this was to get some fucking answers from Ford himself. Enough of this cryptic bullshit. 

He pocketed his keys and climbed out of the car, though it probably wasn’t the smartest move. The frosty air numbed his skin, snow seeping into his boots. The hair on the back of his neck rose. 

He was being watched. By what or who, he didn’t know, nor was he wasn’t interested in finding out. 

A lifetime ago, when he was a dumb teenager, he’d taken Carla McCorkle to a movie date. It was a B-list horror flick, and they both laughed and made fun of the stupid girl who ran straight into danger despite all the obvious warnings about the toymaker’s villainy. She got turned into a marionette for her trouble, and the younger sister became a doll when she staged an unsuccessful rescue. 

The rest of the night had been a blur of teenage hormones, kissing, and the adrenaline rush of making it home before their parents killed them for violating curfew. 

And nobody would ever know that Stanley Pines, the macho boxing champion of his junior year, had a nightmare of the toymaker kidnapping Ford and transforming him into a marionette that flopped and stumbled and moved in a creepy, unnatural way. 

It was stupid to be afraid of a dumb movie plot. 

Sissy behavior , Pa would’ve called it. Real men aren’t afraid of anything. 

Though Pa was a tough old bastard, even he’d have to feel some sort of fear at the sight of an entire fence made of barbed wire, boarded windows, and countless signs that warned intruders to stay away or else. 

If this was any other person, Stan might’ve been reasonably wary about knocking with all the apocalyptic junk scattered around the yard. But this was Ford, and that alone was enough to intimidate Stan. 

Like the girl in the horror movie, he was stupid enough to walk straight into danger. Whatever. He’s always been the stupid twin in the family he used to have, the dumb muscle for jobs that needed extra security for the truly important men. 

That would never change. 

Ford wouldn’t bite. Unlike Stan, he actually had the courage to reach out. They could talk for a bit, catch up on everything they missed for the past decade. Ford could treat him to a local diner. He’d have to pay of course, but he didn’t think Ford would mind.  

It would be just like old times. 

Stan knocked. He’d barely tapped the door when a pair of wide, manic eyes suddenly peered at him through a tiny slit. 

Who is it? Have you come to steal my eyes? 

Is this how Ford greeted everyone who came to his doorstep? By threatening to shoot them with a fucking crossbow of all things? 

On the worst night of Stan’s life, Ford had been furious with him, but he was never this disheveled. Ford always dressed like he wanted to make a good first impression with some wealthy CEO, wearing collared shirts and sweatervests that had been neatly pressed and ironed by their mother, even when he looked ridiculously formal compared to his peers. 

His trenchcoat looked as though it was dragged through mud, a loose tie hanging off his rumpled shirt. When was the last time Ford had a shower and fresh shave anyway? He reeked. 

While he didn’t expect Ford to greet him with a hug, it stung that he never heard Ford say hello or ‘I missed you’. 

Listen, there isn’t much time. I’ve made huge mistakes, and I don’t know who I can trust anymore. 

Well, that was something they both had in common. It was a start. 

The cabin interior looked even worse than the yard. Papers and books were scattered everywhere, half-completed science projects sparked dangerously, and hardly an empty space to sit and relax. 

Suspicious red splatters covered the wall, and for his peace of mind, Stan tried to assume that it was just a very bold choice of decor. 

Ford paced the length of the room, ranting and raving about the vague mistakes he’d made over the past few years. Mistakes that solely focused on himself and his research, and never on how he turned his back on Stan when he needed somebody to defend him the most. 

And when he finally bit the bullet and sent the message…

Stan shoved that suspicion away. Sure, he was angry that Ford didn’t try sooner, didn’t care what Stan’s life had been like on the streets, but Ford was busy with his problems just as Stan made his own trouble. He doubted Ford bothered to keep in touch with Ma or Shermie either.

Still, they’d grown up together. Stan spent his entire childhood looking out for his brother. 

It was a bad idea to get involved. Let Ford clean up his own mess. 

Except that Ford was in no condition to handle it on his own. The state of his house was proof of that. 

Against his better judgment, Stan touched Ford’s shoulder in an awkward gesture of support. He’d been in plenty of strange situations before. He could handle whatever Ford wanted to show him. 

This is a transuniversal gateway, a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension. I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe, but it could easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. 

Stan should’ve kept his big mouth shut. He’d never been good at that, but he could’ve made an effort this time. 

He must’ve wandered onto the set of a cheaply made sci-fi show Ford used to watch. Stan looked around the creepy laboratory for cameras, background lights, or a film crew, because that made more sense than Ford’s career as a mad, reclusive scientist.    

But there was nothing except the droning of advanced machinery down here. 

The gateway loomed against the back wall, its triangular shadow engulfing the entire lab. There was a single hole in the middle, and if somebody were unlucky enough to go through it, they would see horrors beyond their imagination. 

At least, that’s what Stan gathered from Ford’s rambling. From what little he understood of it. Like some poor bastard already experienced that misfortune. 

So why build the damn thing in the first place? He didn’t want to hear any bullshit about the mysteries of the universe. The only things that mattered in this world were money, food, and coming up with ways to make money for food. 

Ford should’ve put his genius level IQ into making stuff that people actually wanted.

A leathery red book was shoved into his hands. The golden, six-fingered hand reflected Stan’s unshaven face. It was labeled with a black 1. 

Ford’s face was pleading, desperate. The image of a boy flashed in Stan’s mind, tearful eyes begging for help against a world who considered him nothing more than a freak. 

This is the only journal left. You’re the only person I trust to take it. I have something to ask of you. Remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat? 

Ford trusted him. Against all odds, Ford still trusted him with his creations. 

He never set out to ruin Ford’s perpetual motion machine on purpose. He’d been angry at Ford for abandoning their dream to set sail and wasting years of hard work on repairing the boat, but he would never go out of his way to sabotage him. 

Ford didn’t see that. Neither did Pa. 

They believed he’d never amount to anything. That he was only good for scraping barnacles and seagull crap off the boardwalk. 

They weren’t entirely wrong. Stan never worked an honest job in his life. 

But he wasn’t trying to drag Ford down with him. It was never a ‘if I can’t be successful, neither can you’ situation. 

Maybe these years apart had given Ford enough time to think about the truly important things in his life. Maybe he wanted Stan by his side after all, watching his back while he rushed off to make amazing discoveries. 

They were both adults now, not teenagers with little experience in shipbuilding. It wasn’t too late to get a boat, gather equipment, and set out to sea. 

Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the earth if you have to! Bury it where no one can find it! 

Ford turned on his heel and walked away, like he expected Stan to cave into his demand and leave without another word. 

So that was it then? That childhood dream never mattered to Ford at all? It was just a useful guilt trip, a convenient way to make sure Stan couldn’t bother him again? 

Why did Ford even bother calling him up to the middle of nowhere if he only planned to send him away? 

Not once did Ford ask how Stan was doing. It was all about him and his problems, as always. 

Ford had enough money to have a house tailored to his liking and support his research. Did he ever once consider sending a little back to his family? To give Ma a little extra to burn when Pa refused to give her more money than what he considered necessary? Or send some of that green tender to Stan so he could get the debt collectors off his back for a while? 

Ford never had to fuck up his teeth to get out of a locked car trunk in the middle of the desert! Never had to deal with people looking down on him because he couldn’t afford clean clothes or a decent haircut! 

They were supposed to have each other’s back. They should’ve sailed together,  conquering the oceanic world with Ford’s smarts and Stan’s fists.

Ford turned his back on him once before, though Stan tried to give him the benefit of doubt. Ford would come to his senses in time, admit he made a mistake. 

He’d want to talk. And he’d want to be brothers again. 

But Stan’s hopes crashed down into cold, hard reality. 

Ford ruined his life, his dreams, his chance to make up for being the extra mouth to feed for seventeen years. 

Stan hurled insults at a man he no longer recognized. 

And Ford hurled them back with a vengeance, his bluntness sharper than any blade. 

It’ll be the first worthwhile thing you’ve done in your life, Stanley! 

The words were barely out of Ford’s mouth when he collapsed with a cry of pain, cracked glasses tumbling to the ground. He clutched his broken, bloody nose, fearful eyes boring straight through Stan. 

It was the same terrified expression Ford made when Pa flew into one of his rages, his furious bellows shaking the foundation of the pawn shop. Anything could set Pa off, from Stan’s bad grades, Ford needing medical care after being jumped by bullies, or the constant stress of running a business. 

Stan had to steer Ford away from Pa during those times. Ford used to freeze in place as Pa forcefully broke old merchandise he couldn’t sell, the flight bit of the fight and flight instinct slow to kick in. 

Sometimes Stan didn’t get Ford out of the way in time, and together they tried to endure Pa’s hurtful comments about not having the tough, potentially successful son he wanted. 

But Stan had never been on the receiving end of this look before, like he was… Pa . 

Splatters of crimson dotted the back of Stan’s left hand. They weighed down his fingers, heavier than his set of brass knuckles. 

If anything, Ford was the one who’d become more like Pa over the past ten years. 

Making him laugh, comforting him after Crampelter threw his books in the toilet, repairing the old sailboat, watching the sunset on a pair of rusty swings…that never meant anything to Ford after all these years. 

Stan was worthless in his eyes. Just like he was in Pa’s. 

And yet, something within him broke as he watched Ford wipe his bloody nose against his coat, pressing the fabric against his skin with a wince as he tried to stop the bleeding. 

Guilt that Stan never allowed himself to feel clawed through the pit of his stomach. He used to shield Ford from every threat, trying to ward off any attempts at physical harm even when they lived in a rough, poverty-stricken neighborhood. 

Yet he’d neglected to protect Ford against his own temper, only made worse by constant hunger and loneliness. 

He took a step towards Ford, trying to see the damage, but Ford flinched and threw his arm out, refusing to allow him to get any closer. 

He wanted to yell at Ford being so goddamn stubborn, but the words caught in his throat. The journal was heavy in his hand, like he was holding a cinderblock rather than a book. He wanted nothing more than to slam the book into the ground, leave this fucking mad scientist bullshit behind, and forget Ford ever wanted him here in the first place. 

But if there was the slightest chance that he could finally prove his worth to his brother, he had no choice but to take it.

And if he had to sail to the end of the world to be useful in his eyes, he’d do it in a heartbeat. It was the only way to make amends. 

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. It took every effort to not scream at Ford until his voice gave out. “I’ll take your shitty journal as one last favor. I’ll do your dirty work and bury it. But once it’s in the ground, we’re finished. I’m not running after you like a fucking dog again, Stanford Pines. Because as far as I’m concerned, I have no family left.”  

He turned his back on Stanford, storming to the stairs without stopping to look back at the man he’d once called brother. If he turned around, he’d hesitate. He’d have second thoughts about leaving Stanford alone to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

Stan’s name echoed off the narrow walls as he walked past an endless amount of machinery. But there was only relief in Stanford’s voice, no traces of anger even though Stan spilled his blood without hesitance.

Hiding the journal was the only thing that mattered to Stanford. He didn’t even try to fight for what they used to have. 

Stan’s footsteps were lopsided as he trudged up the endless amount of stairs, his coat weighed down with the heavy journal. At the last landing, he threw the door open, letting it crash against the wall before stepping through the threshold and slamming it shut behind him. 

Darkly, he hoped the noise spooked Stanford. 

He stomped through the living room, except it was crammed with so much junk that no sane person would want to live here. A fancy cabin in the woods, and Stanford couldn’t be bothered to take care of it? Stan had met people who would kill to have something like this. 

Cold, snowy air nipped at Stan’s face once he set foot outside, never to come back to this hellhole again. He bundled his arms around his chest on the way back to the car, heavy breaths coming out in rapid, cloudy puffs. 

Good thing he was used to calling it quits and moving on, leaving nothing but a ghost to chase for anyone who wanted a piece of him. 

The El Diablo was half-buried by the constant snowfall, the smashed mailbox still protruding from the broken passenger window. Snow had built up on the backseat, melting into the cloth and leaving wet splotches behind. 

His car was reaching the end of its life. The paint was chipped, the sides were dented, and there were several bullet holes in the back he’d never buffed out. But Stan didn’t want to abandon it here. 

It was sappy, but he had memories attached to this hunk of scrap metal. 

He pulled the mailbox out of the window, ignoring how his fingers numbed against the freezing metal. Small droplets of blood were still splattered across his fingers, and Stan plunged them into a small pile of snow, erasing the reminder of his sin under a cold white blanket.  

With no reason to stay any longer, Stan jumped into his car. It was a miracle the engine started at all. 

He stopped at a small gas station in town to fill the tank and shoplift snacks for the journey ahead, finally hitting the road and leaving Gravity Falls behind for good. 

After ten long years, he’d driven the entire length of the continental United States. Some people would’ve considered it a road trip worth celebrating. 

Yet for Stan, there was nothing in any of the lower forty-eight states worth sticking around for. What was the point when he had no home, money, or family left? 

Washington was nothing but a blur. He crossed the state in less than a day, only stopping to draw up a fake ID on an old piece of cardstock from the glovebox near the Canadian border. Detainment was the last thing he needed right now. Though he almost had a heart attack when the customs agent asked if his name was really Stanford Pinebrick, he played it off with a flirtatious comment about her long mane of curly hair. She was taken aback at first, but by the time she decided to be charmed rather than offended, Stan was long gone. 

He wasn’t prepared for the below freezing temperatures of British Columbia and the Yukon. Snow blew in from the broken window, his heater nonexistent. A permanent shiver racked his body, fingertips turning bright red with the beginnings of frostbite. Only the beer in his belly kept him from turning into an icicle. 

His coat was falling apart at the seams, and the smell was nauseating. 

The journal laid on the passenger seat, ready to be whisked away at a moment’s notice if trouble arose. 

He wanted to abandon it in the remote mountains of the Yukon. Toss it into the snow or down an abandoned mineshaft where no one could ever find it. 

There were moments where he nearly opened the journal for a peek at Stanford’s innermost thoughts. But every time he tried to talk himself into invading Stanford’s privacy, he always wound up tossing the journal onto the passenger seat. 

He was a coward who couldn’t handle seeing his own name scrawled across the pages. Stanford’s writing would only be a reflection of his harsh words to Stan. There was no need to read them. 

Anchorage was his final stop on the mainland. It was the last major city before the endless tundra and ocean. 

After all these years, he’d made it to a city so remote that Stanford, Rico, or the government wouldn’t be able to find him. He had a clean slate, and everybody was too wrapped up in surviving the winter to question who he was and what dragged him into town. 

From Anchorage, he’ll trade his car for a boat and set out to sea. He’ll cross the Pacific and make landfall in Siberia. Then he’ll bury the journal in the frozen ground, deep in the wilderness where nobody would dare trek. Even Stanford would have to appreciate that level of commitment. 

Ha. Stanford actually appreciating him for once? 

Hell would freeze a million times over before that happened.

Soon he found a scrap shop by the harbor, and the Stanleymobile was hauled to her final resting place. She was with him through high school and the toughest moments of his life, never letting him down and waiting for him to come back when he was gone for a long time. She had a good run, but it was time to let go of the last link of better times. 

The journal was tucked away in his coat pocket. It was the only possession that mattered now. 

Stan walked away with fifty dollars in his pocket. The broker shortchanged him, but Stan didn’t bother arguing his old car’s worth with someone who would never understand. 

With thirty bucks, he haggled an elderly fisherman for his crab boat. It was old and battered, the wood peeling in rotting brown strips. 

Ye sure ye really want this thing, son? Davy Jones ain’t been seaworthy since the great storm of ‘73. You’ll be keeled over before ye know it. 

But the old man was dealing with some hard times. Commercialized fishing boats had taken over his livelihood, and catching seafood the old-fashioned way just wasn’t the moneymaker it used to be. 

Everyone was a sucker for money, and Stan understood the desperation better than anyone. It was the ticket to a better life, and the only way to prove worth in this world. 

The old fisherman was now thirty dollars richer, and Stan finally had a boat to call his own. 

His younger self used to have grand dreams of fixing that old shipwreck until it was sturdy enough to carry two boys to faraway lands in search of treasure and strange creatures yet to be discovered. 

He'd been naive. 

He had to live in the real world now. There was no brother to celebrate with him, and his treasure was a dusty book that had to remain a secret for all time. 

He slapped his last twenty bucks down at the bar, bitter rum trickling down his throat as he listened to a grizzled captain boast about capturing the largest and most dangerous shark that ever roamed the high seas. 

The captain was bullshitting, but Stan had grown up listening to tall tales from fishermen and navy veterans of World War II. The rhythm and suspense of the story reminded him of a time when he and Ford were thrilled by these tales, and Ford would eagerly ask question after question until the storyteller got annoyed and told them to go away. 

He’d wanted to create his own stories from their adventures. Weave a tale for the next generation to remember for years to come. Hear his name called with fond exasperation when Ford tried to correct a detail he got wrong. Get a kid to cup their hands in shock when the story went in a direction they didn’t expect. 

God, he was a massive fucking idiot. 

One by one, the fishermen recounted their experiences at sea. Kissing pretty women they’d never see again. What lurked beneath the endless abyss. Complaining about coworkers who didn’t know what they were doing. The solitude and unknown driving the most seasoned men to insanity. 

Multiple shots of rum loosened Stan’s tongue. He declared his intention to sail the decaying Davy Jones across the treacherous Bering Sea.

He was met with many warnings and protests about sailing alone at this time of year, especially with a boat named after the legendary devil who dragged helpless sailors to their watery graves. 

Yer a goddamn idiot to take a boat with that cursed name! Ain’t too late to turn back now while yer feet are on land! 

To which Stan laughed the hardest he’d ever laughed in a long time. 

He grew up in a fishing town! Of course he’d heard the warnings about Davy Jones! 

And he didn’t care. He had nothing else to live for. 

They all thought he was insane. That he was a dead man walking, and he planned on dragging them all down to hell with him. 

The bouncer kicked him out of the bar. Caused too much of a ruckus, and they couldn’t have a stranger making trouble at their little hole in the wall. 

Story of his life really. Being kicked out of places was second nature to him. It would’ve been more shocking if they let him stick around. 

There was nothing left for him on land. From here on out, he’d make his own way on the open sea. The Davy Jones cut through the harbor at a surprising speed for a neglected boat, and Stan never once looked back at the disappearing coastline. 

He’d loaded up with supplies he’d nicked from other boats before leaving the harbor. Cans of beans to last months if he rationed carefully, fishing gear, and a woolen hat were all tucked away in a crate by the captain’s quarters. 

As always, the journal was safe within his jacket. He kept it close at all times. 

He wouldn’t let anyone damage or steal Stanford’s research. Protecting the journal made him worth something in his eyes. 

Though he tried to leave the journal in the crate with the rest of his stolen supplies, he quickly discovered that it was impossible to focus on anything else until the journal was safely with him. 

He couldn’t mess up Stanford’s creation again. He wasn’t the family fuck up he used to be. 

Stanford would have to see that once the journal was buried somewhere in the Siberian wilderness, never to be seen again.

If Davy Jones would carry him far enough to reach the Siberian coastline. 

True to its name, Davy Jones was doing everything in its power to slow Stan’s voyage down and sink him beneath the churning waves. New holes popped up between floorboards, leaking seawater and forcing Stan to plug them with bits of rope, cork, and whatever else he could find. Ropes snapped and loosened from their knots, the sail unfurled and blew him off-course.

Waves slammed against all sides of the Davy Jones, flinging the dilapidated boat wherever the merciless ocean pleased. Everything that wasn’t bolted down was thrown across the room or overboard, disappearing into the abyss forever. 

Dark, billowing clouds blotted out the entire sky. High winds and heavy rain whipped the murky waters into enormous waves that crashed down upon the Davy Jones , the sail ripping away from its pole. Stan threw himself forward in an attempt to save it, his fingers skimming one edge before the cloth flew beyond his reach as the first casualty of the storm. 

Stan stumbled, unused to the rocking of a boat out of control. One hand gripped the slippery railing, the other clutching the journal in a protective hold. His entire body was soaked from the rain, clothing plastered to his skin. It was difficult to move. His jacket weighed down his shoulders, sopping wet from the water it absorbed, but he couldn’t throw it off. 

Keep the journal safe at all costs. Prove his worth to Stanford, even at the cost of his life. 

The Davy Jones rose, caught on the crest of an enormous wave. Stan’s stomach lurched as the wave crashed down into the sea, the hull dipping beneath the surface briefly before reappearing. He coughed and sputtered as the salty spray hit him in the face, blinding him as he crawled across the deck, trying to keep low and avoid losing his balance as he moved towards the helm in an effort to retake control. 

Seawater flooded the deck, forcing Stan to grab a broken plank so the ocean wouldn’t sweep him away. He covered his nose and held his breath as the sea washed over him, relentlessly pummeling his body with all the wrath of a mythical sea god.

It felt like an eternity before the wave subsided. The Davy Jones moaned as if it was in agony. More water leaked through the floorboards. 

Every breath felt like someone was pressing several tons of stone to his ribcage. There was a rattle in his throat, salt overwhelming his taste buds. He coughed, punching his throat to get the water out. 

He was probably gonna wind up with pneumonia again at this rate, but he had to keep going. Escape this storm and make landfall on the other side of the world. 

He’d barely inched forward when a thunderous crack roared above the raging ocean. 

Stan’s head whipped around. 

The Davy Jones was split down the middle, swift water flooding the gigantic crack and pushing the hull further from the stern. 

Stan leapt to his feet, unable to afford caution any longer. But without any support from anyone or anything, the ocean knocked him off balance. 

He tumbled onto his back, the journal breaking loose from his pocket. A scream ripped from Stan’s throat as he threw himself forward to reclaim the journal, but the torrent swept it beyond his reach. 

The red cover stood out in the darkness, the golden hand flashing before the rushing water carried it over the edge of the broken hull and into the ocean below. 

Another piece of Ford’s hard work, destroyed because Stan had gotten his hands on it, too stupid to understand why it was more important than his own family. 

But this was different from the science fair project. 

Somehow, Ford still entrusted the journal to Stan. He still had faith in him, even after Stan ruined his chances to get into a prestigious university. 

And Stan wouldn’t let that trust be misplaced. 

He plunged into the ocean, the current nearly sweeping him away until he thrust out his hand, seizing a wooden beam that had broken off the Davy Jones. His lungs burned, salt stinging his eyes. He couldn’t see anything in these murky depths. 

His fighting experience was useless here. The ocean was not an opponent that could be punched away. 

So he kicked instead, propelling himself away from the strong current that almost had him in a chokehold. 

The ocean tugged on his body, willing him to fall into the depths, but Stan stubbornly balanced himself with the beam. He picked a direction, hoping it was the right one, kicking once, then twice, before his head finally broke through the surface. 

Gasping for precious air, Stan heaved his upper half onto the beam for a brief rest. His muscles ached, strength slipping further away with every passing second. 

But he couldn’t rest for much longer. Not until he found that journal. He would search the whole damn Pacific if he had to. 

Ford was counting on him. 

Stan coughed, a deep rattle in his throat from the water he inhaled. His stomach clenched, and he fought the urge to puke his guts out. Someone was pounding away at his skull with a sledgehammer, his vision hazy from the constant motion of the waves. 

It was hard to keep his eyes open. Somewhere in the distance, a voice gently called his name. 

It’s okay. You look tired. Close your eyes and let go. 

The voice was soothing and persuasive. If he let go, he wouldn’t have to worry about the journal again. Stanford thrust his burden onto him, and this was a chance at freedom. 

But Stan refused to ever place trust in a voice with no face. 

He made a promise. This time, he was going to keep it. 

Through the heavy rainfall, an object flashed with a golden light. It drifted against the sinking stern of the Davy Jones, coming to rest inside a large hole in the wooden exterior. 

Stan kicked the water, breathing heavily as he avoided the debris floating everywhere. The current pushed him along, encouraging him to reclaim the journal. 

The red cover was a beacon in the night, giving Stan hope even when he was long convinced that hope was just something religious nutjobs on TV made up to rake in the cash. 

He’d bury the journal deep within the Siberian tundra. He’d send a letter to Stanford and tell him the job was done. Then he’d fuck off forever, see what the other side of the world had to offer. He’s always wanted to try his luck in Macau.

At last, the journal was within reach. 

Stan lunged forward, the beam drifting away as he reclaimed the only important possession he had. 

The ink was probably smudged beyond repair, the pages heavily waterlogged, but the journal was still intact. As long as it remained in one piece, it would be okay. 

He’d be okay. He survived for ten years with the stupid notion that his family would ever want him back. But Stanford helped him see the truth he’d denied for so long. 

Existing was the greatest crime he’d ever dared to commit. And the world wanted him to pay his dues. 

Stan’s kicks weakened. His legs cramped, sapped of all energy. His arms held the journal tightly to his chest, no longer able to keep him afloat. 

The ocean closed over him, her cold embrace greeting him like an old friend. 

He’s falling into the unknown. 

The world will keep turning. It’s better off without him.

His body numbed. The pain vanished. 

Beaches with sparkling glass embedded in the sand. A shipwreck within a cave. Six fingers intertwined with his hand. The promise of golden treasure and mysteries in a world far better than this one, lying somewhere beyond the sea. 

The vision faded away. 

No more light. A pitch black grave awaited. 

A voice echoed in his head, an unfamiliar peace soothing his mind and calming his body.  

Your story is not over yet, Stanley Pines. Though you do not live past twenty-seven in this world, you still have a role to play. If your family is to survive, then the rift must be mended. Old wrongs must be made right. With my power, I preserve your soul within the journal you risked everything for. You shall awaken one day, somewhere in the future, and guide the stars into shining bright.

Chapter Text

“The Piedmont Springs Hotel. Once a luxury resort for the wealthy, now condemned and abandoned. Guests used to flock to this location from all over the United States, attracted by the promise of warm springs that would cure whatever ails them. Smallpox, cholera, and pimples would all disappear in the blink of an eye once you soaked in the restorative water surrounding the hotel. California’s own Fountain of Youth, if you will. A great marketing campaign brought to a tragic end by–OW!”  

Dipper nearly dropped the video camera, his side aching where Mabel jabbed him with sharp fingernails. He glared at her for ruining his important narration, but she only cleared her throat as she waited for her cue. 

Hopefully she left the ketchup behind this time. He didn’t want his video flagged down for excessive gore like Dipper’s Guide to the Unexplained: The Chupacabra had been. Even though whoever reported his channel was clearly an idiot if they couldn’t tell the difference between ketchup and actual blood. 

He swept out an arm to Mabel, who’d climbed up a flat rock in the yard of the historic hotel. “And here’s my sister, Mabel Pines, with her one person re-enactment of the 1892 Piedmont Springs Hotel Disaster. Warning for heavy artistic license.” 

“Heyo to all you pals, gals, and rockin’ penpals out there!” Mabel exclaimed, cheerfully waving at the camera from atop the rock. “The name’s Mabel, and just in case you forget, it rhymes with table! Aw, who am I kidding? Nobody could forget these adorable dimples! But there’ll be plenty of time to talk about me later! Please put your paws together for my assistant, Polly Poodle the Prettiest Purse Puppy in Puppyland!” 

She revealed a glittery pink purse with an equally pink poodle hidden under her pink sweater.

So much pink. It was a health hazard to everyone’s eyeballs. 

Mabel dramatically collapsed while Dipper watched through the screen of his video camera, the filter muting the colors to a more tolerable level. 

“Cough! Oh no, cough! I am trapped among the flames with my pretty Polly Poodle and there is no hunky firefighter in sight to rescue me! Cough!” Mabel clutched her throat as she wheezed and coughed in an Oscar worthy performance. She dug into the purse and tossed red ribbons into the air. “This is the end! Save yourself, Polly! Leave me here! Cough!” 

She leaned over the edge of the rock, giving the long strap of her purse to Dipper, and he held it an arm’s length away from his body. He pulled Polly Poodle out of frame while Mabel made a noise that sounded like a dying duck. 

“Did the chimney really catch fire in an unfortunate accident? Or was there something more sinister at play here?” Dipper paused, letting the question hang in the air. 

Though he meant to add dramatic music in editing to fill the silence, Mabel squashed that plan in the loudest drafting of a will that humanity had ever heard.  

“And all of my earthly possessions go to Polly! John doesn’t get a lick of my money after he left me for the rich banker’s daughter, that cheating piece of-” 

“Are you done?” Dipper asked, foot tapping impatiently. They didn’t have all day. Their parents were working late again, but he still wanted to have enough time to grab some fast food and beat them home. He didn’t exactly tell them the whole truth about his plans to explore an abandoned building. 

“Yeah, I’m done. Hiya!” Mabel jumped off the rock, her leg extended into a martial arts pose midair before she landed on the dead grass. She reclaimed Polly from Dipper, and he was all too glad to give her back. 

Pink, stuffed animals, and glittery purses were for girls. Boys too if they were below five. But he was going to turn thirteen on the last day of August, and that was practically a man. 

If he was gonna be a rugged, manly adventurer like Great Uncle Stanford someday, he had to get an early start. 

“A few days ago, two high school seniors broke into the hotel to celebrate their graduation,” Dipper said. He handed the camera to Mabel, producing two photos from his vest. “The first teen was hospitalized for a broken arm after he’d fallen down the stairs. Probably while running from something. Or more than likely, someone.” 

Mabel was also in the picture, grinning to the camera while she wrote ‘CALL ME MAYBE-L’ with purple gel pens on the cast. The poor guy looked very uncomfortable. 

“He was cute,” she giggled. 

Dipper rolled his eyes and moved onto the mugshot of another teenager with feathers and dust caked into his messy brown hair. 

“The second was found in a vineyard of Napa Valley, fifty miles away from Piedmont. When talking to authorities, he claimed he was blown there by a storm of feathers and dust. The police arrested him for trespassing and underage drinking, a huge overreach if you ask me. They should’ve turned the case over to the Institute’s Odd Squad for review.” 

He put the photos away and shrugged off his backpack. On the last day of school, he’d emptied it of school supplies and replaced them with tools for paranormal field research. He never left home without the essentials. An ectoplasmic scanner to search for traces of ghost activity, a portable vacuum cleaner, and his personal favorite, Journal 29. 

“For all of my viewers at home, remember that Journal 29, authored by Dr. Stanford Pines, the coolest man who’s ever walked this earth by the way, contains the most up-to-date information on categorizing your local haunts,” Dipper said, flipping through the pages until he landed on a ghost classification chart that took up the entire page. “Given that both teenagers are still alive to tell their story, we likely won’t be dealing with anything higher than a Category Four today. Of course, we’ll never know for sure until we break in and find that ghost!” 

Mabel pumped her fist in the air. “And who knows? There could be anything hiding in that hotel! Fancy dresses, a romantic letter written in fancy script, a giant fluffy monster who looks scary when he really just needs some cuddles…” 

She seemed to be rooting a little too hard for the idea of a giant fluffy monster who would be willing to hug her. Dipper gave her a playful shove as payback for jabbing him earlier. 

“If one of your patented Mabel hugs doesn’t scare off the monster first!” Dipper teased, taking the camera back so he didn’t have to spend all day editing out the blurs Mabel’s erratic movement caused. 

“Oh, please! These arms were made for hugging! Allow me to demonstrate…the GLOMP!” Mabel’s mischievous grin took up her entire face, sparkly braces glinting in the sun. 

“Not the glomp!” Dipper shouted, holding up his backpack as a makeshift shield. “Anything but the glomp!”

But since he was holding onto the camera with the other hand, he couldn’t put his backpack’s weight in front of him quickly enough. Mabel tackled him, and they tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs. 

“No getting outta this one, bro-bro!” Mabel declared, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. She squeezed him tightly, an undignified squeak escaping from his throat. “You’ll never ever escape from the likes of Mabel! Mwahahaha!” 

Dipper gasped for air, pulling at Mabel’s arms in an attempt to pry her off, but she was stronger than she looked. He’d have better luck untangling himself from an octopus. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Mabel left him with no other options. He bit down on her sleeve, the taste of yarn briefly filling his mouth before she shrieked and let him go.

“Bleh,” Dipper said, the taste of glitter lingering on his tongue. “I regret everything.”

Mabel wildly flapped her sleeve while shrieking about nerd germs, whacking him in the shoulder several times. 

While she focused on getting rid of his saliva, Dipper walked around the yard to capture every angle of the abandoned hotel, from the crumbling bricks at the bottom to the faded sign on top. Strands of ivy crept along the crevices and curled around the broken windows. Scorch marks blackened every stone and brick. 

The fence along the porch was covered in chipped, suspicious white paint. Dipper kept his distance while he trained the camera on a broken, dusty patio couch. This building was over a century old, and the materials for construction were likely toxic. He didn’t want to have a nasty case of lead poisoning.

He’d probably be exposing his body to asbestos once he ventured inside, but many advances had been made in medical science since the 19th century. And many of those contributions had come from Stanford Pines himself, who’d introduced cancer-curing crystals from Dimension 52 into this world. 

But they wouldn’t be in the hotel long enough to develop any long term diseases. Hopefully. 

Science required risk-taking in order to achieve what others thought impossible. It was a lesson his great-uncle’s journals taught in every volume, and Dipper took it to heart. 

He marched up the steps of the hotel with steely resolve, his eyes on the broken door that hung off its hinges and his mind focused on the ghost within. 

The foyer looked no better than the outside. 

Chairs once made from proud redwood trees and the finest satin laid in burnt pieces all over the floor. Scorch marks covered the ground, and every footstep kicked up old ashes. Cobwebs covered every nook and cranny, and a spider that was a bit too large for Dipper’s comfort crawled by his shoe.

Only tiny strands of flowery wallpaper remained on the bare walls, a portrait of a bearded man tracking Dipper’s movement. Somehow, the portrait withstood the test of the time. The name placard beneath had been ripped out, rendering it impossible to place any possible identities to the ghost. 

Piles of feathers laid haphazardly over the remnants of furniture. Dipper took a plume from an ancient dresser, twirling the stem in his hand. 

It was an artificial feather, not one from a real bird that happened to make a nest here as he previously assumed. The fluff was ripped off one side like somebody tore it up in an odd vendetta against featherdusters. 

The other plumes bore similar damage, drowning in heaps of dust and rubble. 

Dipper took out the photo of the Napa Valley teen again, comparing the feather in his hand to the feathers in the image. 

It was a perfect match.  

“Ghosts often have unique powers based on their occupation or how they died. Sometimes, it manifests in control over certain elements like dust. And feathers, for some reason. In others-”  

“DING!”

A high-pitched ring accompanied by Mabel’s delighted squeal interrupted Dipper before he could launch into an exposition on spectral powers. He rushed to the service desk, shoving the bell away from Mabel’s hand so she couldn’t press it a second time. 

“Mabel, are you crazy? I’m still filming the investigation segment!” Dipper snapped. “And what if your racket alerts the ghost to our position?” 

Mabel blew a raspberry, like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard in her life. Dipper winced as several drops of spit landed on his cheek. 

“Please, Dipper! Like the ghost can’t hear your voice crack from a mile away!” Mabel said with a teasing grin. “Besides, what else was I supposed to do with the bell? Not press it?” 

Dipper glared at her. “My voice doesn’t cra-ack!” 

He slapped his free hand over his mouth. Of course his larynx would betray him right when he tried to prove a point. 

When Mabel only laughed harder, Dipper swiped his feather under her nose. 

“It totally does!” she exclaimed, swatting the feather away. “Your voice cracks worse than a-a-ACHOO!”  

This time, it was Dipper’s turn to laugh as she broke into an uncontrollable sneezing fit. Revenge never felt more amazing. 

Her sneeze stirred up grime that had accumulated on the service desk, sending dust clouds into the air. Dipper covered his lower face with the hem of his shirt to avoid inhalation. It was already somewhat hard to breathe with this stale air, and he didn’t want to develop a respiratory condition right when he was on the verge of a new discovery.

Six rows of room keys dangled from the wall behind the service desk. They were all in surprisingly good shape, gleaming gold despite their less than ideal surroundings. Maybe their ghost valued precious metals? 

Dipper filed that theory away for later. 

One of these keys surely led to the ghost.

They couldn’t take every key, nor could they try every room. The video camera didn’t have enough battery life to allow a thorough exploration of all the suites in the hotel. 

He carefully examined every key for any small change in color, size, or shape. Maybe it was a matter of finding the right detail?

When he couldn’t see any visual differences, he picked two keys, one from the top and one from the bottom, and weighed them in his hand. 

Not much of a weight difference either. 

His ectoplasmic scanner trilled with a series of high-pitched beeps within his backpack. It was the only warning Dipper received before there was a tremendous crash from above, a thick shower of dust cascading from the rafters. A chandelier swung dangerously from where it hung, several loose glass shards raining dangerously close to where they stood. 

Mabel tugged at his sleeve, covering her mouth with the neck of her sweater. 

“Um…Dipper? Any chance you could hurry up with the sleuthing?” she asked, worry creeping into her voice. “It’s hard to breathe with all this dust…”

They’d never come so close to finding a paranormal creature to film before. All their previous outings had been failures. 

And now Mabel was jeopardizing their progress over a little dust? 

Great-Uncle Stanford wouldn’t let less than ideal conditions stop him from achieving his goal. 

Dipper remembered watching an old recording of a press conference, conducted after Great-Uncle Stanford was hailed a hero for saving a remote Canadian research station from a fear-devouring wendigo. Though it was the middle of the winter, no natural sunlight had touched the research station in months, and the remaining scientists were on the brink of losing their sanity after losing half their team to the monster, Great-Uncle Stanford had charged in without hesitation and singlehandedly slayed the wendigo.

Great-Uncle Stanford never spoke for long at press conferences. He’d make his appearance, answer relevant questions, then he’d allow another contemporary to take over for him. 

So on the rare occasions he stepped up to the podium, Dipper made sure to hang onto every word. 

I have never listened to anyone who wanted to stop me from achieving my dreams. I take action when necessary. I trust in my intellect and capabilities. That is the secret of my success, and how the Institute of Oddology became the pinnacle of humanity’s achievements.  

Dipper had watched Great-Uncle Stanford’s speech so many times that he memorized every word. 

Take action. Trust in his hero’s teachings. Face the challenge without backing down. 

He took Mabel’s hands and guided her into hiding under the service desk, where she’d be protected from the excess dust and wind. Then he dropped his backpack next to her, shedding the extra weight so he could be more agile. 

“Dipper?” Mabel said in confusion. “What are you-” 

Dipper tried to put on what he hoped was a confident smile. “I’m going to capture the first video of a ghost that anyone has ever recorded. You’d better stay here, Mabel. There’ll probably be more dust storms once I draw out this specter.”

“Stay? Are you nuts?” Mabel protested, fingers digging into Dipper’s wrists. Dipper winced, but he wasn’t going to give into her demands this time. “You really think I’m gonna let you confront that ghost by yourself, dum-dum?” 

“Well, Great-Uncle Stanford manages just fine on his solo missions,” Dipper said. “If he can do it, then so can I. You may as well stay under there if you can’t handle a little dust.” 

But Mabel didn’t seem impressed at all. She’d never shared Dipper’s level of interest with their famous relative. 

“That may be fine for him,” she snapped, almost smacking her head on the underside of the desk as she stood up. “But we’re twins, and we go together like peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and chocolate, peanut butter and pickles-” 

Dipper raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not just craving peanut butter right now?” 

“Maybe a teensy bit. I had a light breakfast,” Mabel admitted. “But the point is, I’m helping you kick ghost butt and that’s final. Even if you think I’m being such a girl about dust.” 

She unzipped Dipper’s backpack and brought out the portable vacuum, clicking her tongue like she was loading a weapon. 

Mabel could be so confusing sometimes. But she was determined to push past her discomfort, and Dipper was grateful for that. He pointed to the collection of keys on the wall. 

“The ectoplasmic scanner had a spike in activity when I took those room keys off the wall,” he said. “It was immediately followed by the dust shower and the chandelier almost falling from the ceiling. Neither of those occurrences were natural. I bet the ghost was trying to scare us off from exploring the upper rooms. And it’s a well-documented fact that ghosts always have a reason behind their hauntings. So all we have to do is draw out the ghost and find out its secret!” 

He ripped several room keys away from their pegs, purposely throwing them over his shoulder in full view of the camera. 

With a war cry, Mabel heaved the vacuum over her shoulder like a bazooka and turned the dial to maximum power, causing half the remaining keys and brittle newspaper clippings to be sucked into oblivion. The harsh clashing of metal scraping against metal came from within the vacuum, though Mabel was unbothered by the noise. She swung Polly Poodle like a flail with her other hand, and no antique was safe from the destructive power of gender-based marketing. 

“What a nice abandoned lobby! Would be a shame if someone totally trashed the place, am I right?” Mabel laughed as she scribbled ‘ MAPLE PINESYRUP WUZ HERE <3 ’ on the service desk with her pink glitter gel pen. Where she kept them was a mystery of its own. 

Dipper tore newspaper clippings off the wall. He didn’t need to do anything fancier to make the ghost angry enough to come out. 

“That’s the best ya got, Dipper? Really? It’s the first day of summer! Time to let loose and commit some vandalism!” Mabel cheered, drawing a silly handlebar mustache on a portrait of a rich lady with too many frills in her dress. 

The chandelier’s stem broke, the once gleaming body crashing to the ground in a heap of rusted metal. There was a wide hole in the ceiling, a bedroom visible on the floor above. A piercing wail shook the unstable foundation, a tornado of dust and feathers pouring into the foyer.  

“FILTHY TRESPASSERS! HOW DARE YOUR DISGUSTING FEET TOUCH MY BEAUTIFUL FOYER! YOU SHALL PAY FOR YOUR TRANSGRESSIONS!” 

Dipper slipped one hand into the strap of the camera so he didn’t lose it in the strong winds. With his free hand, he snatched up a key and dug it into the service desk. The neglected wood easily gave way to metal.  

Was Tyrone Pineson here? He carved under Mabel’s message. 

It was the perfect cryptic message that would get his viewers to theorize and argue and release venomous snakes into each other’s homes when they vehemently disagreed on a position!

“Now that’s more like it!” Mabel gave him a thumbs-up before breaking into another coughing fit. 

Dipper took off his baseball cap and covered his lower face, the constant downpour of grime and feathers making him feel like he’d developed allergies. Their hair and clothes were completely covered by dust. He sneezed into his cap, hoping the camera didn’t pick up the embarrassing kitten-like noise. 

A silhouette appeared within the thick shower of dust, just before the particles exploded outward, covering every piece of furniture in the foyer. Dipper and Mabel ducked behind the desk, narrowly avoiding the worst of the explosion. Though Dipper tried to keep the camera steady while he recorded the supernatural phenomenon, he had to clean off the lens to maintain clarity in the video. 

“H-hi there,” Dipper said, his voice cracking again. He cleared his throat. “Mind telling us who you are and why you’re a floating hazard to people’s respiratory systems?” 

“Yeah! What’s your name and what’s your deal, dusty?” Mabel shouted. She slammed the vacuum cleaner onto the desk, peering through the handle like she was manning a sniper rifle. 

The ghostly apparition, a young woman who didn’t appear much older than thirty, was more solid than Dipper expected. He couldn’t see the opposite wall through her body, the tattered lace of a maid uniform billowing around her. Her exposed, pale-blue skin was marred by dark gray scars that covered her arms, the base of her neck, and her face. Gray fluff constantly fell from the featherduster in her hand. 

She might’ve been attractive once, if half her hair hadn’t been singed beyond saving. Her face was twisted into a permanent scowl, which only deepened as she glared down at the twins. 

“Scum of the living world! How dare you defile my hard work!” the ghost wailed, the dust storm billowing around her. “I did not sweep the bedroom of Alistair Higglebottom, bathe Mary Weatherby’s cat, and entertain Nathaniel Northwest’s delusions just to have some uncultured riffraff ruin everything! They never appreciated my efforts when I worked and slaved and toiled for mere pennies and hardtack, while they had enough money to burn and throw away on luxury banquets with roasted ducks! And nobody ever stops to think of poor, overworked Irene Ashenbury!”  

“Pfft! Higglebottom,” Mabel giggled despite the danger.  

It was a funny last name, but Dipper was mature enough to not laugh in front of the ghost. She’d been dead for over a hundred years, long enough to develop an obsession with cleanliness and order with her former place of employment. She also had a grudge against the wealthy people she once served, which was fair enough, but her bitterness ran so deep that she couldn’t move on after death. 

A spark of excitement lit up in Dipper now that the ghost had confirmed her identity. 

The Piedmont Springs Hotel now met all the Institute’s criteria for a Haunted status, which required a location to have a confirmed sighting of a supernatural entity, permanent residency of said entity, and presence of odd phenomena inconsistent with normal weather patterns or human activity. 

This could be Piedmont’s first official Haunted location once Dipper posted his findings on the Internet for all the world to see! It was going to be the most exciting event in his hometown’s history! 

And once the hotel was officially considered Haunted, it would become protected property of the Institute. They’d send researchers to conduct further studies for the advancement of science, and paranormal deniers would be proven wrong once and for all! 

“Sounds tough,” Dipper said, just to keep Irene talking so he could gather as much information as possible. “So how’d you die anyway?”

Mabel blew a raspberry at him, showering Dipper’s face with drops of saliva. Disgusted, he wiped off the moisture with the back of his hand and rubbed it on her sweater. 

“Dipper, you can’t just ask a woman how she died!” Mabel protested. “Have some manners!” 

“It’s for science, Mabel!” Dipper rolled his eyes. Every science classroom they’d ever been in had a poster of the scientific process. There was no way for her to not know it by heart now. “Sometimes you have to ask tough questions!”

“Fine,” Irene said, her gray scars lighting up like someone set them on fire. They burned like coals while feathers gathered in her messy hair. Mabel stared at her, shocked that she wasn’t even complaining. “Usually people just scream when I cleanse their filth from this world. But since the dirtboy is interested in my life for a change, there’s no harm before I purge both of you from existence.” 

“Dirtboy?” Dipper glanced down at his body. He wasn’t that filthy! There was just a thin coating of dust on his clothes…and his skin…and a spider hanging off the bill of his cap. He yelped and swatted it away. 

Irene thrust her featherduster into the dust storm, and the swirling, formless particles changed into the silhouette of a maid. Several more maids formed from the dust, swirling around the first figure and pointing their fingers as they silently belittled and ordered her about. 

“The year was 1892. I was a new hire, and the senior maids always gave me the hardest tasks nobody else wanted. Clean the messiest rooms. Deal with the most difficult patrons. Empty the wastebuckets. Pour radium into the hot springs to make them glow attractively for anyone who wants to soak there.” 

Feathers gathered into the shape of a stooped man with a raccoon-tailed cap on his head and a long beard trailing down to his stomach. 

“A new client came to us in the winter, an old man named Nathaniel Northwest. He struck it big in rural Oregon, but he became senile in his later years. His son sent him down to Piedmont for the restorative hot springs, but we all knew he was trying to get rid of him so he could take over the family fortune.” 

Great-Uncle Stanford had written about Nathaniel Northwest in his journals, though every mention of him was loaded with harsh critiques about his descendants piggybacking off wealth they’d never truly earned, and that the U.S government had only installed him as the founder of Gravity Falls because they wanted to cover up a dark truth. But even Great-Uncle Stanford couldn’t prove that it wasn’t just a wacky conspiracy theory, and the present day Northwest family denied any accusations of fraud. 

Still, Dipper believed his hero even though he was routinely mocked on the Internet for saying outlandish things. The Northwests were rich and arrogant. They deserved to be taken down a peg. 

Irene levelled a disgusted glare at Nathaniel’s figure. If it wasn’t necessary for her story, she likely would’ve destroyed it on the spot. 

“We catered to Nathaniel’s every demand and played along with his fantasies no matter how ridiculous they were. The owner didn’t care about our complaints as long as he was making money off the Northwests. Until one day…” 

Nathaniel’s figure sat on a conjured chair while the maids flitted around him, rushing from task to task without stopping. He snapped his fingers, and the image of Irene knelt on all fours, Nathaniel’s feet propped atop her back. 

Fierce winds shook the foyer, broken furniture and decorations creaking as they mashed together to form a long banquet table. The desk shifted under Dipper’s hands. He seized Mabel’s shoulder, ignoring her yelp as he yanked her away before the desk collided with the rest of the furniture. Mabel fell onto her back, the air temporarily driven from her lungs. 

“Wealthy blood will stain the ground.
Your remains will never be found.
Let this curse remind your ilk,
Crimson taints their satin and silk.
With my blade I deliver vengeance most just,
And return them to naught but ashes and dust.” 

Without the protection of the desk, Dipper and Mabel were left in the open. The only tool at their disposal was the vacuum in Mabel’s hands, unless he wanted to count Polly Poodle. 

Which Dipper didn’t. He wasn’t that desperate. 

“Um…nice rhyme?” Mabel laughed awkwardly. She was still recovering from her sudden fall. 

If movies had taught Dipper anything, it was that when somebody who wanted you dead started rhyming, their danger level multiplied by ten.  

“Nathaniel chanted that odd poem without end until the other guests became so terrified for their lives that we locked him inside his room for everyone’s safety. They were furious about their ruined dinner party, and though they demanded his removal from the premises entirely, the owner could not afford to draw ire from the Northwest heir. In his room Nathaniel stayed, until the stroke of midnight...” 

The furniture rearranged into a large fireplace, a thick layer of black soot simulating the flames burning within. Nathaniel’s feathered effigy threw wood, vase fragments, and everything within reach into the furnace. The soot spilled out of the opening, creeping across the floor and crawling up the walls until almost every surface was pitch black. 

The darkness surrounded Dipper and Mabel, leaving only a bare circle around them. A chill ran up Dipper’s spine, heart pounding out of his chest. This video really wasn’t worth their lives, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop filming when this was a chance for recognition. Even if they had to make a break for it, he needed to get as much proof as possible so the Institute would have no reason to reject crowning the esteemed Haunted title to the hotel.   

“Run!” Dipper shouted, hauling Mabel to her feet. He gave her an urgent push to the only exit from the hotel. “I have enough footage! Let’s get out of here!” 

Mabel sprinted to the exit, dragging Dipper behind her while clutching the vacuum in the crook of her arm. She was one of the fastest runners in gym class, especially if there was a cute animal hanging around the grassy hills that surrounded Piedmont Middle School. But this time, she wasn’t fast enough. 

A scorching wind slammed the door shut. The temperature soared to an uncomfortable degree, blazing even by inland California standards.

If their lives weren’t in danger, Dipper would’ve complained about how cliche that was.

Irene’s laugh sounded like she just choked on rocks. “The last people to come here left rather rudely too. I would be remiss if I allowed filth to escape me again. Aren’t you the least bit curious about how my tale ends?” 

The soot clumped together into dark rocks, embers glowing brightly between the cracks. 

Coal, Dipper realized. Irene’s powers didn’t just manifest in an ironic reflection of her maid occupation in life. 

This scorching heat, the coals, the panic of being potentially burned alive…was this how Irene met her end? 

He lifted one foot. The sole of his sneaker was blackened, the rubber weakening due to the heat. Mabel’s slip-ons didn’t offer nearly as much protection, and she was dancing from toe to toe to avoid burning her feet. 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” she muttered frantically. 

It was difficult to see through the unholy mix of dust and heat in the air, but Dipper managed to spot a bookshelf by a cracked window that hadn’t been taken over by coals. He grabbed Mabel’s hand, rushing her to the bookshelf while Irene prattled on. 

“When we left him alone, Nathaniel had tossed every object in his room into the fireplace! Everyone evacuated the hotel once they saw the smoke, but they wouldn’t let me into the group. Nathaniel was my responsibility, they claimed, and I should be the one to check on him. But when I opened the door, he flung a lump of burning coal at my face! He took that opportunity to escape out the window, and I was left to burn!” 

She let out a long, banshee-like shriek as Mabel climbed up the bookshelf, the vacuum secured against her sweater by her purse strap. She flinched at the noise halfway up, her legs dangling in the air. Since there wasn’t room for both of them to climb at the same time, Dipper stayed below her. He steadied Mabel’s legs while she found her footing, which unfortunately involved stepping on his head.  

“They said everyone escaped with their lives, and the only casualties were the owner’s business and reputation,” Irene growled, the scar on her face glowing dangerously. “Here’s some money, Mr. Police Chief sir, keep this unfortunate incident quiet and I will ensure that you’re elected mayor.” 

The combined furniture exploded into flames, scattering embers onto the manifestations of people who died long ago. They stretched out their hands in a soundless cry for help, but were consumed in plumes of fire and smoke. 

A fiery fragment of a table leg shattered the window behind the bookshelf, and Dipper turned his face away to avoid the shower of glass shards. It was already difficult to climb with one hand holding the camera. 

Mabel pulled herself over the top with a grunt. She turned around and perched near the edge, her long hair dangling as she extended a hand to Dipper. 

Strands of hair brushed against Dipper’s cap, but he still needed to climb one more shelf to reach Mabel’s hand. 

Dipper made the mistake of looking down, his natural curiosity betraying him. Coal and soot claimed the bottom shelf, old books swallowed by darkness and embers. Dipper’s muscles screamed in protest, his fingers shaking as he clung to the shelf with one hand.

“You have to let go of the camera, Dipper!” Mabel shouted. “I can’t reach you!” 

“Let go? You’re crazy!” Dipper yelled back. The discovery of Irene Ashenbury’s ghost could change the parascientific understanding of the undead entirely! The evidence had to be preserved! 

Mabel’s hand faltered, her mouth opening and closing like she didn’t know what to say next. She almost leaned too far off her perch in her uncertainty.  

Hurt flashed in her eyes. She pulled back, her hand no longer within Dipper’s reach. 

Small fires sprung up around the foyer, plumes of smoke filling the air. Dipper coughed, his skin moist from sweat. It was unbearably warm, his vest sticking to his back uncomfortably. 

This was a chance to prove himself to the world. To contribute something amazing and out of the ordinary, to finally rise above his bullies and make them see that he wasn’t just a freak with a weird birthmark. 

He’d lost his only lifeline, a realization that came too late. Was the video evidence really worth his life? Was it worth hurting Mabel’s feelings, who was only trying to save his life? 

So much evidence. So many great shots to edit and enhance for the world. 

Dipper took a deep breath, and made his decision. 

But before his fingers released the camera entirely, a pink poodle smacked him in the side, a long strap wrapping around his waist.  Though he couldn’t hold on to the shelf anymore, he remained suspended in the air, safe from the hot coals below. 

Dipper gasped, his stomach lurching from the lack of control over his body. The strap jerked, knocking Dipper’s head against the shelf hard enough to make him see stars. 

He groaned in pain, a distant apology coming from somewhere above him. 

But Mabel’s voice was immediately drowned out by an earsplitting wail. 

“They purged me from existence! My name, my life, my everything! Oh, they can flash their shiny jewels and show off their fancy clothes all they want, but underneath all their gold and glamor, there is nothing but grime and filth underneath! And neither of you are any better!” Irene screamed. 

The wind increased to near-hurricane strength, fanning the flames behind Irene. Her eyes were a blank white, glowing dangerously as she glared at Dipper and Mabel. Her half-singed hair whipped wildly behind her as the dust and soot doubled her height, a pair of wings bursting from her back. 

Dipper’s fingers dug into the strap, his eyes stinging from the unholy mix of particles in the air. It was the only thing that was saving him from a painful death.   

“I’LL SCRUB OUT THE STAINS YOU’VE LEFT ON MY HOTEL, STARTING WITH THE DIRTBOY!” 

With an enraged shriek, she loomed over Dipper, her fingers extended into long, soot-covered blades. 

He opened his mouth to scream, but only a strangled gasp came out. 

This was it. He was gonna die at twelve, and his name was only going to be preserved in clips of 102 Stupid Methods to be Unalived. 

The last thing he would ever see was the bitter ghost of a nineteenth century maid and a girl in a bright pink turtleneck with a portable vacuum heaved over her shoulder…

Wait…Mabel?

“LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE, YOU OLD HAG!” Mabel screamed, her voice echoing off the ruined walls. 

She cranked the dial to the highest setting, the vacuum humming loudly against her shoulder. She firmly planted her feet against the edge, a determined expression on her face as she held the vacuum steady while it sucked up the filthy air. 

“I’M TWENTY-SEVEN, BRAT!” Irene screeched, her sharp fingers curving away from Dipper and racing towards Mabel. 

“Mabel!” Dipper shouted, swinging his legs until he was able to cling to the side of the shelf. Thankfully, the strap didn’t tie up his arms, though it was slightly embarrassing to have a stuffed poodle against his waist. “Mabel, get out of there now!”

Mabel grunted, hands shaking while she struggled to hold the vacuum in position. Irene shrieked, her elongated fingers turning into spaghetti-like strands as they were absorbed into the vacuum, which shuddered violently as if parts of her incorporeal body were trying to escape. 

She couldn’t hold Irene down for much longer by herself. 

With a swiftness he didn’t know he possessed, Dipper hauled himself over the top of the bookshelf. Though the strap was tied to a fancy knob, there was enough length that allowed him to reach Mabel.

She held onto the vacuum with all her might, but she was sinking down to her knees, unable to contain Irene’s ferocity by herself for much longer. 

Dipper seized the vacuum handle with both hands, gritting his teeth when powerful vibrations passed through his body. But he refused to give in when their lives were at stake. 

“Mabel, stand up right now or I’m gonna take all your allowance money! And I’ll spend it on new skins for Bloodcraft too! That’s not an empty threat!” Dipper snapped. 

He counted to three before Mabel tensed up, her hands tightly gripping the vacuum as she pulled herself to her feet. 

“Nobody. Takes. My. Allowance! Especially for dumb nerd games!” Mabel bellowed, heaving the nozzle upwards until it pointed directly at Irene’s face. 

She only had a moment to look surprised before the powerful suction distorted her beyond recognition. A furious shriek came from the formless dust cloud, enveloping them in a last ditch effort to suffocate them for good before she was defeated. 

But Dipper stood his ground, holding their ultimate weapon steady while Mabel vehemently swung the nozzle until every last particle of Irene Ashenbury was sucked into the vacuum. Mabel counted to ten before turning the dial to the off position, just to be sure no part of Irene could jump out and try to drag them to the afterlife. 

They weren’t going to become a horror movie cliche.

Faint echoes came from within the removable bag, and Dipper heard muffled threats that involved stuffing feathers down their throats and personally turning their corpses into taxidermy for display as a warning for vandals. 

Ew. 

At least he managed to record Irene’s capture. It was a miracle he didn’t lose the camera despite the situation. 

Mabel untied the strap from the bookshelf, freeing Dipper from her purse. Before she could reclaim her toy, Dipper took the strap from her. He twirled the purse above his head like a cowboy, took aim at a spiderweb crack in the window, and smashed the purse into the fragile glass. 

The window shattered instantly, and they jumped through the large hole of their new escape route, landing in the dead grass of the courtyard outside. They brushed off the gravel and clumps of grass clinging to their legs, avoiding the tiny shards of broken glass littering the ground. 

“Not bad for a stereotypical girl’s toy,” Dipper said, handing the purse back to Mabel, and she stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Blah, your face is stereotypical,” she said as she tied the vacuum to her back with the purse strap. 

He rolled his eyes. “We have the same face.” 

“Keep wishing. Mine’s obviously cuter. Nobody can resist these rosy cheeks!” She squished her thumbs into her face in what was probably supposed to be a cute pose for social media. 

“At least my teeth aren’t crooked enough for jail.”  

He gave her a smug grin while she hissed like a wildcat, her braces glinting in the light from the flames blazing through the hotel. Even with the accidental property damage, smoke inhalation, and near-death experience, this adventure had been a successful one, and they were walking away with minimal injuries and a captured ghost.

He pointed the camera to himself, which had just enough battery left for a quick closing statement.  

“And that’s all for this segment of Dipper’s Guide to the Unexplained,” Dipper declared, holding two fingers up in a victory sign. “Where we proved that video games are right and vacuum cleaners really are a ghost’s greatest weakness.” 

Mabel jumped into frame, playfully sticking her tongue out while she showed off the shaking vacuum on her back, where Irene’s muffled voice listed off all the ways she planned to brutally kill their descendants in the next three centuries if they didn’t release her immediately.  

“Portable vacuums! They suck more than anything!” Mabel exclaimed, punching Dipper in the shoulder when he booed her terrible pun. “Buy one now and get a fluffy kitten for free!” 

“Not responsible for any accidental hauntings, curses, or annoying loud noises,” Dipper added. 

Mabel made an ‘x’ with her arms. “And no pesky refunds, guaranteed!” 

Though they could’ve kept their imitation sales pitch up for longer, sirens wailed in the distance and grew louder with every passing second. Alternating patterns of red and blue lights flashed against the burning hotel.

In hindsight, a fire was bound to attract attention from the local authorities.  

Dipper quickly shut off the camera and stored it in his vest. He had enough footage from this haunting to make an informative video worthy of the Institute’s notice. 

“We should probably leave now,” he said, stepping through a gaping hole in the fence that led to a side path through the hills. They were better off avoiding the main road until they were past all the police cars, fire trucks, and news vehicles. 

He really didn’t want to be arrested for arson and vandalism on the first day of summer. But a grounding was even worse, where he’d have no electronic access and nothing to do except chores and summer reading homework.  

“Agreed.” Mabel skipped along the gravel path ahead of him like she didn’t have an enormous weight on her back. “Hey, can we grab some ice cream on the way home? There was like, waaaaay too much sepia and death back there. A unicorn sundae with extra rainbow sprinkles is the only way I’m gonna remember what colors look like…” 

Chapter Text

Flashing lights nearly blinded Ford as he climbed out of the truck, a cacophony of questions hurled by the crowd that surrounded the vehicle just outside the gates of the Institute. There was a mixture of technology among them, from the traditional cameras used by the older folks to sleek, modern phones for the teenagers and young adults. Though he saw a few familiar faces from the locals who called Gravity Falls home, they were outnumbered by those who were clearly tourists from out of town. 

The copious amounts of sunblock on their noses, overstuffed backpacks, and Northwest branded t-shirts with numerous anatomical errors of paranormal creatures gave them away. He would never understand why parents allowed their little girls to wear those horrific unicorn t-shirts, but his spokesperson had advised that he shouldn’t comment on just how awful real-life unicorns were after his disastrous stint as a guest speaker at Gravity Falls Elementary. 

Even after three years, the occasional angry letter from a PTA mom accusing him of shattering her children’s hopes and dreams still showed up in his mailbox. 

He closed the truck door behind him, careful not to turn his back on the people here. A trailer containing a volatile but currently sedated batsquatch was attached to the truck, and he didn’t want the ignorant masses to upset it. The squat goblin in front was particularly suspect. 

It seemed to be a rather bold specimen. Most goblins preferred solitude in dark caves and old mines, only interacting with humans when there was something valuable to steal, most commonly jewelry. Perhaps this one believed he could add more objects to his hoard if he painted his body a human skin tone to blend in with the locals? 

However, he didn’t have all aspects of human culture correct. The vintage reporter outfit was period-accurate, but he was also pointing a turkey baster at Ford in lieu of a microphone. Goblins usually had poor eyesight, so the similar shapes likely confused him. 

“Toby Determined of the Gravity Falls Gossiper,” the goblin said in a nasally voice. “Heard you were out catching a rare monster in the next state over. Must be the discovery of a lifetime! Care to give the Gossiper an exclusive first look?”

In a further misunderstanding of human tools, he held up a cinderblock that was probably supposed to be a camera.

Before Ford could ask Toby which mine he hailed from, a woman and her cameraman shoved their way through the crowd. She gave Toby a scornful look as she held her microphone under her chin. Her assistant balanced the long camera on his shoulder, pointing it directly at Ford, who inched closer to the hook binding the truck and trailer together under the pretense of checking the security of its connection. 

His extra fingers wouldn’t be caught on film so long as he angled himself this way. 

“Shandra Jiminez, four o’clock news,” the woman declared. “The real reporter around here. The International Institute of Oddology’s spokesperson announced your trip to Mount St. Helens where you removed an unknown creature from its natural habitat by force. Tell us, what sort of monster did you capture for your personal zoo today, Director?” 

Her microphone was inches away from his face, and Ford’s foot moved back a step against his will. 

Ford’s fingers curled behind his back, a pit of barely suppressed irritation rising within him. The trailer shook, a disgruntled roar coming from within. Seemed the batsquatch didn’t appreciate being called a monster anymore than Ford did. 

Shandra acted like she had a master’s degree in her occupation, but her ignorant word choice and uninformed assumptions made it obvious that she only graduated with a bachelor’s from Portland Community College. 

Once the batsquatch was secured in its holding pen, He was going to have a friendly chat with Bud Gleeful about leaking the batsquatch case to the press without consulting him first. 

Then Bud’s corpse would be thrown into the Bottomless Pit, the hole covered with a giant boulder for good measure. Nobody would ever be able to give him a proper burial by the time Ford was through with him. 

“I didn’t remove the batsquatch from its natural habitat by force. It would’ve been killed if I hadn’t captured it first,” Ford snapped. “Farmers were destroying its territory to make room for their livestock and the batsquatch was simply taking advantage of a new food source. You’re vilifying this creature when it was only acting upon its natural instincts. Such a thing can hardly be called monstrous.”

Shandra raised an eyebrow, though she wisely chose to back away with her microphone in hand. Bud would have to work overtime to smooth everything over with the media, but Ford didn’t care. 

Someone had to say it. 

Have you ever met a true monster, Shandra? One who was your best friend, your sole confidant when the rest of the world was against you? Did you trust him with your deepest secrets, your greatest fears, only to discover that he never cared about you in all the time you spent together? And you can never break free of the burden he forces upon your shoulders, no matter how thoroughly you try to block him out? 

His audience fell silent. For once in her career, even Shandra’s sharp tongue failed her. 

Birds chirped from the treetops. A pair of gnomes scuffled for a leftover chicken wing in the shrubs. Satellites revolved with gentle hums on the Institute’s roof. 

The batsquatch roared, hammering the trailer walls in an attempt to escape its confines. Several mothers’ eyes widened in horror as they pulled their confused children back. A dent appeared in the corner of the trailer, a bolt flying off from the constant pounding. 

“There’s no cause for panic,” Ford announced. If everyone remained calm, it would lessen their chances of being attacked. “The batsquatch must have a higher natural resistance to standard tranquilizers than I previously assumed. I’ll have to sedate it again before transport into the rehabilitation wing. In the meantime, I suggest finding something to protect your necks. This individual prefers severing the head from the body before feasting on its prey.”  

Everyone scrambled for something to use as a makeshift shield.

If there was one thing tourists and locals had in common, it was the collective lack of higher brain capacity. Leaves and sticks were hardly adequate defenses against a batsquatch’s claws. Only Shandra had the foresight to cover her torso and neck with a backpack snatched from a man who wasn’t paying attention to his belongings. 

Ford unclipped his tranquilizer gun from his belt, a slimmer and lighter model developed by the Institute that was more maneuverable than the standard kind, useful for sedating more agile or elusive species. He loaded two darts into the chamber and unlatched the trailer door, opening it slowly to delay the batsquatch’s charge for freedom. 

Within the dim light, he spotted the outline of long, angled ears and folded wings that ended in sharp, curved hooks. The batsquatch threw its entire body at the wall, chittering when the dent only became marginally bigger, the wall holding despite the damage.

A truly fascinating creature. A pity the rest of humanity always tried to destroy what they couldn’t understand instead of pursuing knowledge and discovery. The batsquatch had destroyed many of Ford’s traps before he successfully captured it, but it was a financial loss he was willing to take in exchange for understanding more about this species. 

Ford fired his gun at the batsquatch’s neck. The first dart sunk into a vein in its sagging skin, the batsquatch’s roar echoing through the trailer, leathery wings flaring as it reared up to its full height. Though it tried to grab the offending dart, its large, clawed fingers were too thick and clumsy to be effective. 

Crimson eyes landed on Ford, glowing like burning coals in the dark. There were no pupils, only an instinctive, predatory glare. 

A lesser man would’ve run away. 

But Ford had faced monsters before. Monsters that even the depths of hell couldn’t fathom in their worst nightmares. The batsquatch was nothing more than a domesticated pet by comparison. 

With bared fangs, the batsquatch snarled, charging to the only exit in a primal stance. 

Ford fired a second dart into the batsquatch’s shoulder, leaping out of the way as the creature crashed into the door and clumsily tumbled to the ground. Its limbs shook as it tried to stand, but only succeeded in falling upon one knee before rolling onto its side, the sedation chemicals finally taking effect. 

“Keep your distance,” Ford ordered the crowd. Their earlier trepidation was gone, replaced by dangerous curiosity. “It’s too disoriented to control itself.” 

Yet nobody heeded Ford’s warning. 

Oblivious tourists snapped photos of the batsquatch, cameras flashing while they oohed and ahhed at the unusual sight before them. 

“Go on, sonny,” a grandfather chuckled, gently pushing a brown-haired boy who seemed all too eager for a photo opportunity. “Let dear ol’ Pop Pop get a picture of you next to Batty there. Feel like joining him, sunshine?” 

The girl shook her head, burying her head into her grandfather’s pants and refusing to look at the batsquatch. 

“Suit yourself,” the grandfather said, patting her head fondly before holding up the camera around his neck. “Okay, let’s see those pearly whites!” 

The boy grinned from ear to ear as he posed next to the almost unconscious batsquatch, exposing a large gap in his front teeth. 

Ford pressed his fingers to his temple, ignoring the dull headache forming in the back of his brain. He’d developed an incredible amount of resistance to pain after thirty years of on and off headaches, and a migraine that might’ve incapacitated a normal human would’ve been nothing more than an annoyance to Ford. 

The crowd’s stupidity had irked him to the point of a headache. 

It had nothing to do with the boy’s hair color, the carefree, gap-toothed smile, or the air of invincibility surrounding him even as the batsquatch bared its fangs, drowsy red eyes locking onto him….

Danger. 

Ford yanked the boy to safety just as the batsquatch lunged, powerful jaws clamping onto the end of Ford’s trenchcoat. A shrill cry pierced Ford’s ears as he wrenched himself free of the batsquatch’s fangs, leaving behind a ragged strip of fabric within its maw. 

Better his coat than the boy’s head. 

The batsquatch spat the fabric out of its mouth, flecks of drool spilling onto the grass. Its eyes glazed over as it keeled onto its side, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. 

For once, nobody took the opportunity to get their pictures of a sleeping batsquatch. 

The boy quivered, the shock of almost dying finally catching up to him. Ford stormed over to the idiotic grandfather, thrusting the boy into his arms. The grandfather adjusted his grip as he made soft shushing noises, his soft demeanor hardening as he glared at Ford. 

What right did he have to be angry? The batsquatch was only acting as any animal would do when they were threatened! 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Ford shouted, returning the grandfather’s challenging stare. “You put everyone here at risk just for a stupid photo!”

The boy buried his head into his grandfather’s collar with a frightened cry, face covered in tears. His sister only clung tighter to her grandfather’s pants, her eyes watery. 

Gasps rose from the crowd, and one woman clapped her hands over her child’s ears. Shandra and her cameraman filmed everyone’s shock while Toby Determined quickly scribbled notes on his cinderblock. 

The grandfather tensed, his posture defensive until the boy wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Ford curled his hand behind his back, prepared to defend himself if necessary. 

But the grandfather only gave the boy a fond look before relaxing. 

“I’m making memories with them. My grandkids aren’t gonna be young and innocent forever,” he said, turning his back on Ford. “And they haven’t grown nearly enough to hear that sort of language, not that I expect you to understand.” 

A horrible justification. Making memories was just a frivolous excuse for their reckless behavior. 

“Maybe he has no famiwy to wuv him, Pop Pop,” the boy whispered. His head lifted, watery eyes boring straight through Ford. 

Ford couldn’t identify the empty feeling that rooted itself into his mind, the boy’s stare more piercing than a gremoblin’s fear-inducing gaze. 

“So it seems, sonny,” the grandfather said, gently patting the boy on the back. “So it seems.” 

Enough of this blathering. Ford had more important things to do than making sure a stranger’s kid didn’t meet a bloody end in front of the cameras. 

Everyone stumbled out of his way as he stormed back to the batsquatch, no one daring to challenge him. Though he tried to focus on binding the batsquatch’s great wings with a durable rope from the Parrot Pirate Dimension, his meticulous knotwork was sloppier than usual. 

I’m Stanford Pines, Founder and Director of the International Institute of Oddology. I’ve earned twelve PHDs even though I had to attend Backsupmore because the West Coast Tech scholarship still wasn’t enough to fully pay for tuition. I’ve published twenty-nine award-winning journals and revolutionized science with the interdimensional portal. I’ve earned four Nobel prizes, and they had to create the oddology category specifically for me. I’ve subdued threats bigger than anyone could ever imagine. I made Dad proud of me for once. Everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve dreamed of, I have it all.   

There was no more privacy for him. He was being watched, every hour of every day, by the whole world. By entire dimensions, all waiting for him to accomplish the impossible. To break the limits set by man’s doubt and mockery, to show everyone what they could achieve even with modest beginnings. 

He couldn’t afford to be anything less than perfect. 

The rope was a tangled mess, the knot too messy. The slightest tug would unravel his work completely. 

But the wings had to be bound for transport into the rehabilitation center. The batsquatch wouldn’t fit through the door otherwise. 

The crowd whispered. But their hushed tones didn’t seem directed at him as he feared. The Institute’s gates opened, taking up all of their attention.  

“Pardon the interruption, ladies and gents!” Bud Gleeful shouted, sauntering out from the entrance with a boombox on his shoulder, which played a cheerful piano tune. His flowery pink Hawaiian shirt was obnoxious to the eyes, his straw hat slightly askew like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

If Fiddleford insisted on having a spokesperson for the Institute, couldn’t he have hired someone who didn’t wear tropical vacation attire every day? 

Ford stiffened as Bud put an arm around his shoulder, his ears ringing from the loud music. 

“I’m afraid the critter before your eyes is only the opening act! I do believe our dear Director simply got caught up in showin’ it off!” Bud’s laughter boomed through the forest, clapping Ford on the back, which sent the onlookers into giggling fits. “Manly Dan, why don’t ya kindly get it off the stage for us?”

Manly Dan rushed out of the gates, bellowing with an over the top impression of a fake wrestler.  

“THIS IS HOW A REAL MAN HANDLES MONSTERS!” he roared, picking up the batsquatch and triumphantly holding it in the air. Ford and Bud hastily scrambled out of his way, and even Bud’s jovial demeanor faltered when he was hit in the face by a large wing. 

After allowing people to get their pictures in, Manly Dan laid the unconscious batsquatch across his broad shoulders. One fist balled as its head lolled against his beard. 

“The batsquatch is already sedated. Punching it in the face won’t be necessary,” Ford said, to Manly Dan’s visible disappointment. “Take it to the rehabilitation center. The cryptozoologists can take over from there.” 

Once Manly Dan and the batsquatch were out of sight, Ford seized Bud’s collar and dragged him back to the Institute for an explanation to this ridiculous spectacle, though Bud planted his feet and resisted as much as he could. 

“Before we skedaddle back inside, allow me to present y’all with the debut of Lil’ Gideon’s newest routine, ‘My Widdle Ol’ Town!’” he announced, his voice slightly forced from the pressure Ford was applying. 

Ford only released him once they were behind the gates, away from any scrutinizing eyes. 

“This is your final warning, Buddy Gleeful.” Ford jabbed his finger into Bud’s chest. Physical threats seemed to be the only way to break through that oafish grin. “The Institute is not a circus, and you are neither its carny nor its ringmaster. I am not a sideshow attraction to be gawked at, and if you disregard my strict orders for privacy one more time, I will not hesitate to dismiss you from your position. Do I make myself clear?” 

A bead of sweat trickled down Bud’s forehead. Could’ve been nerves. Could’ve been the June heat. Either one had an equal probability. 

Grim satisfaction was truly one of the best feelings in the world. But he basked in it for several seconds too long, and he didn’t notice the small shadow creeping up behind him until it was too late. 

“Pa, what’s goin’ on?” 

Ford jumped, heart pounding out of his chest. One hand flew to the gun strapped to his waist. 

The threat had to be eliminated. 

Pale blue eyes blinked up at him. 

Pig-like nose. Cheeks that hadn’t yet shed residual baby fat. Light blue suit with an American flag pin attached to its lapel.

The boy didn’t seem to register the gun barrel brushing against the stray brown hairs of his pompadour. 

While Ford wasn’t quite ready to dismiss little Gideon Gleeful as a threat (nobody’s skin was that pale unless they were albino, a vampire, or a vampire who was claiming to be a human with an albino skin condition), he forced himself to holster his gun. 

Now it was Bud’s turn to look smug. 

“Now Stanford, I’d appreciate it if ya didn’t commit assault and battery in front of Gideon. He’s gettin’ to the age where boys are most impressionable ya know,” Bud said. He gave the boombox to Gideon, took a comb out of his pocket, and brushed his son’s hair back into place. 

It had to be criminal to use that much hair gel on anybody, let alone a boy who hadn’t hit double digits yet. The entire comb was slick and shining with globs of oil by the time he was finished. 

Gideon smiled with youthful innocence. “Didja convince him, Pa? Am I gonna be apprenticed to Dr. Pines now?” 

Bud’s eyes flicked between Ford and Gideon, a nervous twitch in his cheek muscles as he tried to maintain a placating smile. 

“Uh…well, you see, we’re still discussin’ some of the finer details. Movin’ from public school to a personal tutelage under one of the most accomplished scientific minds in the world is a mighty tall leap at your age,” Bud stammered. “Your Ma just has some reservations ‘bout it all. But don’t ya worry, I’m sure I can arrange something with her and Dr. Pines before summer ends.”

Gideon’s mouth pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. 

Surely both Gleefuls were brain-dead. It was the only way they could’ve gotten this ridiculous idea of an apprenticeship in their heads. 

Gideon was a child living in a fantasy world. No matter what his father claimed, he was not ready for this life. What becoming Ford’s student would truly entail. 

Long, sleepless nights spent on watching that damned portal. Vigilant monitoring of expedition teams to make sure they don’t bring back anything or anyone they shouldn’t. Inheriting the ghosts of my past, worrying that any misstep could bring him back…this child cannot be trusted with such a burden. 

“I will not be taking over your son’s education,” Ford replied.  

Bud reeled back as if Ford had personally slapped him in the face, while Gideon nearly crushed the boombox in his hands.

“I have many responsibilities to the Institute and the world. None of them grant me the time to provide a personal education to children beyond the occasional school event. You work here. You know the Institute offers a variety of science programs appropriate for his age. The instructors are all competent in their fields. They can provide the necessary curriculum if his current school can’t meet his needs.” 

Gideon stomped his foot, which only provided another reason to refuse him. It was evident that he’d never been told no in his life. 

“Pa! You said I’d be apprenticed by my tenth birthday!” Gideon shouted at a rather impressive volume for someone with a juvenile respiratory system. “You promised!” 

Spoiled brat needs a good spanking, Pa would say if he’d still been alive to witness this tantrum. 

A bead of sweat trickled down Bud’s forehead. He hastily straightened the flag pin on Gideon’s lapel, the piano tune looping back to the beginning. 

“There ya go, boy,” Bud said as he shoved Gideon towards the gate. It was clear he didn’t want to deal with a tantrum for any longer than he had to. ”Why don’t ya entertain the lovely folks out there while the grown-ups talk? Don’t wanna keep ‘em waiting too long now.” 

Gideon muttered something under his breath, storming to his waiting audience with a forced smile. 

Ford tapped out a command on his watch, locking the gates behind him. People tended to become unruly when it came to ‘Lil Gideon performances, and he didn’t want them distracting employees and students from their tasks. 

If only he could ban these sideshow performances entirely. 

Unfortunately, Bud and Fiddleford shot his protests down. The shows provided additional funding for the Institute, or so they claimed. 

Surely there were better ways to make money that didn’t involve turning a nine year old into a cult leader. 

“Gideon didn’t come up with that idea of apprenticeship on his own,” Ford said coldly.  

Bud just gave a noncommittal shrug. “He’s read all your journals and hung around the Artifact Testing Division for half his life. He’s smart and ambitious. Of course he wants to study under ya. It’s a perfectly natural step. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t support his dream?”

Bud tipped his straw hat in a southern gentleman’s gesture. Given his background as a used car salesman, it only made him look scummier. 

He had a businessman’s mindset, and Ford knew his type all too well. Money first, and if a passion didn’t have a payout, then it was a waste of time.

It was a philosophy that Ford rejected when he made Gravity Falls home. 

“This discussion is over,” Ford snapped. “Rest assured, I’ll be speaking to Fiddleford about applying more caution when hiring future employees.” 

He stormed past Bud, keeping one hand on his holster. He didn’t trust that slimeball as far as he could throw him.

“Alrighty then, I’ve probably kept ya long enough. Betcha got mysteries to solve and werewolves to wrestle. But before ya go raving to Fiddleford about me, maybe ya can lend a hand to my own little mystery,” Bud said, unfazed by his dismissal.  

Ford looked over his shoulder, the heel of his boot sinking into a mud puddle. Once again, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. 

Bud’s smile was friendly, in a neighborly invitation to a summer backyard barbecue type of friendly. 

But beneath that friendly smile was someone who wouldn’t hesitate to expose every embarrassing secret to the entire town.  

“Who inherits a man’s legacy if he has no family?” 

In Ford’s opinion, philosophy was a useless field. Out of all the doctorates he’d earned, it was the most impractical by far. He’d only taken those classes to fill in the slots on his schedule and nothing more.  

Why ask rhetorical questions that weren’t intended to be answered when he had the power to seek the truth for himself? 

There was nothing mysterious about Bud’s question. 

A man’s possessions would become property of whoever looted his house first. 

Trophies and medals, flowing in a stream of molten gold. A cabin occupied by strangers. Machinery rusted over, the controls lost to time. The portal seized by those who would never truly comprehend it. 

The International Institute of Oddology, the creation he took the most pride in, taken over by someone who only wanted power. They’d turn it into a mockery. A beacon of science, a haven for rejects, and a center for knowledge and learning, transformed into a soulless corporation that wouldn’t benefit the world. 

If Bud was trying to push him into early retirement, then he needed a new tactic. 

Ford was a soldier in war, fighting a battle with no end on the horizon. He didn’t have the luxury of raising the white flag and throwing down his gun.

The Dimensional Vortex Neutralizer functioned as intended for thirty years, rendering the portal safe to use. Countless expeditions brought back tales of unforgettable lands and unique beings, and none had ever reported run-ins with the forces of the Nightmare Realm. Any hazards were simply natural occurrences within unfamiliar worlds.

The Cancercure Crystals of Dimension 52 revolutionized medical science. Seeds from the Whispering Wood Dimension sprouted into living tree warriors, who’d taken up arms against deforestation ever since they’d been introduced to this world. The Institute even forged a strong alliance with Queen Sonata A’ Capella of Dimension #5/8EGBDF after Fiddleford strummed an emotionally moving performance of Take Me Home Country Roads on his banjo for her. 

Humanity thrived because Ford had facilitated connections reaching far beyond time and space.

But if the Neutralizer fails, it would spell humanity’s downfall.

Something wet and foul-smelling hit him in the face. 

He’d been so deep in thought that he’d barely noticed he was floating ten feet in the air, subjected to the anti-gravity effects of the active portal. His body bumped into the reinforced barrier that separated the main control panel from the portal’s field of effect, a feature that had been added by Fiddleford after the portal sucked him in headfirst and almost drove him to insanity. 

Better than the strip of black and yellow warning tape they’d originally used as a safety line. 

Below him, Fiddleford turned two keys into the operational position. His weighted belt kept him firmly on the ground. Unlike Ford, he couldn’t tolerate moving around in anti-gravity for long.  

“Did you just spit tobacco at me?” Ford asked in dismay. He wiped the brown goop off his cheek, shaking his hand to rid himself of the disgusting mixture.

He’d been splashed in worse substances over the course of his career, but at least those were mostly defensive measures from paranormal fauna. 

“I coulda spittooned yer ear, but I’m feelin’ nice today,” Fiddleford said, looking up at Ford with a mischievous grin, flecks of tobacco leaves staining his teeth. 

His precision was truly impressive and perhaps a tad unnerving. 

Ford sighed. “It’s a miracle you have any teeth left with that habit at all, old friend.” 

“I ain’t old enough to be needin’ dentures yet!” Fiddleford slapped his knee, his hooting laughter echoing off the metal walls. “Now get yer head outta the rafters and monitor the coordinates while I jimmy this vitally important nuclear meltdown prevention wire back into place.”

Fiddleford ducked under the table, humming a ditty to himself while he worked.

While Ford was a decent engineer in his own right, even he couldn’t create complex robots or understand the delicate intricacies of machinery like Fiddleford. 

“Will it take long?” he asked, activating the anti anti-gravity function on his watch. He braced himself on one knee as he hit the ground, unfazed by the hard landing. He’d leapt from heights far greater than this. 

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it none. I’ll be finished faster than a rooster in a henhouse. Focus on bringin’ Crypt and Grimsby here in one piece. Actually, just Grimsby’ll be fine. Ya can leave Crypt’s head in the other dimension.” 

Though he held an important position as leader of the Odd Squad, Oscar Crypt only stuck around the Institute for a few days at a time. Members of the Odd Squad usually fell into a frenzy when he was around, trying to get him to look at their research before he inevitably left for weeks to pursue a passion in translating unknown writings of exotic societies. 

The radar emitted steady beeps, two red dots appearing in the center of the monitor. A regular interval of circles closed around the dots, successfully locking onto the two man expedition team. 

Ptolemaic Dimension, Multiversal Standard Designation E-8GYT, Sector B42, Location: River of Pharoah’s Tears, Southeastern Bank. 

Ford never understood Crypt’s fascination with the Ptolemaic Dimension, a parallel Earth that had suffered a catastrophic drought in ancient times. Nearly all of civilization died out, yet Egypt under the rule of the Ptolemy Dynasty thrived. With the desert planet united under the pharaoh's throne, every continent had thousands upon thousands of pyramid structures built in tribute to their might. 

But Ford’s only visit to the Ptolemaic Dimension had ended in disaster. Years ago, Crypt invited him on a mission to record the parallel society’s curses and incantations for Journal 23, but they were forced to abandon their studies and flee from an angry mob after Ford destroyed the pyramid of a deceased pharaoh, plagued by visions of slitted eyes, observing him through every hieroglyph. 

Ford’s hand tightened around a penlight in his coat pocket. Along with his guns, it was a necessary item to carry at all times.

Every expedition team member was required to submit themselves for a quick eye exam and identification checks upon immediate return. No exceptions or excuses. 

The lab was bathed in a blinding light, stray papers and a forgotten coffee mug flying into the portal’s gaping maw, forever lost into the endless expanse of the multiverse.

Fiddleford stiffened, his body braced against the corner of the control panel. Though the reinforced barrier protected crucial equipment and its operators from the powerful gravitational pull, Fiddleford always wore his weighted belt when he operated the portal.  

Even though he headlined many expeditions himself. 

It was a strange paradox, though Ford supposed that his friend was just being cautious after he was accidentally sucked headfirst into the portal during its rudimentary phase. 

“Portal’s open, boys. Skedaddle on through when yer ready, Grimsby,” Fiddleford said into a small microphone. “And Crypt, go prick yerself on a cactus before ya even think about returnin’, ya pearl-tramplin’ swine.”  

Ford snatched the microphone from him. Mission control had to be conducted in the proper lingo, a fact that Fiddleford never understood. 

“Director Pines to Squad Leader Crypt. Laboratory of Dimension 46’\B. Standby to receive. Prepare for inspection upon arrival. Over.” 

The feedback he received in turn was slightly garbled, but much clearer than the last message. 

“ Understood. We’re coming through. And Fiddleford, I cut off a Gremoblin’s tongue with nothing but a really sharp stick once. Watch yourself.” 

Fiddleford let out an animalistic growl as Crypt emerged from the portal, his head adorned with an elaborate ivory headdress. Grimsby trailed closely behind him, looking anxiously over his shoulder. His black hair was closely cropped to his scalp. 

Instead of the dark gray, armored bodysuits that served as the uniform for the Odd Squad, they wore traditional white tunics of Ptolemite scholars, limbs bare except for a single golden anklet around their right ankles. Black eyeliner decorated their faces, flecks of gold dusting their heads. They were drenched in sweat, the foul musk of a Ptolemaic camel clinging to their bodies.  

Crypt removed his headdress, revealing a gray diamond tattooed on his forehead, stylized symbols lining the corners. Unlike Grimsby, he had no hair to shave.

“Apologies for being out of uniform,” Crypt said, lifting the sash of his tunic. Pinned to his chest was a golden emblem in the shape of a six-fingered hand, the symbol of the Institute. “It was necessary though. We’ve been declared priority one criminals and the Ptolemites are allowed to kill us on sight. We had to blend in.” 

Grimsby shivered as he displayed his own emblem.

“Can we go ch-ch-change now?” he stammered, for reasons that may not have been entirely caused by the laboratory’s chilly air. He was lankier and carried himself less confidently than Crypt, a sign that he was a fresh recruit to the Odd Squad. Training to withstand any harsh climate would take time, but he would manage. “It’s fr-freezing.” 

Fiddleford stopped typing and gave Grimsby an encouraging smile. “Sure ya can. Tell ya what, let’s take this chat into my office. A cup of steaming hot joe’ll warm ya right up!”

Grimsby smiled back, though it quickly evaporated as Crypt’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. 

“You aren’t leaving this room until I deem you safe. And if you aren’t, then I will deal with you accordingly.” Ford ignored Fiddleford’s disapproving glare on his back. “State your name and hometown, recruit.” 

He left the safety of the protective barrier, raising his penlight as he joined the Odd Squad members in front of the portal. Grimsby cowered in Ford’s shadow. 

“Jordan Grimsby, s-sir. I’m from New Orleans.” The young man closed his eyes like he expected Ford to disappear if he couldn’t see him. “Please don’t eat my eyeballs...”

Ford shined the light into Grimsby’s face, though his eyelids remained stubbornly closed. Crypt grunted in annoyance, forcefully opening Grimsby’s eyes with his fingers. 

“You were informed of the identification procedure before the mission. This should come as no surprise to you,” he said, holding Grimsby in place. 

Brown irises. White sclera with a slightly pink tinge from lack of sleep. Round pupils that contracted upon exposure to light. 

A typical human response. 

Grimsby flinched, but Ford couldn’t release him until he answered the last question. Did he have to be so dramatic? If he’d cooperate, the questioning wouldn’t take long. 

“And where did you graduate from college?” Ford asked. 

Crypt yanked on Grimsby’s tunic, forcing him upright. 

“West Coast Tech. Class of 2010. Bachelor’s of Oddology,” he gasped.  

Well, that was a surprise. Ford had expected to hear the name of an insignificant community college in the swamplands, or a southern school that foolishly put more pride into their concussion-riddled football teams than science. 

“His answers match his Odd Squad application. The boy ain’t fibbin’,” Fiddleford snapped, slamming a clipboard onto the panel. He shot a venomous glare at Crypt. “So let the poor fella go already.” 

Crypt opened his hand, and Grimsby crumpled to the floor. He shook like a leaf, scrambling out of his superiors’ shadows.

“Toughen up, Grimsby,” Crypt sneered. “This was a tame job. If you don’t believe this line of work is suitable for you, then you’re welcome to crawl over to tinkering club with the local kook.”

Fiddleford yanked on a lever vehemently. The portal shut down, lights fading away. Unsecured objects settled on the floor as gravity returned to normal.  

“Engineering is a fine skill to have, unlike yer scrapdoodlin’ and curse-casting, ya son of a-” 

“Crypt. Fiddleford. You’re professionals, not children.” Ford rubbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance, fingers trailing over the indent of his scar. It was more peaceful when Crypt took his long trips to other dimensions, just so he didn’t have to listen to them arguing. And they always found something to argue about. “Your fields of expertise are different, but they’re both highly valuable to the Institute. Set a good example for the youth we’re trying to teach.”

Grimsby stood up, tripping over a wire before catching himself. Then he backed up towards the safety of the barrier, not daring to take his eyes off Crypt.

“You’re clear, Grimsby. Go with Fiddleford,” Ford ordered. “Give him a detailed account of the events that occurred during your expedition.”

Fiddleford slapped Grimsby’s back in what was probably supposed to be a friendly greeting, but the younger man jumped at the contact. 

“Well, let’s get goin’!” Fiddleford said as he led a tense Grimsby away, his voice echoing through the corridor. “Could go for some comfort food myself–whoa there, we’re goin’ to the elevator over here, that way leads to Ford’s private cabin, ain’t nobody allowed inside but me. A coupla’ things in there will flay yer flesh from yer bones soon as ya look at ‘em funny. So, ya hungry for sweetbread? Think I got some tucked in the biohazard fridge somewhere…” 

With Fiddleford handling the rookie, that left Ford to oversee the clean up after deactivation. Their equipment was hardy, though it required regular maintenance checks so expedition teams didn’t have their bodies deconstructed down to the atomic level during transport. 

But more importantly, he had to isolate the unstable residual energy birthed from every use of the portal. 

“Let’s make this quick, Crypt,” Ford said as he pointed the penlight at his colleague’s face. 

Crypt’s eyes stretched to their maximum width. There wasn’t a hint of obnoxious yellow, nor were his pupils narrow, cat-like slits. 

But he wasn’t using his fingers to stretch out his eyelids, though he was probably accustomed to regular eye examinations. Ford felt the phantom, pinching sensation of clothespin tips on his eyes, and he took an unconscious step back from Crypt, shoving the discomfort into the depths of his mind. 

“Oscar Crypt. Roswell, New Mexico. Graduated in 1992. Earned my doctorate in palaeography at Harvard,” Crypt said before even Ford posed the question. 

He’d given the same answer enough times that Ford didn’t need to verify it with the application. 

Satisfied, Ford stored the penlight. But with Crypt’s presence, he couldn’t draw attention to the residual energy floating in the center of the inactive portal. The dark blue substance was neither solid, liquid, nor gas. It sparkled with the essence of newly formed stars incubating inside a newborn galaxy, dangerous yet unassuming. 

Ford had named it the Rift, when he discovered the substance after he learned the portal’s true purpose, while he and Fiddleford hadn’t been on speaking terms. 

The Rift’s existence only spurred Ford’s boundless curiosity about its nature. If it fell into the wrong hands, total global destruction would be the outcome. 

But what if it could be harnessed for less harmful purposes? 

An energy source perhaps, or the Rift could be used to make history with the first manmade star to ever grace science. Earth typically didn’t have the right conditions needed to create a star, though many scientists before him have tried in the past. He hypothesized the chemical makeup was fairly similar to that of a nebula, and with the right elements and controlled temperature environment, a star could very well be born.

It was a question for another time. 

Crypt stretched out his arm, the diamond tattoo on his forehead glowing brightly. 

“Llorcs neddibrof nommus, ecapsremmah,” he recited. 

The air around him shimmered, a scroll materializing out of nowhere. It was sealed with a bright red ribbon, a skull marking on the end of its length. 

“Impressive spellwork,” Ford said, poking the scroll to make sure it didn’t disintegrate on contact. That summoning spell would be very useful for organizing his notes and pens, since they were almost never where he thought he left them. 

“Picked up the spell and this scroll from the Library of Ramtankhamun. Took some time since the scholars were very protective of their writings, but it was well worth the effort,” Crypt said. “This scroll comes from the Forbidden Wing, and reading privileges are only granted to the Head Scholar and a select group of priests. From what I gathered, it contains necromancy instructions in case the pharaoh in power is incompetent and the priests need to revive a predecessor so their world doesn’t fall into chaos and disrepair. Blending in wasn’t difficult, but Grimsby’s flightiness gave him away as an outsider just when I discovered the scroll. Had to run for it or be executed on the spot. Frankly, mentoring him is a waste of my time.”

Crypt didn’t tolerate failure or anything less than the best. His leadership was one of the reasons the Odd Squad had received so much critical acclaim over the years. They were composed of the most elite researchers and adventurers the world had to offer. 

And since Grimsby graduated from West Coast Tech, a university with infamously high standards, he had to possess a keen mind somewhere under all that fear. 

“I’m sure Grimsby will grow into his own potential in time. Fiddleford used to act the same way, but look at him now! He led plenty of missions once he got over himself,” Ford assured him. 

It took years to convince Fiddleford that the portal wasn’t just full of monsters and locations beyond human comprehension. There were truly wondrous sights to behold and endless dimensions to catalogue and explore. 

Ford remembered how Fiddleford’s face had lit up when they came across the Scrapyard by accident, a pocket dimension between dimensions where waste from the multiverse accumulated. The discovery of a never-ending supply of scrap metal made of alloys and substances that didn’t exist in Dimension 46’\B was a game-changer for Fiddleford, who’d always resisted Ford’s attempts to get him to come along on expeditions before.

Now Fiddleford Computamajigs was the most successful computer company on Earth, with literal out of the world technology that couldn’t be replicated by any competitor.

But Crypt folded his arms, not sharing Ford’s optimism.    

“Grimsby was distracted and disruptive. He was constantly asking me if I recovered the scroll within earshot of the scholars. Wanted me to rush the mission because he promised he’d video chat with his kid brother for his birthday. His homesickness endangered our goal. If he wants to be part of the Odd Squad, then his priorities need to lay with us.”

Ford never cared for his own birthday, though they were important celebrations for most people. Especially if they were young enough to receive a mountain of gifts. 

But Crypt had a point. A birthday was no excuse to hinder a mission. 

“I understand your frustration,” Ford admitted. “But give Grimsby some time to learn the ropes. He was good enough to graduate from West Coast Tech.”  

“Perhaps West Coast Tech has lowered their standards over the years. A shame, really,” Crypt sighed, walking away from Ford and the portal. He stopped at the doorway, diamond tattoo flashing in the low light as he looked over his shoulder. “Keep the scroll. I have my own copy. I’ll contact you once I’ve decoded more.”  

Then he was gone, and Ford was alone at last. 

In the hallway, the motion detector lights shut off. An elevator carried its sole occupant away with the grating scrape of metallic components rubbing together, a mechanical flaw that Fiddleford hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet. A sickly green fluid leaked from the bottom of the portal, forming a small, bubbling puddle of ooze that dripped through the cracks of the floor. 

Ford tuned out the background drone of the inactive machinery as he kicked an old rag over the puddle. The rag promptly disintegrated, leaving a rancid, skunk-like stench behind. 

With no prying eyes around, Ford opened a containment jar that contained a single piece of crumpled paper inside, a love letter from a smitten teenager who’d been publicly rejected by the object of his affection in the Institute’s cafeteria. While everyone else ruthlessly laughed at him, Ford had discreetly swiped the paper from the garbage to use as bait for later.   

Disagreement was the fastest method to attract the Rift, though Ford had yet to determine its sentience. 

The Rift’s incorporeal form shimmered, expanding to the size of a grapefruit as it drifted through the air. Then it settled into the bottom of the jar, devouring the love letter until there was nothing left. 

The jar violently shook as Ford screwed on the lid, a jagged line appearing on the glass. 

The Rift’s hunger for chaos and destruction was never satisfied. It had to feed and grow like any other being. But Ford couldn’t allow the Rift to remain unchecked. It would put the entire universe at risk.

Ford closed the door of the safety barrier behind him, the portal forever a weight on his back. With the push of a button, the portal room was locked behind a solid titanium wall. 

Only he and Fiddleford were able to grant access to a select few. Nobody else would ever understand how to operate the portal, and they were never going to learn the true purpose behind its existence. 

To the world, it was merely a tool for scientific advancement. 

The Rift was an unknown byproduct to the public. It needed to stay that way, or the lifelong career he’d forged for himself would crash and burn. 

He pressed his hand against the fingerprint scanner, programmed to only admit the original creators of the portal inside the Doomsday Room. The scanner flashed green, emitting a tinny computerized voice from its rusted speakers. 

“FINGERPRINT RECOGNITION COMPLETE. ENTER, STANFORD PINES.”

The Doomsday Room didn’t offer items of luxury or comfort. There were no chairs, no place to set a coffee mug, and no sound that penetrated the walls. 

The only piece of equipment was a single computer monitor that displayed several fluctuating measurement lines. Neither mouse nor keyboard accompanied it. 

Dwarfing the monitor was the massive Dimensional Vortex Neutralizer, a containment unit that served as the world’s largest and most malevolent snow globe. It stretched high to a ceiling that Ford couldn’t see, its sides scraping against the walls.

A primordial ocean of the Rift was stored within the Neutralizer, a hundred times larger than the miniscule amount Ford held in his hands.  

The Rift sloshed against ten layers of glass, desperate to escape its confinement. The innermost glass was splintered into large shards that spiraled through all corners of the Neutralizer. Fiddleford had reinforced the Neutralizer with various odds and ends from the Scrapyard, while Ford lined every new crack with unicorn hair and tin foil.

If there was a way to stop the cracks for good, they hadn’t discovered it yet. All they could do was identify and reinforce the weakest spots, holding onto hope that the Rift wouldn’t escape the Neutralizer. 

Ford carried the jar to a vacuum unit next to the monitor. He punctured the lid with a long needle that protruded from the vacuum tube, a powerful suction automatically absorbing the fragment, which traveled through the tube before splashing into the cosmic Rift within the Neutralizer. 

The Rift thrashed and pounded the glass, penetrating the first layer and weakening the second. It always became more violent after a feeding, demanding what Ford refused to give. 

If this abomination ever escaped, it would rip through their dimension’s defenses, allowing a crueler, more calculating monster to toy with people’s lives in the most destructive apocalypse the world has ever seen.   

But for now, the Neutralizer was effective in containing the Rift, hidden underground within the Doomsday Room where it would never see the light of day. 

“You’ll never wreak havoc in our world again, Bill Cipher,” Ford said, turning his back on his reflection in the glass, an aging, gray ghost weary of the world. “Nor on me.”  

Then he locked the entrance of the Doomsday Room and trudged back to his private cabin, his steps slow and cumbersome. His body ached with exhaustion, but there was no rest for him. 

A short coffee break, then back to work. 

Chapter Text

Figured ya’d be a mite peckish after puttin’ up with everyone so soon after yer trip today. Made ya a lil’ something to warm those old bones. Hope ya enjoy my triple hashbean surprise! It’s an ol’ recipe from my Great-Great Aunt Sally-Lou! Think some of my beard hair got cooked inside though. Ya can get rid of those. 

-Fiddleford 

Though Ford didn’t feel particularly hungry, he smiled at the card Fiddleford left on the refrigerator shelf. He’d only opened the fridge to check on a cycloptopus he’d brined in pickle juice for an experiment before he left for Mount St. Helens. 

But he could hardly let his friend’s triple hashbean surprise go to waste. 

Keeping up his strength and energy was for the best. He’d dealt with too much today, from the volatile batsquatch, the media circus the Gleefuls were determined to shove him into, and Crypt’s hardheaded nature. And he still hadn’t checked the two thousand emails that built up in his inbox over the past few days. 

Ford took the bowl of triple hashbean surprise out of the fridge, cradling it against his body as he pressed his hand to his forehead to slow down his anticipatory headache. 

If there was one thing he couldn’t stand more than Bud Gleeful, it was checking his emails. Now that everything had moved online since the turn of the millennium, he felt robbed of the pleasure of ripping the junk mail into shreds and using them as bedding for the small animals in the rehabilitation center. 

While the bowl warmed up in the microwave, he poured himself a mug of coffee from a warm pot he didn’t recall brewing. Fiddleford must’ve put it on himself when he dropped off his homemade dish. 

The steam fogged up his glasses as he took a long drink, a strong scent filling his nose. The bittersweet taste lingered on his tongue. 

It would take time for the caffeine to hit his bloodstream, but the solitude of his cabin was refreshing for his overworked mind.

Still, his work was never done. 

With the sunset over the horizon, most people were winding down from their busy days, or welcoming guests for their summer parties.

But for Ford, the work that went into maintaining the Institute behind the scenes was only beginning. 

Parties were out of the question. He’d always been a fly on the wall for the few celebrations he’d been invited to, and having so many unfamiliar faces around put him on edge. 

He’d ignored the invitation to Dr. Shimizu’s lakehouse party last week, though she tried to entice him with the promise of interesting new developments in the field of marine cryptozoology. Preparations for the batsquatch case at Mount St. Helens happened to be a convenient excuse to avoid going.

His cabin was quiet and secluded, the protective shadows of the Institute building hiding it from the public. 

The population of Gravity Falls significantly exploded in the past thirty years. Privacy was more important than ever, though hard to come by when walking outside resulted in everyone gawking at him. 

Ford curled his extra fingers, hiding them from view. He’d never broken his childhood habit after all these years, even when nobody was watching him. 

Or so he thought. 

The microwave’s timer hit zero. But Ford didn’t open the door yet. 

He scanned the kitchen for anything out of place, or anyone that wasn’t supposed to be here. The most likely candidates for a break-in were the gnomes, but since food was easy to obtain at this time of year, there was no incentive for them to raid his fridge. 

Once he was certain there was nobody else around, he retrieved his bowl. Then he refilled his coffee mug and carried his dinner to a desk in the living room. It was carved from oak and topped with a bulky computer that served as one of Fiddleford’s earlier models. Though Fiddleford offered to replace it with a new, sleeker design, Ford had become rather attached to this one. 

He saw no reason to replace it, though he occasionally had to punch the motherboard to stop screen lag. 

The last of the sun’s rays poked through the triangle-patterned windows, bathing the living room in soft yellow light. Ford’s skin crawled in discomfort as he drew the blackout curtains over the windows, blocking out what little light remained. He slowly counted to ten in his head until the prickling in his spine passed. Only then was he able to sit in his chair comfortably, brushing away an unfinished anatomy sketch of a plaidypus that somehow strayed onto his seat.  

Fiddleford would scold him for using the computer in low light conditions again, something about it being terrible for his eyes. Since Ford’s glasses were equipped with a night vision mode, Fiddleford’s point didn’t stand. 

He had more important matters to contend with. His inbox was overflowing with twice the amount of emails he’d expected, and it would take time to read over the important messages and throw out the trash. 

Silver Fox Monthly: Congratulations! You have been selected to appear on our upcoming July cover, you handsome devil! 

 The existence of that celebrity gossip rag annoyed Ford to no end, providing another reason to his endless list of why he needed to fire Bud Gleeful, who’d set him up for a photography session and interview with the publishers shortly after his capture of a silver-furred kitsune that had been causing trouble in a rural, mountainous Japanese village. Ford had been led to believe the events were for a scientific publication, and he’d discovered too late that the interviewer wasn’t interested in the kitsune at all. 

And the photographer had the nerve to ask him to lay down on the couch while draping the kitsune’s tails around himself in strategic places! Didn’t she realize just how vulnerable he’d be to a sudden attack if he followed her request? 

In the end, he had to grant Silver Fox Monthly at least one photo according to the terms of Bud’s contract, but Ford forced them to take it while he was standing up so he could storm out of there once they were through. 

Morbid curiosity won, and Ford scrolled down to view the cover they planned to feature. He regretted his decision once he read the taglines his photo was accompanied with. 

“Dear God!” he spat out his coffee in disgust. “That is not what my extra fingers should be used for!” 

He banished the email to the darkest depths of hell where it would burn for all eternity.

Andy & Lance Chaser Law Firm: Notice of legal action regarding disputed property rights of Lake Gravity Falls from Northwest Industries. 

Ford sent the email to the Institute’s legal department, leaving strict instructions to refuse all financial offers for the lake, regardless of the threats that spewed from Preston Northwest’s filthy mouth. 

Like his ancestors before him, the current patriarch of the Northwests was a lying, dirty bastard who thought money made him better than everyone else. Ford had his suspicions about that family, but his only lead into overthrowing Nathaniel Northwest’s folk hero status was a 19th century document with nonsensical markings. Even Crypt and his decoding team couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Perhaps one day, Ford would solve the mystery behind the true Gravity Falls founder. But it was a mystery he’d have to put on hold for now. 

The grandfather clock ticked while Ford cleared his inbox, eyes not leaving the screen as he shoved a spoonful of beans into his mouth every few minutes. The warmth slowly trickled out of the stew, ham chunks ice-cold on his tongue. But Ford had eaten things that were definitely not fit for human consumption on difficult expeditions.  

Cold beans and ham didn’t bother him in the slightest. 

The sun was gone. An owl hooted somewhere outside. Shadows fell across the experiments and inventions piled haphazardly against the back wall. 

Ford pulled on the string of a nearby lamp, the bulb providing just enough light to work without causing eye strain. 

But the emails didn’t make much sense anymore. His brain was mixing words, the messages becoming muddled somewhere between his retinas and frontal cortex. 

Greasy’s Diner: Special Father’s Day Brunch for Fantastic Fathers! Bring your whole family! 

Delete. 

Gravity Falls Gossiper: The Secret Hybrid Lovechild of Stanford Pines and a Siren? The Untold Story of the Director’s Fishy Family Revealed! 

Libel and defamation case for the legal department. 

Dr. Nami Shimizu: See attached documents for full report on Gobblewonker familial behaviors. 

He clicked on the first attachment, but one finger held down the button of his mouse and prevented the program from opening. It was his duty as a scientist to read the information presented within the document, compare Dr. Shimizu’s latest observations with existing data, and corroborate her findings with his own surveillance of the Gobblewonkers for future publication. 

If only he had the tolerance to read it tonight. Dr. Shimizu’s reports tended to include more pages of baby animal photos than actual data that he didn’t have the energy to sift through.  

An emptiness clawed at his stomach, a feeling that couldn’t be pacified with beans and coffee. 

He deleted the email and emptied his virtual trash bin to get rid of its existence for good. If Dr. Shimizu asked about it later, he’d claim a computer virus ate it. 

Ford’s head thumped against the desk. Though he still had the mental fortitude to fight off exhaustion, he couldn’t seem to find it tonight. 

Perhaps the stereotype about aging was true, and older people really did go to bed early and wake up before the sun rose. 

However, Ford planned to be an outlier. His hair might’ve grayed early from the stress of his work, but he wasn’t elderly yet. 

He still had many contributions to offer the world. Knowledge for anyone who came to learn. Inventions to improve the quality of life everywhere. Protection from those who sought to harm. 

I am not decrepit. I am not feeble. I am not dependent on anybody but myself. 

His fifty-seventh birthday was next week. 

June 15th. 

But the date wasn’t circled on his calendar. He had no plans to celebrate. No cake, no candles, no songs or guests or games.

Fiddleford would give him another patterned pair of six-fingered gloves he’d knitted himself. Ford would thank him and add the gloves to his collection. And that was it. 

Just another day. There was nothing special about being one year closer to death. 

He slowly stood up from his chair, the vertebrae in his back popping despite the careful movement. 

Might as well attempt to rest now. There was no point in continuing this futile charade when there was nobody else around. He’d take forever to get some sleep, and although he’d be awoken at the crack of dawn, he figured he should probably try. 

The cabin was firmly locked down. Not even a cockroach could creep inside. 

As he turned away from the computer, a faint noise came from the speakers. The screen briefly flickered against the wall. 

Another email, at this late hour? 

Irritated by the disruption, Ford shoved his mouse across the pad, the pointer hovering over the delete button. 

Dipper Pines: Dipper’s Guide to the Unexplained and Lady Gummy Dummy Links

The unusual title took Ford by surprise. 

And the surname…well, his last phone call with Shermie had devolved into a shouting match, but didn’t he mention something about a new nickname for his grandson? Something about hating the name he was given at birth? 

He sank into his chair and opened the email, a courtesy he’d neglected for all the others. 

To Doctor-Director Stanford Pines, 

Hello. My name is Dipper Pines, your great-nephew, but you probably know me better by my birth name Mason (please don’t tell anyone). But I’d rather be called Dipper. I’m planning to legally change it once I’m old enough.  

If you’re wondering how Mabel and I got your work email address, Grandpa Shermie gave it to us. He made us promise to only use it in case of emergency, but how are we going to have time to type out an email if an ax murderer is trying to gruesomely kill us? Or if the federal government confiscates our electronics and kidnaps us for grueling telepathic twin experiments to create unstoppable supersoldiers who can blow people up with their minds?

I don’t think he thought the implications through. 

I know being a Director means you’re busy, but could you possibly go over my video before I upload it to a public website? Your work inspired me a lot, and I was trying my best to be like you, but my last Guide to the Unexplained video got taken down for gore because Mabel overdid the ketchup and the comments were laughing at how weird I looked in the video before that. 

I guess I’m just a little nervous. I read all your journals. I learned so much because of you. You’re a hero to the entire world, so I guess it doesn’t matter if everyone thinks you’re weird because you can do anything. 

Anyway, here’s my video. I don’t have professional equipment, but I tried my best with the research and editing. I hope you’ll consider the Piedmont Springs Hotel as a candidate for Haunted status. 

Also, do you have any advice on stopping a ghost-possessed vacuum cleaner from singing opera in the middle of the night?

Thank you,

Dipper Pines

P.S: It’s a-me, Mabel! Hello, Grunkle Ford! Like your title? Dipper says I should be more formal and call you Doctor-Director but you’re family even though I wasn’t old enough to actually remember your last visit. So I just mashed great and uncle together like peanut butter and edible glitter! Dipper thinks it’s dumb but he’ll come around to my brilliant idea! I’m sure of it! 

Here’s a video of me shoving a hundred gummy worms up my nose! 

Lots of love!

Mabel <3 

P.P.S: I recommend having a vomit bag ready, Doctor-Director Stanford Pines. She took my laptop hostage and held me at water gunpoint until I agreed to attach her video to my email. I hereby bestow the honorable title of Lady Gummy Dummy upon one Miss Mabel Pines. 

Ford read the email again. Surely it was a figment of his imagination, a hallucinatory vision caused by a mixture of sleep deprivation and isolation.

This couldn’t possibly be real. His visions were never this kind to him. They were usually full of crimson blood, contorted limbs, and whispers of slow, drawn-out torture culminating in a painful death. 

Yet he felt a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. A smile that wasn’t painful or forced, one that existed simply because the universe was on his side for once. 

Dipper and Mabel were…nine? Possibly ten? Not teenagers, they’d probably be more concerned with their own lives instead of taking interest in some uncle who barely knew them if they were teenagers.  

He’d been present at their birth, one of the few family events he’d dropped everything to attend after founding the Institute. After that, he’d only visited for their birthdays in their formative years,  his job demands only increasing once they hit elementary school. 

Shermie sent family photos every few months, allowing Ford to watch the twins grow up from afar, even though Ford was barely on speaking terms with his older brother.

Dipper and Mabel were always smiling in their photos, happy and safe and confident in each other’s company. 

And Ford preserved their photos within his albums, a shadow hanging over him every time he closed the book over their laughter.  

They just wanted him to share their lives with him, let him see what mischief they caused even if he couldn’t be part of it. They weren’t trying to mock him with their silliness and laughter. Sometimes, the darkest depths of his subconscious said otherwise. 

They were youthful and less-traveled. Innocent and unaware of the horrors that lurked beyond their hometown. 

But they had each other. 

And he was alone. Always had and always will be. 

He’d accepted that fact long ago. In order to defeat Bill and preserve the foundation of his work, sacrifices had to be made. The burdens on his shoulders were his own. Nobody else could carry them. 

Dipper and Mabel didn’t need him. They had parents to provide for them, grandparents to dote on every childish whim. 

But here they were, two curious children who wanted to reach out to an uncle they barely knew. One who wanted to learn, and the other…well, Ford just assumed Mabel was trying to entertain him. 

In her own special way. 

He opened the link labelled Lady Gummy Dummy first, a blast of obnoxious 90s rap music greeting him. Mabel jumped into frame with baggy, colorful clothes covering her entire body, a ballcap that was somehow both lopsided and backwards covering the top of her head. She pulled down her oversized sunglasses and winked at the camera, a golden dollar sign necklace swinging around her neck. 

Out of her mouth came a horrific assortment of 90s slang that reminded Ford of the godforsaken marketing gimmick the executives demanded from the early 90s edition of DD&D. 

Then Mabel showed off a bowl of colorful gummy worms, cast off her sunglasses, and shoved the first gummy worm up her nostril. She blinked back the tears that naturally came with the pain of having a foreign object stuck there, flashed a thumbs-up, and kept going. 

Ford made it halfway through the third gummy worm before deciding there were just some things in this world he was better off not knowing, so he skipped to the last thirty seconds of the eight minute video, where Dipper had the unfortunate luck of being caught in the blast radius of Mabel’s forceful sneeze. 

He sputtered and coughed, clothing dripping with snot and excess gummy worms. 

Mabel sheepishly giggled to herself, somehow standing even after blocking her nasal passages and airway, though that could’ve been the adrenaline rushing through her body as she realized the magnitude of the danger she’d unleashed. Dipper gave her a glare that promised a slow and painful demise, cutting to black just when he lunged for the camera. 

Ford leaned against the back of his chair. He needed a moment to process…whatever he just watched. 

Mabel’s video was incredibly creative. Bold. 

And possibly concerning for her health.

She hadn’t changed much from the toddler who’d charge across the living room at the speed of light while scribbling on the walls and anyone caught in her path with a permanent marker her father forgot to put away. Ford had been a victim during his last birthday visit, and he never bothered to remove the hot pink streaks across his pants.

Then there was Dipper, who’d been afraid of his own shadow and even more terrified of strangers. When Ford visited for their birthday, he hid behind the couch when Ford tried to greet him and wouldn’t come out, not even for his parents, until Mabel handed him a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex toy and distracted him with a game that involved a dinosaur knight and a unicorn princess journeying through a wasteland to defeat some evil villain and save their home. 

Judging from his email, Dipper was still the nervous type, but also willing to reach beyond his comfort zone to satisfy his curiosity. 

Your work inspired me a lot. I learned so much because of you. You can do anything. 

Dipper’s word choice was unexpected, but not unwelcome. He was young, but he held an earnest passion for Ford’s line of work. And unlike most children today, Dipper was taking his pursuit of knowledge seriously, taking matters into his own hands by documenting his exploration of the unknown and requesting feedback from an expert. 

There was no doubt in Ford’s mind that Dipper was studious when it came to his education. 

Ford picked up the plaidypus sketch he’d brushed away earlier, flipped the paper over, and prepared to take notes as Dipper’s video loaded. 

“The Piedmont Springs Hotel. Once a luxury resort for the wealthy, now condemned and abandoned. Guests used to flock to this location from all over the United States-”

An informative hook. Dipper’s speech wasn’t stilted, and his eyes were focused on the camera instead of looking off-screen for a cue card. Most importantly, he didn’t display over the top reactions while describing his topic. Ford reviewed too many videos where the presenters screamed at the top of their lungs instead of trying to deliver an objective explanation of their paranormal location. 

Then Mabel cut in with her overdramatic re-enactment of a woman dying tragically in a fire. Maybe this was her way of trying to help Dipper with her own brand of dark comedy, though she was derailing the point of the video. It was amusing at first, but Dipper was trying to explain the unusual happenings in the hotel, clearly annoyed by her interruptions and trying to work around them. 

Ford wrote reminders to have the Odd Squad investigation unit look into the incident with the graduating teenagers and the police. They’d have to identify the victims, set up interviews, and remind the Napa police that a case of a teenager who was suddenly blown fifty miles away by a sandstorm was too strange to be within their jurisdiction, and they should’ve contacted Odd Squad investigators instead of throwing out baseless accusations of intoxication. 

In the ruins of the hotel lobby, Dipper curiously poked around old furniture while Mabel maintained an air of mischief, their banter brightening the dilapidated hotel as they investigated every nook and cranny. Neither of them were experienced, but it didn’t matter to Ford. 

The pen slipped from his hand. 

The rhythm of their teasing, their unique ways of approaching the investigation was…nostalgic. 

Like he was watching an adaptation of his favorite childhood book series all over again, where the Sibling Brothers solved the case and toasted to another victory with chocolate milkshakes at the malt shop. 

Unfortunately, Mabel’s default volume was loud, louder, and several decibels above the range of audible tones for human ears. She was overpowering Dipper’s narration, though he was trying to compensate by investigating the opposite side of the lobby.

Ford grimaced, a throbbing pain coursing through his head while the twins vandalized the hotel’s front desk. Mabel’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, forcing him to pause the video even though he wanted to endure the pain more than anything else. He leaned against the desk before slowly pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to knock him off his feet. 

Spots danced in and out of his vision as he stumbled to the kitchen, leaning against the wall for balance. His stomach churned at the lack of control, and it was a small mercy that nobody saw him this way. 

A silver pot sat on the stove, black residue clinging to the brim. He’d forgotten what he’d been using it for, though some sludge-like concoction bubbled inside. He covered the pot with a nearby lid to block the sludge’s escape in case it became sentient. The resulting metallic clang sent fresh waves of pain through his skull, and he leaned heavily against the kitchen counter. 

Through the lid, his reflection stared back at him, brown eyes sunken and haunted. He rubbed the old scar that lined the bridge of his nose, the tissue white from age. A thick layer of stubble graced his jawline. 

God, he needed to torch his face with the flamethrower again if he really looked that unkempt. 

Then the brow furrowed, the neutral expression becoming something far sharper. 

Harsher. 

Accusing.  

“Damn you!” Ford snarled, his knuckles ghostly white as he gripped the handles of the pot with shaking hands. “Damn you all the way to hell, Cipher!” 

He hurled the pot across the room, a gurgling moan coming from within as it sailed through the air and slammed into the opposite wall, knocking a framed certificate that commemorated his doctorate in psychology to the floor. The black sludge slowly crawled out of the pot, devouring the remnants of the shattered glass lid and certificate. 

Ford clutched his head at the resulting noise, yanking open drawer after drawer and tossing away forks, rolls of duct tape, and the Infinity Die that was mixed in with a bunch of cooking implements for some reason, until he finally located the medication bottle of Sootherall he’d brought back from Dimension 52. 

After a long struggle with the child safety cap, he finally opened the bottle and dumped several Sootherall tablets into his mouth. They dissolved on his tongue, and he poured himself another mug of coffee, leaning over the counter as the headache swiftly trickled away, the image of those burning eyes fading into the darkest corners of his mind. 

Soon the pain was gone entirely. Sootherall was truly a medical marvel, shame the FDA banned it because it nearly bankrupted the biggest pharmaceutical companies in the world with its effectiveness.  

He downed his coffee in two quick gulps and went back to the computer, ignoring the sludge creature that was now eating a cabinet door. 

He unpaused the video and picked up his pen, an ink smudge crossing the page when the chandelier unexpectedly broke in front of the twins, stirring up plumes of dust and feathers into a swirling, violent tornado. The camera was fixed on a spot near the hole in the ceiling. 

Something was there, and they definitely weren’t friendly. 

“H-hi there. Mind telling us who you are and why you’re a floating hazard to people’s respiratory systems?” Dipper asked nervously. 

“Yeah! What’s your name and what’s your deal, dusty?” Mabel shouted, aiming her portable vacuum like a sniper rifle into the heart of the chaos. 

She had excellent form for a ten year old . 

Though plenty of danger was to be expected in video submissions for potential Haunted candidates, Ford leaned towards the screen in concern for the young twins, an odd feeling he’d never had with anyone else. 

They weren’t properly equipped for their case, nor were they old enough to develop the mental defenses needed to combat more powerful ghosts. While the environmental changes and evidence Dipper provided were indications of poltergeist activity, the level of destruction unleashed displayed all the hallmarks of a Category Nine. 

Ford ruled out Category Ten immediately. Had the ghost been a Category Ten, Dipper and Mabel would’ve dropped dead from the moment they set foot in the hotel. 

With all the dust and debris flying around, the video quality became grainy and rough. The source appeared to be coming from within the tornado. There was definitely somebody else in the room with the twins. The lulls in conversation proved it. 

Though research was underway, the engineers under Fiddleford’s department had yet to create a video camera that could capture audio and visual of ghosts. Perhaps their ectoplasmic makeup interfered with recording, forcing video analysts to rely on environmental cues for evidence of a haunting.

The dust coalesced into vague, human-like silhouettes and basic furniture shapes, carefully controlled by some unseen force. They moved with unnatural, stilted motions, like puppets on a string. Ford wondered if the ghost was detailing their origin story through this unorthodox method of communication. 

No matter the category, ghosts always had a reason for remaining in this world instead of passing on. Whether it was trying to make a living person their friend through a mixture of clinginess and pranks, or inflicting pain on a specific individual or group of people they blamed for their death, ghosts often became obsessed and single-minded in their goals. 

If Dipper’s timeline was accurate, then this Category Nine ghost had a hundred and twenty years to grow in power. With a few more decades, it would likely grow into a Category Ten.

Ghost of the Piedmont Springs Hotel. Category Nine Specter. Cause of death: fatally burned in 1892 fire. Advanced geokinetic and aerial manipulation. Primary method of communication: shadow puppetry, further analysis required to determine speech capacity and individuals involved in death. 

Ford’s eyes were entirely focused on the screen, scribbling down notes as fast as he could. He was probably going to waste valuable time on deciphering his own handwriting later, but it was a price he was willing to pay. 

Then the dust transformed into thick, black soot, which hardened into coal that advanced across the twins’ shoes. Dipper screamed, and the video blurred while he and Mabel sprinted to the exit in a daring escape, only for the door to slam shut in their faces. There were little spots of orange mixed in with the shadows as the twins hastily changed direction, embers springing up from the ground, a frantic comment about the sudden heat…

Localized climate regulation and pyrokinesis.  

“Next time, let the professionals handle this!” Ford shouted at his screen, tightly gripping his pen to the point of leaving ink smudges on the palm of his hand. The twins displayed great potential, but were woefully out of their depth. 

Ford was a man of science and logic. Dipper and Mabel’s email was proof of their survival. And he certainly didn’t imagine that gummy worm video either. 

There was no reason to be worried over them. They were fine. 

Probably asleep or huddled in front of their own computer, impatiently waiting for Ford’s response to their videos. 

It was difficult to tell what the twins were doing to escape the flames, though Ford guessed they were trying to reach higher ground as the floor became increasingly unsafe. It seemed Mabel had successfully gotten herself to safety, while Dipper was struggling to keep up. 

“You have to let go of the camera, Dipper! I can’t reach you!” 

“Let go? You’re crazy!”   

Ford felt a surge of pride for his great-nephew. Even in the face of danger, it was important to protect one’s hard work at all costs. The fact that this footage had survived the Category Nine encounter was a testament to Dipper’s perseverance. 

The video quality cleared enough to reveal Mabel, who was standing on top of a bookcase with the vacuum propped against her shoulder. 

“LEAVE MY BROTHER ALONE, YOU OLD HAG!” 

Her determined voice echoed through the old hotel, punching through the speakers and soothing Ford’s worries with its odd familiarity. 

The camera blurred again while Dipper finally made it to safety, the sound of a vacuum and the twins’ shouts persisting for the next thirty seconds of the video. 

Glass shattered, followed by a pair of screams. The backdrop changed from the crumbling walls of a dreary, rundown hotel to gravel, dead grass, and the bars of an iron fence. 

Dipper stood up and pointed the camera at himself, soot clinging to his face and clothes. 

“And that’s all for this segment of Dipper’s Guide to the Unexplained,” Dipper declared, two fingers held in a victory sign. “Where we proved that video games are right and vacuum cleaners really are a ghost’s greatest weakness.” 

Though Ford didn’t see how video games factored into this momentous achievement, he made a note of Dipper and Mabel’s discovery. It could prove useful for temporarily stunning ghosts for study or exorcism. 

Mabel playfully stuck her tongue out, the vacuum violently shaking against her back.  

“Portable vacuums! They suck more than anything!” she exclaimed, punching Dipper in the shoulder when he booed her terrible pun. “Buy one now and get a fluffy kitten for free!” 

“Not responsible for any accidental hauntings, curses, or annoying loud noises,” Dipper added. 

Mabel made an ‘x’ with her arms. “And no pesky refunds, guaranteed!”

Ford laughed harder than he’d ever laughed in a long time. He couldn’t help it. His great-nephew and great-niece made his solemn cabin brighter by the virtue of existing. 

He didn’t have to think about projecting the proper image of a Director here. There were no cameras, no paparazzi trying to catch the latest ‘scandal’. No Gleeful to demand a position they didn’t deserve, no Odd Squad drama to mediate.

It was liberating, and Dipper and Mabel didn’t know the joy they’d brought him with their amazing timing. 

He pressed a hand to his mouth, chuckling even when Dipper and Mabel’s clothing lit up with flashing red and blue lights. Sirens howled nearby, and the twins hastily fled the property before any emergency response vehicles found them. 

Still amused, Ford almost closed out of the window when the video abruptly cut to a bedroom, one bed covered in stuffed animals and yarn on every square inch, while the other had various pages with papers, pens, and two of Ford’s published journals scattered along the navy blue blanket. The walls were decorated with dozens of drawings, photos, and stickers. 

In the center of the room was a whiteboard, the name ‘Irene Ashenbury’ written in colorful, bubbly letters with cartoon ghosts around the margins. 

Mabel’s work, Ford assumed. She was an excellent artist. 

Dipper walked into the frame, flipping through the pages of a spiral notebook before looking into the camera awkwardly. He pressed the notebook close to his chest, his shoulders hunched over in embarrassment. 

Strange. 

He appeared more confident in the hotel.  

“Ahem. Hello, this is an additional segment to The Ghost of Piedmont Springs edition of my self-titled series,” Dipper coughed, thumping his fist to his throat when his voice cracked. “So, this is really awkward…I kinda blew a year’s worth of my allowance on this camera cause the salesguy at BSOD Electronics told me it had the ability to record visual and audio of ghosts, and I didn’t realize until post-production that he probably lied to get a sale and stuff…so yeah, not buying from there in the future…” 

Offscreen, there was a loud crash. 

“WHISKERS, NO! BAD KITTY! LEAVE THE EVIL VACUUM ALONE!” Mabel shouted. 

“While Mabel’s trying to prevent the cat from unleashing the wrath of Irene Ashenbury’s ghost on our household, I’m filming this section to explain her history since the camera didn’t pick up on it. And if you’re taking the time to watch this, Great-Uncle Stanford, I hope you find it interesting, because she blames Nathaniel Northwest for her death. But you probably knew she had ties to him already. Cause you know everything. Maybe I’m just repeating stuff you’ve known for a long time.”

Despite thirty years of attempting to prove Nathaniel Northwest’s fraudulence, this was the first time Ford had ever heard the name Irene Ashenbury. 

She was the missing piece of a puzzle, the key to unlocking the hidden truth behind the supposed town founder of Gravity Falls. 

He wrote her name down with an additional note to search for more information about her. 

According to Dipper, Irene Ashenbury was a newly hired maid of the Piedmont Springs Hotel, charged with doing the menial work nobody else wanted, resulting in large amounts of resentment towards her coworkers and the wealthy clientele her workplace catered to. 

In late 1892, Nathaniel Northwest’s son sent him to the hotel, getting rid of his senile father to claim his inheritance early. 

It was a perfect match with Ford’s own research into the Northwest family history. 1892 marked a transition to the new patriarch, Reginald Northwest, and Nathaniel’s name stopped appearing in public records. 

Until now, Ford just assumed Nathaniel had been locked up in the Gravity Falls Insane Asylum for Incurably Insane People on Reginald’s orders. 

This discovery changed the entire course of the investigation! Ford was proud of his great-nephew, even if he didn’t seem to have that much confidence in himself. 

“Then Northwest went crazy and set the hotel on fire to try and kill everybody, but the only casualty was Irene. Some rich guy covered up her death and she’s sworn vengeance on rich people and dust bunnies ever since. And also ten generations of our descendants for trapping her in the vacu-” 

A tremendous crash interrupted Dipper. 

“I’M SORRY I WAS TEN MINUTES LATE FEEDING YOU LAST WEEK BUT THAT’S NO REASON TO RELEASE A MURDER-Y GHOST ON US!” 

Dipper tossed his notebook onto the navy bed before turning back to the camera. 

“Well, I’d better help Mabel now. Whiskers can hold one heck of a grudge, and I’ve got the scratches to prove it,” he said, rubbing several faded white lines on his arm. “But before I go, I just wanted to say thanks for taking the time to listen, Great-Uncle Stanford.”

This was the second time Dipper had addressed him by name, in an overly formal manner, but sincere in his words. 

Dipper never intended this video for public viewing. His nerves were on full display, and Ford had learned from hard experience that people would jump all over his lack of confidence as a sign of weakness. 

And yet, he sent this video anyway. Whatever Dipper had to say, it was worth hearing. 

Dipper sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “If you made it this far anyway. The Internet’s more interested in laughing at me when I tripped over a rock than my answers to some unsolved mysteries. That video’s gotten more views than everything else combined, and I’m sick of it. Nobody takes my ideas seriously in real life either. Dad says I can’t make money off conspiracy theories, Mom keeps calling me her ‘little lamby’, and Mabel…well, she just doesn’t get it.”  

Ford understood his great-nephew’s frustration. Every few weeks, the media would drag his name through the mud for some make-believe scandal. They’d fabricated some ridiculous ideas over the last thirty years, such as the hidden lovechild with a siren story, or the notion of him secretly controlling the president’s every move just because he invented a mind-control tie for Ronald Reagan’s masters in exchange for an increase in funding. And with the rising popularity of social media sites, the falsehoods had only become even more outlandish over the years. 

Whether people actually believed half the things they said about him, or if they were just making things up because they thought it was funny, he had yet to determine.

It seemed Dipper had to face the same scorn and doubt as Ford once did at his age. 

A freak of nature to his classmates. An unfixable abnormality to the doctors Ma took him to during a phase when he wanted to be more normal so others would accept him into the fold. And to Pa, a worthless son who brought home excellent grades, but also wanted a useless career that wouldn’t rake in the money to get the family out of New Jersey.

But the best revenge of all was success. 

Many of his old classmates never escaped the impoverished Glass Shard Beach. His six-fingered hands were marks of pride, emblazoned on the foundation of the Institute. And now the name of Stanford Pines was revered along with Nikola Tesla, Carl Sagan, and Stephen Hawking as one of the greatest minds in scientific history.

Pa had lived long enough to see Ford make the millions he’d always dreamed of. But a lifetime of chain-smoking and drinking illegally brewed moonshine had done a number on his health, and liver failure took him before he could even think about wasting Ford’s money on privileges he’d been denied. 

Ford didn’t mourn his death, nor did he attend the funeral, despite Ma and Shermie’s pleas. He simply moved on with his life, and the only loss was Pa’s weekly I-need-money phone call. 

But Pa’s philosophy on money and a lucrative career lived on through Shermie and Jacob, and Dipper was suffering from the consequences.

Ford was well-aware that his success was an outlier, and most people never made it as far as he did. If Dipper kept up his current work ethic, who knew what he could achieve in the future?

What he needed the most was…an opportunity. 

A chance to prove himself to his family and the world that he could do anything he set his mind to. 

Ford refused to pass his legacy to Gideon Gleeful or anyone who came to the Institute seeking power and influence. Those deluded fools always misunderstood the purpose of his campus. 

But for Dipper–a bright, inquisitive young man, Ford was willing to assess his capabilities. 

Best for a relative to inherit the Institute, however distant they may be.    

“I guess I’m just hoping for some advice before anyone else sees this video. If I decide to post at all. Thanks again–I mean, thank you Uncle Director-” Dipper quickly covered his mouth, eyes wide and panicked as he lunged towards the camera, ending the video without finishing his closing statement. 

For once, Ford made his final decision without regret. 

He downloaded the videos into the files of his computer and marked Dipper’s email as a favorite, the only message worth saving out of thousands. Then he forwarded a copy to Fiddleford, informing that he was awarding the Haunted title to the Piedmont Springs Hotel, effective immediately. 

Yes, there were technically protocols in place and numerous field missions needed before a location was sufficiently Haunted enough to pour research and maintenance into, but this was one instance where the multistep process could be expedited. 

Then he shut his computer down for the night and rushed to the kitchen in search of the address book he barely used. Dipper had sparked a youthful energy in him that he hadn’t felt in ages. 

He’d been all over the world and recorded the eccentricities of various dimensions. He’d fought beasts born of humanity’s worst nightmares and encountered environments unsuitable for sustaining life for more than a day. 

But after being surrounded by strangeness each and every day, even the oddities became less…odd. 

More normal. Less exciting. 

Perhaps taking a student under his wing would help him relive that same excitement he’d felt back when Gravity Falls was a new and wondrous place for him. 

After a few minutes of frantic searching, he found the address book hidden in a cabinet under the sink, along with the pile of living sludge that had seeped through the cracks. It was slowly oozing towards the book, gurgling incoherent words and leaving a slimy black trail as it inched along. 

“Back off,” Ford said, spraying the sludge with a cleaning solution from the back of the cabinet. 

While the sludge writhed in agony and tried to hold its form, Ford snatched up the address book and sprayed more cleaning solution around the now-locked cabinet to keep the sludge from reforming and eating more of his things while he was away. 

The pages were yellow and weathered from age, and Ford carefully turned the pages to avoid ripping them. It took all his willpower to avoid speed reading through the addresses so he wouldn’t tear the brittle paper. 

Didn’t Jacob live in Vallejo–no, wait, that was Shermie. Jacob lived closer to San Francisco…or was it Oakland? 

Defunct number to the Pines’ Pawn Shop…Fiddleford’s house in Palo Alto…Government grant office…Dead End Flats, New Mexico? 

Odd. 

He didn’t know anyone from a Dead End Flats, New Mexico. A ghost town, perhaps? There were plenty of them in the American Southwest. 

After turning through so many blank sections, he found Jacob’s address on the last page.

816 Redwood Drive, Piedmont CA. Note to self: Do not give ‘Zurby’ toys as birthday presents to toddlers. Jacob and Rebecca highly value their sleep and sanity.

He stored the address book within an inside pocket of his trenchcoat and marched over to the fridge, removing the pickle jar with his cycloptopus experiment inside. The creature was sluggish and didn’t react much to being sloshed around. The fridge’s cold temperature must’ve put its body into torpor. He secured the lid, ensuring the cycloptopus couldn’t suck the flesh off his bones during transport and tucked it into his coat. 

The cryptozoologists wouldn’t mind if he borrowed Gryphondale for a quick flight to a neighboring state. She’d been getting restless due to her confined quarters from her most recent reports anyway. All he had to do was feed her the cycloptopus, and she’d obediently fly him to Piedmont. 

Besides, gryphons of the Dovercliff subspecies were incredibly elusive even by gryphon standards. There was a ninety-nine percent probability that Dipper and Mabel had never met one in real life. 

Dipper poured his heart and mind into that video. He deserved a reward for all his hard work. And Ford had a message for him that was best delivered in person.  

With his valuable research hidden from would-be thieves, and the active security system in place to chase away delinquent teenagers, he locked the door behind him and stepped onto the porch. 

Gravity Falls may have changed over the years, but the faraway stars in the night sky remained the same, shining steadfast and bright. 

By the half-moon, Polaris pointed the way, a beacon for weary travelers through the ages.  

“Ad astra per aspera,” Ford promised, reaching for the Ursa minor constellation with his six-fingered hand. “Someday, you’ll know that phrase by heart too, Dipper.” 

Chapter Text

Mabel hung upside-down over the top of the living room couch, glaring at the back of her brother’s head for taking up space at the desktop. Honestly, she’s seen hogs at the county fair share better than him sometimes! 

“Dipper, you’ve been refreshing that page for the past hour!” she complained. “It’s not gonna make Grunkle Ford reply any faster!” 

But Dipper ignored her while he set a world record for most mouse clicks per second. By comparison, the pens were way less annoying. 

“If he doesn’t validate my existence in the next ten seconds, I will literally die,” Dipper gasped, clutching his chest like he was going to have a heart attack. 

Mabel rolled her eyes. “You’re working yourself up over nothing. He’s gotta like our videos! He’s family! Isn’t that right, Grandpa Shermie?” 

Next to her, Shermie scoffed in disbelief, his eyes not leaving the Dodgers game on TV. At first, Mabel just thought he’d put on baseball to pass the time while the others went out to pick up dinner, but he was genuinely engrossed in this snorefest to end all snorefests. 

Why did anyone bother to watch to the end when nobody scored? 

Mabel huffed and let herself fall to the floor, the fuzzy rug cushioning her impact. She just had to be related to the weirdest guys in the universe. She loved them to pieces, she really did, but they were always neck-deep into boy stuff she had no hopes of understanding. 

Still, she hoped Grunkle Ford appreciated her Lady Gummy Dummy video. She’d really outdone herself with that one! It was gonna be hard to top. Maybe she should try again with strawberry sour straws? The acidity might burn her nostrils, but it would be an even greater test of will and endurance!   

She dusted the rug fuzz off her pizza sweater, one of her most elaborate and time-consuming creations she’d ever made. It took forever to get the pepperoni eyes, black olive nose, and sausage chunk smile right, and the loose fringes that created an impression of stretchy mozzarella on her sleeves were a whole nightmare unto itself. 

But her labor of love paid off when Justin Beauregarde complimented her design in English class, so it was completely worth losing eighty hours of sleep for. 

Circling around the couch, she lifted Shermie’s cane from its spot against the armrest. If Dipper wasn’t going to get off the desktop by himself, she’d just have to apply force. 

Dipper was too distracted to notice, and Shermie’s eyes were half-closed, like he was finally getting bored of the game too. 

It was the perfect opportunity to sneak away…until a large hand clamped down on her head. She squeaked and looked up at Shermie with a guilty smile, the cane clutched firmly in her hands. 

“Um…lovely night, isn’t it?” she giggled as Shermie stole the orange headband off her hair. He twirled it between his fingers, a mischievous grin half-hidden behind his light gray beard.  

“Trade back when you’re done, Mayflower,” he said, his attention returning to the TV just as two angry players started to bicker with each other while the umpire tried to intervene. 

Heart soaring at her special nickname, she returned to her goal of getting Dipper away from the desktop. His body was locked in place, and he could’ve easily been mistaken for a wax statue if it wasn’t for the movement of his index finger on the mouse. 

The chair had a back cushion, so she was forced to take a side approach. Fortunately, Dipper was sitting on the edge of his seat rather than leaning against the back, making things so much easier.  

She had one shot, all or nothing. 

Once Mabel tiptoed into position, she extended the cane across Dipper’s back, the hooked end circling around to his chest.   

He didn’t notice a thing. 

On the count of three, Mabel yanked on the cane as hard as she could, and Dipper tumbled out of the chair, smacking his cheek on the desk’s wooden edge with an undignified yelp before hitting the floor. 

Mabel quickly claimed the empty chair for herself before Dipper could recover from the fall. 

“Thanks for seatwarming, Dipdot!” Mabel saluted Dipper with the cane in hand. She wasn’t about to let Dipper get his sweaty hands on a potential weapon against her. “But Grandpa Shermie says it’s my turn to use the computer now!” 

“Ugh, Mabel!” Dipper complained as he sat up, rubbing the sore spot that started to blossom on his cheek. “He never said that, and you shouldn’t be treating his cane like a toy anyway!” 

“I have permission!” Mabel stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s an alpha twin privilege.” 

“That’s never been a thing,” Dipper scowled, launching himself at the chair to steal it back, but Mabel blocked him from climbing up with the cane. The chair tilted back, forcing Mabel to scoot closer to the edge to rebalance. 

She patted Dipper’s messy hair, a risky move when he could’ve ripped the cane out of her hands, but it stopped him from trying to squeeze into the empty space. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll understand when you’re older,” she said, much to Dipper’s displeasure. He always hated reminders that he was technically the baby of the family, and they didn’t have any younger cousins to claim the title from him. Then she caught sight of the computer screen, which had a very interesting tab open next to Dipper’s email. 

Dipper froze, his gaze following Mabel’s to the screen as his brain processed what a colossal mistake he made by leaving his search history visible on the living room computer.    

“Green with Envy: an M&N Fanfiction?” Mabel couldn’t help her laughter, and Dipper shrieked as she grabbed the mouse and switched to the fanfiction tab. “Well, it’s about time you found some reading material other than Grunkle Ford’s dusty old journals! So what kinda fanfic is this anyway?” 

“N-no! Mabel, it’s not what it looks like!” Dipper’s voice was an octave higher than usual. He tried to snatch the mouse from her, but she held it out of reach. “Give it back!”

Well, Dipper sure knew how to pick his fanfics. 

Mabel gave him a mischievous grin. “Wow, Green and Red are like, super bad for each other. And that Yellow? Talk about a homewrecker!”

Dipper braced one knee against the seat cushion, his other hand digging into Mabel’s face. The metal bit of her braces scraped against the inside of her cheek from the force of his shove. She squirmed in discomfort at the sensation, not wanting to face the orthodontist’s disapproval after he’d replaced her braces for the third time in six months. 

“Ow ow ow ow,” she muttered as Dipper stood up on the chair. He leaned over Mabel’s head and finally reclaimed the mouse from her. 

Dipper laughed, holding the mouse above his head triumphantly. “Victory is mi–GAH!”  

He overbalanced and toppled to the floor once again, taking Mabel down with him. Though she landed stomach-first on the hardwood floor, the impact didn’t faze her as much as it did for Dipper, who rolled onto his side with a groan of pain. 

Thank goodness for pizza sweaters.

“Victory is still mine,” Dipper groaned, curling his body around the mouse. 

“Whatever makes you feel better, Dippenchip,” Mabel said. She tickled him under the armpit, trying to get the mouse away from him.    

“Ah, Mabel! C-cut it out!” Dipper cried out, a shudder running through his body as he laughed uncontrollably. “It’s–haha, your fault I’m in pain anyway!” 

Dipper’s skin was slick, his shirt stained dark red under his arm, a weird shininess on Mabel’s fingertips…

It was sweat.  

Disgusting, icky, stinky, hasn’t-showered-in-like-two-weeks adolescent boy sweat. 

“Ewwww!” Mabel gagged, reminding herself to knock that smug look off Dipper’s face once she got this yuckiness and smelliness and grossness off her fingers. She scampered over to the edge of the rug that poked out from the back of the couch and viciously swiped her finger through the soft fuzz. “Weaponizing your gross body fluids isn’t fair!”  

“One point for Sweat Shield, zero for Mabel,” Dipper declared with the world’s most annoying ear-to-ear grin. 

Mabel rolled her eyes. He was way too proud of himself. If he wanted girls to be interested in him someday, he was gonna need a serious reality adjustment. 

And a total makeover. 

Mabel wasn’t about to take her loss lying down. She opened her mouth, but before she could give herself points in some made-up category, there was the sound of laughter that wasn’t coming from her or Dipper. 

For a moment, she thought Irene Ashenbury had escaped the vacuum, which was currently buried under a mound of sweaters, caged by an upside-down laundry basket inside their bedroom closet, which was shut with a chair blocking access to the doorknob so Whiskers couldn’t get to her. 

Not that it stopped him from trying. She could hear him meowing from upstairs. He hadn't left Irene alone ever since they brought her back from the hotel. 

But trying to kill them during Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth’s visit was just in bad form. 

The laughter was happier and warmer than Irene’s miserable cackle.

Neither Dipper or Mabel noticed Shermie getting up from the couch during their fight. He leaned against the computer desk, watching them with an amused smile. 

“By all means, don’t stop on my account. The Dodgers weren’t getting any better, and an old-timer like me needs his entertainment,” Shermie said, holding out Mabel’s headband in the palm of his hand. “But if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to trade back now. Afraid my leg just isn’t what it used to be.” 

Shermie knocked his hand against his right leg. It was an injury he had long before Dipper and Mabel’s birth, from the time he’d been shot in the jungles of Vietnam, though he never went into detail about the incident. Dad always warned them about being careful when they played around their grandfather so they didn’t trip him by accident. 

Shermie’s cane laid on the floor, abandoned after Dipper knocked Mabel out of the chair. Since he couldn’t bend down without risking a fall, Mabel grabbed it for him. 

“I totally won, by the way. Thanks for the help, Grandpa Shermie!” Mabel exclaimed as she returned the cane and reclaimed her headband. She tucked her hair behind her ears and slid the accessory back into place. 

Shermie gave her a thumbs-up. “I can see that. Better try harder next time, Dipper.”  

“I’d like to remind you both that I still have the mouse, which gives me full control over the computer,” Dipper said, defiantly crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Good. Maybe you can help me understand what you’re reading,” Shermie said. He turned to the computer, squinting at the screen in confusion. “So what exactly is a…chocolicious peanut? Can’t say I’ve seen that term befo-” 

Dipper shrieked, his face flushed brighter than a tomato as he rushed up to the computer and slammed the mouse against the desk, hurriedly closing the fanfiction tab and deleting his search history. 

“Well, what do you know? No response from Grunkle Ford yet and nothing Mom says I’m not supposed to read on the Internet! Hehehe…” Dipper’s sweating problem only grew worse with his awkward laughter. “You know, I think we still have a little time before everyone comes back with dinner so I am going to use this rare opportunity to clean up, apply deodorant, and forget this conversation ever happened!”

Do you even know what deodorant is? Mabel wanted to ask, but Dipper rushed upstairs before anyone could ask further questions, and Mabel heard the distant squeak of a faucet and running water. 

Whether Shermie didn’t mind his weird grandson’s behavior, or if he was choosing not to comment out of politeness, Mabel couldn’t decide. He checked Dipper’s email, but there weren’t any new messages from Grunkle Ford. 

Mabel didn’t expect a long, gushing message of how much he loved the videos multiplied by infinity (though she would’ve welcomed that too), but even a simple thank you would’ve been nice. Just something to acknowledge their existence really. 

“Do you think he’s mad at us?” Mabel asked, looking up at Grandpa Shermie in worry. Did they overstep? “We did sorta send this to his work email. Maybe we should’ve sent it to his personal instead.” 

Stanford Pines was a big, important scientist, like Bill Nye the Science Guy, only even bigger and more important than that. And he’d accomplished so much science stuff that everyone called him the Director! It was such a cool nickname, no wonder he didn’t respond to a couple of amateur videos whose production budgets were so small they could be contained in a single piggy bank!

Shermie’s hand tightened around his cane. “With my brother, his work and personal emails are the same. There is no difference as far as he’s concerned. I send the occasional photo to him out of obligation, but he’s never replied to those either.” 

Without Grunkle Ford’s response, Dipper wasn’t going to post his Ghost of Piedmont Springs video online. Nobody was going to see his effort, and they wouldn’t see Mabel promoting her own Guide to Life channel either. And heck, they almost died during filming too! Might as well squeeze some comments out of Internet strangers while they put themselves in mortal peril. 

Though Mabel tried to talk Dipper out of his last minute hang-ups, he still wouldn’t get over himself and post the video without his idol’s advice. In Mabel’s opinion, he was taking that video of him tripping over a rock way too seriously. Like he hadn’t laughed at clips of people falling for silly reasons before.

“He’s just…a busy guy, right?” Mabel asked. She’d heard people say that Stanford Pines was the smartest person in the whole world, but also reclusive to the point where nobody could really speak to him unless they were directly working under his name. And she was only a toddler during his last visit, so she didn’t remember him at all. “You don’t think he deleted our email?” 

Shermie placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Mabel sighed, leaning on his good leg for extra support. 

“I’m sorry, Mabel,” Shermie said quietly, leading her away from the computer. “Stanford can be difficult on the best of days. And unless he somehow gains common sense overnight, I won’t entertain his delusions.” 

Before Shermie could steer her into the dining room, Mabel stopped to press the duct tape back into place on a picture of her and Dipper making silly faces at the camera, a celebration of the end of seventh grade and the beginning of summer. It was the newest addition to the photoboard that hung on the living room wall, a personal project that Mabel took pride in decorating. 

Most of the pictures on the photoboard were of her and Dipper, though there were others that also had their parents, grandparents, Whiskers, and friends. 

The end of school year celebration. A syrup race over a pancake race. Posing with expensive Ducktective merchandise they couldn’t afford even if they pooled their allowances at the local Edgy on Purpose store. 

Mabel couldn’t imagine Dipper never wanting to speak to her again. Sure, she annoyed him sometimes, and he annoyed her, but what sibling didn’t complain about each other every now and then? And when push came to shove, they always had each other’s backs. 

“You’re both being dumb,” Mabel declared. She couldn’t read the expression on her grandfather’s face as he glanced down at her. Was he sad? Angry? Maybe a little of both? Adults were weird. But the solution was so obvious! “Just hug it out! That’s what Dipper and I do after we’re done being mad at each other! There’s nothing an awkward hug can’t fix!”

“If only more adults thought like you, Mayflower,” Shermie chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Stanford can tell you the first thousand digits of pi, but he’s hopelessly stupid with relationships.” 

Mabel nodded firmly. “Mom and Dad too. Feels like they’ve been stupider ever since school let out.” 

Their ghost hunt at the Piedmont Springs Hotel hadn’t just been for Internet views or recognition from the Institute. It was Dipper’s way of taking their minds off the explosive argument that ensued after Mom discovered that Dad was leaving for another week-long business trip to Silicon Valley. 

Dipper and Mabel had to retreat to their bedroom after a family fun night turned sour with Dad’s announcement. Mom threw out accusations, Dad became defensive, and their voices became hoarse and angrier with every sentence, echoing through the halls and shaking the entire house.

Don’t say anything. Stay in Sweater Town. Pretend to have nice, safe conversations with the adorable animal neighbors. 

Wait for the argument to pass. They’d kiss and make up eventually. It would be fine. Everything was gonna work out just fine. 

But her attempt at self-assurance didn’t work. Not until Dipper plopped onto her bed, and she could smell the stench of his Ox body spray he always mistook as an acceptable substitute for deodorant.    

He’d poked and prodded her through the yarn of her sweater, trying to get a response for terrible jokes that he claimed were a hundred percent original but were so obviously ripped from the jokebook on their bookshelf. 

Still, Mabel laughed. She forgot her parents’ shadows on the wall, and the pointing and yelling and crossed arms were just a distant bad memory in the face of corny jokes and cheesy puns. 

And once Dipper’s voice coaxed her out of Sweater Town, she was greeted with the promise of a fun adventure to kick off the beginning of summer without their parents’ fighting to ruin everything. 

Shermie’s cane lightly tapped against her side. 

“Your parents aren’t stupid. Starting a company is a lot of time and commitment, and your mother’s still adjusting to Jacob’s schedule. They just need to work some things out right now, that’s all,” he said. 

Mabel glanced at the professional photo of her parents’ wedding kiss, an elegant script with the words Jacob and Rebecca Pines, True Love is Forever 1998 engraved into the golden frame. They stood underneath a white wedding arch, luscious green vines and gorgeous roses intertwined with the structure. Dad looked very handsome in his ruffled white dress shirt, a pink rose pinned to his lapel. His face was free of stubble, curly brown hair slicked back. 

And Mom…she was so beautiful in her snow-white dress and veil, long hair cascading over her bare shoulders and caressing Dad’s fingers while he kissed her. Pink blush tinted her cheeks, crimson lips shining like diamonds. 

A golden necklace was clasped around her neck, trailing down her skin and meeting the hemline of her dress. It sparkled in the sunlight, the object of every young woman’s envy at the wedding. 

That necklace was a treasured Pines family heirloom. It first belonged to Great-Grandma Caryn, who passed it down to Grandma Ruth for her wedding, who then passed it to Mom.

And someday, when Mabel married the man of her dreams, she’d wear that golden necklace too. But for now, the necklace rested inside a velvet box on Mom’s bedroom dresser, awaiting Mabel’s special day. 

True love is forever.  

Mom and Dad were just hitting a rough patch. All arguments had to end eventually, and everything would be back to normal in time. They’d look back on their spat and laugh about it when they were old and gray together. 

“I think you’re right,” she said, though she couldn’t look at the engraving anymore. Something about that phrase was making her heart twist into uncomfortable knots. But she shoved that awkward feeling away and smiled up at Shermie instead. “Thanks, Grandpa.” 

“What do you mean ‘I think’?” Shermie poked Mabel’s stomach with his cane, and she laughed as the tickles rippled through her body. “I’m always right, you little whelp! Never doubt the wisdom of an old man!” 

Mabel stuck her tongue out at him. “Like I’ll believe in the wisdom of someone who thinks the Dodgers are gonna make it to the World Series every year! Newsflash, they never do!” 

“Sweetheart, don’t you go insulting a man’s baseball team! I thought your parents raised you better than that!” Shermie gasped, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack.  

Mabel crossed her arms with a knowing smirk. She wasn’t budging on her statement. Besides, Grandma Ruth would agree with her on just how annoying baseball talk could be. She was the one who had to put up with Shermie every October for almost fifty years. 

They must’ve had plenty of arguments in their marriage, about silly things like baseball and more serious adult stuff that Mabel didn’t want to think about right now. 

But if they were still in love after fifty years, then her parents’ marriage could last just as long too. Mabel was sure of it. 

There was a loud meow from the other side of the living room, and Mabel couldn’t contain her squeal at the adorable sight of Whiskers jumping onto the windowsill, fluffy tail swishing as he peered outside through the blinds. At least he’d finally left Irene alone.

She’d left her camera in her bedroom, so she forced herself to be content with a pretend photo to commemorate Whiskers’ cuteness.

After a few seconds, Whiskers hopped down from his perch and pawed at the front door instead, meowing insistently as he reared onto his back legs. 

A car door slammed outside, heavy footsteps thundering against the bricks on the porch. Mabel scooped Whiskers into her arms so he wouldn’t bolt outside, taking comfort in his soft brown fur as Mom’s furious voice pierced through the door. 

“-and you don’t get a say in how I spend my salary when you took half our savings for your stupid company!” 

“Rebecca, we’ve been over this already. That’s less than what Mike is investing, and he doesn’t mind. Told me he’d cover the rest, and it’s very important that we trademark PineCore as the official name next week.”  

“Jacob. Rebecca. Shermie and I came for a nice family dinner before we fly out to Alaska. We don’t want to hear anymore arguing tonight, understand?” 

But Grandma Ruth was only met with a frosty silence. 

The door flew open, bouncing off the wall with a deafening crash. Whiskers’ fur bristled, ears flattening as he let out a frightened hiss, and Mabel adjusted her grip to keep him from running off. 

Mom stormed into the house, hauling a large bag of Italian takeout with her. She gave Mabel and Shermie a curt hello, passing them on the way to the dining room. There was a loud clatter as she unceremoniously dropped the bag on the table. 

It was probably best to avoid talking to her for now. Mabel made a mental note to warn Dipper once he emerged from the bathroom. 

Dad had two pizza boxes in his arms, and though his greeting was brief, he didn’t sound like he was going to rip someone’s head off for existing near him. He took a moment to compose himself under the archway of the dining room before following Mom inside. 

They could probably talk to him. Just as long as they didn’t mention the company. 

Ruth shook her head in exasperation, turning to Mabel with a kindly smile as she closed the door behind her. 

“Hello, Mabel. I see Whiskers decided to come out of hiding,” she said, chuckling as Whiskers played with the turquoise beads dangling from her neck while she petted him. “So he finally believes Shermie and I aren’t trying to rob your house?”

Shermie made a so-so hand gesture. “Eh, he’s probably right to be suspicious. I’ve got one eye on that grizzly bear decorative plate over there.” 

Whiskers yowled in protest, and Mabel rubbed her cheek against the back of his head while he grumbled in grumpy kitty language. 

“Who’s a smart kitty? Who’s a wittle smartie kitty?” she laughed while he squirmed in her arms until he finally gave up, resigned to his fate despite his grouchiness. “No burglar’s ever gonna get past your paws!” 

“Better keep those claws sharp, Whiskers,” Ruth added with a wink. “That guy’s a real slippery one, I hear. Always stealing a girl’s heart before finding his next victim.” 

“Oh please.” Shermie rolled his eyes while Ruth rose on her tiptoes to kiss him, even though she could barely reach his chin. “Without you, honey, I’d be…. ruthless.” 

Ruth socked him in the stomach, trying and failing to suppress a smile as he kissed the silver curls on her head. That line never failed to sweep her off her feet, even if it was the corniest flirtation in all of existence. 

And it was the most heartwarmingest, butterflies-in-the-stomachest, romanticest thing in the world! 

Note to self: get me a man who makes silly puns with my name! 

Whiskers made a retching noise and slunk out of Mabel’s arms, shooting off like a rocket as the beep of his automatic feeder in the laundry room went off. He always acted like he’d never seen food in his life before. 

Her heart made lighter by her grandparents’ adorable old couple romance, she skipped into the kitchen and washed her hands in the sink, then poured herself a glass of Mabel Juice from the fridge. Dad almost ran into her as she took her brilliant concoction to the dining room, distracted by the call he was taking on his cell phone. He held a covered bowl with plastic cutlery on top in his other hand. 

“Watch where you’re going, Mabel,” he said, briefly taking the phone away from his ear. The voice on the other side said something, and Dad’s attention snapped back to his call. “Just my daughter, Mike. Now, about those forms for the patent office…” 

Nothing interesting to eavesdrop on. Just boring adult stuff. 

Mabel tuned the rest of the conversation out. It didn’t concern her, and dinner was a time to focus on family and being together, not work. 

Dipper was already in the dining room, picking the gross mushrooms off his pizza and neatly stacking them to the side. He always ate the toppings separately from his pizza, but he always deflected whenever Mabel asked why. 

At least he’d mostly cleaned himself up. His hair was still damp from the shower, and it looked like he hadn’t bothered to comb it either. He wore yet another red shirt from his dresser, like red shirts were all he owned until Mom forced him to dress up for important events. 

“This one’s your abomination,” Dipper said, gesturing to the open pizza box next to him. Inside was her supreme pepperoni, pepper, and pineapple pizza, completely loaded with every topping in existence–except for mushrooms. Eating mushrooms was like trying to eat burnt tires, something that was apparently fine for Dipper’s malformed taste buds but not for her. “Enjoy your insult to one of mankind’s greatest inventions.” 

Mabel sat down, picked up a slice, and dunked the tip into her Mabel Juice while maintaining eye contact with Dipper. He made loud, exaggerated gagging noises while she experimentally took a bite. 

Pizza and Mabel Juice didn’t taste great together, the sweet and savory tones clashing way too hard, but she refused to show weakness in front of her brother. 

“It’s really good!” Mabel said, shuddering as the unholy mixture slid down her throat. She offered the cup of Mabel Juice to Dipper, who recoiled and moved his chair closer to Grandpa Shermie, who only laughed into his pasta bowl. “Wanna try?”

“How much grosser could you possibly get?” Dipper complained, sticking his tongue out at her. Mabel leaned over the table to grab the edible glitter shaker, and Dipper quickly realized his mistake. “Wait, don’t take that as a challenge!” 

“Too late!” Mabel cackled, pouring a copious amount of pink and purple glitter onto her pizza. Then she slid the shaker to the opposite end of the table, where Mom was sitting several feet away from everyone else. “Here, Mom! Let’s make Dipper vomit!”

Though Mom was the only other person in the house who could stand the sugary, diabetes-inducing sweetness of Mabel’s edible glitter, she didn’t take up the challenge. She’d only eaten a quarter of her lasagna, barely speaking to anyone else even though Ruth was showing her an interior decorating magazine and trying to get her opinion on different paint colors. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She pushed the magazine away as she stood up with her plate. “I’ll be in the other room.”

And Mabel’s hopes of a family dinner where nobody stormed away out of anger or tears vanished into thin air. Gone was the zing of pineapple, the savoriness of the marinara sauce, and the bouncy fun of stretchy mozzarella. 

It all tasted like cardboard and sawdust now. 

Dad still wasn’t back from his call. 

He’s taking dinner in his office again, Mabel’s heart sank. Ignoring us…and Mom. 

Next to her, Dipper put down his pizza slice, stripped bare of any toppings. “What were you and Dad talking about while you were out?” he asked, giving her a suspicious glare. “Must’ve been important if you needed Grandma Ruth to mediate.”

Shermie opened his mouth, but Ruth shook her head, so he continued to eat his pasta like nothing was happening. Ruth wasn’t going to tell them anything even if they asked nicely, was she? 

Maybe it was for the best if the adults kept quiet for now. It sounded like they were still trying to work things out, and were just keeping everything under wraps to not worry her and Dipper. 

Mom’s just adjusting to Dad’s busy schedule. They’ll be okay once the company’s up and running…whenever that’ll be. 

Mom walked over to Dipper’s chair, pulling him into a one-armed hug and kissing the top of his head. Dipper kicked his legs in protest until he freed himself from her, his nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Ugh, Mom! I’m not a kid anymore!” Dipper complained, wiping away the traces of her kiss. “Quit dodging the question!” 

Mom stared at him, like she was expecting a five-year old instead of a preteen. “Of course you aren’t, lamby. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Dipper turned his back on her, angrily picking flakes off the crust of his pizza instead of eating it. Though he despised that nickname with the hatred of a thousand fiery suns, it never stopped Mom from using it as a term of affection. 

But Dipper was being a complete buttface about not liking his nickname. He didn’t have to hurt her feelings about it. Dad was doing plenty of that already. 

Mabel sprung out of her chair and gave her mother a firm hug, careful to keep her cheese-covered fingers away from her light pink blouse. 

“Look, you’ve been having a rough day,” Mabel said. She pushed her bad feelings down and gave Mom an encouraging smile instead. Since Dipper and Dad were no help, it was up to her to be the positive one. “So I’m gonna give you a bit of Mabel advice. Take some me time, go plop yourself in front of the TV, and laugh at the last twenty minutes of Americans Ain’t Got No Talent with your bowl of lasagna. Nothing like seeing other people’s nationally broadcasted mishaps to feel better about yourself, right?”

Mom kissed the top of Mabel’s head, though unlike Dipper, she was happy to receive it. 

“How do you always know what to say, kitten?” she asked, finally smiling like she did in her wedding photo all those years ago. 

She looked like her younger, newlywed self with that smile and spark of life returning to her eyes, even though her long, free-flowing cascade of hair had been traded for a simple, shoulder-length ponytail. 

“Guess I’m just awesome like that, meow!” Mabel exclaimed. Except for Dipper, everyone in the room laughed at her impression of Whiskers. 

With a stress-free smile, Mom left for the living room. Mabel patted herself on the back for a job well done, the background noise of a badly botched Don’t Start Unbelieving filling the lull in conversation. 

But her victory was short-lived. 

Two chairs were empty when the table seated six. The empty placemats should’ve held plates and silverware and drinks. Mom’s chair was at an angle, shoved closer to the wall. She never pushed it in. At least she tried before giving up.  

And Dad…he never bothered to join them at all. 

Her second slice only tasted slightly better than the first. Less like sawdust and more like school cafeteria pizza. 

Shermie was showing Dipper pictures of different crab boats in Alaska, but Mabel couldn’t pay attention to Dipper’s excited explanation over the differences between arctic and tropical species of krakens as he quoted Grunkle Ford’s journals verbatim. 

Grunkle Ford this and Grunkle Ford that, why did Dipper even bother with a man he’s not old enough to remember when Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth were right next to him? They had plenty of cool old people stories to tell, if only he’d care to listen. Mabel would gladly welcome Grunkle Ford into the family if he wanted to reconnect, but he always seemed too busy with his work to care. 

She slipped out of her chair and snuck out of the dining room undetected. 

Though it was tempting to join Mom for the last act of Americans Ain’t Got No Talent, Mabel didn’t want to disturb her alone time. She’d put up the footrest, leaning back against a fluffy cushion with her lasagna bowl balanced on her chest. The remote was by her hand, cell phone turned face down on the side table. 

Mom looked cozy enough, so Mabel left her to her program and tiptoed into the dark hallway. 

It was an unusually long corridor, a design quirk of the house. The stairs were mercifully at the entrance of the hall, and the laundry room was at the very end. Dad’s office, a guest bedroom, and a bathroom were in the middle. 

She’d lived in this house all her life, but sometimes the hallway still scared her. Like it led to another world entirely, where a spider monster wanted to sew buttons into her eyes and trap her there forever. 

We really shouldn’t have stayed up late for that stopmotion horror marathon…

The lightbulb was burned out, so Mabel steeled herself against the darkness and hoped Rebecca wouldn’t forget to buy a new pack again. She marched straight to Dad’s office, closing the bathroom and guest bedroom doors in a habit she picked up from Dipper. 

She doubted any werelobsters or soul-stealing Zurbies were lurking around as her paranoid brother feared, but shutting the doors was still a reflex for her. 

“Dad?” Mabel called. She jiggled the knob, but it was locked. “You’ve been in there for a while! You’re missing out on a fun family dinner night! Dad?” 

She pressed her ear to the door, jumping back as a frustrated shout rang through the air. 

“DAMMIT! They can’t raise the lease on us now! They’ll milk PineCore dry before it ever takes off!” 

Dad disliked interruptions when he was working, though he only ever showed annoyance rather than anger when she accidentally made too much noise with her hobbies. His swear wasn’t directed at her, but her heart skipped a beat anyway. 

Mabel glanced toward the living room, worried that Mom heard his swear and charged in to scold him for using bad language in the house. They’d already argued enough today. She wasn’t in the mood to hear another fight. 

Thankfully, Mom didn’t come running. 

“...alright, Mike. You take the lead then. You’re better at handling those greedy landlords anyway. We’ll just have to cut coffee supplies out of the essentials list to save money. If people want coffee, they’ll have to bring their own…”

A fluffy tail brushed around Mabel’s legs, and she smiled at the welcome intrusion into her eavesdropping. She stroked Whiskers’ back, his dark tabby fur making him nearly invisible in the low light. A pair of amber eyes slow-blinked at her as a purr rumbled from his throat. 

“Aww, I love you too,” Mabel declared, and it took all her willpower to avoid squealing from joy in front of Dad’s office. Though Mabel figured out his work wasn’t going as well as he claimed, she didn’t want him to know that. She led Whiskers out of the hallway so Dad didn’t get on their case about interrupting him. “But you’re still on that diet ‘til you lose your chub.” 

Whiskers hissed in protest, his purr dying away instantly.  

“Don’t worry, you’re still a cutie pie,” Mabel assured him. “Even if the vet thinks you’re fat. And when you’re trying to trick me into giving you more food.” 

She wasn’t going to fall for the big, sad kitty eyes this time. Or the dramatic flop over her feet. She was going to be stern, unyielding, firm…

Whiskers rolled onto his belly, mewing pitifully like he hadn’t been fed in a thousand years. 

“You know what? You’re totally right, ski-ski.” Mabel gave him a quick belly rub, then clicked her tongue so he’d follow her upstairs. “You deserve some treats for following your diet so well. That vet’s just being a meanie old mean face. Come on, I’m keeping the good stuff in my secret stash.”  

Whiskers stretched his body, then rushed upstairs with his tail held proudly in the air. She was still climbing the staircase when he reached the bedroom door. He stood on his hind legs, front paws on the door while he meowed impatiently. 

“Sorry. I’m a slowpoke tonight,” Mabel admitted, opening the door for him. 

Whiskers slipped through the gap, hissing when Irene started cursing up a storm in his presence. But she was still buried under a mound of sweaters in the closet, so there wasn’t anything she could do to harm him. 

Before Mabel could follow him inside, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

“You’re missing out,” Dipper said, waving to her as she turned around. He handed her a paper plate with two slices of her supreme pizza, loaded with all her favorite toppings. Mabel accepted with a grateful smile. He was thinking of her. It was sweet, though she knew Dipper would try to play it off if she said anything out loud. “Grandpa Shermie’s being stubborn about wearing a life jacket on his crab boat tour. Grandma Ruth said she’s gonna leave his decomposing body for the bottom feeders if he takes another stupid risk again.”

Even if it was old married couple banter, Mabel didn’t care to listen to any more arguments today. She wished everyone would get along for once, like the happy families in the old ‘80s sitcoms Mom liked to watch.   

No fighting. No cold shoulders or ‘I’m tired’ or ‘I’m busy’ spoken in clipped tones. 

Just dinners where everyone smiled and laughed and joked with each other. Board games where winning and losing was all in good fun. Gathering around the TV for karaoke. 

More than anything, Mabel wanted to go downstairs with Dipper. She wanted to sit with her grandparents before they left on their summer long Alaskan vacation. She could tell them things she’d never tell her own parents, and they would carry her secrets to the grave. They’d say she was the best granddaughter in the entire world, while Dipper would puff out his cheeks in annoyance until they called him the best grandson in the world too. 

Except they were leaving her and Dipper for an entire summer. They wouldn’t be here to try to keep the peace between their parents. She didn’t want to feel angry at them, they deserved to enjoy a cruise, but they were still leaving regardless.  

“Think I’ll pass. I’m a little tired right now,” Mabel admitted as she took a large bite of her pizza. “Tell Grandpa Shermie to bring me a sea otter when he comes back.” 

Dipper opened his mouth, and Mabel fully expected a joke about not cleaning up her potential pet’s litterbox. But then he thought better of it, and he spread his arms instead.

“Fine. Awkward sibling hug?” he asked. 

Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth were going to be far away soon, but Dipper was always here for her. He understood what she needed the most right now. 

A twin, who would face her problems with her. She was never alone in this world, and Dipper always had her back. 

“Limited time offer for the next five seconds. My arms are getting tired,” Dipper said. 

Mabel set her plate down on a small table by the stairs, smiling for the first time in forever as she returned Dipper’s hug. His embrace was usually looser and easy to get out of, but this time it was tight and secure, providing them both with the stability they craved.  

“I accept those terms and conditions,” Mabel said, tapping Dipper’s back twice. “Pat, pat.” 

She took comfort in the mumbled ‘pat, pat’ and the accompanying action. The troubling arguments downstairs were just a faraway nightmare, and she was waking up safe and sound with Dipper by her side.  

No matter what happened, he’d always be there for her. It was the undeniable truth, one that remained constant in a house of empty promises. 

2:00 am. 

Mabel shoved a plushie over her face, shielding her eyes from the bright red light of the alarm clock. 

She’d always known insomnia was contagious. She’d finally caught it from Dipper after sharing a room with him for twelve, soon-to-be thirteen years. 

For once, he was snoring in his bed instead of secretly reading Grunkle Ford’s journals by flashlight. Annoying as the snoring was, it was still preferable to constant pen clicking. 

And her old trick of counting pigs to fall asleep wasn’t working either. 

Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth were only staying over for another hour before they left for the airport. 

And for the rest of summer. 

She should’ve said good night to them instead of making a quick drawing for Dipper to deliver. Should’ve gone downstairs for a quick hug, even if it meant seeing their parents ignore each other to keep the fragile peace. 

Instead, she stayed in the bubble of her shared bedroom. 

One more hour until the alarm blared with &ndra’s Taking Over Midnight, and she’d have to pelt Dipper with plushies before his snores woke the dead. 

Still, Irene remained silent tonight. Maybe she’d grown tired of trying to annoy them into releasing her by singing opera badly. She was clearly an alto instead of the soprano she thought she was. 

Whiskers slept on the rug in front of the closet in case Irene acted up again. Mabel tried to get him to cuddle with her for the night, but he wasn’t interested. He usually wound up knocking all her stuffed animals to the floor, like he was jealous of them for taking up space on her bed. 

She stared at the glow in the dark unicorn stickers plastered all over her wall, burying herself into her stuffed animals’ soft fuzz at the head of her bed. 

Outside, the pounding beat of an amplified bass drummed through the neighborhood, accompanied by a crowd’s raucous cheers and off-key singing. 

The Cabreras were throwing a party again. They were probably having loads of fun, and Mabel was sorely tempted to sneak over to the coolest house in the neighborhood for a break from all the drama. 

But the silent promise she made to her grandparents to see them off before their vacation stopped her from joining the festivities. 

She made her plush tiger dance on her stomach, humming along to the rhythm of the upbeat Spanish music. She wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, so it couldn’t hurt to have a little fun.

Dipper groaned in his sleep and turned over, smashing his pillow over his ears in an effort to ignore the noise. 

After a few minutes, the song changed into a slower, romantic tune. Mabel hugged the tiger against her heart, dreaming of an elegant waltz with the most charmingest Prince Charming of all. He was tall, handsome, and all of their animal friends were watching them and sobbing into their handkerchiefs over their perfect happily ever after. 

They were dancing over fluffy clouds, a sandy beach with dolphins jumping across beautiful sapphire waters, a sunlit forest path with a songbird serenade. 

On the branches of a pink cherry blossom tree, a proud eagle screeched, its sharp, hoarse voice shattering the serenity. 

The animals fled in panic, and Mabel’s dance partner tore away from her arms. She screamed and reached out for him, but he vanished into thin air, and there was nothing left in his place.

She bolted upright in bed, startled by the shrill eagle’s cry outside her bedroom window. 

“FOR THE LAST TIME, I DO NOT HAVE ANOTHER CYCLOPTOPI ON MY PERSON TO FEED YOU RIGHT NOW!” a gruff voice shouted. 

The eagle screeched furiously. 

The closet door shook violently as Irene let out a banshee-like wail at the disturbance, and Whiskers sprung into the air with an irate hiss. He raced to the window, clawing at the curtains and yowling at whatever was out there, his back fur standing on end. 

Mabel leapt out of bed, taking a brief moment to put on her fuzzy unicorn slippers before rushing to the window. She swept away the curtains and pressed her face against the cool glass, but she couldn’t see much when it was so dark outside. Whiskers scratched at the glass, leaving small white lines behind. 

“Please don’t break the glass,” Mabel told him, but Whiskers ignored her as he tried to break out the second-story window to fight the unknown intruders. 

The force of Irene’s scream blew open the closet door, and the chair that had been propped against the doorknob was sent flying across the room.   

“FILTH! SCUM! I WILL SCRUB EVERY DESCENDANT OF YOUR DISGUSTING FAMILY FROM THIS WORLD!”

Mabel rolled her eyes at her dramatics. “Get some new material, Irene! You’ve been saying the same thing since we captured–AHHHHHH!” 

Mabel and Whiskers jumped back as the eagle spat a half-digested, thrashing green tentacle onto the window.  

“What the–ewwww!” Mabel gagged as the writhing tentacle slowly slid off the glass, leaving a trail of thick, green slime behind.

Whiskers’ little fangs were exposed as he let out a little kitty gag of his own.   

“Hey!” Mabel yelled, fumbling with the latch until the window popped open. A cool breeze fanned her face. “Barf on somebody else’s window, you flying fish-eater! Shoo!”

She swatted at the giant eagle outside her window, though her arms were too short to reach its beak…and she saw the half-furred, half-feathered front legs that ended in sharp talons, a golden lion’s body with powerful back paws, which smoothly transitioned to the mottled head and wings of an eagle. Its long tail swept through the air, lion in appearance but ending in a white, feathery plume. 

Oh my gosh, a real life gryphon! 

“So pretty!” Mabel whispered, starstruck by the mythical creature outside her window. The gryphon preened at her words, a pleased rumble emanating from its throat. “And pettable…”

She carefully balanced on the windowsill, hand stretched out to the gryphon, legs dangling in the air…then she yelped as the wild rhythm of ‘80s synth blasted her eardrums. 

She lost her balance to &andra’s vocals and Dipper shouting her name, his voice cracking shrilly. 

Oh, now you decide to wake up! Mabel wanted to scream, but her voice caught in her throat. 

She felt cold hands grip her ankles, only for her bare feet to come free of her slippers. Then there was nothing but air underneath her, wind whipping strands of hair over her eyes, stomach plummeting…

…and a strong hand caught her wrist, saving her from becoming a sparkly, gooey pancake on the grass below. 

Mabel’s heart pounded out of her chest. She’d survived the Grim Reapercoaster at Daredevil Thrillpark, a ride that many of her classmates had chickened out of during the end of year field trip. Completely worth the ten dollar bet she’d won, the hour she’d spent vomiting up all the funnel cake and cotton candy afterward, and a newfound fear of heights that started to creep through her body all over again. 

“Mabel,” a voice said above her. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let you fall.” 

Confronting her fear, she dared to look up at the strangely familiar face of an old man–not quite as old as Grandpa Shermie, but not many men with gray hair could hold onto the tail of a thrashing gryphon and a ninety-pound girl at the same time. 

Even with the dangerous drop below him, he had all the confidence of a rugged and experienced adventurer. His trenchcoat billowed in the wind like a hero’s cape. 

“Dipper, can you turn that frequency off?” the man shouted as the gryphon shrieked and coughed out another wriggling tentacle. “Amber Sandra’s voice is disturbing Gryphondale!” 

The blood drained out of Dipper’s face, leaving him paler than a ghost. He squealed, which didn’t help the poor Gryphondale’s hearing, nearly falling out of the window himself before he rushed out of sight and shut off the alarm just as Taking Over Midnight reached the best part. 

Once the music was gone, the man made a noise that sounded like ten different bird calls smashed together at once. 

Slowly, Gryphondale calmed, and Mabel’s stomach stopped trying to turn inside out. 

Now that it was quiet…mostly quiet, with Dipper blabbering a million words a minute, Mabel got a good look at the man’s unusual hand as he lifted her to safety in the crook of his arm. 

Six fingers. 

This man was a global celebrity, his feats the stuff of legend. Every nerdy kid like Dipper watched him, imitated him, wanted to be him. And he was no stranger, nor was he just familiar…he was family . 

A distant relation really, but he still counted as a Pines. 

“Whoa, six fingers!” Mabel exclaimed as he swung her onto the gryphon’s back. Her fear of heights vanished once she buried her face into the soft, feathery fur. “That’s even more heroic fingers than normal, Grunkle Ford!” 

She grinned while Ford hauled himself onto Gryphondale, pulling himself up with his fists clenched rather than splaying out all his fingers. The confused look on his face looked exactly like her brother’s, if Dipper’s adult self was a cross between a dorky college professor and an ‘80s action hero. 

“I’m assuming that’s meant to be a compliment,” Ford said, and his shoulders only seemed to relax when Mabel nodded. He pushed his glasses up his scarred nose with two fingers, the other four tucked into his palm. “Is ‘grunkle’ new slang among your peer group? Or a regionalism exclusive to Californians?” 

“Mabel! ” Dipper snapped. His face was redder than his shirt. “You can’t just nickname the Director!” 

Mabel scowled at him. “Why not? You always go by your nickname!” 

“Th-that’s completely different!” Dipper sputtered, and Mabel was impressed at the flexibility of his flailing noodle arms while he struggled to find the right words. “He’s…he’s the Director! And an author, inventor, doctor, adventurer, had to invent a new Nobel prize category for him scientist! At least call him Great-Uncle Stanford!” 

“That’s too much of a mouthful!” Mabel stuck her tongue out. “I’m sure he’ll agree with me! Right, Grunkle Ford? Earth to Grunkle Ford?” 

But Ford didn’t reply. He was looking at the distant stars in the night sky, the moonlight reflecting off his glasses.

Mabel prided herself on being a people person, but Ford was…hard to read.

He was the smartest person in the world. Aced every class with flying colors, led important science-y stuff all the time. 

Not good in front of cameras. Or with his past seventy-three lovers, according to Celebrity Snooper Magazine.

But Mabel didn’t want to doubt him, even though he never came around for visits before. If Ford showed up at their window at three in the morning, he must’ve loved their email so much that he couldn’t wait to tell them in person! 

Ha! And Dipper thought Ford wouldn’t be impressed with her accomplishment of shoving a hundred gummy worms up her nose!

“It’s an unusual nickname…but then, I’ve built a lifelong career off the unusual,” Ford said. His smile was different from all the published photos Mabel had seen of him. Still reserved, but not as forced. “If you wish to call me ‘grunkle’, it would be my honor. And Dipper?” 

Dipper’s jaw dropped open as Ford held out a hand to him. 

“How would you like to join us for a ride around the neighborhood?” Ford gave Gryphondale a gentle kick in the side, maneuvering her closer to the window so Dipper could hop on. “The weather is accommodating, and there’s just enough wind for a smooth flight. I’m assuming neither of you have ever ridden a gryphon before.”  

“YES! DEFINITELY! ABSOLUTELY!” Dipper screamed, snatching Whiskers off the floor while he yowled and twisted his body in protest. He escaped Dipper’s grip and ran into a corner, licking his stomach furiously. But Dipper paid no mind to his behavior, his entire body vibrating with excitement as he took Ford’s hand and jumped onto Gryphondale without any hesitation. He squeezed between Mabel and Ford, his face turning bright red when he glanced down at his clothing. “And I’m still in my pajamas…”  

“You didn’t change,” Mabel reminded him.  

At least it was a clean red shirt this time, even if Ford wasn’t the type to care for appearances. He wore the same patchy trenchcoat every time he appeared on TV, and his cracked glasses had seen better days. 

With Dipper sitting behind her, she was squashed against Gryphondale’s fluffy neck while Dipper excitedly hurled endless questions at Ford, who seemed happy to answer them even when the topic changed so rapidly. There were worse things than soft feathers to be pressed against, but Mabel’s joy slowly ebbed away as she remembered the promise she’d made to Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth. 

She never spoke to her grandparents after leaving the table early, so they couldn’t be heartbroken by a promise they didn’t know about…but she couldn’t miss them a second time.

What about Mom and Dad? They’re gonna notice we’re missing if we go with Grunkle Ford. We can’t give them another reason to fight…  

Gryphondale flapped her golden wings, and before Mabel could voice her fears, they soared to the height of the roof. She remembered the black metal of the Grim Reapercoaster, the unnerving silence of the uphill climb where the wheels should’ve click-clacked against the rails, the creeping dread of knowing the near-deadly drop was coming but not knowing when…

She clung to Gryphondale’s neck tightly.

“One reminder as we set off,” Ford said while Mabel’s stomach churned. “If either of you feel the need to vomit, do it over the side. It’s better to hit some unsuspecting passersby on the ground than risk Gryphondale trying to buck you off midair in revenge.” 

Buck me off? 

They were a few stories up now, flying over the house and the next street. It was a long, long way to the pavement…

Dipper’s hand was on her shoulder. He was trying his best, but it wasn’t doing much to ground her. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Mabel wordlessly shook her head, afraid that if she spoke, she’d barf out cheese and marinara like Ford warned against. 

“Grunkle Ford?” Dipper said, interrupting Ford’s excited ramble on gryphon eating habits. “Not that I mind the bragging rights at school, but could you ask Gryphondale to fly lower? Mabel and heights don’t mix we-”

Though Mabel didn’t dare look down, she heard two familiar, panicked voices shouting in unison, their screams directed up at the sky. 

“DIPPER! MABEL! BOTH OF YOU COME BACK TO EARTH, RIGHT NOW!” 

“WHAT THE SAM HILL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING WITH MY GRANDKIDS, STANFORD? TELL YOUR DAMN BIRD TO LAND BEFORE I FIND SOMETHING HEAVY ENOUGH TO FORCE YOU DOWN!” 

Dad? Grandpa Shermie? Mabel didn’t realize they’d been followed. 

They never raised their voices like that before. 

Mabel ached for solid ground beneath her feet, but her dad and grandfather sounded furious. Their voices were impossible to miss, even from this high up. 

After a low-pitched, somewhat annoyed birdcall from Ford, Gryphondale abruptly pitched down. Dipper yelped as he was thrown into Mabel’s back. He leaned against her for balance on the steep descent.

Finally, Gryphondale’s talons touched solid ground. 

Mabel opened her eyes as her stomach settled, and she no longer felt the urge to give up her pizza. 

Grandpa Shermie and Dad were on the other side of the road, standing by the Sequoia Street-Mariposa Road sign that marked the edge of the neighborhood, their faces red from the strain of catching up to Gryphondale.   

“Dipper! Mabel! Are you alright?” Grandpa Shermie shouted. Despite his cane, he crossed the street like he was forty years younger. Dad trailed several feet behind him, his nervous expression aimed more toward his father than Dipper and Mabel. 

Mom and Grandma Ruth weren’t with them. They had to be worried out of their minds too, but they still needed to make sure the bags were packed so they didn’t miss their flight to Alaska. 

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Mabel said as Dad helped her off Gryphondale’s back. She jumped, the dew-filled grass soaking into her slippers once she landed. “Oh, I missed you so much, grass…” 

Dipper carefully swung his legs over the side and lowered himself to the ground. 

“Thanks for the ride, Grunkle Ford!” he exclaimed while Dad tugged him away by the shoulders from Gryphondale’s hooked talons. “You’re the coolest guy who ever liv…gah! Why am I saying this out loud where other people can hear me?” 

His cheeks turned bright red as he scuffed the pavement with his sock, but Ford only gave him an excited grin, oblivious to the embarrassing slip-up. 

“I’m glad to hear it. And tonight only marks the beginning of a new chapter in your life, Dipper.” Ford dismounted from Gryphondale, who screeched and chased after an unfortunate crow who’d been pecking at a fast food wrapper on the curb. “There’s a whole new world out there–countless worlds, in fact, beyond these suburbs. Think of it, an infinite amount of unusual creatures and phenomena waiting to be discovered!” 

He withdrew a red envelope from the inside pocket of his trenchcoat, ignoring Shermie’s icy glare. 

He looks like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life, Mabel realized. Ford was trying to look professional, but even he couldn’t contain the excited tapping of his fingers against the envelope.  

Dipper’s jaw dropped open for the second time that night. He pointed to the envelope with a shaking finger, eyes bulging out from shock. 

“Th-that’s a–no, it can’t be…I’ve got to be dreaming,” Dipper stammered. “I’m dreaming. Yeah, that makes the most logical sense. I should probably wake up before I die from happiness. Mabel, pinch me.” 

Mabel squeezed the skin of Dipper’s arm between her thumb and forefinger. He shouted in pain, rubbing his arm while glaring at her. 

“You asked,” Mabel shrugged. Since Dipper was too anxious to take the envelope himself, she reached for it instead. 

Ford’s smile disappeared, fingers no longer tapping against the envelope. He pressed a hand to his forehead, expression strained as he held it out of Mabel’s reach. 

As if he didn’t trust her to not shred the envelope to confetti once she got hold of it. 

She wasn’t that clumsy! Except for the time she accidentally broke a row of Ricky Rat snow globes on vacation to Happyland when she was seven, and the gift shop made her parents pay for it…but she’d been seven! She’d grown up since then! 

If the envelope was for Dipper, there was no reason she couldn’t read whatever was in there too! She bent her knees, prepared to leap for it, but Dad gave her that stop whatever you’re about to do look. 

Of course he’d only pay attention to her when he thought she was doing something wrong. 

Ford still seemed lost in a haze somewhere, so Dad took the red envelope from him. It was sealed with the golden emblem of a six-fingered hand. 

Shermie leaned heavily against his cane. His knuckles were stark-white, and he held back his suppressed anger through clenched teeth. 

I guess we did kinda break every rule of Stranger Danger 101…

Shermie’s anger was all directed at Ford, and she braced herself for the fighting that was sure to come. 

Dad broke the seal and unfolded the paper inside, holding it up to the dim yellow light of a nearby streetlamp. Shermie squinted as he read the paper over Dad’s shoulder. 

“To Dipper Pines, congratulations for your acceptance into the International Institute of Oddology’s internship program for the fall of 2012. We have noted your remarkable aptitude in your undergraduate studies and exemplary commitment to the University of Cambridge’s Supernatural History Association…”

Shermie’s cane speared the paper out of Dad’s hands, the cane tip firmly pinning it against Ford’s chest. 

“Hey!” Dad protested, but his complaint fell on deaf ears.

Mabel huddled against Dipper, but not even the tense staredown made his shock at the red envelope disappear. Didn’t he notice how weird everyone was acting? 

“Get a new pair of glasses, Stanford,” Shermie growled as Ford gripped the cane, snapped back to reality. “You’re just as blind as ever.” 

Ford yanked the cane away from his chest so violently that any other man would’ve fallen to the ground. But to Mabel’s relief, Grandpa Shermie stood firm. He couldn’t have his vacation ruined before it ever started. 

The paper came off Shermie’s cane, falling into Dipper’s hands. He read over the paper with a reverence he only reserved for Ford’s journals and the Sibling Brothers series, lost in his own little world. 

Mabel caught a glimpse of the letter. Dipper Pines was written by hand in a loopy, messy scrawl, rather than typed like the rest of the page. 

This acceptance letter…it was meant for someone else. Not her brother. Sure, Dipper got better grades than her in school all the time, but he still had to be reminded to shower! There was no way he was smart enough for the Institute! 

Ford crossed his arms, his posture unnaturally stiff. 

“My sight is perfectly clear,” he replied. “I see Dipper’s untapped potential in the video he sent me, with an email address you supplied. In case you need your memory refreshed, Sherman.” 

He didn’t mention Mabel’s video. Wasn’t it worth some consideration too? Even a simple ‘it made me laugh’ would’ve worked for her. 

“Bastard,” Shermie spat, ignoring the annoyed look Dad threw his way. “You only come down to California when you want something from us. Can’t be bothered with Ma’s funeral, but you expect me to agree with sending my grandson to your sham school? You kidnapped him and his sister in the middle of the night instead of replying to his email like a normal person!” 

Ford’s boots thundered against the pavement. He grabbed Shermie by the front of his shirt, forcing Shermie to place all his weight on the cane to avoid collapsing on his bad knee. 

“The Institute is the most prestigious center of science in this dimension!” he yelled, raising an arm to block Shermie’s fist. “I don’t tolerate slander on its name, especially from my own family!”  

“Family?” Shermie’s laugh was harsh and humorless. “You consider us family after all these years? Glad those videos brought you back into the fold. I’ll tell Ma the good news. She’ll stop tossing and turning and causing all these damn earthquakes from her grave from how you turned out. Hell, I’m meeting up with Jones in Alaska soon! Doesn’t see much action these days, but he’s sure to get a kick out of your change of heart!” 

Grandpa Shermie? 

He’d never sounded so cruel, so hateful before. Maybe Ford’s refusal to attend his mother’s funeral had something to do with it, maybe he broke his mother’s heart when she was alive, but Shermie almost sounded like a different person.

Like he’d been replaced by a very mean impostor, by someone who wasn’t Mabel’s favorite grandfather.  

You still care about Ford, don’t you? Somewhere deep inside…

Dad tried to calm Shermie down, but there wasn’t much he could do. Shermie hurled insult after insult, while Ford denied everything. 

Mabel didn’t want to stay here anymore. Everyone was too loud, everything too chaotic. She’d never thought she’d be sick of loud and chaotic. 

“Dipper,” she whispered, tugging on her brother’s hand. She and Dipper would just walk several streets down, tell Mom and Grandma Ruth they were alright once they were home, and sleep off this entire ordeal in their nice, cozy beds. But he didn’t budge. “Come on, dummy. Let’s go home.” 

But Dipper’s fingers only wrinkled the acceptance letter, bangs shadowing his eyes. He was silent, and Mabel couldn’t move him. She’d have better luck with a brick wall. 

Then he broke away from her, and with slow, measured steps, he approached the arguing adults. 

“Dipper?” she called. 

He stopped in front of Ford, turned, glanced at Mabel with a neutral expression. 

Dipper was supposed to be an open book, though he always claimed guys didn’t do the whole emotion thing. She prided herself on always being able to tell how other people were feeling, even when they didn’t always understand themselves.   

But now, even her twin was a mystery to her. How come he wasn’t affected by all the not-so-hidden fighting and uncomfortable silence and ‘I need to be alone for awhile, there’s meatloaf in the fridge’ statements? 

“...I want to go.”

Dipper barely spoke above a whisper, but he caught Shermie and Ford’s attention. He winced at Shermie’s disapproving stare. 

“Dad. Grandpa Shermie. I want to join the internship program at the Institute,” Dipper repeated, raising his voice so everyone could hear him. He rubbed his arm in discomfort. “Um, if that’s really okay with you, Great-Uncle Ford. I’m not sure I have what it takes, but-” 

Ford released Shermie, who brushed off his shirt like something disgusting touched it. 

“You have many gifts, Dipper,” Ford said, kneeling to Dipper’s level. “Determination. Eagerness. Intelligence. You already possess the right qualities for the Institute. And your talents will continue to be nurtured and honed from this day forward. I look forward to witnessing your contributions in the future.” 

He shook Dipper’s hand, who almost collapsed from the shock of his hero praising him. This wasn’t a scenario even his wildest fantasies could’ve dreamed up.

But even in Mabel’s worst nightmares, Dipper had always been by her side. Facing public middle school without him…it was unthinkable. 

No more annoying pen-clicking or late night mini-golf tournaments. No more peeking over his shoulder to the answers for their math worksheet while he huddled over the page, snapping at her to do her own work. But he always relented in the end. 

“Hey, don’t forget about me!” Mabel shouted, storming up to the collection of people she called family. “If Dipper gets to be an intern, there’s no reason I can’t be one too!”

Was she invisible or something? Why wasn’t anyone listening to her? She wasn’t that hard to miss!

Dad took the letter from Dipper and read over it again. 

“We’re very grateful for this offer, Uncle Ford. I have some doubts, but this sounds like a wonderful opportunity for him,” Dad mused. “Unfortunately, PineCore is still finding its roots, so we really don’t have the expenses to spare at the moment…” 

“That won’t be a concern!” Ford exclaimed, leaping to his feet much faster than anyone would expect out of someone his age. He took out a pen and scrap of parchment paper, much thicker and older than any papers Mabel had ever used. “I’ll cover the tuition and extra fees myself. It’s the least I can do. Hand over your information, and I’ll contact you in a few days with all the necessary forms.” 

“Jacob! You’re agreeing to this insanity?” Shermie demanded as Dad wrote on the paper Ford provided. “Stanford’s madhouse churns out nothing but dangerous lunatics! I won’t tolerate Dipper becoming yet another crackpot!”

Dipper’s hands were clenched into fists, his body stiff and rigid. He scowled and looked down at his shoes. 

I’m allowed to call him crazy…sister privileges, but he’s gonna beat himself up over this cause it came from Grandpa Shermie…

Mabel let him hang onto the fabric of her loose sleeve. She was still mad at him, but he needed something to hold. 

And Grandpa Shermie was scaring her too. 

“Cut it out,” Dad snapped. “Dipper is intelligent and capable. He needs more than what public middle school can provide for him. You always said education opens doorways for the future. At least try to be supportive.” 

But Shermie slammed his cane on the ground. 

“That was a different situation. We were scraping for money back then! Dipper’s better off at the charter school than that ridiculous asylum!” 

There’s nothing wrong with our school. Except for the smelly boys’ bathroom on the second floor, and those buttheads Chase and Kevin, Mabel thought as Dipper’s grip tightened against her sleeve. They aren’t throwing Dipper into trash cans and lockers like the bullies on TV, but they’re still the worst of the worst.  

She wasn’t ever going to forgive Kevin after he’d humiliated Dipper at the fourth grade Valentine’s party. 

Still, are they really terrible enough that you need to run to a different state? That I can’t go with you? I like our school. I like my friends. I don’t want to leave them, but I don’t want you to leave me either… 

“...I’m going,” Dipper murmured. His voice could’ve been mistaken for the wind. Though his eyes had a misty sheen to them, he spoke with determination. “Whether you like it or not, Grandpa Shermie.” 

Ford gave him an encouraging nod before glaring at Shermie, and Dipper managed a shaky smile. 

“You’ve said enough, Sherman,” Ford said, his voice dangerously low. “Leave before I’m forced to take actions I won’t regret.” 

Shermie returned his challenging stare, but he was completely outnumbered. Dad, Dipper, and Ford had all rallied against him. Yet Mabel was torn. Shermie was just concerned, and he still loved Dipper, but the awful words that spewed from his mouth…they felt wrong, so very wrong. 

His shoulders slumped in defeat. With a sigh, he shook his head and muttered something to himself as he began the trek home. 

“Bye, Grandpa Shermie. Have fun in Alaska. I love you. Can’t wait to see you in a few months…” Mabel called, remembering her promise to say goodbye. 

Shermie paused and looked over his shoulder. 

Mabel made sure to give the biggest smile and wave she’d ever given in her life. Nobody else joined her.  

“Goodbye, Mayflower,” he said, his voice sincere…and sad. 

Then he turned a corner, and he was gone. 

Just like that.  

Now that there was nobody left to argue with, the only noise came from insects buzzing in the grass and the sound of a car alarm as Gryphondale smashed a windshield of a parked car while she chased a poor crow. Between the four of them, nobody knew what to say or do next. 

With an awkward cough, Ford broke the silence. 

“Now that we’ve established the matter of your internship–” he said, and Mabel felt uneasy at the finality of his word choice. “I have another favor to ask of you, Dipper.” 

Dipper nervously pointed to himself, as if some other boy was running around with his rare name. 

“Hold on, shouldn’t we talk to Mom about this first?” Mabel asked. Mom would have to make them see sense! “You can’t just-” 

“I’ll talk to her later,” Dad promised, giving her a stern look for the interruption. “Go on, Uncle Ford.” 

Talk? This isn’t going to be a talk! Mom’s gonna raise heck when she hears about this, and I hope she will! 

Guilt threatened to drown her once the thought crossed her mind. She just wanted Mom to say no, not scream to the high heavens at Dad for being completely unreasonable.

She couldn’t just…hope they’d fight about Dipper’s future. That was a horrible thing to hope for.

And she was horrible for ever hoping such a thing.

“As I was saying, I’d like to take Irene Ashenbury off your hands on behalf of the Institute,” Ford said. “She would be a fascinating case study into history.” 

Dad stared at them blankly. “Who’s this…Irene Ashenbury? A classmate?”

“Oh, just a woman we imprisoned in our bedroom closet,” Dipper shrugged.  

Dad made a valiant effort to respond, but he seemed to have forgotten how his voice box worked. 

Mabel quickly jumped in. “But she’s a ghost who was trying to kill us and our great-great-great-great-great grandchildren first! So we’re still morally clear!”

“It was a very impressive technique to use a portable vacuum as a ghost-capturing device. We may have to update our equipment with that new knowledge,” Ford said, and he sounded very proud of them both. “In addition, my partner Fiddleford is currently expediting the process of awarding Haunted status to the Piedmont Springs Hotel.” 

Upon hearing the news, Dipper screamed so loud that it cracked the window of a pickup truck. 

Dad could only rub his face, barely refraining from a skyward scream himself. 

“Let’s just…never mind, let’s just head home now,” he sighed. “Before somebody tries to bill me for their broken windshield.” 

Dipper broke away from everyone else, sprinting faster than Mabel had ever seen him move before, even when his life depended on it. 

“I’ll get Irene for you, Grunkle Ford!” he shouted, running backwards as he cheerfully waved to Ford before tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. He fell over, but the pain didn’t faze him in the slightest. 

He stood up and ran to the opposite side of the street like nothing happened, the row of parked cars blocking him from view. 

“Dipper, slow down! You’re not wearing shoes–annnnd he’s gone.” Dad’s outstretched hand dropped to his side in defeat. “Sorry, Uncle Ford. Rebecca and I raised him with manners, I swear-” 

Ford dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. “No need to discourage him. My trip here is worthwhile because of his enthusiasm.” 

Dipper’s potential. Dipper’s talents. Dipper’s smarts. 

Dipper got a perfect score on his science test, you need to study harder to catch up with him. 

Her brother wasn’t as perfect as they made him out to be! He outsmelled skunks, chewed on pens until they exploded, and trying to set him up at middle school dances was nigh-impossible when he insisted on reading Ford’s journals under the bleachers instead of having fun! 

“Come on, Mabel. We’d better hurry before your grandparents leave,” Dad said. He crossed the street, impatiently waiting for Mabel on the other side.  

She trudged after him, but she couldn’t walk nearly as fast with her fuzzy unicorn slippers. They were meant for comfort and relaxation, not for hurrying after nerdy brothers and grumpy grandfathers. 

Dad’s arms were crossed against his chest, fingers tapping against his elbow. She was slowing him down, but he didn’t need to be that obvious about it. 

She made no effort to speed up though. Maybe it was wrong, but part of her wanted to make her family slow down. Quit rushing and stressing from one thing to another, just enjoy the moment and have fun in the present. 

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Jacob?” Ford called. “I can walk Mabel to your house.” 

Dad hesitated. He hid it well, but he didn’t fully trust Ford. 

Guess I can’t blame him there. He’s nicer, mostly…than he seems on TV, but he’s still taking Dipper away. 

Some people were kind. Others were mean. But Ford…she couldn’t figure out where to place him at all. Good or bad, family or not family, someone to trust or not trust? 

“I’m fine,” Mabel said with a shrug. Maybe if she talked to Ford a bit more and got the answer to the question that burned into her mind, it would help her decide where Ford belonged. “Just go.” 

“No flying though,” Dad said before he ran after Dipper, as if Mabel had any desire to be one hundred feet in the air again.

Left alone with a rare mythical creature and world-famous scientist-adventurer-hero who probably had better things to do than walk a kid home, she was suddenly aware of how small she was compared to them. One hundred gummy worms up her nose wasn’t so triumphant in the face of everything Dr. Stanford Pines had accomplished over the course of his life. 

Ford allowed Mabel to lead the way, and the only reason he didn’t overtake her with a much longer stride was because she knew the neighborhood better. Gryphondale followed behind them, black feathers occasionally dropping from her beak. 

Janet’s house, with the permanently open blinds to catch people in the act of breaking neighborhood rules she always made up. She didn’t seem to be at her window now, or she’d be accusing Ford of bringing unauthorized modes of transport to the neighborhood. 

The Cabreras, whose party had spilled onto the lawn and driveway. Several adults were swaying in a line together in the open garage, slurring the lyrics to a song Mabel had never heard of. Mabel waved to them, though Ford quickly ushered her and Gryphondale away when they responded by raising the tall beer cans in their hands. 

The bus stop Dipper and Mabel shared with Emily Carter, who was also in their grade at Piedmont Middle School. Though Emily was usually too busy with orchestra to hang out, Mabel planned to make more of an effort to be friends with her this year.     

The gentle, sloping hills surrounding a playground that Mabel and Dipper used to play at all the time, before Dipper declared that he’d outgrown the slides and seesaw and swingset. 

“This playground wasn’t here before,” Ford said, the dim light of a streetlamp reflecting off his glasses. 

“We were in elementary school when they built it. Sometime around 2nd or 3rd grade,” Mabel replied. “It wasn’t here the last time you came around.” 

She winced as the accusation slipped from her tongue. Was that too harsh? She didn’t want to sound like Grandpa Shermie. But Ford didn’t deny it. 

He inclined his head toward the swingset. During the day, those seats would be claimed by the neighborhood kids. But in this early hour, they were empty, the chains swaying in the breeze. 

“I tried to launch myself off the swings to see if I could fly to Australia once. But I broke my wrist instead. Got an awesome cast out of it though.” 

She showed Ford a tiny white scar on the outside of her long-healed left wrist. It wasn’t exactly the kid equivalent of a medal of honor anymore, but she was still proud of it. 

Ford chuckled. “I suppose children at that age are rather prone to accidental injury…and wild imaginations.” 

Then he grimaced, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

He was always sure-footed and agile when he was in action, but now Ford stumbled…no, she wasn’t imagining his strange bout of clumsiness, and slumped onto the bench. 

Gryphondale cooed in concern, preening Ford’s fluffy hair as he rested his elbows on his knees, clutching his head tightly in his hands. 

“I…I used to play on swings. Creaky. Rusted. Unstable. But…they were fun too. So much fun,” Ford muttered to himself. He ran his hands over his face…down, up, and down again. 

He knocked his glasses off. They fell onto the pavement. 

Mabel carefully picked them up, relieved the lenses didn’t pop out in her hands. Except for the small crack in one corner that was already there, the glasses weren’t broken. 

This was personal. Entirely too personal for her. 

Dr. Stanford Pines was supposed to be confident and smart and brave…a little tactless at times, but a true master of every science field that existed in the world.  

An adult would be better off handling Ford now…Dad, maybe? Dad was polite to his uncle…Mom probably wasn’t going too happy. Shermie was out of the question, and Ruth was likely to side with him. 

Carefully, Mabel pressed the glasses into Ford’s hand. He had a large hand–a sixth finger needed extra space after all–that curled around hers protectively. 

“I think…I think you need help, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel stammered, trying to pull away. But he was so much stronger than her, even when he reminded her of a panicking kid who couldn’t find their parents. “I can run home. I’ll get Dad. He can help better than me. Please…let me go.” 

Ford only squeezed her hand. She was trapped. 

“Don’t…he can’t help, he can’t know–” 

Oh, Mabel. You dum-dum. You just made it worse! 

Dad couldn’t help either. Which left Mabel to snap her great-uncle out of his breakdown. 

She needed to be a distraction. She didn’t know science, it was never her best subject, but she knew how to distract people. 

I like swings. You like swings. Okay…I can work with this. 

“Dipper and I used to have swing races. Who could swing the fastest, highest, or manage a full loop-de-loop around the bar? Hint hint, between the two of us, it was me.”

She winked playfully, and Ford’s grip loosened enough for her to reclaim her hand. 

“We’re even though. Kevin Schmidt shoved me in the cafeteria, so Dipper kicked him in the face at recess when he was swinging. Kevin tattled on him, and I convinced the teacher it was an accident cause it was Kevin’s fault for standing in the kick zone.”  

Ford’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, but it didn’t last long. He put his glasses on, careful to avoid aggravating the scar on his nose. Then he reached into a pocket on his left, muttered something to himself when he came up with nothing but an old, crumpled paper, and tried again with a pocket on his right. 

“It’s good…how you had each other to rely on,” he said, producing a small pill bottle from his pocket. He made a face as he opened the bottle–even the Director wasn’t immune to the difficulty of opening child-safety caps, and shook several pills onto his tongue. 

Mabel didn’t know what the medication was for–Ford’s hand blocked the label, but she didn’t think it was a good idea to take that many at once. 

Or without water. 

“We still rely on each other,” she said, wishing he didn’t use past tense to describe their bond. “Always have, always will.” 

They didn’t always have classes together, but they were still in the same school. The same neighborhood. The same home. 

In just a few short months, she’d be staring at an empty bed. She wasn’t going to smell his stinky sweat from across the room, or throw a stuffed animal at his head when he annoyed her with the constant pen-clicking. No more late night mini-golf tournaments or creating mix-and-match board games from random cards and tokens that were lost from the original box. 

No familiar voice to bring her out of Sweater Town after another bad fight. 

“Grunkle Ford…we captured Irene Ashenbury together.” Mabel’s throat closed up, forcing her to fight for every word she wanted to say. “So why did you only invite Dipper to your Institute? Can’t I come too?” 

Ford’s eyes didn’t meet hers. He closed the pill bottle with an unusual intensity and stored it in a different pocket from where he originally carried it. 

Silently, he rose from the bench, casting his shadow over Mabel. 

No traces of clumsiness remained, nor did his head trouble him anymore. She’d never seen any medicine work that fast before, but if anyone could create a pill that took effect in just seconds, it would surely be the Director. 

“Be honest with me, Mabel,” Ford said, his tone quiet but with no room to argue. “Are you truly prepared for an education at my Institute? Or do you only want to attend because Dipper will be there?” 

Mabel hesitated, unsure if Ford expected a lengthy explanation or a simple answer. 

I know I don’t really have the best grades in math and science, but there’s gotta be something I can be good at the Institute. Dipper can help me with the hard parts, and maybe I can find some new friends for him. He could use some. 

“Because Dipper’s gonna be there,” she replied. 

Ford studied her, like she was a strange specimen he couldn’t figure out. Then he sighed and shook his head. 

He was disappointed in her. 

She blinked back tears. 

“I’m sorry, Mabel.” Ford’s hand rested on her shoulder. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but it only made Mabel feel worse. “I advise you to think about your own future. Follow your own path instead of living in your brother’s shadow. If the day comes where you want to seek knowledge for yourself, then I will welcome you as a student too.” 

“But you’re still taking Dipper away,” she murmured, unable to think of a comeback that would make Ford see reason. 

“Communication channels have improved vastly since my youth, thanks to my partner. You can talk to Dipper as much as you want when your schedules allow for it. I promise you that I’m not taking him away.”

It was a poor attempt at reassurance.  

“But that’s not the same!” she protested.

“Mabel,” Ford said gently, like he was speaking to a stubborn five-year-old. “All children outgrow the playground in time. It may take longer for some than others, but we all must move on eventually. Dipper is ready to take the next step in his life. And someday, you’ll be ready to carve out your own destiny.” 

He summoned Gryphondale to his side, who crooned with concern to Mabel as she stood by her master. 

“Now come along. Your family is waiting for us.” 

Then Ford and Gryphondale set off, casting their long shadows behind them. 

And Mabel reluctantly turned away from the empty playground, following them to a home that no longer felt like hers. 

Chapter Text

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Today’s the day for fireworks, pool parties, and waiting to be ungrounded after giving away Mom’s vacuum cleaner turned ghost containment unit and making crucial life decisions without her involvement. At least Irene Ashenbury is in good hands under Great-Uncle Ford and the Institute. Just one more month until my internship begins! Can’t wait to get out of here! 

That is, if I survive Lacy’s Fourth of July back to school sale first. Mom dragged Mabel along too. At least I have someone to share the embarrassment with…

At the sound of Mom’s footsteps, Dipper looked up from the tiny notepad he'd been practicing journal entries on. It was an important skill to have once he started classes at the Institute. He would’ve preferred a larger notebook to write on, but Mom didn’t let him bring it to the mall.

“Lamby!” Mom called, completely forgetting about a little thing called volume control. Great, now everyone in Lacy’s–no, everyone in the crowded mall on a busy Fourth of July afternoon knew about that horrific nickname he never wanted to be called in public…or ever! She carried as many long-sleeved button-up shirts and diamond-patterned sweatervests as her hands would allow. Dipper barely had time to put away the notepad and pencil before she deposited the load in his arms. “Run to the changing room and try these on. You’ll have to look your very best when you’re studying under your uncle.” 

Dipper’s cheeks colored as Mabel snickered to herself, the sound quieter than her usual shrill cackle. She’d stretched out across the plush seat as they waited for Mom in the shoe department, resting her head against a large plastic bag that contained a week’s worth of school uniforms Mom bought from the last store they visited. 

Mom immediately rounded on Mabel, who sullenly glared at the bag, her laughter gone. “And please don’t wrinkle your uniforms before we get our money’s worth out of them. They weren’t cheap.” 

Mabel plucked an ugly khaki jumper out of the bag, brandishing it at Mom with a scowl. 

“We never had to wear these stupid things before! Why do we have to start now?” Mabel demanded. She stood up on the chair, and an annoyed mother snatched up her son while he tried out a pair of light-up sneakers, whisking him to the other side of the shoe department. “The glitter ban is bad enough–but this? We have a Constitution! I have the right to self-expression!” 

Dipper rearranged the bundle of clothes in his arms, hiding his face from anyone eavesdropping on the commotion. Lay low, pretend he wasn’t related to the woman and girl in his vicinity. 

One week since the middle school newsletter came in the mail, and Mabel was still complaining about the new uniform policy to anyone who cared to listen. Her rants even scared off some poor door-to-door air conditioner salesman who had zero clue what awaited him inside their home. 

“Your new principal believes in preparing students for the future. Wearing uniforms for professionalism is just the start,” Mom sighed. They’d had this argument at least ten times over the past few days, and Dipper couldn’t blame her for being tired of it. “At least Principal Goodman seems to be more hands-on than Principal Miller.” 

Glad I’m putting Piedmont Middle School behind me, Dipper thought with a shudder. That red marker will forever haunt my nightmares…

When Mr. Goodman wasn’t spending half the lesson scolding his 7th grade English class for their poor behavior, he was slashing through their essays and worksheets with his red marker, all while claiming he was showing everyone the quality a college professor would expect out of them. 

For the past school year, Dipper had felt his intestines twist into knots whenever he had to step foot into Mr. Goodman’s class. And he was one of the luckier students too–his essays were usually returned with only a quarter of the page annotated in red. 

But Mabel’s papers were soaked in crimson and practically dying from blood loss. 

Mabel scowled, shoving the jumper into the bag with a vengeance. “There was nothing wrong with Principal Miller! At least she wasn’t allergic to fun like Mr. Goodman!” 

Slowly, Dipper edged towards the end of the cushion and stood up with the bundle of button-up shirts and sweatervests in his arms. 

Mabel wasn’t toning down her voice, and while Mom was trying to be patient with her, every word was punctuated with a pointed finger and sharp arm motions. 

Everybody in the store was staring. Most of them were trying to be discreet, but an older man didn’t bother to disguise his disapproval and a murmur of back in our day we taught our children respect to his equally annoyed wife. 

Dipper glared at them. Sure, Mabel got on his nerves, especially after Ford’s unexpected visit when she acted like he couldn’t make his own decisions, but that couple didn’t need to be so judgmental about it. 

Even a Lacy’s worker was watching them from behind her sales counter. She held a pager up to her ear, ready to summon her manager at any moment.

Or worse, security.  

Eager to leave Mabel’s strange mood swings and Mom’s fake everything-will-be-okay attitude behind him, Dipper snuck away, heading to the men’s changing room without drawing any attention to himself. Trying on the clothes would give him about ten to fifteen minutes of time for himself. 

For the past three weeks, Mabel clung to his side like he’d cease to exist if he was out of view. And as part of their grounding, Mom didn’t let them go anywhere unless they were being accompanied by her or Dad. 

But since Dad was meeting with investors in Palo Alto right now, that duty fell solely on Mom. Because she also acted like he’d vanish into thin air one day, the only place he could read Great-Uncle Ford’s journals in peace was under the covers of his bed, by flashlight, long after everyone fell asleep. 

It was overbearing, and Dipper felt like he was going to choke under all the excess attention. 

Now was a rare moment that Mom and Mabel were focused on each other, so he had to take advantage of that while he could. 

Just gotta put up with it until the end of August. They’ll calm down by then…I think. 

He entered an empty stall and dumped the clothing on the bench, shutting the door behind him. A hanger clinked against a peg several stalls away, and somebody was talking on the phone, but nobody would bother him here. 

“Just you and me now, reflection,” Dipper said to his mirror image, who didn’t look like he’d made a strong first impression on the world’s most famous scientist. “Let’s do this.” 

He took off his hat, puffy vest, and shirt. Hopefully Mabel’s attitude was distracting enough to keep Mom from bringing him pants to try on. 

In the changing room’s dim yellow light, his reflection stood bare-chested, without a single defined ab or pec to be proud of. Unlike Great-Uncle Ford’s fabled six-pack, which he developed over the course of his adventures. 

No chest hair either. 

Ugh, stupid puberty. Should’ve known you’re not gonna give me the stuff I actually want. 

Dipper made a fist and flexed his left arm, scrutinizing the mirror for any sign of an obvious bicep, only for disappointment to set in quickly.

Noodle arm, as Mabel eloquently put it. 

Unfortunately, his right arm lacked muscle tone too. 

And if he couldn’t keep up with the heavy lifting that surely came with his internship, he’d fall short of Great-Uncle Ford’s lofty expectations. The Institute required nothing short of excellence. 

If the Director had the authority to offer internships, then he had the ability to take them away. What then? What if Great-Uncle Ford discovered that the image of an intelligent and capable Dipper Pines he’d built in his head didn’t match reality? 

Why didn’t he listen to his gut? Keep the video of Irene Ashenbury’s capture and the private message he’d attached at the end to himself? 

Great-Uncle Ford would look down at him, shake his head in disappointment, and say this was a mistake. Go back to public middle school where you belong and don’t waste my time with your amateur videos ever again.  

Dipper tried a red button-up with a dull yellow sweatervest first, wincing at his resemblance to a hot dog drowned in mustard. 

He’d never be taken seriously like this. 

Mabel’s voice was somewhere in the back of his mind. Something about color theory, calling him a nerd, and more ramblings on color theory. 

The second set, a forest green shirt and a diamond-patterned sweatervest, looked much better, but the cuffs were stifling and the tags itched against his skin. Nor was it wasn’t Dipper’s style. What was Mom thinking? This outfit was horribly impractical for field work. There were no pockets to store his Institute equipment in!   

The third set made him look like a clown. The fourth was an old man’s outfit. 

And the final shirt and vest were just wrong. Wrong in so many ways that Dipper ripped it off his body within seconds, only feeling comfortable once he’d donned his normal clothing. 

Red T-shirt. Useful vest with pockets. Dodgers baseball cap gifted by Grandpa Shermie. 

His reflection finally looked normal again. 

He hadn’t been dressed at all for Ford’s surprise visit. But Ford wasn’t mad at him for it. He’d barely noticed. 

So everything would be fine. 

With the rejected outfits in hand, Dipper left the dressing room. Some of the other shoppers were giving him odd looks, like they’d never seen someone carrying a bunch of clothes before, and Dipper tried to ignore them.  

He couldn’t wait to get rid of these sweatervests. 

Crossing through the men’s section in record time, he found Mom browsing through boxes in the shoe department. Her purse was slung over one shoulder, Mabel’s bag of uniforms slung over the other.

But Mabel wasn’t with her. 

It wasn’t unusual for Mabel to suddenly run off because she’d spotted a boy or something else she liked. There was also a cookie shop right outside of Lacy’s, maybe she wanted a snack. 

Mabel wasn’t flighty enough to leave newly bought items behind though. 

Or maybe she was. It was impossible to know what went through her head sometimes. 

And there was something…odd about the way Mom was standing in the aisle. 

A variety of boys’ sneakers were on display, so it looked like she was trying to find a pair for him, but they were all decorated with flashy colors and cartoon characters in sizes that were way too small for him to reasonably wear.

Mom was only looking at the shoe display. But she didn’t seem to care about trying to find shoes for him at all. 

“Mom?” Dipper called, standing at the entrance of the aisle. “What are you doing?” 

Mom lifted her head, giving him an insincere smile that made Dipper’s stomach churn with suspicion. She grabbed a display shoe and cradled it in the palm of her hand, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Come over here. Remember how much you loved Dino Rider? You always begged me to get a pair like these.”

But Dipper stayed where he was, crossing his arms as much as his burden would allow, refusing to show his embarrassment that she’d just revealed his six-year-old self’s obsession with a dinosaur cartoon that wasn’t even scientifically accurate to a bunch of strangers. 

“I tried everything on,” Dipper said, cutting right to the chase. The sooner they dumped these clothes and got out of here, the better. “And I–” 

Mom adjusted the bag of uniforms on her shoulder, clinging to it with a strange anticipation. Mabel had already rejected the clothes she had no choice but to wear for the upcoming school year. 

Their fight must’ve been just as heated as the argument he and Mom had the morning after the shock of Ford’s unexpected invitation finally sunk in. Nor had she been happy when Dipper revealed he’d been hiding the vacuum she’d lost in his closet the whole time, and Ford had requested her compliance in surrendering it to Institute custody since it now contained a volatile ghost. 

Dad had made himself scarce afterwards, using the excuse of PineCo needing him in Palo Alto to avoid the awkward questions of why he allowed Dipper to make such an important decision by himself, without her input. 

Guess I wouldn’t be happy either if someone forced me into a decision. 

Dipper stared down at the clothes she’d picked out for him. Outdated? Sure. But if she was buying clothes for him, she must be coming around to accepting that he wouldn’t be living at home by September anymore. 

He wished she wouldn’t baby him, or treat him like one of the kindergarteners she taught at Eggbert Elementary. 

But he could swallow his pride a little. Just this once. 

“–I like them,” he finished, careful to maintain eye contact so she wouldn’t think he was lying. “So we’re getting all of this?”  

Mom put the Dino Rider shoe on the shelf, then walked over to Dipper and enveloped him in a hug. 

“Of course, lamby,” she said, and Dipper forced himself to relax even though everyone’s prying eyes crept up his back. Seriously, didn’t these people have better things to do? “You know, I saw some bow ties in the formal section. It’ll really complete the academic look.”  

Dipper smiled, but in secret, he was mortified. 

“Sounds great, Mom,” he said, vowing to never wear those bow ties unless the Institute had a formal event. 

Mom released him, and Dipper could finally breathe again. She hummed blithely as she walked down the store’s tiled pathway to the formal section, and Dipper trailed behind her, trying not to bump into displays and other shoppers with his arms full of merchandise. 

They passed a wide exit that led to the rest of the mall, and Dipper spotted Mabel sitting on a bench just outside a children’s play area. She didn’t have anything in her hands, though he’d been so sure she’d bought a snack from the cookie shop. 

Mabel caught his eye briefly, then she returned to watching younger kids play in their artificial, plastic forest. 

And Dipper forced himself to keep walking. Sometimes, he just didn’t understand her anymore. 

Saturday, July 28, 2012

LadyMayflower<3 12:37 pm: sry i cant hang w/ u and sab 2day. dad took us 2 palo alto 4 lunch w/ mike. miss u

 

JazzQueen;D 12:40 pm: miss u too gurl. sab says its not the same w/o u. whose mike

 

LadyMayflower<3 12:58 pm: dads bizness partner. sry for late reply. had 2 sneak 2 restroom. mom says im bein rude bc im talkin 2 u

 

JazzQueen;D 1:00 pm: that sux 

 

LadyMayflower<3 1:00 pm: IKR????!!!! saaaaaave meeee………

The bathroom door opened before Mabel could read Jasmine’s reply. She finally had her flip phone back after a month-long grounding, so she had to make up for lost time with her friends. 

Though she’d tried to text Jasmine while waiting for their food to arrive, Mom had given her a stern look until she finally caved and slipped it into her sweater pocket. 

And now, Mom caught her red-handed. 

“Mom!” Mabel shouted in surprise. She closed the phone with a snap and shoved it deep into her pocket, prepared to fight for her right to keep it if necessary. “I was just–um, checking the time?” 

Rather than taking her phone, Mom walked over to the sink to wash her hands instead. “The waiter brought our food,” she said, peering at her reflection as water flowed over her fingers. “No more burying your head in your phone while we’re here, okay? No matter how tempting it is.” 

Dipper’s big head is buried in one of Ford’s journals right now, but you’re not telling him to put it away. Cause it makes him look intellectual or whatever. 

“Sure,” Mabel mumbled, and the brief happiness she’d gotten from Jasmine’s texts ebbed away. She rolled up the sleeves of her purple cat-themed sweater, washing her hands in the sink next to Mom. “But I’m still gonna tune out everything Mike says.” 

“You don’t have to like him, kitten,” Mom sighed as she put her hands under the dryer. “He’s paying for lunch though. Just be polite.”

Mabel stepped back from the sink, flicking her hands so violently that water sprayed all over the mirror. 

Mom gave her a warning look.  

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but leave the attitude at home.” 

You know what’s gotten into me? You barely tried to stop Dipper from leaving for the Institute! I know you’re not okay with it either, but you’re just going along with whatever Dad and Dipper want! 

Mabel didn’t speak to her as they walked back to their table, which was thankfully right next to a long aquarium tank. At least the clownfish would make sitting at a table with Mike more bearable. She didn’t think he’d stopped talking long enough to breathe since they got here. 

“-and that’s why, if we want PineCo to succeed, we need to re-elect Whittaker. Don’t need to pay the sort of business taxes the opposition wants to enforce. Bad enough the government wastes my tax dollars on the dregs of society who don’t care enough to try and find a decent job,” Mike complained over his elaborate lobster platter.   

Dad was only half-listening to Mike’s rambles about the ‘dregs of society’ while he cut into his fish, though Mike didn’t notice. He quickly shifted the topic to gas prices, the stock market, and his commentary on a recent bank robbery in San Francisco. 

Mabel dunked her popcorn shrimp into a small ketchup puddle as she watched the clownfish lazily drift along in its aquarium. He was kinda adorable, with his vibrant orange body and white stripes. 

Wonder if clownfish can juggle…maybe I can smuggle him home to find out. I bet he’d look even cuter in a poofy rainbow afro. 

She almost spilled her soda when something bumped her leg. 

On her left, Dipper quietly ate his own serving of popcorn shrimp, his eyes carefully averted from hers. Their plates were nearly identical, the only real difference was that he didn’t completely drown his food in ketchup. 

And he seemed entirely too nonchalant for his own good. She knew his secret plotting face well. 

While Dipper ate a buttered roll, Mabel tapped the back of his leg with her shoe. Dipper yelped and dropped the roll onto his shorts, where it bounced off and hit the floor. 

Unfortunately, the noise also stopped the adults’ conversation–or rather, Mike’s endless jabbering while Mom and Dad nodded along. 

Dipper coughed awkwardly as they stared at him. “Um, I was just thinking about…stuff. Nothing to see here.” 

He wiped the butter smear on his leg with a cloth napkin, muttering a vow of revenge against Mabel under his breath. 

Mabel stuck her tongue out at him.

Mom sighed to herself, trying to ignore them while she stabbed vegetables with a fork. 

A waiter in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants came over to refill their drinks, then walked away as fast as he could professionally manage. Slowly, the people around them returned to their conversations, and an older woman gave them a haughty side-eye.  

Family business, people! Mind your own beeswax! Mabel wanted to scream. 

“Sorry for the interruption, Mike,” Dad said, like that was all Dipper and Mabel were–an interruption. 

“No, no, it’s alright,” Mike replied with a glance at Dipper. He stiffened under the attention. “So, Mason-” 

Dipper pulled the tip of his Dodgers cap down to his forehead, hiding his constellation-shaped birthmark. “It’s Dipper.” 

Mike blinked, as if that was genuinely news to him when everybody had been saying ‘Dipper’ for several years now. 

“Weird name,” he said. 

“I came up with that name,” Mabel snapped. She dropped her fork onto the table with a harsh clatter. 

Angry as she was at Dipper’s lack of consideration for her, she refused to let anyone insult him like that. 

“Mabel, what did we just talk about?” Mom scolded. 

Don’t have to like him, but be polite even if Mike says dumb stuff. I’m not five. 

But Mabel kept that thought to herself. She was sick of Mom’s lectures, and it felt like there were so many of them these days. 

“Anyway, Jacob tells me that you’ve got an internship this fall. At the Institute, no less!” Mike’s toothy grin reminded Mabel of a shark. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the brain for your age. What an opportunity! You’ll do wonders in the future, I’m sure.” 

Dipper rubbed the back of his head with an awkward smile. “Um, thanks? Feels like I’ve spent my whole summer preparing for classes and fieldwork, but it’s kinda nerve-wracking…” 

“That’s to be expected,” Mike said, clapping Dad on the shoulder and giving him a friendly shake. “You're lucky to have a son this ambitious, Jacob. Wish mine had the same drive as yours. Did I tell you Cash switched majors recently? Went from a perfectly respectable mechanical engineering degree to…fine arts. To become an animator, of all things. Told him to quit wasting my money with that ridiculous career, and he hasn’t answered my calls since.” 

He shook his head in disappointment. 

“Jacob,” Mom said sharply, and Dad scowled at her. “I thought we agreed to not tell anyone about the Institute before we knew Dipper would be attending for sure.” 

“He’s only known for a week! Why do you always jump to accusations?” Dad protested. 

“I’m not making accusations!” 

Their squabble drew the entire restaurant’s attention again. People pointing and whispering and judging because her family just couldn’t hold it together in public. 

The drive to Palo Alto had been surprisingly peaceful, though Dipper and Mabel were prepared to endure forty-five minutes of tense silence. Dad even cracked a joke about the traffic, and Mom laughed when she hadn’t laughed around him in a long time. 

But the unspoken truce was gone now. It couldn’t last forever, but the peace was gone all too soon. 

Their first outing together as a family since the summer began, and Mom and Dad couldn’t be bothered to put their issues away for it! 

Mabel pushed her plate away. There were still several fries left on it, but she didn’t have the stomach to finish off the rest. 

Dipper’s chair scraped against the ground, and he threw his napkin on the table as he stood up. He opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say to Mom and Dad never came out, and Mike was busy complaining to the waiter about some stupid issue with his lobster that was, in his mind, cause for a discount.

Before Mabel could say anything, he fled the restaurant entirely, shoving past the impatient customers who were still waiting to be seated. 

Mom and Dad argued. Neither of them noticed. 

And Mike never acknowledged them unless he was talking about the money they could potentially make in their futures. He wouldn’t be any help.

If she didn’t go after Dipper now…she’d never see him again. 

She hurried after him, only stopping for a brief apology to a startled waitress who nearly dropped a heavy tray of wineglasses when Mabel ran past her. 

Mabel pushed the door open, shielding her eyes from the bright California sun as she rushed outside. She got a few funny looks from passersby–it was a little too warm to be wearing a thick sweater right now, but she didn’t care. 

Thankfully, Dipper didn’t go too far. 

He was sitting on a bench in front of a flower garden that lined the seafood restaurant’s exterior, large bushes with blossoming flowers overlooking the sidewalk. Mabel plucked a pink flower from the bush, twirling it between her fingers as she sat next to Dipper. 

His cap shadowed his eyes, and she held herself back from trying to get Dipper to look at her. Would that only push him away again?

They’d always been close. But ever since Ford’s visit, it seemed like Dipper held her at a distance. And no matter how many times she tried to cross the chasm, she always fell to the bottom.  

“...they’re expecting a lot out of me,” Dipper whispered. “It’s so much...I can’t disappoint them.”   

Dipper usually did well in any class that wasn’t gym. It was just the nerves talking. He was smart. He'd do great, though it pained Mabel to admit it. 

He needed some help getting out of his worrywart mindset. Fortunately for him, she was just the right person for the job. 

“If you go…you’re gonna be doing your own laundry,” she said, giving him a friendly punch to the shoulder. 

But Dipper gave her a defiant stare, her attempt at a joke falling flat. It didn’t loosen him up like she’d hoped. 

“What do you mean ‘if’? Of course I’m going,” he snapped. 

I used to be good at this…but I just made things worse. 

Mabel looked away. “Yeah…I know.” 

A strong breeze stirred, blowing away the flower in her palm. It fluttered into the street, and a passing car shredded it to pieces. 

Friday, August 24, 2012

Mabel and I are celebrating our 13th birthday at Pier 39 in San Francisco. While our actual birthday is the 31st, I’ll be taking up the bus up to Gravity Falls that day, so we’re having an early celebration with some friends. Well, Mabel’s friends anyway. Aidan and Luke from the gamer’s table at 2nd period lunch are here too, but I feel kinda awkward around them. I guess we’re sort of friends, but also sort of not? We just play Monstermon and DD&D: The Card Game together sometimes, that’s all. 

I thought Mabel would be stoked about the lack of parental supervision, petting sea lions despite all the warnings not to, and eating all the junk food a kid could dream of, but she’s barely talked to me since the disastrous lunch with Mike. I didn’t ask him to praise me for getting this internship, alright? The way he looked at me, I felt like I was a walking, talking sack of money with a dollar sign on the front. Bet that’s why his son won’t return his calls, he named the poor guy ‘Cash’. 

Sometimes, I wonder if I made the right decision. Studying under Great-Uncle Ford is a dream come true, but I’m worried about Mabel. She hasn’t been herself all summer. She’s taking Mom and Dad’s fighting pretty hard too, and her jokes feel more forced than usual.

Looks like everyone’s ready to move on from the arcade now. Maybe I should’ve joined a few rounds of Fight Fighters: Combat Tour with everyone, but I guess I’m too worried to even think about playing. Doesn’t help that we came on an overcast day either. Still plenty of people around though. I’ll try to enjoy myself, but no promises. 

Dipper pocketed his notebook, wincing as Aidan’s fist slammed against the flashing buttons of the Fight Fighters: Combat Tour console. 

“It’s not fair!” Aidan screamed, his mop of blond hair falling over his eyes as he yanked on a joystick, nearly ripping it from its wiring. “You cheated–all of you cheated!” 

Dipper rolled his eyes. Aidan always accused his opponents of cheating when they won, rather than trying to improve his own strategies. It was annoying, but he and Luke were the only two people in school who shared Dipper’s tastes in tabletop games. So he had to deal with it. 

“Get over yourself,” Jasmine snapped. She jabbed Aidan’s chest with her finger, an excessive amount of colorful rubber bracelets dangling from her arm. “If you want to win so badly, try cutting your hair so you can actually see the screen.” 

Aidan smacked her finger away. “Do you really think I couldn’t see how you and the witch girl ganged up on me to let Mabel win? She has no idea how to play Fight Fighters!” 

Mabel stepped away from Aidan. Her bright smile upon winning was gone. Sabrina, dressed in her spider-like witch costume from last Halloween for reasons only she understood, caught her before she tripped over a cord. 

“Um…push buttons until you beat everyone?” Mabel asked, poking at pretend buttons in the air. “Isn’t that how you win at video games?”

Sabrina nodded, helping Mabel regain her balance. “We were playing by birthday rules. So the birthday girl gets to win. It’s simple, really.”

“No, it isn’t!” Aidan stomped his foot in frustration, like he was a toddler instead of a teenager. He was oblivious to the kind of attention he was attracting–the kind that got people kicked out of places. “Dipper, get your butt over here! I want a rematch!”

Dipper stood up from the table and marched over to the rest of the group, but not for the rematch Aidan wanted. And it wasn’t much of a rematch if none of the girls were willing to play another round with Aidan. 

“Lay off, man,” Dipper scowled, before Aidan fully turned his irritation on Mabel. Help from her friends or not, she still won. He kicked himself for not fully thinking about his invite list–he could’ve invited Carlos from band class instead, if only he had his number. “And Luke–seriously, stop filming us.” 

“Sorry, just testing out the camera,” Luke shrugged, putting his fancy touchscreen phone away. “Swear I’m not gonna upload this to anything.” 

Sure he wasn’t. Though Luke was less abrasive than Aidan, he was always showing off the new device he’d gotten over the summer–a much nicer one than everyone else’s simple flip phones.

Really, there was no need to flaunt it. 

Aidan inserted a token into Fight Fighters’ slot, eagerly seizing the joystick as the character select screen came up. A prompt flashed for other players to join in, though nobody else claimed the other openings. 

“I think I wanna check out the rubber duck store…” Mabel said, playing with the loose straps of the backpack she’d brought with her to store everything she bought with her birthday money. She wore a special bright pink sweater with a large cupcake and colorful confetti surrounding it, but her mood didn’t match her cheerful clothing. 

It was Mabel who wanted to stop by the arcade. Sabrina and Jasmine naturally fell in with her, Aidan agreed because of the video games, and Luke was cool with whatever the group wanted to do.

But this was Dipper’s birthday party too. 

So why didn’t anyone ask him for activity suggestions? 

Even when she wasn’t bouncing off the walls with excitement, Mabel still found a way to hog everyone’s time. 

“I’ll go with you,” Sabrina said to Mabel, who gave her a tiny, hesitant smile. “I’d like to wrap my hands around that really cute vampire duck in the window.”

She clapped her hands and squeezed them tightly, like she was trying to wring some poor creature’s neck.

Does she need to phrase it like that? Dipper gave her a wide berth, and even Luke winced in discomfort. 

Mabel laughed while Jasmine folded her arms, her ponytail swinging from side to side as she shook her head with a playful scoff. “I’m just coming to make sure you birdbrains don’t waste all your money on rubber ducks,” she said. 

Sabrina shrugged. “If that’s how you want to see it. You were eyeballing the Tyler Hotner duck pretty hard though…”

Jasmine’s cheeks turned bright red, visible even in the dark lighting of the arcade. 

“F-for the last time, I don’t have a celebrity crush on Tyler Hotner!” she screamed at Mabel and Sabrina as she chased them out of the arcade. Sabrina giggled behind her hands while Mabel made exaggerated kissing noises all the way out the door, which Dipper considered a good sign since he wasn’t on the receiving end of her joke for once. “You take that back, Sabrina!” 

Even with the sounds of upbeat video game music and button mashing, the arcade was definitely quieter now that the girls were shrieking over weird girl things somewhere else. 

Annoyed that nobody else was interested in another round of Fight Fighters with him, Aidan begrudgingly picked Rumble McSkirmish for a single-player match…and promptly suffered a devastating loss to a computer-controlled Dr. Karate. 

“Asshole!” Aidan screeched, his voice cracking as he repeatedly slammed his fist on the buttons, like it would undo the computer’s victory. “He fell off the ledge first! I totally won this match! You saw that too, right?” 

Luke shrugged. “You took more damage though. Can’t say I was surprised.” 

“You might stand a chance if you…I don’t know, didn’t set the computer at the highest difficulty level?” Dipper added. 

Shopping for rubber ducks was kind of dumb, but it sure beat watching Aidan embarrass himself. 

Should’ve walked out with the girls…

Aidan cursed under his breath, fishing around his pockets for another token, but came up empty. “You two got anything?” he asked. 

Dipper and Luke shook their heads. 

“Well,” Aidan sighed, kicking the console. “This blows. Now what?” 

Unfortunately, Dipper didn’t have an answer for that. He’d spent so much time on preparing for the Institute that he never came up with a checklist of things to do for this birthday outing. To Aidan and Luke, he was probably the most boring and incompetent host the world had ever seen. 

“We could…try the mirror maze?” Dipper said, only to regret his words when Aidan didn’t bother to hide his yawn. “Or the Alcatraz gift shop?” 

At least he could bury his nose into a book on ghost sightings at the former prison and not come out until it was time to leave for the Institute....

Luke took out a foldable paper map of Pier 39 from his pocket. Was he trying to help, or was he also disappointed with Dipper’s party and too polite to show it? 

“Wanna try Kauai’s Creamery?” Luke suggested, tapping a blue square on his map. “Ice cream with a Hawaiian flair. Second level, right by the observation deck.”   

Aidan didn’t need any convincing. “Sounds good to me,” he declared, already hurrying out the door. “Anything beats this crappy arcade.” 

He flung his empty, crumpled token cup over his shoulder, and it landed in front of a worker who’d been tasked to sweep the floor. 

“Sorry,” Luke said to the frustrated worker. He hurried over and picked up the cup before the worker could sweep it into her dustpan, tossing it into the garbage can himself. Then he glanced at Dipper. “We should probably get out of here before we get lifetime banned.” 

Will you stop acting nice already? You’re not fooling me. 

But Dipper kept that thought to himself. Luke acted nice, but he had to have an angle of some sort. Did he want free homework help? One of Dipper’s rare Monstermon cards? 

Too bad for Luke. Dipper wouldn’t be able to give him any of those things once he left Piedmont behind. 

A chilling wind swirled around them as they left the arcade and stepped onto the wooden planks outside. Dipper shivered as he zipped up his jacket–San Francisco Bay was cold, even during the height of summer, but it felt like the temperature plummeted thirty degrees during their Fight Fighters gaming session.  

A mist had settled over Pier 39, obscuring attractions and storefronts from sight. Pools of water formed from a light, drizzling rain that was sure to become a full blown storm any minute now.

The clouds were an ominous dark gray, with no hint there was a sun behind it all. Even the ever-hungry, annoyingly aggressive, flying garbage disposal birds known as seagulls hunkered into every nook and cranny they could find, pressed together under the shelter of the carousel, under stairways, and the rafters of stores. 

And the few seagulls in the sky were only looking for a place to take cover, but were shoved out with angry nips because there was no room for them. 

In the distance, a chorus of bells rang from the countless boats lining the bay. With every high-pitched, echoing ring, Dipper’s worry only grew. 

Aidan had a one-track mind–he was definitely terrorizing the ice cream shop by now, but Mabel and her friends were still out there, and it was impossible to predict where they’d be if they’d already moved on from their rubber duck obsession. 

Dipper took out his flip phone, shielding it from the onslaught of rain as he speed-dialed Mabel’s number. 

“The number you have reached is not available. Please try again later,” the automated voice said. 

“What?” Dipper complained, clutching his phone so tightly that it left an imprint on his hand. “Mabel, I swear if you used all your minutes again-” 

“No luck with texts either. Can’t reach Aidan,” Luke said, frowning at his phone. “Probably isn’t as bad as it looks. There’s still people around.” 

Pier 39 was still crowded with people, but many were fleeing the boardwalk en masse or seeking shelter inside restaurants and gift shops. Their footsteps were frantic, their shouts urgent. A toddler with loose, floppy pigtails cried and leapt at her mother as a thunderclap shook the earth, and the woman had no choice but to enter a seafood restaurant with her toddler anchored firmly against her leg. 

Despite the awful weather, some people were milling around with no sense of urgency. Out-of-town tourists who didn’t live near coastlines, most likely. Their aimless wandering and numerous bags of San Francisco merchandise gave them away. 

Stay in the arcade and wait for the storm to pass. Search for everyone else in their group once the fierce winds and rain wouldn’t sweep them away. 

Investigate the cause. 

It’s what the Director would’ve done. A freak meteorological event, or was there something more to this sudden storm? 

Paralyzed by indecision, Dipper hadn’t noticed Luke leaving the safety of the neon arch marking the arcade’s entrance. He walked in the open, splashing through deep puddles without worrying about the water soaking through his shoes and pants. His hair was plastered against his neck, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. 

“What the heck, Luke?” he shouted, catching up to his clueless classmate by an abandoned lemonade stand. He lost his balance and caught himself on the counter, unknowingly running into a deep puddle that Luke wasn’t bothered by–tall people had privileges that Dipper only had in his wildest fantasies. With his heavy, waterlogged pants, Dipper trudged out of the puddle and waited for an explanation under the roof of a wild west-themed gift shop. “How can you be so calm about this?” 

Luke shrugged, holding out his hand and letting the rainwater slip through his fingers. 

“Lived in Seattle up ‘til last year,” he said. “You get used to it. Besides, it’s still good weather for ice cream.” 

Mabel will be fine, Dipper tried to rationalize as Luke took the stairs to the second level. The stairs were right by the rubber duck shop, but Mabel and her friends were nowhere in sight. They were probably somewhere else, browsing through clothes or stuffed animals or whatever girls liked. 

As much as he wanted to practice his research skills before leaving for the Institute, he hadn’t prepared for a heavy thunderstorm. If his notepad wasn’t ruined by rain, he’d just have to write down his observations from the safety of the ice cream shop. 

At least, he hoped it would be safe. 

He held onto the railing as he followed Luke upstairs, not wanting to lose his balance on the slippery planks. He crashed into a tourist who was heading down, carrying so many shopping bags that he had no way of avoiding her on the narrow path. 

“Watch it!” she snapped at him, oblivious to how he could’ve broken his neck if he’d slipped. 

Taken by surprise, Dipper couldn’t form a proper comeback to her rude behavior as she continued on her merry way. 

He hoped the rain ruined her overpriced souvenirs. Served her right. 

Luke didn’t break his leisurely stride, but Dipper’s stomach inverted itself as he followed him across the raised, wooden bridge that crisscrossed the main walkway on the ground. Though the bridge was built to be sturdy, he spotted signs of wear and tear along the wooden beams, the salty air naturally eroding the wood over time. 

Rainwater sunk through the cracks and cascaded to the ground. Dipper hurried to the end of the bridge before the torrent swept him off the edge, the bridge collapsed, or the torrent swept him off the edge and a wooden beam impaled him from the collapsed bridge. 

He passed a cafe, a sunglasses kiosk, and two more souvenir shops that differed by name but were otherwise indistinguishable from each other, finally catching up with Luke at the end of the walkway. The path curved left from here, and though Kauai’s Creamery was two buildings down that route, Luke only leaned on the barrier that prevented him from taking a steep plummet onto the docks.

Just like Dipper, he was soaked to the bone, but he wasn’t hurrying to dry himself off. 

“Come check this out, Dipper!” Luke called, waving him over. “The ocean looks wild today!”

Dipper blocked his face with the crook of his arm as he joined Luke, avoiding the ocean’s salty spray that he could taste even at this distance. There were no structures to block the near-hurricane level winds, rendering them vulnerable to the forces of nature. 

The ocean was dark, murky, and dangerous. Nobody, not even Ford and his elite scientific task force, knew the secrets and creatures that truly lurked in the deep.

In the distance, the ominous outline of Alcatraz stood, frozen in time by the mist. Further out was the Golden Gate Bridge, and beyond that…well, who knew?

“Tonight only marks the beginning of a new chapter in your life, Dipper. There’s a whole new world out there–countless worlds, in fact, beyond these suburbs. Think of it, an infinite amount of unusual creatures and phenomena waiting to be discovered!”

Ford’s words from the beginning of summer echoed in his head, promising adventures beyond imagination. 

Waves violently crashed against the rocky shoreline, calling out to him like the mythical sirens of old. 

He didn’t know what sort of future awaited him, but Ford inspired him to embrace the unknown with open arms. 

One week left, then he’d embark on the greatest adventure of all. 

“Looks like you’re finally enjoying yourself,” Luke said, elbowing him with a playful grin. “Come on, let’s get some ice cream before Aidan cleans the place out.” 

Dipper shoved him back, the wind and rain no longer weighing him down. Ford wouldn’t fear bad weather–rather, he’d welcome it for new opportunities. And Dipper would rise to the challenge, meet the potential that Ford proudly spoke of. 

But as he followed Luke to their destination, the flash of a familiar pink sweater on the docks below caught his eye. 

Half the dock was submerged underwater, the ocean swallowing what remained of the wood and any small boats that weren’t built to withstand its wrath. 

“Get out of there, Mabel!” he screamed. 

Mabel glanced up the rocky shore, her mouth moving in surprise as she spotted Dipper. Their eyes met, and Mabel took a step forward.

Then she let out a soundless cry as a large wall of seawater poured over the wooden dock, cutting off her only escape path and shielding her from view.

Chapter Text

Friday August 24, 2012

“I’m sorry, we are unable to connect your call at this time. Please try again later.”

LadyMayflower: yo dipdop! every1 ok? Storms rlly bad! is your phone working 

Message not delivered. Move to area with better connectivity. 

“Darn!” Mabel shouted, shaking the entire display table as she slammed her phone down, thunder shaking the walls of the cramped, shanty turned shop. “Pick up your stupid phone, Dipper!” 

A small jar of seashells wobbled over the table edge, and Mabel quickly intercepted it before the precious shells inside were destroyed by broken glass. She sighed in relief once the jar was safely in her hands, glad that she wouldn’t have to find out if Captain’s Quarters had a ‘you break it, you buy it’ policy. She didn’t want to recreate the Happyland incident at her early birthday party. 

“Careful, lass,” Captain warned her from behind the sales counter. He had the build and gruff, authoritative voice of a retired sea captain, so Mabel made sure to heed his warning. “Those are special Seychelles seashells. Can’t find anything like ‘em anywhere else in the world.” 

Jasmine sauntered over to Mabel, leaning against her shoulder while twirling a bag with her Tyler Hotner rubber duck inside. Despite all her fussing and complaining, she’d given into peer pressure from Mabel and Sabrina and bought it after all. 

“Dare ya to say that five times fast,” she grinned. 

At any other time, Mabel would’ve taken up her dare or countered her with a challenge of her own, but her vocal cords just weren’t up for it today. 

Sorry for being such a party pooper, girls, she held the seashell jar close to her heart, unable to tear her eyes away from her phone in case she missed a single call or text from Dipper. 

They just had the bad luck of coming to Pier 39 on a stormy day, when there was enough rain, wind, and lightning to knock out cell service. Every phone was acting up, not just hers. 

It didn’t mean that Dipper was ignoring her hey, are you alright messages. 

Was he worried about her too, or was he so caught up in dumb boy stuff that he forgot to check in with her? Knowing her brother, either option was likely. 

“Try to have fun, girl,” Jasmine said, closing Mabel’s phone with a brisk snap before handing it back to her. “Not much time left before we have to wear those crappy uniforms. Need to enjoy your right to look fabulous while you can.” 

She stretched her arm, showing off her collection of beaded, rubber, and metal bracelets running from wrist to elbow. She’d already finished her shopping at Captain’s Quarters, proudly boasting a new bracelet with a cute dolphin charm. 

“Too bad I can’t wear my new Edgy on Purpose shirts to school. I was looking forward to seeing everyone’s jealousy,” Sabrina said as she carried two keychains up to the counter, one of a creepy-looking spider crab and the other of a skeleton wearing pirate captain gear. “Just these keychains, please.”

Captain raised an eyebrow as he took her money and rang up her choice of souvenirs. “You sure you wouldn’t prefer a stuffed sea lion? Everyone loves the sea lions.” 

Wordlessly, Sabrina gestured to the spiderweb print all over her dress. 

“Ah, well…you’re clearly someone who knows what she wants,” Captain shrugged, and Sabrina proudly walked away with her new keychains. 

“Your turn, Mabel,” she said, nodding to the jar of seashells in Mabel’s hands. 

But Mabel hesitated. Captain’s Quarters was crammed with souvenirs she liked, but she couldn’t tell Jasmine and Sabrina that her heart just wasn’t into their shopping detour. Maybe the storm was making her moodier than she realized, maybe she was too worried about her family to have fun.

She’d tried to make every moment of summer count, but in the end, her efforts were wasted. Dipper was still leaving. Mom and Dad got along sometimes, but she never knew how long it would last before they’d ignore each other or fight again. Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth were still in Alaska, and apart from a few emailed photos, they hadn’t been in contact much. Internet reception probably wasn’t great up there. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Mabel admitted. 

Jasmine put her hand on her hip, impatiently tapping her foot. “You’ve been cradling that jar for the past five minutes. Looks pretty obvious to me.” 

Mabel couldn’t deny that the seashells were beautiful. Little pale pink scallops, conches with twisting spiral patterns, a dried out starfish…they’d be wonderful pieces to use for beach-themed art projects. 

She could make something good for once, something that wasn’t an obvious rush job or an unfinished creation that she lost motivation for halfway through. Maybe this would snap her out of the worst artist’s block she’d ever experienced in her life, where her sweaters were plainer and her drawings lacked love and passion. 

She only bothered to put effort into Dipper’s present, which was carefully wrapped and tucked away in Mom’s bathroom cabinet. She’d give it to him when he boarded the bus to Gravity Falls. Even if he didn’t appreciate it, she’d tried her best. 

That had to count for something, right? 

Mind made up, she plopped the seashell jar and her money onto the counter. 

“You’ve got quite the eye, lass,” Captain said as he counted the ruffled dollars in his hand and dropped them into the register. His head swiveled from side to side like he was expecting someone to eavesdrop. “Now don’t go ‘round repeating this to just anybody, but I hear those Seychelles seashells are special for a reason.” 

“Really?” Mabel said. Her curiosity, along with Jasmine and Sabrina’s, brimmed to the surface. But Captain hesitated as the girls crowded against the counter, anticipating the reason. “Tell us! Tell us!” 

Jasmine and Sabrina took up the chant until Captain chuckled and waved his hands for silence. 

“Well, they have a legend of the romantic sort in those pretty little islands.” Captain gave the seashell jar back to Mabel with a wink. “They say a sea goddess sculpted these shells from sand, water, and her own teardrops. If a person gives them to a special somebody with all their heart, they’ll be blessed with true love forevermore.” 

Mabel cradled the jar and thought of the engraving on her parents’ wedding frame.  

True love is forever…maybe these shells will do the trick. Maybe I can save their marriage. With a little help from a sea goddess, of course. 

“Yuck.” Jasmine stuck her tongue out, but her clasped hands and blush told a completely different story. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Sabrina admitted. “Even if I’ve sworn off boys forever.”

“And romantic,” Mabel added, storing the seashell jar in her backpack for safekeeping. She wrapped it with an unfinished scarf she’d forgotten about. Once the jar was secure, she gave a sailor’s salute to the old Captain. “Thanks a bunch, matey!”

Captain returned her salute. “Fair winds and calm seas to you, matey. Once the weather cooperates, that is.” 

A strange way to say goodbye, yet it made Mabel smile all the same. She ran her hand across a rack of Pier 39 t-shirts, admiring the cramped yet charming layout and products of Captain’s Quarters one more time before setting off. It was a little out of the way, but she’d try to come back for more inspiration if she ever got a chance.

She turned and followed her friends to the exit, ready to hit the next store or search for the guys, she hadn’t decided yet–  

Then Jasmine’s scream pierced the air. 

Alarmed, Mabel rushed over to her, but she didn’t see the enormous puddle creeping under the door until she ran straight into it, recklessly splashing water onto Jasmine’s pants. Unable to keep her balance on the slippery floor, Mabel threw out her arm to catch herself, accidentally taking Sabrina down with her as she toppled onto her back. 

“S-sorry!” Mabel’s teeth chattered from the cold sinking into her skin, her sweater sodden with water. A salty taste filled her mouth, and she coughed to get rid of it. 

“It’s fine,” Sabrina said, pushing her dark hair away from her face. 

She didn’t seem all that bothered by the sudden flood, unlike Jasmine, who screamed again and fled to the sales counter, where the floor was drier except for her watery shoeprints. 

Sabrina gave her an odd look as she helped Mabel to her feet. “I didn’t know you were scared of water.” 

“It’s not the water!” Jasmine snapped, jumping onto the counter and ignoring Captain’s grumble of all the cleaning he’d have to do. She took off her left shoe, flipped it, and smacked the brand logo several times to get the water and grit out. “These are real Gordons! I can’t ruin them before school starts!” 

Captain’s Quarters sat right on the docks, much closer to the ocean than any other shop at Pier 39. And if the storm got any worse…

Mabel shoved that thought away as she reached for the doorknob. Unlike Dipper, she didn’t want to consider worst case scenarios.

Powerful? Yes, but the storm wouldn’t last forever. It would pass in half an hour, give or take a few minutes, and they'd see the regular misty skies of San Francisco again. 

Dipper would be fine until then. As long as he didn’t worry himself to death first. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check up on him though…

The door violently crashed against the wall, knocking the welcome bell to the floor. A flash of lightning illuminated the squat old fisherman in the doorway, his face weathered from rough seas and age. One eye was squeezed shut, hidden beneath the brim of his floppy hat. The other bugged out of its socket, blown maniacally wide. His muddied raincoat must’ve been bright yellow once, but time had stained it an unappealing shade of brown. 

He reeked of rotten fish, seaweed clinging to his scraggly beard, and Mabel gagged at the stench.  

“CAPTAIN!” the fisherman bellowed, a thunderclap shaking the walls. Mabel and Sabrina stumbled out of his way as he stomped up to the shopkeeper, his boots leaving muddy imprints behind. 

Outside, a chorus of naval bells rang frantically, violent winds whipping rain and ocean water into the shop. The dock was flooded over, several small boats in danger of tipping from the rough waves. 

Mabel and Sabrina shoved the door until it closed, the squall too powerful for one person to manage alone.  

“Wasn’t expecting you back this soon, Sturgeon,” Captain said, oblivious to Sturgeon’s irate glare. Jasmine awkwardly scooted to the side of the counter, pretending to be very engrossed in her phone. “Halibut season going alright? You need some more netting?” 

“Haul yer hide down to my boat, ya great lubbery lump,” Sturgeon grunted. “Damn storm’s not fit for man or beast, but I’m gettin’ my halibut to market before his curse strikes me down. Bring an extra plank and nails with ya. Got a leak on starboard side.”  

Captain muttered something to himself as he went through a door marked employees only. Mabel heard the sound of wood crashing to the floor, and a crass string of words she couldn’t repeat. 

“Curse?” Mabel piped up, unable to help her curiosity. “What curse?” 

Sturgeon’s bulging eye fell on her, and Mabel found it unnerving. Nobody’s eyes should be that big. 

“‘Tis no natural storm brewing,” Sturgeon replied. He brushed flecks of seaweed off his shoulders. “But the handiwork of Davy Jones.” 

The girls stared at him blankly. 

“You mean…the freaky squid guy?” Mabel asked. 

“He’s not real though,” Jasmine scoffed. “He’s just a movie villain.”

Sabrina put one hand under her chin, wiggling her fingers like squid tentacles. Mabel playfully screamed when Sabrina tried to touch her with the tentacle fingers, running to the counter where Jasmine perched. Jasmine made room for her, holding Sabrina back with her Gordon-brand shoe while Mabel clung to her arm. 

Sturgeon’s eye bulged until the tiny veins of his retina were visible. 

“WRONG!” he thundered, and the girls flinched as his voice echoed throughout the tiny shop. Their game came to an abrupt halt. “Never make light of the Sea Devil, or it be the last thing you ever do!”

Wonder if the sea did some weird stuff to his brain…

Thankfully, Captain came through the employees-only door and saved them from having to listen to the old fisherman’s rambling. 

“Got a nice, sturdy plank here. Should hold your boat up just fine-” Captain heaved a long plank over his shoulder, taking in the awkward silence. He gave Sturgeon a long-suffering look. “Why do you always have to scare my customers?” 

“Scarin’ ‘em straight’s the only way.” Sturgeon bared his stained yellow teeth. “Lest they’re met with a terrible fate. Just like Henry O’Donner, Chris Porter, Andrew Alcatraz...” 

Captain raised an eyebrow. “Thought the cartel got Andrew. Not Davy Jones.” 

“Doesn’t matter how that bastard keeled over,” Sturgeon huffed. “He’s in Jones’ locker like the rest of ‘em.” 

Even Sabrina, who adored everything dark and grim, avoided eye contact with Sturgeon. 

Jasmine took a sudden interest in a collection of novelty pens on the counter, and Mabel fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater as she worried for Grandpa Shermie. 

Was he enjoying his Alaskan crab boat tour? Did he have to deal with creepy old fishermen up there too? Or steer a tiny crab boat through large, violent waves in a storm that far surpassed the one currently battering San Francisco Bay?

If there was one good thing about the end of summer, it was Grandpa Shermie and Grandma Ruth’s return to California. 

Hope you and Grandma Ruth are safe. I’ll be glad when you’re back next month…

Sturgeon opened the door forcefully, and a chilly wind swept through the shop. Raindrops splashed against Mabel’s face. She shivered, her waterlogged sweater not providing much protection. 

“Listen and heed this warning well, lassies,” Sturgeon said, his eye fixing each girl with a piercing stare. “Young or old, rich or poor, healthy or ill…Davy Jones claims all who perish at sea. Those foolish enough to evade him…or treat his name without proper respect, invoke his wrath. So fear the Sea Devil, revere his power and might, before he comes knocking on yer door.” 

In a flash of lightning, he was gone. 

This storm…could it really be the Sea Devil’s wrath? But it started way before we made fun of him. Mabel’s hand tightened around her phone in her sweater pocket. Would be nice if I could get a call through. Dipper might be interested…if he doesn’t say it’s totally stupid first.  

Captain shook his head in resignation. “Don’t take anything Sturgeon says personally. He’s a grumpy old codger on his best days.”  

Thunder rumbled, fiercer than anything that came before. Though Mabel hadn’t been afraid of storms since kindergarten, and she’d only gotten over her fear after Dipper turned out to be even more afraid of thunder than she was, she huddled against Jasmine and Sabrina anyway. They were shivering too, and needed every bit of body heat they could get.     

There was a loud bellow from outside. 

“Your boat’s not gonna sink that fast!” Captain shouted into the rain. Then he hefted the heavy plank over his shoulder, offering an apologetic shrug to the girls. “I’d best lend a hand now, but you’re all welcome to stay here ‘til the docks are safer.” 

“Thank you,” Sabrina spoke for their group. 

With a nod, Captain held up his hand in a friendly goodbye, shutting the door behind him.   

Alone in the shop, there wasn’t really anything to do but wait out the storm. 

A large puddle covered the front half of the shop. Water dripped down the ceiling, droplets hitting the floor with a steady plink-plink-plink rhythm. 

Captain’s office door was open. Mabel spotted a landline on his desk, but she doubted she’d have any luck reaching anybody. 

Worry nagged at her, but she tried to convince herself that if Dipper could survive vengeful 19th century ghosts and baseball season with Grandpa Shermie, he’d tough out this storm too. 

“Man, was that guy totally cray-cray or what?” Jasmine scoffed, flipping her ponytail in defiance. “Davy Jones isn’t real!” 

“Could be bad luck. Could be Davy Jones. Either way, we’re stuck until everything clears up. We should make the best of it,” Sabrina said, plucking a pack of fish-themed cards from a small box on the counter. “Go Fish, anyone?” 

“Fine,” Jasmine said, moving to a corner to create more room. “Deal me in.” 

“...okay,” Mabel agreed. Distracting herself couldn’t hurt. 

Jasmine raised an eyebrow, and Sabrina was thoughtfully silent as she shuffled and dealt out the cards. It was a little unnerving, but Mabel picked up her cards anyway. 

They were expecting a funny quip, playful boast, or smack talk from her. But her mind blanked, and she couldn’t do much more than the bare minimum that the game required. 

Her friends waited, and Mabel hastily opened the game. She’d forgotten they were operating on birthday rules, and she had the first move. 

“Sabrina, got any kingfish?” Mabel asked. 

Sabrina sighed, reluctantly handing over two cards. “Not fair,” she mumbled. 

Then Mabel turned to Jasmine. “Any tuna?” 

“Go Fish,” Jasmine said. The corner of her mouth drew up in a wicked smirk as Mabel drew a new card. “So Mabel…got any kingfish?” 

Mabel tossed three cards to Jasmine, who slammed her own kingfish onto the counter with a triumphant shout. 

“Whoo, first point!” Jasmine cheered, pumping her fist into the air.

“Doesn’t mean you’ll win,” Sabrina pointed out.  

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Maybe, but it’s still one point closer to victory. Now, sixgill. Fork it over.” 

“Go Fish,” Sabrina replied. 

With a dramatic groan, Jasmine grabbed another card. 

“Tuna, please,” Sabrina said to Mabel, and she held out her only tuna card. But Sabrina took several seconds to claim it, her dark eyes boring into Mabel. Awkwardly, Mabel’s gaze dropped down to her remaining cards. “You’re not putting up much of a fight.” 

“Yeah, what gives?” Jasmine asked. “You didn’t even try to banter with me when I took your kingfish.” 

Mabel withered under their stares, not sure how to explain herself. She loved Go Fish, she loved hanging out with her friends, she loved Pier 39…but she couldn’t enjoy herself at all.  

Great, now they think I’m not fun anymore.  

“I…I’m sorry, I swear I’m trying-” she stammered, and a vicious thunderclap made her jump.  

The lights flickered, and the girls glanced up in worry. The two bulbs closest to the window didn’t come back on. 

Captain’s Quarters was flooded, but they were still safe. 

Mostly. 

But the danger wouldn’t pass until Davy Jones was defeated, calmed, or both. And Sturgeon was certain that Davy Jones was the culprit behind the storm. 

Jasmine was dismissive. Sabrina didn’t have a strong opinion. And Dipper…this summer had taught her that she didn’t know him as well as she thought. Sure, he might believe her about Davy Jones…or he might call old Sturgeon crazy. 

It was impossible to know for sure. 

But she was sure of one thing. 

Dipper and the guys, her friends, Pier 39…they were all in trouble. 

And the only way to stop the raging storm–the only way to prevent everyone from being dragged to a watery grave…was to confront Davy Jones herself. 

Nobody deserved that fate. 

And no matter how angry she was with Dipper–for leaving, for barely talking to her, for being a pain in the butt…he was still her brother, her twin, her family. 

No matter what, he was getting on that bus to the Institute. He’d live his dream of becoming a paranormal researcher and do fun things with Grunkle Ford. 

In a decisive move, she threw her remaining cards down. 

“I fold,” Mabel said. 

“I didn’t think you were that sore abou–hey, hold up!” Jasmine tried to grab Mabel as she jumped down from the counter, but wasn’t able to get a grip on her turtleneck. “Just where the heck are you going?” 

Mabel hitched up the straps of her backpack, the seashell jar securely tucked away inside. The floor was slippery under her shoes, and she took great care not to fall on her way out of the shop. 

“I’m gonna find the Sea Devil and punch him right in his dumb face if he doesn’t lift the storm! Just hang in there, okay?” Mabel shouted, splashing through the giant puddle. Her socks and shoes were soaked, but she pushed past the uncomfortable, squelchy feeling. “And if I die, you two can split my collection of My Tiny Horse figurines!” 

Sabrina’s mouth moved, her eyes wide in a silent plea for Mabel to change her mind, but she couldn’t find her voice. 

Jasmine’s protests were drowned out by the howling wind as Mabel left the shop. 

She stood under the small blue and white striped awning over the entrance, shutting the door behind her. The awning was alright for keeping away a light drizzle, but it couldn’t shield anyone from this downpour. 

The outer edges of the docks had been swallowed by the ocean, boats clashing against each other in the churning waves. Dozens of sea lions blanketed the shoreline, barking and nipping at each other when their personal space was invaded. 

Looking back, she really didn’t think her plan through at all. 

Where would she even begin to look for Davy Jones? 

But it was too late to turn back, so she pushed past the shelter of the awning, a current of rushing water urging her forward. 

Maybe she should’ve avoided the current–the waves were certainly strong enough to sweep her into the bay, but the water receded several feet in front of her, leaving enough room to walk along the wooden dock. With every step, the ocean parted in front of her and flowed over sturdy wood behind her. 

It’s a path, Mabel realized. It’s leading me somewhere…but where? 

She passed ferries, cargo ships, fishing boats–the crews working tirelessly in the rain to secure passengers, crates, and large nets of flopping fish. A few men spotted her, stopping their work and shouting in worry. 

Are you okay? Do you need help? It’s not safe for you to be wandering right now! Cargo workers and fishermen called at the top of their lungs. Captain’s voice was among them, and Sturgeon’s bellow was the loudest of all. 

Through her doubts about following the ocean’s path, Mabel mustered up the strength to wave at them, letting them know she was alright. She’d heard sailors and fishermen were rough, rowdy, and often violent, but they were surprisingly kind people underneath the permanent brine and fish stench. 

Flashes of shimmering silver scales gleamed in the currents around her. They belonged to fish no bigger than her hand–quick, tiny creatures that swam where the ocean took them, darting to and fro like arrows pointing the way. 

The waves called to her. A soft whisper in her ear, a promise that she wouldn’t be harmed. A longing for adventure in her soul, the thrill and excitement of the unknown awaiting her. 

The path curved, and Mabel’s breath hitched. 

The ocean led her to the longest pier in this part of the bay. The currents flowed down the long walkway, the very end hidden by rain and more ocean. It extended past where most boats were docked. 

The ocean’s call was stronger here, the whispers more frequent. 

Soul in the storm,
A chance to be reborn…

A voice she couldn’t place. Telling the age or gender was impossible. 

It was asking her to venture onto the longest pier. Away from the safety of land. Away from her friends, her brother…whatever it had to say, she was the only one who could listen…

She gripped a pole that held up an enormous blue arch, the only entryway onto the pier. She had to know if this was truly the work of Davy Jones, she had to convince him to lift the storm–maybe he’d be more reasonable than Sturgeon claimed, though she was ready to sink her fist into his skin if that’s what she had to do…

A familiar voice rang out, above the roaring ocean, ringing bells, and barking sea lions. 

“Get out of there, Mabel!” 

With a gasp, Mabel turned back to the rocky shore. 

Up a long flight of stairs, on the second level of Pier 39, Dipper leaned against the railing. His grip was tight, his upper body leaning over so much that Mabel worried he might tumble onto the stone-covered slope below. 

She didn’t know what Dipper had been up to with his friends, but he was completely drenched. 

Why did he seem so…terrified? 

Instinctively, she took a step in his direction. She was fine. Why couldn’t he trust that she was fine? 

But the ocean refused to be forgotten. 

Water poured over the dock, its level rising until it was the same height as her waist, then her head, then higher than she could reach. Within seconds, the watery wall was large enough to rival San Francisco skyscrapers.

She couldn’t see Dipper’s terrified face anymore. 

Her voice was lost to the wind. She was on her own, unable to be helped by anyone. 

The wall inched closer.

Not to drown her, but to steer her towards the pier.

She didn’t have much of a choice, placing trust in the ocean’s intentions. It would let her go, once it was finished with her. 

With a deep breath, she crossed the archway and walked onto the longest pier. 

Around her, the ocean touched the clouds. Maybe they were touching outer space, far beyond what Mabel could see. 

She quickly learned to keep her hand on the railing for balance, her eyes straight ahead rather than trying to make sense of the constant tumbling water.

Staring at the strangeness for too long only made her dizzy. 

Wasn’t this Grunkle Ford’s area of study? She imagined herself describing the ocean’s strangeness to him, and he listened with rapt attention…until he ran off to investigate by himself, with no further interest in her. 

“Follow your own path instead of living in your brother’s shadow,” he’d said to her just two months ago, when he’d taken Dipper away. 

This probably wasn’t the scenario he had in mind, but Mabel was doing it. She was following a path…even if it was the ocean’s rather than her own. 

She reached the end of the pier. The wood around her was splintered, planks long washed into the bay. 

There was nothing standing between her and certain death. 

The shore, her family, her classmates…she couldn’t see them anymore, and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever see them again. 

“H-hello? I’m here now!” Mabel called, helpless to do anything else. “My name’s Mabel, with a ‘b’! It’s a very important difference from the syrup!” 

She tried not to be disappointed when the ocean didn’t talk back. With everything she’d seen today, talking didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all. 

“Are you out there, Davy Jones? I just wanted to see if you’d lift the storm!” she tried again. “Cause if you don’t…if you just wanna cause problems, then I’ll make you lift it, buster!” 

She made a fist and punched it into the palm of her other hand. She meant business, and she wanted Davy Jones to know it. 

Around her, the bubble rippled. The wave patterns changed, shaking from side to side rather than straight down. 

Did I just make the ocean laugh? 

Most people would say it was a silly thought. Water couldn’t laugh. 

She was sure it happened though. Nobody else was here to tell her otherwise. 

That is, nobody except for the dark blob swimming through the giant waterfall. 

Mabel braced herself, hand clenched in a tight fist. The blob–no, was this supposed to be Davy Jones? A kraken? Another kind of mysterious sea monster? Fingertips dug into her palm, heart pounding out of her chest as the enormous blob stopped before her.

It wasn’t a fish or dolphin or squid–it had neither fins nor tentacles, and it was much too large to be any normal sea creature. Multiple pairs of long, curved horns emerged from what Mabel assumed to be its head.

“Are you…are you really Davy Jones?” Mabel stammered. It took her a moment to find her voice. “Are you behind the storm?” 

Davy Jones’ head tilted. They remained a shadow in the ocean, their facial features hidden from view.

Mabel shivered. She was out of her depth here–it was impossible to know what the Sea Devil wanted from her when she only saw its shadow. 

Were they coming for her soul? Spirit her away to the dark seafloor where she’d never see her family and friends again? 

I’ll never see my thirteenth birthday…Dipper’s gonna be alone….

Though Mabel tried to put on a brave face, she was failing miserably. Too cold. Too lonely. Too far from any help.

More lightning. More thunder.  

Then Davy Jones rumbled in an ageless voice. 

Soul in the storm,
A chance to be reborn…

The curtain of waves parted. 

An ancient, sea-battered red book emerged. A golden, six-fingered hand was on its cover. The symbol was peeling and dull, a smudge of washed out ink on its palm.  

The Institute of Oddology’s symbol. 

Grunkle Ford’s symbol. 

The book hovered in front of Mabel, waiting for her to accept it. 

It looked just like all the other scientific journals the Institute published every year. Anyone could buy the journals at the bookstore. Dipper saved his allowance every year for them. 

Somebody must’ve dropped their copy into the depths. 

That didn’t explain the storm, the ocean, or Davy Jones. Unless they were wreaking havoc on humanity for carelessly polluting their home. 

Davy Jones waited. For the Sea Devil, they were surprisingly patient. 

They’d given her a choice, something that was rare for her these days. Take the journal, or refuse? 

She wasn’t sure if she wanted a reminder of Grunkle Ford and Dipper’s pursuit of their mysteries over family, but the journal was in a pitiful state. 

Forgotten by its owner. On the verge of being lost forever. 

It was a pain she’d learned all too well. 

And she didn’t wish it upon anybody or anything. 

Mabel carefully took the journal into her arms. It was waterlogged and heavy, but all it needed was a little bedazzling on the hand, some rainbow yarn along the spine, and it would be good as new again. 

Davy Jones rumbled amiably. They flicked their tail in a silent goodbye, swimming off into the distance until they were nothing more than a tiny, dark speck on the horizon. 

Around her, the towering walls sank into the bay. Mabel’s knees hit broken wood as she crouched over the journal, bracing herself so she wouldn’t be swept off the pier by the powerful spray. 

She only relaxed once the deafening roar of a hundred giant waterfalls disappeared, leaving only the noise of waves splashing against wood and stone. 

The rain stopped, leaving only a light mist over Pier 39. No lightning or thunder either. 

While the clouds didn’t part to reveal the sun, they were a soft, light gray instead of a frightening black. 

Mabel glanced down at her distorted reflection in the six-fingered hand of the journal. 

“I’m a mess,” she murmured to herself, tucking strands of wet, frizzy hair behind her ear. 

If the journal could talk, it would agree with her. But it didn’t seem to be anything special. 

Maybe Dipper can figure this out…he’s the brainy one.

Except it was just one more mystery for him to obsess over. While there were plenty of those in the Institute to solve, they only had one week to spend together. And she didn’t want to spend the rest of their limited time watching him make conspiracy boards about the journal’s strange appearance. 

She’d never be able to get the stink of fish and seaweed out of her backpack again, but she had no other choice in hiding the journal. 

With the seashell jar from Captain’s Quarters taking up most of the space, it was a tight fit, though she made it work. She had enough length left in the scarf to wrap the journal in, and she hoped it would absorb the dampness. 

Then she closed her backpack and slipped it onto her shoulders, the journal safely tucked away from any prying eyes. 

On the count of three, Mabel stood up, but she didn’t anticipate the journal’s added weight on her back. She pitched forward, and she would’ve fallen off the pier if she hadn’t grabbed onto a splintered post. With a deep breath to steady herself, she regained her balance. 

The journal was gonna take some getting used to. 

As she walked back to the shore, frantic footsteps thundered on the wooden planks. 

“Mabel!” Dipper shouted as he ran towards her. He was drenched from the earlier rain, his face twisted with worry, breaths coming out in heavy pants. His last few steps were uncoordinated, and he tripped over his loose shoelace, collapsing against her with an exhausted gasp. “Water…so much…you almost…gah, my lungs…” 

His skin was clammy and pale, his entire body wracked with shivers.

For all Dipper knew, she could’ve become another body in San Francisco Bay, an unlucky girl who’d been tragically swept away before her thirteenth birthday. 

“Wha-what happened?” Dipper struggled for breath. “Looked like…some kind of trance–”  

Mabel didn’t enjoy lying–she’d never been good at it, but the truth would only worry Dipper more if she told him about the ocean’s path, Davy Jones, and the journal. Another reason to not show him the journal, so he didn’t head off to the Institute while being a total worrywart over her. 

“You klutz,” she teased, hugging him tightly and muffling Dipper’s obligatory protest. “I’m fine. Really. Could’ve picked a better time to sightsee on the docks though…” 

She laughed, but Dipper didn’t ease up. He leaned back, hands on her shoulders, a million questions no doubt burning through his mind.

“Without Jasmine and Sabrina?” he asked, fingers tapping nervously against her sweater. 

“Hahaha…funny story about that. A really, really funny story that’s one hundred percent guaranteed to make you roll on the floor in laughter,” Mabel giggled, throat dry despite the endless water around her. 

Except she couldn’t explain Jasmine and Sabrina’s absence. Were they still waiting for her at Captain’s Quarters, or did they leave once the weather cleared up? 

Dipper gave her a long, searching look, but Mabel countered with the biggest grin she could manage. The journal’s weight was heavy on her back, forcing her to adjust her stance so she didn’t tip over like an unbalanced turtle. 

I’m sorry. I can’t tell you today, tomorrow, or for a while, but someday…

Then Dipper’s phone rang with the Ghost Harassers theme, saving her from further interrogation. Slowly, he broke away from the hug and answered his phone. 

“Luke?” Dipper said, pausing to let Luke speak. He didn’t have it on speakerphone, so whatever Luke said sounded like gibberish to Mabel, but his tone was filled with relief. “Oh yeah, Mabel and I are fine. We’re at the docks right now. Glad they got the lines working so fast after that storm.” 

Another pause. 

“You actually survived a lock-in during a hurricane-level storm with Aidan. That’s gotta be an achievement.” Dipper ignored Aidan’s offended shout as he pulled the phone away from his ear. He glanced at Mabel, and she realized she’d been playing with the straps of her backpack without thinking. She forced herself to stop, but Dipper didn’t notice. “They’re at Kauai’s Creamery right now. Got locked in for safety reasons. But they’re fine now. Just reopened.” 

“Good,” Mabel released a shaky breath. This conversation was such an easy out, she had to take it even when all her instincts screamed at her for hiding the truth. “That’s good. We’re meeting them over there?” 

Dipper nodded. 

Great, an excuse to collect herself before she had to act normal in front of everyone again. 

“Sounds like a plan,” she said, putting several feet between her and Dipper so she’d have enough space for her own conversation. “I’ll call the girls.” 

But there was no need. Jasmine beat her to the punch. 

Mabel answered her phone, and she listened to Jasmine ramble about the fifteen missed calls and Sabrina beating her in five consecutive rounds of Go Fish. There was a minor scuffle, and Sabrina somehow got hold of Jasmine’s phone. 

“You sure you’re okay, Mabel?” Sabrina asked. “Captain and Sturgeon came back. They spotted you. Said the ocean was waist-deep, and you were in it. I thought–we thought you might’ve-” 

“Ha! C’mon, Sab, if I was really at the bottom of the ocean, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now! Tell everyone I said hi!” Mabel injected all the cheer she could into her voice, squashing down the bad feelings gnawing at the pit of her stomach. 

Her mouth moved robotically as she relayed the plans to meet up at Kauai’s Creamery, and she no longer heard herself over the waters of San Francisco Bay. 

Friday, August 31, 2012

Been waiting at the bus station for half an hour now. The bus to Gravity Falls is late…way late. And I can’t be late! ! I don’t want the Director to think I’m tardy all the time. What kind of first impression would that be?

Dipper wasn’t sure how he felt about being a teenager now. While he didn’t get a growth spurt overnight, Mom’s chocolate chip pancakes compensated for that disappointment. But there was still no word on how long the bus would be delayed.

Maybe the wait would’ve been more tolerable if Mabel actually talked to him, but she’d been acting strange–way stranger than normal. Distracted every time someone spoke to her, jumpier than a rabbit, and her backpack smelled like pickled fish. She kept spraying it with lemon-scented air freshener to get rid of the odor, but it only made Dipper’s eyes water every time he entered their bedroom. 

But starting tonight, it would be Mabel’s bedroom with a spare mattress. She’d probably give it to Whiskers when she wasn’t dumping her stuffed animals and craft supplies on it for extra storage space. 

His belongings were packed into two large suitcases and an extra heavy camping backpack. Mom had insisted on cramming the entire Piedmont Mall into his luggage for some reason. She’d included bedding, toiletries, his preferred t-shirts, the Lacy’s outfits she liked, and non-perishable snacks. If he needed anything else, Grunkle Ford would buy it for him. 

At least, that’s what Dad said. 

In Dipper’s backpack, he carried the two most recent journals, in addition to a twenty dollar gift card for Enter ‘N Exit Burger. It was meant to be a polite thank you present for Ford. Dad didn’t know enough about his uncle for a more personalized gift, so he’d gone with the safe option.

They’d been acting awkward for the past week, trying to keep their problems under wraps in the days leading up to Dipper’s departure. This morning, they’d worked together to create an enormous birthday breakfast for him and Mabel.

Mom made the chocolate chip pancakes. Dad cooked the bacon and eggs. Bowls of whipped cream, mixed berries, butter, and a syrup bottle sat on the table, awaiting the stomachs of two newly crowned teenagers. 

It was a good breakfast, but neither the sugar rush nor the brief game of Put the Happy Birthday Cone on the Cat Without Getting Scratched was enough to break Mabel out of her odd silence. She’d only eaten one and a half pancakes with a modest amount of syrup and berries, instead of piling on the toppings until the pancakes weren’t visible anymore. 

She barely spoke on the way to the bus station. Now she’d tucked herself into a corner, an entire row away, threading a string through a spiral seashell. 

She didn’t offer any suggestions for Mom and Dad’s date night either. Dad brought up the idea to Mabel a few days ago, and she only responded that’s great , without prying for every detail of his plan.  

Dipper was just glad their parents were getting along well enough for dinner and a late movie. With any luck, the peace would last for a while. 

A bus rolled up to the curb. Dipper hopped off the bench, eagerly grabbing his luggage, until he read City of Piedmont on the side of the vehicle. Just a local bus, not bound for Gravity Falls. 

“Dad, are you sure you were looking at the right schedule?” Dipper asked, slumping against his luggage with an annoyed huff. “It’s taking forever.”   

“The website said eleven,” Dad said, checking his watch. “Could be a mechanical issue. Maybe they’re switching.” 

I hope not, Dipper’s foot tapped impatiently as the local Piedmont bus left with a new load of passengers. 

“If they don’t come, could we call Grunkle Ford? He can pick me up on Gryphondale–” 

Riding into Gravity Falls on a gryphon would’ve been so much cooler than taking a bus named the Speedy Beaver, but Mom shot down that suggestion with a shake of her head. 

“Too dangerous,” she said with a rather pointed look at Dad, who only shrugged his shoulders. “Better to keep both feet on the ground.” 

Mabel didn’t make eye contact. For a girl who commanded the spotlight, she was doing everything in her power to avoid attention.

Mom and Dad didn’t know that she almost drowned last week. The freak storm made it to the Bay Area news, and when Mom started fretting about leaving an entire group of thirteen-year olds to fend for themselves in awful weather, Dipper had calmed her down with the assurance that they’d all been safe. 

They’d waited out the storm in a shop. Without splitting up. And without Mabel getting caught on the docks. 

She’d walked like she was in a trance. He was sure of it. 

But he didn’t have any confirmation other than his memory of the event. He’d tried to talk to Mabel in private afterward, but she snapped at him for being nosy and slammed the bedroom door in his face. 

Then Mabel apologized, and Dipper endured all ninety minutes of the abomination known as Shimmery Twinkleheart: The Movie for her. His eyes melted out of their sockets from the constant barrage of rainbows, his ears bled from the terrible songs about believing in yourself, and he could only tolerate the film if he imagined the filmmakers gorging on Smile Dip at gunpoint. 

Mabel didn’t cheer up all the way, but even her tiny smile after the movie made the agony worth it. 

But now she was quiet, and Dipper second-guessed his admission at the Institute all over again. 

Wow, you’re so smart! Work hard and keep your grades up! You’re gonna do amazing things in the future!

He’d never received this much praise from adults he barely knew before. Dad shared the news to anyone who would listen, and it wasn’t just his business partner who complimented Dipper. Dad bragged to the cashier at the supermarket and the hairdresser. Even the neighborhood HOA lady, Mrs. Beverly, gave Dipper an approving nod, though his apparent smarts weren’t enough to save Dad from a citation because the length of their grass was an inch above regulation. 

At first, it was great. He was more than just the weirdo with the equally weirder birthmark now. He was on equal footing with adults, instead of being treated like a kid who said funny things. 

He was recognized by the International Institute of Oddology and its Director. 

And it felt amazing. 

Until he’d catch Mom rolling her eyes when Dad kept bringing it up with strangers after she’d specifically asked him not to because they’d barely hashed out the details with Ford. 

Until he’d see Mabel cross her arms with an annoyed huff. She’d be sullen for the rest of the day, never answering when someone asked what she was upset about. 

Until he remembered how Grandpa Shermie threatened Ford on the night he’d offered the internship to Dipper. Shermie had no qualms about insulting Ford’s school and life work to his face. He didn’t support Dipper’s attendance at all. 

If Mom, Mabel, and Shermie cared about him, couldn’t they at least try to be more supportive? 

I’m old enough to make my own decisions. Dad knows that. So does Ford. Why doesn’t anyone else understand?

Things were tense…too tense. The peace wouldn’t last. He didn’t know how long it would take for Mom and Dad to fight again, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. At least Mabel would be at school though. She’d be too distracted by classes and friends to see the worst of it. 

Ford was right. The Institute was an opportunity, not just for education, but a place to get away from everything. A fresh start in a place where Dipper didn’t know anybody, and nobody knew him.

Mom was giving him a bunch of last-minute reminders. Don’t stay up too late, eat healthy, shower daily–a bunch of the same stuff she’d been repeating all summer.

Dipper nodded along, barely paying attention to what would thankfully be her last lecture to him for a while. Mom talked, and talked, and talked some more…

…until the sound of screeching bus tires interrupted her. 

Around them, people jumped to their feet in alarm as a forest green bus careened into the station. A woman hastily scrambled away from the curb, tires smashing onto the concrete where she’d been standing seconds ago.

The bus jerked onto the road with a heavy thump, throwing up sparks as it came to a grinding halt. The front bumper tapped against the back of a bus that just finished loading passengers bound for Oakland, scraping away some yellow paint, the hit mercifully light enough to avoid a fiery explosion.

The driver of the Oakland bus rolled down his window, shaking his fist and shouting expletives at the careless person behind the wheel. 

“Sorry, dude! I’m so not used to driving in big cities!” The other driver, who reminded Dipper of a large, hairless gopher, rushed out of his bus while waving him down. “But don’t worry, I have experience cleaning up all sorts of stuff! I can wipe your–” 

The Oakland bus took off in a cloud of black smoke. 

“-bus,” the gopher man coughed. He waved the smoke out of his face as he turned to the waiting passengers, who all gave him a wide berth. But his grin didn’t disappear, only becoming a thoughtful frown while he read off a set of notecards, oblivious to the chilly reception.  

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen of Insert City Name Here. I am Your Name–I mean, I am your Soos,” the man squinted at the cards with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry, can’t remember this whole speech I’m supposed to do–I am Soos of the beautiful town of Gravity Falls, Oregon. I am your humble and approachable bus driver sent to whisk folks from their mundane lives to a forest of wonders, to a lake of mystique, and to a place of higher learning where all are welcome to seek knowledge on our valley’s mysteries. So if you are willing, please climb aboard the Speedy Beaver and leave the speeding to us.” 

Upon hearing the name of his destination, Dipper tried to break out of Mom’s protective embrace, but she held him close and refused to let him go. Though he wasn’t keen on becoming roadkill because of a stranger’s terrible driving, this bus was his first step on his journey to Gravity Falls. 

He was hours away from seeing the Institute in-person for the first time in his life, and he was too excited to let anyone hold him back any longer. 

“...on second thought, maybe Gryphondale’s safer,” Mom admitted. 

Dad sighed. “Just let him go, Becky. This isn’t his first day of preschool.” 

Dipper slipped out of her arms while she glared at Dad. He nervously grabbed his luggage, bracing himself for a possible blowout fight when they were supposed to be saying goodbye. It would be some time before he’d see his parents again–Mom would be teaching and Dad was busy with the investors, and he didn’t want an argument tainting the memory of his sendoff. 

Then Mom took a deep breath, and she brushed Dipper’s hair and cap away from his forehead, gently tracing the constellation-shaped birthmark against his skin. She didn’t trace his birthmark much anymore–he’d learned how to insult his bullies and outgrown his fear of thunderstorms instead of crying from fear, but he tried to keep a neutral face so nobody could call him a mama’s boy for liking this gesture. 

“The day you and your sister were born was the best and most terrifying moment of my life.” Mom’s eyes were misty, and she looked away as she blinked back tears. “Thirteen years flies by so fast…and I used to think I’d never get to see the day where you grow up.” 

She kissed the top of his head, and Dipper endured it. 

“Be good for your uncle, lamby. I love you.”

Dipper’s throat closed up, and he could only mouth the words back to her. 

“Don’t let us keep you waiting,” Dad said, wrapping an arm around Mom’s shoulders as he gave Dipper an encouraging nod. “You’ll do great at the Institute. They’re lucky to have you.” 

Soos took Dipper’s luggage into the bus for him. He glanced at Dipper’s parents, giving them a weird look before continuing with his task.  

Can we not do this in front of strangers? Dipper shuffled his feet in embarrassment while Mom leaned against Dad’s shoulder, unable to compose herself. He’s judging us.  

Soos returned quickly, eager to help once again. “All your stuff’s in the overhead bin, dude. And don’t worry, I remembered to secure it this time. So your bag won’t give the elderly a concussion when we hit the unpaved, gravelly roads!”

He sounded a little too chipper for someone who had personal experience with that oddly specific accident. 

“You guys got any more bags? There’s plenty of room. It’s the end of the busy season, so you don’t have to fistfight other people for space. Haven’t needed my airhorn to break up fights in like, two weeks,” Soos said, his easy grin returning. “You ready to go, sweater girl? I can take your backpack if you’d like.” 

Sweater girl? 

In all the excitement, Dipper nearly forgot Mabel was at the bus station too. She’d been so sulky for the past few days that Dipper was afraid she might’ve tried to stay home instead. 

Mabel stood several feet away, hesitant to come any closer. One hand rested protectively on the strap of her backpack, the other holding a birthday present decorated with cake and party hats. 

She must’ve hidden the present in her backpack, because Dipper didn’t remember seeing it before. 

“Thanks, but I’m…not going,” she said quietly. Her voice was tiny, sapped of cheer and energy But she tried her best to smile as she held out the present. “Here’s your gift, Dipper. Happy birthday.” 

He’d assumed Mabel was too angry with him to even think about getting him anything for his birthday–storebought, homemade, or otherwise. 

She knew him the best out of anyone–before their parents, and sometimes himself. Whatever Mabel’s gift turned out to be–it was personalized just for him. While he couldn’t trust the world, he could trust that Mabel took a lot of love and care when it came to her gifts. 

But Dipper didn’t take the present yet. 

Fearing that Mabel would break if he was too rough, Dipper gave her the gentlest awkward sibling hug he could manage. She leaned into the embrace with a shaky gasp, tears dampening the fabric of his shirt.  

She could only return the hug with one hand due to the present, but her fingers curled into his shirt in a final, wordless plea to stay in Piedmont with her. 

Too late to change my mind. Everything’s set up now. Ford is expecting me tonight. Bet he’s expecting a lot of things out of me…

He couldn’t say no to his dream and the chance to get away from his parents for a while. 

Mabel was upset. He knew this goodbye and separation wasn’t going to be easy on her, but she had school and her friends to keep her busy. She’d be alright with a little more time. 

“Don’t steal my bed for your stuffed animals,” Dipper warned her, though Mabel would be taking full advantage of his absence anyway. 

Mabel softly laughed despite her tears. “Wouldn’t dream of it, dummy.” 

It was time to go. Even if Mabel could stay this way forever, Dipper had to break free. Walk a hard yet rewarding path, as Ford once wrote in his journals.  

He gave Mabel two firm pats to the back, his hand knocking against something oddly solid within her backpack. He’d expected crafting supplies, maybe an unfinished project or two, but Mabel’s balance was completely off. 

She was on her tiptoes, leaning against Dipper’s shoulders so much that he worried she’d fall if he moved the slightest amount. 

It could’ve been her method of trying to keep him here for just a while longer. Or she could’ve overstuffed her backpack too.

Either way, he had to leave now. No more hesitation. 

Though he tried to push her off gently, Mabel stumbled once she was standing on her own again.

Dipper took the present out of her hands, and she reached for him one more time before her arm dropped to her side.

“I’ll call once I’m settled in,” Dipper promised her, and she only acknowledged him with a tiny nod. 

I love you, she mouthed, her strange silence unnerving Dipper. 

But he didn’t want to show it. Mabel would just deny everything if he tried to bring it up. 

Dipper waved goodbye to his family as he walked to the bus, only stopping to climb the steps before running to the nearest window. He flipped the latch and pushed the window down, waving to everyone while Soos took his seat at the wheel. 

The bus came to life with a turn of the key.  

“You have a really nice family, dude. And the nicest sister in the history of sisters,” Soos said. He pulled the lever next to his seat, and the doors shut with a pneumatic hiss. “Wish I had a sister. We’d have, like, tea parties and dress up every day with Abuelita’s lace tablecloth and dino nuggets.” 

The bus pulled out of the station, and Dipper waved to his family for as long as he could until he couldn’t see them anymore. There was traffic on the major road next to the station, which thankfully prevented Soos from driving too fast.

Dipper dropped into his seat, just one row across and behind the driver’s. Normally, he preferred sitting in the back of the bus, where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder for any pranks a bully would pull, but there was nobody else on the Speedy Beaver. 

It was so empty that Dipper expected a tumbleweed to roll across the aisle. 

Not wanting to be alone, he stayed up front with Soos. Questionable driving skills aside, Soos was easy enough to talk to, even when Dipper didn’t have Mabel’s social butterfly abilities. 

“My parents aren’t that nice. And you’ve never met Grandpa Shermie,” Dipper warned him. The bus station just didn’t give anyone the opportunity to be angry and disappointed with each other, that was all. 

Soos shrugged and adjusted his mirror. “I know I don’t know your family that well…or like, at all, but they just give off those supportive vibes…or maybe it’s wistful thinking. Heh, who knows?” 

“Yeah…who knows?” Dipper echoed, flicking the ribbon of his present. 

It carried the faint scent of pickled fish, just like Mabel’s backpack. 

“Hold on, is it your birthday?” Soos gasped, not waiting for Dipper’s answer as he popped an old cassette tape into a slot by the controls, and a mind-numbing beat started to play. “I would’ve played my birthday mixtape a lot sooner if I’d known! Happy birthday!” 

“Yo be blanchin’,
Yeah be blanchin’,
Have a blanchin’ birthday in a mansion!” 

Soos cranked up the volume, rapping along with the lyrics even though he was several seconds behind the beat. 

Dipper glanced out the window, spotting a sign that declared the end of the Piedmont city limit. Once the traffic light turned green, he wouldn’t be in the same city as his family anymore. 

This is it. Dipper’s heart raced as he untied the ribbon and carefully tore the wrapping on his present. I’m really going to Gravity Falls.  

“So what did you get?” Soos asked, watching Dipper rip through one particularly stubborn corner through the mirror. “A video game? Miniature trainset? Don’t tell me…two video games!” 

Dipper held up a striking, dark blue sweater with silver threads woven across the body and sleeves. At first glance, the shimmering silver lines were random. But as he turned the sweater in the sunlight, he realized that the threads weren’t random patterns–they were constellations. 

Orion, Pegasus, Gemini…and his namesake. The Little Dipper constellation was the most prominent pattern on the sweater, a shooting star zigzagging across the fabric just below it. 

“Whoa…” Soos murmured. He was so enamored by the sweater that he missed the light turning green. A car angrily honked behind the Speedy Beaver. “That’s an awesome sweater, dude.” 

Dipper didn’t understand anything about clothes beyond wearing them, but he knew Mabel had worked hard to recreate a starry night in sweater form. There was absolutely nothing more Mabel than that, other than a copious amount of rainbow glitter.  

“My sister knits,” Dipper said. He’d miss Mabel’s glitter and sequins covering his things, and complaining to Mabel when her glitter and sequins covered his things. “She puts all sorts of stuff into sweaters that shouldn’t be possible.” 

Soos laughed as he pressed his foot to the pedal. “Abuelita’s like, a total miracle worker with her sewing needle. Bet they’d get along like cats and yarn!”

But Dipper didn’t return his laugh. He put the starry sweater on his lap, typing a short message into his phone before his signal faded. 

Looks awesome. Soos thinks it’s cool too. And if you mess up my side of the room, I will haunt you forever. 

He sent the message, and to his relief, it went through. The read notification came up within seconds. 

Dipper waited. 

But Mabel never replied.

Friday, August 31, 2012

Hours had passed since Mabel received Dipper’s thank you text for his homemade sweater, and she wished she’d given it to him sooner. His surprised face would’ve been golden. 

If he appreciated the sweater anyway. She imagined Oregon was colder in the autumn, so she’d used the thickest, most comfortable yarn she owned for her brother. 

Bet he thinks all yarn is the same, Mabel sullenly thought as her phone lit up with a text from Sabrina. Not Dipper, as she’d hoped. Was he still travelling to Gravity Falls, or had he already settled in? He said he’d call, or did he forget his own promise in favor of the Institute? 

She didn’t have the energy to properly respond to Sabrina’s text–a picture of a vampire bat eating a blood-soaked birthday cake, so she gave the image a heart and pocketed her phone, flopping onto the striped blankets of her parents’ bed.

It used to be large enough to fit a family of four on–five when Whiskers felt like joining on lazy weekend mornings, but those early hours of sleepy cuddles and silly conversations were just childhood memories now. 

Dipper had outgrown it. Dad still slept here, but only for a few hours before PineCore took over the bulk of his day and a chunk of his evening. 

Did Mom ever feel lonely when she slept in this enormous bed by herself?

Mabel didn’t ask. She only laid on her parents’ bed, watching Mom pick out a silver necklace from her prized jewelry box. She was dressed in a light pink blouse and flowing skirt, her shoulder-length hair styled into pretty curls. Her makeup was done, the sweet scent of apple blossom perfume surrounding her. 

To celebrate the final Friday night of the summer before Mom’s teaching job started again, Dad was treating her to dinner and a night out in town. 

A fancy and romantic date night. Mabel wished she could enjoy the atmosphere too, but her parents had been getting along better over the past month. It was time for them to celebrate their rekindled relationship. 

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Mom asked as she fastened the silver necklace around her neck. She checked her reflection in the dresser mirror. The teardrop-shaped charm perfectly hung above the neckline of her blouse. “We’ll be happy to take you along.” 

“It’s your date night. You haven’t had one in a long time,” Mabel said, relieved she wasn’t completely forgotten. “Besides, Dip-I mean, Whiskers and I get the house to ourselves.” 

It was gonna be a tough habit to break. She was used to including Dipper in just about everything. Who knew how long it would be before Dipper could visit her in Piedmont? 

Mom’s smile vanished at Mabel’s slip-up. Her eyes fell to Dipper and Mabel’s second grade school photo on the dresser, where Dipper shaved his head to support Mabel after Tiffany Buchanan stuck gum in her hair. Mom had been horrified when she picked them up and saw the matching bald spots for herself, and she’d double grounded Dipper for swiping Dad’s electric razor. 

It was a good memory. A bad picture day turned into the most memorable one because of Dipper. 

Mom’s finger went to her eyelid, and Mabel quickly jumped off the bed, running over to the dresser and standing beside her so she wouldn’t cry hard enough to ruin her makeup. Hoping for a distraction, Mabel dug through the jewelry box and came up with a matching silver bracelet. 

“Wear this,” Mabel said, tying the bracelet onto Mom’s hand. “It matches your necklace.” 

Mom held her hand up to her mirror, comparing the matching jewelry side by side. 

“Good eye, kitten,” Mom said, running her fingers through her hair one more time. “Now, I think I’ve kept your dad waiting long enough.”

She moved away from the dresser, and Mabel noticed she’d left a golden necklace behind–the wedding necklace that originally belonged to Great-Grandma Caryn. 

It had been set aside, several inches away from the rest of Mom’s collection. 

“You’re not wearing your wedding necklace?” Mabel called while Mom stepped into the hallway. “It won’t overlap with the one you’ve got on. You can make it work!” 

Mom paused as she reached the stairs. Her hand was on the railing, fingers curled against the wood while she glanced back at Mabel. 

Though Mom’s expression seemed uncertain at first, it was quickly buried with a smile. “Oh, I’ll reserve that necklace for a different special occasion. Besides, the color’s a little too bold for this outfit, don’t you think?” 

It doesn’t clash that badly! Gold works with everything! 

Maybe Dipper’s paranoid tendencies were rubbing off on her, but Mabel had the odd sense that Mom was trying to avoid wearing the necklace. There was no reason to be afraid of it. The past two generations of women before Mom wore that necklace to their weddings after all.  

“I…I guess,” Mabel murmured, though she didn’t agree in the slightest. 

But there was no convincing Mom, and Mabel reluctantly abandoned the necklace on the dresser as she followed her downstairs. 

Dad was waiting by the front door, already dressed in a nice shirt and slacks that struck a middle ground between casual and formal. He even wore a neat little bow tie under his collar, which drew Mom’s attention. 

“You look nice,” she said, straightening Dad’s bow tie as he opened the door and waved her out. 

“I’m ready when you are,” he replied.  

Mom slung her purse over her shoulder, waiting for Dad to say something else. 

But Dad only blinked at her, never realizing she was expecting him to compliment her appearance. 

With a resigned sigh, Mom walked to the car.  

Scratching his head, Dad stared at her retreating back. He was left to wonder where he went wrong. 

Gonna need a delicate Mabel touch here. 

“Hey, Dad-” Mabel began, trying to help him out, but he cut her off with a heavy sigh. 

“Don’t stay up too late, Mabel,” Dad warned, as if she needed the reminder. “You have school on Monday.” 

Of course Dad still thought about work and school, even when he was supposed to be going on a romantic date. 

“Fine.” Mabel’s hand clenched in her sweater sleeve, and she tried not to show it. “But Mom put lots of time into her outfit for tonight. You should compliment her.” 

She understood why Mom complained about men so much to her friends now. Sometimes, they could be so dense. 

Dad gave her an odd look, as if he genuinely hadn’t considered that. 

“Mabel-” he said, but Mabel shoved him out the door. 

“You shouldn’t keep a lady waiting. Have fun and don’t forget to pay for dinner!” Mabel added, and she shut him out of the house before he could ask any further questions.

Though Dad tried to keep the door open, Mabel slid the deadbolt into place. Several thumps came from the other side, but Mabel pressed her body against the door until she heard a resigned sigh and the sound of retreating footsteps. 

Then she peeked through the blinds on the nearby window, watching her parents as they climbed into the car and drove away. They didn’t do anything overtly romantic that she could see, and she tried not to feel disappointed.

She and Whiskers had the house to themselves now. At any other time, it was a cause for celebration. 

Crank up the music. Watch shows they weren’t old enough for. Bring out the candy and chips from the hidden junk stash. 

Except Dipper wasn’t here to revel in a night of preteen–now teenage freedom with her. 

The house was too silent for her comfort. 

With nothing else left to do, she walked to the fridge. It was covered with tons of magnets and photos from the past thirteen years. She ignored the photo of Dipper with his sixth grade spelling bee trophy while she took out a slice of chocolate cheesecake.   

Dad bought it for her on the way home from the bus station. It was a small consolation, but there should’ve been a second, plainer cheesecake slice for another person too. 

There was a soft meow behind her. 

Mabel turned just in time to see Whiskers tensing his back muscles, ready to spring into the open fridge to gorge himself on all the delicious human food, so she quickly shut the door before he rocket-launched himself onto the shelf. 

“Silly kitty,” she scolded when he crashed into the fridge, screaming like his automatic feeder hadn’t gone off forty-five minutes ago. “Don’t you remember what happened last time you ate processed cheese? Cause I do. And I don’t feel like cleaning your stinky butt tonight.” 

Whiskers rubbed against her leg, looking up at her with pitiful round eyes. 

They were the eyes of a cat who had zero remorse and would gladly eat processed cheese again if given the opportunity, but he was so stinking cute that she had no choice but to forgive him. 

His soft fur tickled her skin. She wasn’t going to be a hundred percent alone in the house tonight. 

Just for keeping her company, Whiskers deserved all the cat treats in the world.

“Come on, stinkbutt,” Mabel said. She took a fork out of the cabinet and waved it toward the stairs. “To the treats!” 

Whiskers slinked around Mabel’s legs one more time before zooming upstairs at record speed. He impatiently meowed from the top of the steps. 

Mabel followed him at a slower pace, careful to not drop her cheesecake. The first floor seemed emptier from the view on the staircase, and she forced herself to look straight ahead. 

It was strange to have the entire bedroom to herself. Dipper’s mark was everywhere, from the shared, custom nameplate hanging on the door, his empty, unmade bed, and the shelf full of every Sibling Brothers book in existence. 

She put her cheesecake on the desk, clearing away a printout with a list of all the science fields the International Institute of Oddology had to offer. Then she opened a drawer, removing a tub of school supplies that hid the junk stash from anyone’s knowledge. Mom didn’t like it when they ate in their bedroom, but it didn’t stop them from munching on chips and candy behind her back. 

On top of the pile laid a bag of Whiskers’ favorite Feline Fine treats. Mabel purposefully crinkled the bag as she picked it up, and Whiskers materialized in the bedroom within seconds. He eagerly jumped onto the desk as Mabel shook several treats onto a napkin, petting his back while he scarfed them up. 

Guess there’s two perks of having space for myself: Whiskers can jump onto the desk without Dipper trying to shoo him off and I can play my own music whenever I want. 

She took a bite of her cheesecake and popped her Sev’ral Timez CD into the radio. 

Sighing at the heavenly voice of Creggy G, Mabel lost herself in a dream world where she’d won the grand prize of a drinkable yogurt’s sweepstakes competition, a backstage pass to a Sev’ral Timez concert where she’d personally get to hang out with all five members of the famous boy band. 

Singing with Creggy G, dancing with Greggy C, riding on Leggy P’s shoulders, styling Chubby Z’s hair, and stealing Deep Chris’ signature white jacket while throwing glitterbombs into the security team’s faces when they tried to stop her…it was a wonderful dream come true. 

But her fantasy came to an end at the sound of a loud thump from under her bed.

Whiskers’ fluffy tail poked out from under her pink comforter, swishing wildly as he dragged Mabel’s backpack into the open. He cautiously sniffed the zipper, the strap falling from his mouth. 

After the storm on Pier 39, Mabel only used the backpack once, as a hiding place for Dipper’s present. She hoped the pickled fish odor didn’t rub off too strongly on his new sweater. 

But more importantly, she’d survived a whole week without Dipper discovering the old journal within the backpack. He’d devour the journal like a goat chewed tin cans if he’d been the teensiest bit nosier. There were a few close calls, but she kept her secret in the end.

Abandoning her half-eaten cheesecake, Mabel knelt on the fluffy rug between the two beds. Whiskers raised a paw, his entire body rigid as he waited. 

Mabel unzipped the backpack. 

She covered her nose and gagged at the foul-smelling brine while she took out the seashell jar from Captain’s Quarters, unfinished scarf, and the old journal. 

Brought into the light for the first time, the journal looked more tattered and ancient than ever. The red cover was splotched with seaweed stains, the dull, golden hand halfway peeled off.  

Whiskers hissed and slapped the fragile spine with his paw, bouncing away when the journal moved slightly from the hit. He sprang onto Mabel’s bed and hid in a giant pile of stuffed animals. 

For an item that came from the Sea Devil, the journal sure didn’t act the part. She’d expected it to suck out her life force or curse her so she’d bray like a donkey every time she tried to talk to a boy, but she didn’t feel either of those things happening right now. 

Mabel poked the journal with a colored pencil. 

Still nothing. 

“Probably safe to open it,” she murmured, carefully bringing the journal onto her lap. Whiskers hissed in protest, his fangs bared. She gave him a look. “Hey, I said probably.” 

On the count of three, she opened the journal. 

The pages stuck together, still damp from being tossed around in the ocean. Mabel turned each page carefully, but they were so fragile that she accidentally made several small tears along the margins. 

The journal was impossible to read, dozens of paragraphs and drawings smudged and washed out beyond saving. One of the drawings might’ve been a pretty unicorn once, but time and the ocean had twisted it into an inky blob.  And the few words she could make out were handwritten in a small cursive script.

One of the pages had nothing but a random string of weird symbols that nobody used outside of math class, straight lines snaking all over the paper like a maze with no solution. The symbols were surrounded by what looked like a stylized half-circle, and there were lines in the bottom right corner that trailed off the page and went nowhere. 

Mabel squinted, holding the journal up to her nose to try and make sense of it, but her eyes began hurting from the strain. After a few seconds, she gave up the effort. 

She remembered Dipper explaining the history of Grunkle Ford’s journals, though she’d mostly tuned him out in favor of crocheting a hat for Whiskers. Something about the early journals being handwritten, and later editions were typed and mass produced to make it easier for general audiences to read. 

Which wasn’t really much of an excuse. Would it have killed Grunkle Ford to at least use a typewriter? Weren’t those around in his youth? 

She threw her head back in frustration, listening to Creggy G’s melodious voice sing See Ya, See Ya, See Ya, (I’ll See Ya L8ter Baby). 

The journal shook in her lap. 

Mabel grabbed it with both hands to steady it, but she yelped as black, ice-cold ink leaked onto her fingers. She threw the journal to the floor, hastily wiping the ink off her fingertips with Dipper’s blanket. 

She shivered, rubbing her hands with the blanket to warm them up. 

Her bedroom felt like San Francisco Bay, relentlessly cold even in the height of summer. 

The journal landed on its fragile spine, a painful crack echoing through the room. A powerful wind flipped through the pages until the back cover was exposed. 

On the final page, the ink smudges shifted and spread from an unreadable language, forming large, loopy letters that took up the entire paper. 

Drifting soul in the storm, 
Take your chance to be reborn. 
Guide the stars through unknown land, 
And go forth into the world of man. 

Stanford Pines didn’t write these words. Mabel didn’t have any proof that he wasn’t the author, but her gut feeling told her otherwise. 

She was reading the words of something more confusing, more ancient, more powerful…

The text glowed, a blinding light hiding the letters from view. The journal rose off the ground, shaking so violently that several pages tore loose from the binding. Black ink dripped from the journal, staining the rug below.

Mabel leapt onto her bed, avoiding the loose papers as they fluttered to the ground. 

“Whiskers!” she whispered frantically, burrowing under the blanket with her stuffed animals on top for additional cover. “You okay?” 

“Reee-owww!” Whiskers screeched as Mabel pulled him against her body in a tight hug. He pawed at her face with his claws sheathed, and she sighed in relief that he wasn’t hurt. 

Carefully, she lifted the blanket and peered out from the safety of her hiding place. 

Though the light prevented her from seeing anything at first, it quickly died away. 

Her room was a complete mess. Splotches of ink stained the walls, Dipper’s bed, and the bookshelf. Stuffed animals, books, and art supplies were strewn everywhere. The radio had fallen off the shelf, her Sev’ral Timez CD popped out from the disc player. She didn’t have Creggy G’s voice to calm her anymore. 

The journal laid on the floor, closed and unassuming once again. Its golden hand had peeled off entirely, laying on top of a wrinkled page that had come loose entirely. 

And close to the ceiling, the ghost of a man hovered, blinking and yawning like he’d just come out of a good nap. His patchy jacket was see-through, his hair styled in a really bad mullet. 

He had a thuggish face and a large nose. He looked vaguely familiar, though Mabel couldn’t place why he seemed that way. Maybe he resembled an actor in older movies she’d watched with Grandpa Shermie.

Then the ghost looked down, eyes wide with shock when he spotted the damaged journal. 

“No…” his rough voice shaking as he crouched next to the journal. He tried to pick up the golden hand, but his fingers went right through it. “Damn it! DAMN IT!” 

His outrage shook the house. Dipper’s spelling bee trophy flew off the bookshelf and crashed against the opposite wall. 

Startled by the noise, Mabel gasped.

The ghost’s head turned to an unnatural degree. 

He’d spotted her. 

“Who the fu–” the ghost rasped, locking eyes with Mabel. “What the hell’s going on here?”

Chapter Text

The journal was damaged. 

Stan had been coerced into protecting Ford’s shitty diary with his worthless life. Hell, it was worth more than his life, and Ford wasted no time in rubbing salt across every scar on Stan’s body. 

And now the journal pages were ripped out, large blotches of ink covering Ford’s messy scrawls. 

The six-fingered hand was separated from the cover, laying crumpled on a…pink, fuzzy rug? 

Must be the rum. He was drunk out of his mind, hallucinating Vegas all over again. 

He hadn’t known the hand could separate from the rest of the book. Just like he hadn’t known perpetual motion machines could break if one tiny, insignificant piece fell off. 

He fell to the rug–surprisingly, his left knee didn’t throb from where he’d been stabbed by Rico’s goons in Tijuana, even when he was rough on his body. He reached for the crumpled, six-fingered hand. 

The fingers were curled, the black 1 on the palm nothing but an inky smudge. 

Stan’s fingers sank through Ford’s hand, in a cruel mockery of the high-six they used to do as kids. 

But he couldn’t feel his fingers or the hand or the rug or his knees or anything else at all. 

Stupid frostbite.

“No…” he croaked. God, his voice was hoarse. His fingers weren’t working. The six-fingered hand, true to its origin, stubbornly refused to budge. “Damn it! DAMN IT!” 

Ford’s voice rang in his ears, crazed and desperate and manipulative. Ten years apart, and Stan had been a fucking moron to think he ever wanted to talk things out.   

Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the earth if you have to! Bury it where no one can find it!  

Like hired muscle, he’d done everything Ford demanded of him. 

Took Ford’s stupid book for him, and in an even greater act of stupidity, agreed to bury it whole instead of burning it on the spot. 

Found himself a boat–a leaking, hole-ridden dinghy of a boat, but it was cheap enough. 

Sail across the ocean and bury the book deep in the Siberian wilderness–never mind the Soviets, they could send him to the gulags in the middle of nowhere for all he cared…

…except he wasn’t in Siberia. 

How he knew that, he couldn’t explain, but this wasn’t Siberia. 

Too calm. Too orderly. Not rough. Not wild.

And the journal wasn’t buried six feet under, where no one could ever lay eyes on it again. 

It’ll be the first worthwhile thing you’ve done in your life, Stanley! 

He blew it. The first and only worthwhile thing he’s ever done in his life, and he blew it. 

His hands clenched into fists, but with his frostbite, he didn’t have the pleasure of feeling his nails carve chunks out of his skin. 

The ocean roared, violently rocking the old boat. 

Something crashed behind Stan–a pile of ropes or pulley he didn’t have the strength or the know-how to secure?

But when he turned to look, he only saw a golden trophy laying on the floor. Save for a small, metallic bee that had broken off from the upper body, it was mostly intact. 

The inscription on the base was in fancy gold script, similar to Ford’s handwriting. 

Congratulations, Dipper Pines!
2010 Spelling Bee Champion
Piedmont Middle School

Glasses were too expensive, and Stan’s eyes had always been shit. In reality, the name on the trophy was Michael Donner Price, or maybe Manfred Dodge Ponds. And the year was either 1970 or 1980. 

He wasn’t seeing a surname he hadn’t used in forever, and he wasn’t seeing a year that was decades into the future. 

And he definitely wasn’t used to seeing words so clearly from this distance…

Behind him, someone gasped. 

Stan wasn’t alone.

And the journal was out in the open. 

Stan’s head whipped around so fast that his chin practically aligned with his spine.

On the pink bed, underneath a unicorn themed comforter and an entire toy store’s stock of stuffed animals, (he forced bile down once he noticed the second, empty bed in the room), a pair of wary eyes blinked back at him. Long strands of brown hair poked out from the blankets. 

The eavesdropper’s face was smooth and round, her hands engulfed in a long, pink sleeve.

Holy crap. 

There was a whole kid under there.   

“Who the fu-” Stan’s mouth moved, his brain catching up too late. The kid–a girl who had to be…what, seven? Four? Ten? It was hard to tell when he couldn’t see her entire body. “What the hell’s going on here?” 

The girl froze like a deer in the headlights. 

Didn’t matter how scared she looked. Kid or not, she could be hiding a knife up her sleeve. And her sleeves were so loose and long that they’d be great for hiding a lot of stuff. 

Stan rose to his full height, putting himself between the journal and the girl. 

The journal’s safety came above everything else. 

He crossed his arms and straightened his back, adopting Pa’s stoic, I’m-not-impressed stance. 

A fearful glint entered the girl’s eyes, and Stan squared his jaw, pushing away the memories of seeing his own scared face reflected in Pa’s sunglasses. 

How the heck did you find the journal, kid? 

The question was on the tip of his tongue, but Stan held himself back from asking anything that could reveal more than anything she needed to know. His crossed arms and expression showed authority to the girl, but he had to be careful. 

Holding his arms too tightly to his body would reveal desperation. He’d invite too many questions that way. 

Just a little longer ‘til the kid cracked.

She reached for a stuffed tiger several inches away, pulling it to safety under her blanket. She wasn’t breaking eye contact. 

He wasn’t prepared for this.  

Stan lifted his gaze to a point above the girl’s head. Not enough to let the girl catch on, but he needed a little more time to think of a new plan, because this whole authority figure thing wasn’t working. He stared at the stickers, drawings, and a large poster of five weirdly beautiful men in matching outfits on the wall behind the bed. 

An enormous rainbow, glittery banner with the name ‘Mabel Lucille Pines’ was stretched across the top. 

He didn’t know how he got into some weird rich kid’s bedroom from a boat. 

Who also shared his surname at birth, like the trophy’s owner (what kinda name was Dipper anyway?). 

Must’ve had too much rum from that seedy bar. Should’ve known it was cheap quality when he burned through a dozen bottles with his last twenty bucks. 

Running like hell before the cops cuffed him would be the smartest thing to do.

Then again, Stan wasn’t the smartest twin in his mother’s womb.

“Well, kid?” Stan said, his mouth once again betraying his brain. Mabel winced at his voice. Sure, he sounded like an old man after smoking every substance in existence, but she didn’t need to be that obvious about it. “You gonna talk or am I gonna have to draw mustaches on that poster of yours before you tell me everything I wanna know?” 

There were plenty of colored pens and markers lying around the room. If his fingers weren’t so frostbitten, he would’ve defaced that poster a lot sooner. And he’d get creative too. 

In the blink of an eye, Mabel completely retreated into her blanket cave, and all Stan could see was two wriggling lumps moving independently of each other. 

Another kid? That explained the second bed. 

But his attempt at intimidation wasn’t going to work if neither kid could see him. He needed a new plan.

Maybe if he pretended their mom was calling them for dinner…

The pair of lumps went dangerously still. 

“Whiskers, attack!” 

With a shrill cry, Mabel threw the comforter off her body. A hissing, yowling brown blur hurled itself at Stan, and he barely dodged the angry gremlin in time. Sharp claws missed his leg by inches. 

“What the–hey!” Stan cursed as an aggressive housecat skidded to a stop next to the journal, its claws extended and pressing into the damaged cover. “Paws off, jerk!” 

Stan lunged for the journal, and the cat sank its fangs into the back of his hand. Good thing his hand was too numb for him to feel it.

The cat reeled back, its pupils blown open with shock. 

Stan would’ve laughed at its dumbstruck expression if he hadn’t been so frustrated at his inability to pick up Ford’s stupid journal. 

He was close. So close. 

But he only managed to lift the journal several inches before it fell to the ground. 

It wasn’t a cinderblock. Just a dumb diary that contained supposedly dangerous information. Unless Ford put some kooky make-the-journal-heavy spell to spite Stan, there was no reason he couldn’t hold it for longer than a few seconds. 

From the bed, Mabel let out a shrill war cry. 

“Take this, you buttface!” 

An orange and black object hurtled straight for Stan’s face before he could duck. He could’ve sworn he saw faux fur and a plastic nose flash in front of his eyes, but her aim must’ve been worse than he anticipated, because the projectile–a floppy stuffed tiger, fell harmlessly to the floor. 

Mabel awkwardly stared at her toy, like she’d expected that to work. Even if she’d landed the hit, there was only so much a stuffed tiger could do to a person. 

Stan raised an eyebrow at her. “You really gotta work on your insults, kid.” 

She threw a stuffed pink poodle at him, so she’d probably take his words into consideration. 

“You’re not stealing my life force, you life force stealer!” 

He’d been accused of stealing a whole lotta things in the past twenty-seven years…but only about eight out of ten of those accusations were actually true. 

And he’d definitely never stolen a life force–unless leaving Alejandro for the man-eating hippos of the Columbian jungle counted. But hey, Alejandro was a strong swimmer. So his odds of surviving were pretty good.  

Mabel hurled a stuffed pig. Stan swatted it away, his hand still so numb that he didn’t feel anything, and the pig smacked the jerk cat right in his jerk face.

“Sorry, Whiskers!” Mabel cried out, one hand flying to her mouth in horror. Whiskers yowled like he was being skinned alive. “It was his fault!” 

She pointed accusingly at Stan, and he threw up his arms defensively–how the heck was it his fault? He wasn’t the one throwing entire petting zoos at people! 

Whiskers flopped onto his back, wailing at the top of his lungs. The girl glowered at Stan, taking Whiskers’ dramatics way too seriously for her own good.  

Jerk cat won’t last five seconds on the streets….

Mabel flicked her sleeve, and a long, pink knitting needle shot into her hand. “You’ll never drag us into the Chamber of Secrets, you unshaven creep with a seriously unstylish haircut!” 

Okay, he shouldn’t have said her insults sucked. That was just low. 

“Plenty of people have mullets,” Stan snapped, ignoring that weird Chamber of Secrets comment because it sounded very much like one of Ford’s mysteries and he wanted no part in it. “And I’m not taking fashion advice from a kid with the world’s sparkliest prison block in her mouth.” 

Mabel gritted her teeth and perched on the edge of her bed, the knitting needle clutched tightly in her hand. She was trying to wield it like a sharp knife, but her grip was all wrong. 

If anything, she was more likely to hurt herself with it than Stan.

The knitting needle shook, and Mabel failed to keep her arm steady as she pointed the sharp end at Stan. 

“Stop doing that!” she yelled, taking unsteady steps along the length of the bed. She stumbled on a stuffed unicorn, unable to fully commit to attacking him. “You’ve already torn up our room! I won’t let you tear apart Grunkle Ford’s journal too!” 

The entire world stopped. 

Stan felt lightheaded–he wasn’t getting any air, which only spelled trouble when he didn’t know where he was. He’d been drugged and unconscious before, but not even waking up in the back alleys of Tijuana could compare to his confusion now. 

She’s gotta be talking about some other Ford…who has six fingers and a doomsday journal and is weird enough to be okay with being called a Grunkle, whatever that is.

“You know who Fo–” Too shocked to choose his words carefully, Stan backtracked with a well-placed cough. “So…I’m guessing that other bed doesn’t belong to the little fleabag.”  

Whiskers pointedly showed his buttcrack to Stan. 

Mabel scowled and refused to lower the knitting needle. 

The other half of the room was decorated differently than Mabel’s. Less colorful, more nerdy, more barren. A giant conspiracy board with red strings, monster photos, and pushpins took up nearly the entire space behind the other bed. 

An old newspaper headline was in the middle of the board, and every red string spiraled outwards from the title. 

North of Normal and West of Weird! Dr. Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket Open the International Institute of Oddology! 

And below the old newspaper was another headline. The paper was white as snow, and it was printed in the neatest typewriter script Stan had ever seen. 

World-Renowned Director Dr. Stanford Pines Saves Boy From Child Devourer Ape-Bat Monster Terrorizing the Pacific Northwest!

There was a grainy black and white photo of an old man standing over a collapsed ape-bat monster, the background taken up by an enormous, futuristic laboratory. He was holding a crying boy in his arms, a pinched expression on his face like he was begging the boy’s parents to just take him already. 

Stan drifted closer, squinting at the old man’s hands. Only a single thumb was in frame, but even without the six-fingered hands, Stan recognized that same hopelessly lost owl-like expression Ford used to wear when he had to interact with people who weren’t super geniuses like him. 

At least he wasn’t firing crossbows into his adoring audience. 

Still, who in their right mind would ever paint Ford as some kind of hero, unless they were being paid big bucks to kiss his selfish ass? 

Bet he’s still a lying, manipulative, I-know-better-than-everyone selfish old geezer who doesn’t give a flying–annnnd he’s old now. Weird. 

And Stan couldn’t take the weirdness anymore. Why couldn’t he just live a normal life out of his beat up car? Stick to shoplifting gas station hot dogs and committing petty crimes with the occasional muscle-for-hire gig for pesos? 

Instead he got Rip Stan Winkled to who knows where, or when knows where, or where knows where, and he wasn’t going to find any useful information with Mabel and the jerk cat. 

Stan forced himself to look at the books on the shelf instead, many of which looked uncomfortably like the journal he’d been tricked into taking. 

Journal 3. Journal 9. Journal 14. Journal 19. Journal 22. Journal 27. 

All seemed to be well-taken care of, a solid maroon color, a six-fingered hand insignia…

And Dr. Stanford Pines was the author of them all. 

So he made it then. Hit the big time, raked in millions, and never looked back. 

Pa must be impressed. Ma must be sobbing from pride. 

Shermie never hung around the family much. Had his own wife and kid to think about, and whatever he was doing with his life now that the war was over. But he probably made a phone call or sent a letter or something. 

Ford was famous. 

Shermie was a war hero. 

And Stan was…nothing. 

Knowing Ford, he’d made it to the very top of the The New York Times bestseller list. 

Just when did Ford manage to accomplish all this anyway? He’d been completely off his rocker when he’d summoned Stan to his cabin. There was no way he could’ve published anything when he looked like he belonged in the loony bin, let alone become famous for founding a giant nerd school. 

And that giant nerd school definitely didn’t exist when Stan answered the call like some blindly loyal dog.

Ford was old. Successful. Rich. 

He was everything Pa wanted in a son. 

He tied up the loose ends that dangled over their heads since Stan had gotten the boot. Tied those ends and cut them free, throwing Stan and their unrealistic childhood dream into the gutter.

Stan clenched his fists, but he couldn’t feel his nails digging into his palm.  

There was a framed photo of a smiling boy in front of him. Mabel was in the picture too, caught mid-laugh while sticking two fingers out behind the boy’s head.  

Ford? 

Stan stared at the boy. He hadn’t seen Ford smile like that in forever. Or be that comfortable around girls. 

But then he looked closer, and the facial features were off. The nose was too small, and the eyes weren’t behind thick-rimmed glasses. The bill of a navy blue ballcap angled upwards, brown hair hiding a weird spoon-shaped rash on the boy’s forehead. Instead of a bomber jacket, he wore a puffy blue vest over a red T-shirt. 

The boy’s hand was pressing into Mabel’s cheek. He only had five fingers.

He wasn’t Ford. 

But he had to be the owner of the broken trophy…was his name really Dipper though? What sort of parent slapped their kid with a name that could be easily reworked into a million different insults? 

The kids’ faces were similar…way too similar for Stan’s comfort. Shorten Mabel’s long hair and take the prison block out of her mouth, and she’d look just like Dipper. 

They weren’t normal siblings. 

They were… twins.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, glass shattered. He heard a loud, piercing scream.

The wooden frame laid on the floor in pieces. Shattered glass surrounded it. And the photo had  a large rip down the center, the photo of twins with carefree smiles. Not enough to separate the two halves that made a whole, but it wouldn’t take much effort to tear it completely apart. 

Mabel leapt down from her bed, a horrified expression on her face as she fell to her knees beside the photo. Whiskers rubbed against her side, sounding like a dying motor while she carefully tucked the broken frame and torn photo into a nearby bedside dresser. 

Her head was bowed, a curtain of long hair hiding her face from view. 

Maybe it was for the best. Made it easier for Stan to think of her as a random girl with long hair, instead of someone who looked too familiar for his comfort. 

Whiskers’ lamp-like eyes narrowed into accusatory slits. He stared right at Stan, blaming him for Mabel’s overemotional state. 

“Give me a break,” Stan growled at the asshole cat like it could talk back to him. “She had issues way before I got here.”

There was no point in sticking around. 

So Ford got everything he ever wanted. Big deal. Let him live his own life. He was clearly happier as the head honcho of his nerd school than on some barely seaworthy boat in the middle of nowhere. 

But Stan was stuck with the journal.

He’d been too careless with it before, and he almost lost it to the hands of some kid who thought it was just any old book. 

He refused to make that mistake again. 

Once he buried the journal deep in the Siberian tundra, he’d be free to live his own life. 

No more false hope. No more ties to a family who didn’t give a fuck about him anymore.

With numb fingers, Stan picked up the journal.

Weird. He had to lug it around like a cinderblock when he first took it off Ford’s hands. Now it was lighter than a feather. 

He wasn’t asking questions though. Easier to transport this way.

But before he could leave this whole mess behind him forever, Mabel looked up. Her watery eyes met his own, her gaze flicking to the journal in his hand. 

Then her mouth twisted, fist clenching inside her long sweater sleeve. 

Run, Stan’s stupid brain supplied too late. Run and don’t look back. 

But he remained frozen to the spot. 

Mabel’s arm snapped back, and Stan only caught a glimpse of the sharp end of a pink knitting needle before it skewered him through the left eye. 

Or rather, it should’ve skewered his left eye and maybe part of his brain. 

There was no painful jab. No feeling at all from a knitting needle that should’ve bounced off the bridge of his nose or cheek if Mabel’s aim had been slightly off. 

The lightbulb flickered rapidly, cycling between light and dark until there was a small pop, and the room was bathed in shadow. 

Stan clutched his eye instinctively, but he couldn’t feel a knitting needle embedded into his skull.

And where was the blood? A warm trickle of blood should’ve been flowing out of his eye socket, and his fingers should’ve been stained red! 

The knitting needle laid on the rug, free of bloodstains and gross eye liquids. 

And Ford’s journal wasn’t here. He never heard it hit the floor.

The creak of a door. An urgent whisper. The flash of long hair and a cat’s tail in the doorway. 

And Mabel fled the bedroom with the journal tucked under her arm. 

Stealing from a guy who makes a career outta being a scoundrel? Bad move, kid.  

“Give me that book!” Stan shouted, but Mabel only blew a raspberry at him and slammed the door in his face as he threw himself forward. 

Stan braced himself, unable to stop his body in time. His face was just gonna take another round of abuse from some brat who looked too small to be in her double digits yet.

But he never felt the impact. 

He just…went through the door like it was never there. And now he was in the hallway of a clean, fancy house that only existed in corny sitcoms.    

Mabel made the mistake of glancing over her shoulder at Stan, and her foot completely missed the next step. With a shrill scream, she clutched the journal to her chest, tumbling down the rest of the stairs. She groaned, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. 

Still, she never let go of the journal.

It was kind of impressive. 

At least the journal found its way into the hands of a stubborn kid. If Ford had asked Mabel to protect his life’s work, she’d probably do a better job than Stan ever could. She was fighting to the teeth to protect something important to her…too bad the journal was also important to Stan. 

Didn’t matter how impressed he was with Mabel’s guts, he was still tasked with sailing to the edge of the world with the journal. 

She rubbed her back while Whiskers headbutted her arm. 

“Don’t worry, braces. You’re not dead,” Stan said, placing his hands in his pockets (or tried to, since he still couldn’t feel a damn thing) and whistling some jaunty tune he’d heard in a New Orleans bar once. He walked downstairs until he stood behind Mabel. 

She craned her neck, but she didn’t have a clear view of him…or the hand reaching for the journal.  

“Here, let me take this while you heal up from almost breaking your neck. And your legs. And your spine. And whatever other body parts are important to you.” 

Whiskers hissed just as Stan’s fingers closed around the spine, alerting Mabel to what he was really trying to do. She coiled around the journal, baring her sparkly prison teeth and spitting like she had cat somewhere in her ancestry. 

Stan yanked on the journal. So what if he spilled a few more pages in the name of getting the damn thing away from Mabel? He could always fix it later. Not like Ford was around to notice. 

Mabel’s teeth flashed, and…she bit him. Holy Moses, this girl was ruthless.

Maybe she really did have cat somewhere in her family tree, if she wasn’t secretly a cat taking on a human form herself. 

Annnnd I’m starting to sound like Ford again. Great.  

Luckily for him, Mabel only chomped down on his sleeve. The skin underneath was fine. He’d learned the hard way just how fast bites could get infected, and he didn’t know where she’d put her mouth last. 

“If you destroy my jacket, I’m shaking you down for compensation. With a million percent tax,” Stan warned her.

Mabel’s nose wrinkled, and she stuck out her tongue in disgust. 

“Bleh!” she gagged. “Too moldy!” 

Stan’s jacket was just a chance find from a dumpster dive in some small Colorado town he couldn’t remember the name of, and maybe it stank of sweat and booze at times, but it was never moldy. She was just insulting him for no good reason now.

“It’s rugged,” Stan said defensively, ignoring how his chosen word was one letter away from ragged. 

“Not your jacket!” Mabel scowled. “I bit the journal so my saliva’s gonna be all over it! That way you’ll be so grossed out that you won’t want the journal back! ‘Sides, it always works on Dipper when I don’t want him touching my stuff.” 

She puffed out her chest, the way Ford used to do when he came up with smart ideas of his own (that were really kinda dumb ideas looking back, but hey, they were just a pair of dumb kids). 

It really wasn’t that bad of a plan…if she’d tried to use it on anyone other than Stan. 

Her grip on the journal was much looser, and she was more relaxed despite her earlier tumble. And the asshole cat was too busy rubbing against her side to attack him again. 

She was so confident about her plan, but she didn’t know Stan had touched things way grosser than saliva. It was almost a shame that he had to rip Ford’s journal away from her. 

Alright, he’d just make it quick. 

Take the journal. Get the hell out of…wherever he was, and head to Siberia. 

Put an entire ocean between him and this weird girl and her crazy cat and this fancy house and the cops who were definitely gonna be making up their own charges against him. 

Mabel’s fingers shifted. 

The journal was exposed. 

On the count of three, Stan snatched it from her lap and held it out of her reach. 

Mabel blinked and stared down at the spot where the journal had once been. Then her head snapped up to Stan’s hand, and her jaw dropped to the floor. 

Next to her, Whiskers was equally shocked.

Stan gave her a cocky grin. She’d left herself wide open, and he just took the opportunity. 

Nothing personal. Just business really.

Then Mabel’s face contorted with anger, and she launched herself at Stan with her fists clenched. 

“Give it back!” she screamed as she tried to beat Stan over and over with a series of frenzied punches. “Give it back right now!”   

Stan yawned and held the book high in the air. There was nothing Mabel or her freeloading pet could do against him, even as they hit and yowled and scratched him in their efforts to take the journal back. They looked like they were hitting hard, but Stan had endured much worse before he ever set foot in this house. 

At least Mabel didn’t seem to be hiding any more knitting needles in her sleeves. 

“There’s a million books written by the same guy on your shelf, braces,” Stan said, shifting his body so that Mabel couldn’t grab the journal as she climbed up a side table to reach it. “What’s so important about this one specifically?” 

Mabel balanced on the edge of the side table, her eyes never leaving the journal. 

Eyes on the prize. I can respect that. Still can’t let you have it though. 

She jumped, and Stan transferred the book to his other hand as Mabel fell flat on her face. 

“Owww…” she groaned. Her jaw took a huge hit when she hit the tiled floor, and she rubbed it while leveling another glare at Stan. 

It wasn’t broken or bleeding though. Which was good, cause Stan didn’t want the cops to pile the blame onto him for this. 

“It’s important because it came straight from the ocean! I don’t know how it got there in the first place…” Mabel lurched to the side as she sat up. She was tiring despite her stubbornness, and if Stan just wore her out a bit more, he’d be free to go soon enough. “...but Davy Jones gave it to me! So it’s gotta be special!”

Stan kept up the poker face he’d perfected in Vegas. 

But he never expected to hear the name of Davy Jones out of Mabel’s mouth. Only older fishermen and sailors spoke of him, always in hushed tones and never with a casual mention.

There’d been a decaying boat with Davy Jones written on its side in faded black paint. Nobody wanted that floating hunk of driftwood, but Stan bought it for thirty bucks from some geezer desperate for money.  

Yer a goddamn idiot to take a boat with that cursed name! Ain’t too late to turn back now while yer feet are on land!

He’d been drunk. Spilled his plans to sail the ocean to rowdy and red-faced strangers at an Anchorage bar that wasn’t anything more than a hole in the wall for guys who needed to drown out their own shit with darts and booze for a while. 

Cursed or not, Stan didn’t care. He ignored the warnings, sailing away from the North American coastline. 

Somewhere along the way, he lost course. 

Wherever he was now, it wasn’t Siberia.  

“You came out of Grunkle Ford’s book,” Mabel said, offering no relief from the crazy coming out of her mouth. “You must be one of Davy Jones’ claimed souls.” 

Nothing she said made any sense. Coming out of books and Davy Jones and souls…it was like some insanity switch had flipped in her head. 

“No idea what you’re blabbing about,” Stan scoffed. But his poker face was slipping. 

He had to get out of this house. Had to get away from this kid who had access to way too much knowledge for her own good. Where he’d go next, he’d have to figure that out later, but anywhere had to be better than here. 

“Wait…” Mabel said, her eyes widening. “You don’t know?” 

“No!” Stan yelled, and the front door violently swung into the shoe rack with a loud clatter, though there was nobody on the other side. “And I’m fine with never knowing! So take all this soul talk, and just forget abo–”

Mabel flinched at the noise, and with a shaky finger, she pointed to something over Stan’s shoulder. But he wasn’t falling for the old look-behind-you trick. How stupid did she think he was? 

She didn’t put her arm down, only waiting in silence. 

Asking questions, finding answers…it was a dangerous business. All it took was a single ‘he knows too much’ to have people gunning for his head. 

Ford was always curious. It drove him mad in the end. 

So Stan learned to keep his mouth shut. Be a clown, be an idiot, be a bumbling fool who only cared about money and his next meal. 

Ignorance was what kept him safe…and alive. 

But living the way he did… he always fucked it up somewhere along the way. 

Pissed off the wrong people. Lost money he could’ve used on food or rent or the million-dollar debt he owed to his parents and Ford, among other debts. 

Sold everything he had for a grave of his own making. His car, his pride, his body….

By the door, a mirror hung on the wall. It was engraved with silver vines and leaves. 

Though it wasn’t big, the mirror showed Mabel, Whiskers, and…

…Stan’s reflection wasn’t there.

He was standing in front of the mirror, but there was only empty air where he should’ve been. 

The pages he couldn’t pick up, the attacks from Mabel and Whiskers he should’ve felt, the numbness he’d chalked up to exposure…. 

The journal slipped out of his hand, falling to the floor with a thud. 

His body wasn’t frostbitten–in fact, his body didn’t exist. 

The reason he was numb–why he couldn’t feel anything he tried to touch, it was all because he was…

Dead.  

A crack fractured the mirror glass, splitting the half that showed a warped image of Mabel hugging Whiskers to her body from the empty side that should’ve contained Stan.

Neither of them tried to snatch up the journal. 

“Just stick with me for a bit, kitty,” Mabel mumbled into his fur. Whiskers’ ears were pinned to his head, his pupils overtaking the yellow tint of his eyes. “I know Dipper’s a lot better at dealing with ghosts than me…but I’ll try to come up with something, okay?” 

All of her fearlessness, all of her attitude–it vanished. 

He was dead, and he was a ghost now…it explained a lot, but that didn’t make him feel nearly as uneasy as Mabel did. 

The surname Pines was on display everywhere in her room, along the photos that seemed to hang on every wall, and spelled out with a handstitched pillowcase that rested on a plush chair. 

Where were the rest of them? Mabel clearly wasn’t the only person living in this household–her twin Dipper should’ve come running to her aid against Stan.

Then Mabel looked at him, trying to size him up, see what she could manage alone without her twin who was supposedly better at handling ghosts than she was. 

He became very, very aware of the open front door and the night outside–a gateway into a world he knew nothing about. 

So Stan did what he did best. 

He ran. 

Chapter Text

The entire world had gone bananas. 

Mabel’s house was enormous from the outside…but it wasn’t the only one of its kind. To the left, right, and across the neatly paved street, an entire row of equally large houses stood. They were all painted in white or tan colors, each decorated with balconies and giant arched windows and sizable porches with trimmed shrubbery lining the sidewalks leading up to the front doors. 

The grass was short and green, with barely a weed or greasy discarded fast food wrapper in sight. Even the trees were planted in neat rows.  

The cars were different too. 

Sleeker, shinier, less beaten up. No dents or old bullet holes in sight.

To Stan, this was the sort of neighborhood that only existed in the all-American family shows Ma sometimes watched when Pa’s cowboys weren’t hogging the screen. 

A dreamland where everything was hunky-dory and perfect. 

Boy, were these people just begging to be robbed blind. The doors and windows were built to be pretty, not to protect money, jewelry, and other valuables.

Where were the high walls with jagged glass mounted on top? The armed guards? The massive dogs who’d kill anyone who looked at them funny? 

Stan could hit this whole block in his sleep. Bankrupt every jerk in this place. Just one crime spree, and he’d be rolling in enough dough to pay back his debt to the family. 

And this random lady’s purse would be the perfect starting point. 

It was unattended, on the driver’s seat of a pearly white car with California license plates and a if-you-can-read-this-you-are-driving-too-close sticker on the back. 

And best of all, the window was rolled down. 

The purse was right in plain sight. 

Just waiting to be stolen.  

Cream-colored. Large enough to hold a hefty wallet, with enough room left over to fit a kitchen sink. A French-sounding brand name in gold lettering. 

Alright, so purse snatching was kinda low. The sort of crime that made a guy look desperate in front of goody two shoes and gang members alike. 

Not like the thrill of the chase mattered anymore, since Stan was dead and all. He’d sunk so low, he was in hell. 

A less fire and brimstone-y hell than he was expecting, but the overly perfect and ordered nature of things made it clear that old Beelzebub had gotten him in the end. 

So what? 

He’d failed to protect the journal. Might as well leave it behind entirely, forget about that stupid request and even stupider dream, and commit a crime because it was the only thing he was even remotely decent at. 

Just what was he supposed to do with the money from this heist anyway? He was deader than a doornail.

He didn’t have a reflection in the rearview mirror, but he probably looked as shitty as he felt, so it wasn’t a big loss. 

With nothing in the way, Stan reached into the car, grabbed the purse, and hauled it into the open with a triumphant smirk. 

The purse probably weighed more than the journal did, but to Stan, it was light as a feather. He’d just tote it to the nearest pawn shop, haggle the broker for a good price, make off with the money in the register and…and do something with it. 

Find a large enough place to hide it all. Add to his stash. Save some more ‘til he hit the jackpot. 

It would take time…but he could start from scratch. He’d built his way up from zero, zilch, and nada before. There wasn’t anything left for him, he just had to have money…

“WHAT THE HECK, MAN? PUT THE PURSE DOWN, NOW!” 

Stan’s concentration broke at a shrill scream. The purse slammed into the ground, a tube of lipstick rolling out and bouncing along the pavement until it hit Mabel’s shoe. 

She snatched it up, not breaking eye contact as she stomped over to Stan.

“You can’t just steal Mrs. Beverly’s purse!” Mabel snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. She dumped the lipstick inside, forcefully zipping the purse shut. “It’s one of a kind!”

The jerk cat wasn’t with her, and she wasn’t carrying the journal either. Must’ve left them in the house. 

Well, whatever. If she wanted that problem so bad, she could have it. 

“What are you, a cop?” Stan scoffed, snatching the purse as Mabel wrapped her arms around it, refusing to let go. “Go home and quit snitching, braces.” 

Mabel glared at him. “It’s Mabel. Like the very, very month of May and a bull with giant horns smashed into each other. Maaay–bulllll.” 

Stan let the purse float in the air while Mabel held on with an octopus-like grip. “Last chance to give up, or I’m pawning you with the bag.” 

Mabel blew a raspberry, but Stan’s weird ghost powers protected him from the onslaught of her glittery saliva. Her legs were wrapped around the purse, body awkwardly draped over the handles. 

It was an impressively long raspberry, but she had to put her tongue back in her mouth and breathe sometime. 

Mabel’s fingers dug into the purse and creased the leather once she finally ran out of breath. Her eyes opened a little, but she quickly shut them again the moment she saw the ground several feet below her, her face tinted slightly green. 

Scared of heights, kid? Works for me.  

Stan let go of the purse, which remained in the air alongside Mabel. 

Floaty powers. Not bad. And great for pranks. 

“Gotta let go sometime,” Stan said, floating Mabel and the purse slightly higher, so they were right beside the roof of the car. He wondered if there was a limit on this floating thing–maybe he could’ve lifted Mabel above the houses and into the sky if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to test those boundaries. 

Just needed to scare her enough so she’d drop the purse, then he’d take it and get the hell out of this stupidly perfect neighborhood. 

Except that Mabel was frozen in place. 

Stan wanted to chalk it up to her being too scared to move like a deer in the headlights, but Mabel was proving to be just as stubborn as Ford. 

She really needed to learn when to cut her losses and run…except that her last name was Pines. It was proudly displayed all over her bedroom. 

Just a coincidence. There’s gotta be other people named Pines out there. Doesn’t mean I know ‘em. 

Mabel groaned, her feet helplessly kicking the empty air behind her. 

“Stop dragging this out already,” Stan told her. “Just drop the bag so I can scram out of–” 

Then Mabel screamed–a piercing, high-pitched shriek that showed off her impressive lung capacity again. The noise drove off a flock of crows, sending out their own alarm cries in response to Mabel’s as they took to the air from a neighbor’s tree.

Stan flinched. Sudden loud noises, especially ones that happened in quick succession, never signaled good things. 

His concentration broke. Mabel and her purse tumbled onto the short, clipped grass of the curb, right as every window in the solid white car shattered into tiny shards, several pieces of sharp glass falling around her. 

Though the hard landing onto her stomach disoriented her, she had just enough awareness to protect her face from the onslaught. 

Her scream faded into a soft whimper as she curled into a tiny ball, her pink, woolen sweater swallowing almost her entire body. 

But one bare knee was exposed, a fresh trickle of blood staining the grass red. 

It wasn’t a large cut. Not even a lot of blood. And Stan had seen plenty of worse injuries, ones that required much more than a bandage to heal. 

And it would heal over in time, probably wouldn’t even leave a scar–if only Mabel would stop trying to inch herself towards the purse laying on the sidewalk, just beyond arm’s reach. 

Like anything in that stupid name-brand purse was worth protecting over herself. 

“Quit moving for a sec-” Stan began, but his voice was drowned out by a shrill car alarm from the destroyed vehicle. 

The lights of the two-story house flared, the sudden spotlight barely missing Stan and Mabel. 

“THOMAS! THOMAS, CALL THE POLICE! WE’RE BEING ROBBED!” 

The woman’s hysterics matched the car alarm in volume, and Stan knew he only had seconds to act before somebody came rushing out to tackle the robber. 

Could other people see him? He still didn’t understand how this whole being dead thing worked, but if they didn’t know he was the real culprit…

…every finger would be pointed at Mabel. 

Telling the truth wouldn’t help her, even though she had no intention of stealing the purse. Yet the blame would fall solely on her shoulders, and everyone would just call her a bad kid who wasn’t worth the trouble. 

Sure, she got on his nerves in a surprisingly short amount of time, but she wasn’t…that. 

Still, the real world wasn’t going to do Mabel any favors. She’d have to learn quickly, or be chewed up and spat out faster than she could blink. 

Would her twin come running if he knew his sister was gonna be cuffed?

No time to guess though. Dipper couldn’t help her now. 

Guess I’m gonna have to get her out of this…

It was gonna be real shitty help though, since she’d otherwise be taking the fall for a mess he created. Not much better than nothing. 

“Time to go, braces,” Stan said, urging her to get up and run. 

The property owners could be rushing outside any moment now. 

Mabel pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing as tiny glass shards cut into her hands. She wasn’t reacting quickly enough. At this rate, she was gonna get herself caught. 

Unless he shoved her in the safest direction. 

Mabel gasped, her body hovering several inches above the pile of shards. Stan felt a weak tug of resistance from her, which he took as a good sign. Even a little pushback was better than nothing. 

Then Stan ran for his afterlife, lugging Mabel alongside him. Even though she was safe from the broken glass, she still wasn’t putting her feet down to run. Then again, slippers were a poor choice of footwear for evading the police. 

He hated to abandon the purse, but carrying Mabel strained what little focus he had, especially when he wasn’t familiar with their surroundings. 

Dusty backroads, dark alleyways, rainforests, and prisons all had patterns to them even though he never stayed long. There were always places to hide, an order to the chaos he could count on even when his life had been one giant catastrophic mess. 

But here every house was painted the same and looked the same, and the only difference was the choice of outdoor plants and the address number plastered over the doors. The streets curved over tiny, barely existent hills, made of smooth, gray asphalt with no potholes in sight. 

The next two streets were practically identical to the first, and the only noteworthy landmark was a topiary carved into the shape of a giraffe. 

There was nowhere good to lay low either. The trees weren’t big enough to squeeze under and the space between houses was too wide. 

And sweet Moses, the woman he almost robbed was screaming loud enough to wake the dead (he should know, since resting in peace wasn’t a fucking option for him). Even from this far away, he could still hear her barking instructions to her poor husband over the police siren–

Flashing red and blue lights shone on a house by the street corner ahead of them, a siren shrieking loudly, and Stan threw Mabel behind a row of bushes lining a playground just as the cops zoomed by, driving like they were in some high speed chase. 

There was no time for him to hide, so he quickly prepared an elaborate excuse of just taking a relaxing nighttime stroll, officer when they stopped to question him. 

But they ignored Stan, even though he should’ve been completely visible from the road. 

He’d take it.

Whoever they wound up blaming for the break-in, it wasn’t Stan’s business as long as Mabel wasn’t involved. 

But if those cops started sniffing around and discovered Mabel, she was still young enough to use the playground as an alibi. 

Claim she’d been playing on the swingset with…well, her twin wasn’t around to keep up the lie for her. 

Well, she seemed to be the creative type. She could easily come up with a different lie, if she wasn’t so insistent on telling the damn truth. 

Now Mabel laid in the dirt under the bushes, the lone kid in a poor excuse of a playground. Just a swingset and a small climbing structure with two plastic slides, like someone had sucked all the fun right out of the place. There wasn’t even a set of monkey bars or merry-go-round in sight. 

But it was safe from the cops and nosy neighbors for now. 

Mabel could go home once the coast was clear. She’d forget about Stan and go on with her life. 

Better if he didn’t stir up trouble for her. She had too many problems already. 

Her injured knee was just the beginning of those. The bleeding had stopped, but there was still a small, dark streak on her skin. It would be a while before Mabel had the chance to wash it off. 

The swings creaked behind Stan as he knelt next to Mabel, who barely moved since he flung her to this hiding spot. The lower half of Mabel’s face was hidden by the loose fabric of her sweater, breaths coming out in shaky puffs. 

What the hell am I doing? I don’t even know you. 

She was crying. 

Helpless. 

Scared. 

And too familiar for Stan’s comfort. 

You keep throwing yourself into danger without a second thought. Stop being an idiot and go home. 

Mabel’s injuries could’ve been much worse than a scraped knee with the kind of stunts she’d pulled tonight.

A broken nose would be a lot more difficult to hide. 

The swings creaked faster–the breeze must’ve picked up, though Stan couldn’t feel it against his skin. 

I’m leaving you behind. Do whatever you want with the journal. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. 

But truth and lies mixed in his head until he couldn’t tell which was which anymore. He had to say something to Mabel, tell her to quit crying before someone took note of that weakness, make sure she could handle the trek home without being seen before he left her to wander aimlessly again. 

Nothing came out though. 

Wasn’t that just funny? He was great at talking except for when it mattered the most! 

His hand hovered uselessly above Mabel’s head, though he didn’t know how it got there to begin with. 

He was met with a cold, accusatory stare. 

Blood dripped from a broken nose. 

A six-fingered hand wiped it away, spraying crimson flecks onto Stan’s boots. 

Stan’s hand was clenched into a tight fist. Ford’s blood stained his knuckles. 

“W-wait, I didn’t mean to…” Stan stammered. He shoved his fist into his pocket–or tried to, anyway. “It was an accident–”  

Stan whirled around at the sound of a sharp crack, like someone snapped a whip close to his ear. 

One of the metal seats on the swingset was broken in half, one jagged end hanging from its chain while the other laid uselessly in the dirt below. 

The other seat swayed in the breeze, whole and intact, unaffected by its shattered partner.

He couldn’t stop destroying everything in his wake. 

The swing, the mirror, the items in Mabel’s room…and the ticket to a better life for his family. 

Guess this is some sort of punishment. Have to be a ghost for the rest of my afterlife, can’t even have the sweet release of death…

Breaking things wasn’t really a ghost power. 

It was just Stan’s specialty. 

So what was one more piece of junk to celebrate just before he hit the road? 

Both halves of the broken seat crumpled into spiky balls with a loud, horrible screech, and the swingset rattled violently. 

He was going to rip the entire structure from the ground, tear every pole and chain apart, and twist it into such an unrecognizable pile of scrap that it couldn’t ever be used again. 

If he was gonna have literal destructive powers, then he was gonna exploit every ounce of it. 

Why not? He couldn’t be caught and he already died an awful death. He wasn’t alive and he was free to go anywhere he wanted in the world. He had no family, no home, no car, nothing to tie him down or stop him from doing whatever he wanted. 

Why should he give a crap about other people’s belongings? They had plenty to spare, while Stan had nothing. 

They got to live their cushy lives, while Stan had nothing. 

They got to achieve their dreams despite major setbacks, rising to fame and raking in money while being praised by everyone, never looking back once at where they came from. 

Yet Stan had nothing. 

Bet you never looked. Couldn’t be bothered to care. 

The rest of the playground and the neighborhood didn’t exist anymore. It was just Stan and his target.

He was vaguely aware of someone’s voice–a quiet, scared plea for him to stop, to just leave it alone so someone could come out and fix it later–but Stan ignored it. 

It was gone. It couldn’t be fixed.

There was no point in trying to salvage something out of this wreck, so quit wasting time and move on already. 

Just a little more force, and the whole swingset would be destroyed beyond repair. 

There wouldn’t be any consequences for him. He could steal and vandalize and ruin everything as much as he wanted–it was the only thing he could do until he blinked out of existence, however long that took. 

His family was right about him. 

This was all he’d ever be, so he should just give up and accept it. 

“PLEASE STOP!”

Mabel’s voice rang out, hoarse and fragile from her constant crying but unwavering in what she wanted him to do. 

She was gonna have to learn that please wasn’t good enough in this world. And often dangerous, because it signaled vulnerability. 

A chance to be tricked, if she said that to the wrong person.

And especially to him. 

“Please, just stop…” Mabel begged again. 

Though Stan didn’t see her move, she now stood at his side, putting all her weight on her non-injured leg. She pushed her hair away from her eyes, face completely red from all the crying she’d done. 

The swingset stopped moving. 

Stan looked away. 

If she’d just listened to his warnings, or never went after him to begin with, she wouldn’t be…like this. 

And he shouldn’t have stuck around as long as he did either. 

Then she wiped her nose against her sleeve, latching herself against Stan’s leg like her life depended on it. 

“C’mon kid, let go already…” Stan murmured, unable to move even though he really needed to put some distance between them. “Ever heard of personal space?” 

Apparently she hadn’t, or she wouldn’t be trying to burn a giant hole into Stan’s only pair of pants right now. 

He tried to turn invisible, pry Mabel’s arms off, or just float several inches off the ground so Mabel would get the hint and release him, but nothing worked. 

She didn’t budge an inch. 

Though he couldn’t feel any temperature difference before, Mabel’s body scorched him like he’d gotten way too close to a star.

Having no sensation sucked. Having his only form of sensation be this…this warmth from some kid he didn’t even know was…just a little less worse, but he couldn’t take it any longer. 

He had to run.

Now. 

“I said… LET GO! ” Stan roared, shoving his hand against Mabel’s forehead. 

He caught a glimpse of her wide-eyed expression, realizing too late that he put too much force into his shove. 

Then his hand sank through her forehead, and the last thing Stan heard was a noise of pure confusion as the playground blurred into an unrecognizable mass of colors. 

Is this…what nothingness feels like? 

Don’t have to move, don’t have to do anything as a deadbeat…heh, guess that’s literal now….

Wasn’t expecting nothingness to be this soft and squishy though…and can someone turn down that fucking synth? Let a guy be dead in peace! 

Stan bolted upright, ready to yell at the five stupidly beautiful men who were singing and dancing while loud synth music blasted from speakers set up on a giant rainbow-colored stage–right before a wide, pink nose snorted right in his face. 

He grimaced, wiping away the thin layer of slimy mucus with the inside lining of his hood.

“You’re dead meat, Porky,” Stan snapped, pushing himself up from a carpet intricately woven from yarn. The human-sized pig just blew his snout into a handkerchief from his sweater pocket. “And that goes for you damn hippies too!”

Instead of fringe and bellbottom pants, the hippies wore shiny, form-fitting white clothes that showed off every defined ab of their bodies. Their skin was flawless, and they had enough gel in their perfect blond hair to grease even the large pig dressed in a green, diamond-patterned sweater several times over. 

The lead hippie made a time-out gesture, and the lights and music cut out. 

“Take five, boys!” he called to his bandmates. They took their impromptu break with ease, flashing pearly-white smiles as they went to mingle with an audience of living stuffed animals, floating waffles with big arms, and weird creatures that could’ve only come from a kid’s imagination. 

Mabel wasn’t among them, or she’d be the first to come running for an autograph if the poster in her room was anything to go by.

Why the hell am I looking for her? She doesn’t know where I am. It’ll be easier to slip away…once I figure out where I am. 

The stage was rainbow-colored, while the ground was a bunch of sweaters stitched together, all of them sporting music-themed puns and designs. The audience’s seats were capable of handing out massages and coconut shell drinks, and the dolphin with muscular arms was enjoying both at the same time. 

Even the houses and the city hall’s towering dome were made of sweaters. 

It was broad daylight here, and the clouds were made out of flying cotton candy sheep. They baaed as they drifted lazily overhead, bits of their fluff gently floating to the ground. 

The denizens stretched out their arms, grabbing the fluff as it fell and shoving it into their mouths with glee. They paired the fluff with ice cream sundaes summoned from thin air. Seemed that running out of food wasn’t a concern here. 

“Welcome to Sweater Town, stranger. I’m Waddles, Mayor Mabel’s assistant and best imaginary friend,” the pig declared. He held out a stubby arm, offering the cotton candy stuck to the end of his hoof, but Stan shook his head and slumped against the stage instead. Waddles took his refusal in stride, licking the cotton candy off his body. “Never seen you around before, but we’re glad you made it to our little corner of Mabel’s mind. Always happy to have a new guest for her party.” 

Stan shoved his hands into his pockets. Wouldn’t be long before Waddles changed his tune. 

“Sure you are,” Stan huffed. 

He couldn’t get away from this kid no matter what he tried. And now he’d accidentally beamed himself into this acid trippy town she’d crafted in her brain. 

Must’ve been another ghost power that backfired at the worst time. 

And now he had no clue what was happening in the real world. Mabel was a fierce kid, but her self-preservation could use a lot of work. 

With any luck, she’d have learned not to recklessly pursue ghosts by the time Stan made it back. 

He watched the party guests place their gifts on a giant table, and with all the presents stacked up, it rivaled a mountain in height. 

An enormous banner was unfurled, stretching high across the town square. 

HAPPY 13TH BIRTHDAY MABEL!

Birthday games everywhere. An all you can eat buffet filled with all kinds of pizzas and cakes. A DJ monkey scratching at his records. 

“So she’s thirteen, huh?” Stan asked. “Big day. No wonder you’re not sparing any expense.” 

Waddles unfurled a long checklist that fell to the ground, rolling out of sight. 

“She deserves the best birthday bash to end all birthday bashes,” he said, with a rather pointed look at Stan. He was a different human-sized pig when he took his apparent party planning job seriously. “After everything that happened today…SQUEEEEE!” 

The lead hippie leapt from the stage, landing in front of a startled Waddles. Without missing a beat, the hippie snapped his fingers in front of Waddles’ snout and gyrated his hips with quick, sharp movements. 

It was a stupid way to tell someone to shut up. A punch in the shoulder would’ve done the trick just fine. 

“Alright!” Waddles squealed, the checklist vanishing at a wave of his trotter. “I won’t talk about that in front of the guests! Just…just stop aggressively dancing at me!” 

The hippie stopped harassing Waddles, flipping his parted hair with an easygoing grin like he’d never given his warning at all. 

“Sup, bro,” he said to Stan, offering a handshake and wink that Stan refused to accept. “Creggy G., lead singer of Sev’ral Timez in the house. We love our fans here, but we know Mabel loves us even more. Can’t wait for her to sing onstage with us. It’s gonna be sweet, yo.” 

Stan glanced at Waddles, jerking a thumb at Creggy G. “Does he speak English?” 

Waddles just shrugged. His beady eyes were still scrutinizing Stan, for more reasons than just wanting to avoid eye contact with Creggy G. 

Sweater Town wasn’t doing a good job of hiding the holes, even if they were pretending otherwise. Waddles and Creggy G were well-aware of it, and so were the other guests. Forced laughter, strained smiles, the constant arranging of balloons and seats and streamers like the decorators were afraid of what Mabel would say if she found one piece of confetti that wasn’t to her liking. 

Everyone was gonna party ‘til they dropped, hiding behind this illusion of everything being fine when it wasn’t. 

Stan knocked the back of his head against the stage with a sigh. Mabel’s personal life wasn’t any of his business. She’d have to tough it out herself. 

“Take a chill pill, tough guy.” Creggy G winked at a lavender snake with human legs (Mabel seemed rather fond of slapping human limbs onto random animals and food), who swooned and fainted with literal hearts in her eyes. “Just go with our vibe.” 

Ugh. Hippies were still hippies no matter how many shiny clothes they wore, or didn’t wear in this asshole’s case. 

But it was still the first sensible thing Creggy G had said. 

“Got a better idea, pal,” Stan said. If everyone else could conjure whatever they wanted from thin air, he assumed he could do it too. After a moment of concentration, a lit cigarette materialized between his fingers. He didn’t know why he was capable of feeling temperatures and textures in the mind when he wasn’t able to as a ghost (though he was probably about as real as these figments of imagination), but he’d take it. He slipped the cigarette into his mouth, inhaling deeply and blowing out a big smoke ring just to show off a bit. 

Waddles and Creggy G’s eyes bugged out to comical proportions. 

“Want one, boys?” Stan smirked. Revenge never felt more amazing. “It’ll calm you right down.” 

He only had the pleasure of one more puff before Creggy G snapped his fingers, and the warm bitterness suddenly turned cold, hard, and disgustingly sweet in Stan’s mouth. 

He spat out the cigarette at once, except that it wasn’t a cigarette at all. 

It was a grape-flavored lollipop. 

“What the f-” somebody blasted an airhorn as Stan unloaded every swear in English and Spanish he knew on Creggy G’s smug, extremely punchable face. 

Creggy G shrugged, not caring just how close he was to being a murder victim. 

“Drugs ain’t swag, bro,” Creggy G said, turning to his bandmates like anything he said just made sense. “Right, beef?” 

“Word!” his bandmates exclaimed in unison. 

“Come on!” Stan complained, some weird magical force in Sweater Town preventing him from flipping the bird on either hand. “You can’t be popular in show business without taking something!”  

Creggy G just threw his hands high into the air, his thumbs and pinkies extended as he let out a loud, excited whoop. Cannons shot confetti and cupcakes high into the air from both sides of the stage. 

“Breaktime over!” Creggy G hollered to the audience’s delight. An earth-shaking bass boomed from every speaker while all five members of Sev’ral Timez took their positions onstage. “Girls in the back, don’t be shy! Let’s hear ya too, waffle guy! Lookin’ good, Lollipup! Get that yolo on!” 

The entire population of Sweater Town went wild, and the rowdiest of the bunch crowded Stan against the stage as they tried to climb up in hopes of reaching Sev’ral Timez. 

With all the stuffed animals, food with human limbs, and the disturbing, up-close sight of a horse body with another horse body for a head pressing around him, it was hard to focus on picking Mabel out from everyone else, if she was here at all. 

Stan’s ears bled from the constant, droning bass, and he was forced to lean against Waddles to keep himself upright. The pig wasn’t as sweaty as Stan thought he’d be, and he was surprisingly decent at support too, doing his best to keep everyone at bay so Stan could have some breathing room (well, if undead guys like him could breathe).   

“LET’S ALL BE ACKIN’ CRAY-CRAY FOR OUR MAY-MAY!” Sev’ral Timez shouted in unison. 

“MAY-MAY! MAY-MAY! MAY-MAY!” the audience chanted, clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the beat of the music. 

Waddles didn’t join in their enthusiasm. “She prefers Mayflower…”

Stan almost brushed Waddles’ hoof off his shoulder, but he didn’t want to be separated from the only pig in Sweater Town who didn’t entirely buy into this perfect utopia. 

“Gotta admit, kid knows how to make a good fantasy,” Stan said, and Waddles’ ear perked in response, so Stan knew he was listening. “Food appearing whenever she wants, lots of adoring fans, singing onstage with her favorite band…” 

Waddles avoided eye contact. 

“...that is, if she was gonna sing onstage with her favorite band.” 

Stan grabbed Waddles’ ear, forcing him to look him right in the eye. His voice couldn’t be missed, even with all the chaos.  

“You know exactly where Mabel is, Porky. And you’re gonna lead me right to her.”  

He didn’t fully understand how he got transported into Mabel’s brain to begin with, but he knew he couldn’t stay. 

Mabel’s secrets and problems were her own, and even the little glimpses into her life were too much for Stan. He shouldn’t know her favorite band, or her imaginary friend, or that she was a twin at all. 

Just as she shouldn’t know his name or what he did and didn’t do in life. 

But since Mabel trapped him here, he’d have to find her first. She’d help him escape, he’d go back to being a ghost, and they’d both move on and forget they ever met each other. 

What was she doing in the real world anyway? Hopefully she had enough sense to evade scrutiny from nosy neighbors and the police on her own.

Then Waddles finally nodded, and Stan released his ear.  

“Okay,” he said, hoof pressing down on Stan’s shoulder. “I had my doubts, but now…I think you might be the one to help her after all.” 

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Hey, pork-for-brains, I’m not doing anything helpful for this kid. I’m just using her to get the heck outta here, if that wasn’t obvi–” 

For the second time that night, the world blurred around Stan. 

Sev’ral Timez and the partygoers were somewhere far away, the music and chanting fading into the distance. 

The stage disappeared. The scent of the all you can eat buffet was gone. 

The balloons, streamers, and confetti all vanished…replaced by a monstrous wall of water that loomed over Sweater Town. 

Stan took a step back, but there was no escaping its shadow. There was enough water to drown everybody in Sweater Town a hundred times over, and the sweaters unfortunate enough to touch the killer wave were too soggy to be mended. 

“What is this?” Stan demanded, wrenching his shoulder free from Waddles’ hoof. “Where did you take me?” 

Waddles stared at the giant barrier, but the water was too murky to see through. 

“This is the Ocean of Reality,” he said solemnly. “It borders the outer edge of Sweater Town on all sides.”

The Ocean of Reality loomed so high that Stan couldn’t see the crest of the restless waves. It churned mercilessly, its roar more terrifying than any living creature alive, and all of Stan’s instincts told him to run, run as far as you can and don’t look back cause it’s gonna chase you to the ends of the earth and never let up ‘til it drags you deep . 

The water carved a path of destruction wherever it touched. Sweaters beyond saving, houses that looked like giant sewing supplies completely destroyed, a unicorn fleeing her pincushion-shaped home with as many belongings as she could carry on her back before the water consumed it too. 

“It’s gotten faster lately,” Waddles admitted. “Princess Loveacorn was able to escape today, but there are others who weren’t as lucky. And they’re gonna stay lost in that Ocean…forever.” 

And once the ocean had somebody, it was never gonna let them go, no matter how much they tried to fight the storm and the waves and whatever lurked beneath. 

“...and Mabel?” Stan asked. 

He’d spent his last moments alive far from any help, in a dark place where no light could reach. 

But Mabel didn’t deserve that. No matter how annoying she was. 

Waddles’ expression only confirmed Stan’s next question. 

“She’s somewhere in there,” he said. “Normally, she talks to me whenever she has a problem. I used to keep all her hidden thoughts and secrets safe for her, but now…she’s in a place where even I can’t go.” 

Stan shoved his hands into his pockets. Figured he’d just be used again, even by an imaginary pig. “So you’re asking me to get her for you.”

“Not just get her,” Waddles corrected. “I’m asking you to help her.” 

Stan couldn’t help the humorless laugh that slipped out of his throat. This was easily the craziest gig he’d ever been given. 

Help her what? Help her ruin her life in five easy steps? 

“You’re looking at the wrong guy, pal,” Stan snapped, jabbing his finger into Waddles’ belly. “I’m not gonna be the kid’s personal shrink.” 

But even Stan’s aggressive poking didn’t faze Waddles, though he’d assumed getting into his space would’ve garnered some sort of negative reaction like Creggy G’s aggressive dancing did. 

Instead, Waddles heaved a worried sigh. 

“At the end of the day, everyone in Sweater Town is just a small part of Mabel. We can’t venture into the Ocean of Reality without being consumed by the bad memories that lurk in its depths. But you’re different from the rest of us. You’re real. And that’s what she needs right now.” 

Stan turned away from Waddles, hand dropping to his side as he faced the Ocean. 

Guess I can’t avoid talking to her if I wanna get out of here…

Cautiously, he put one hand through the raging water. 

It was ice-cold to the touch, and anyone else would’ve recoiled in an instant. 

But Stan wasn’t affected. 

He’d grown used to the cold. This was no different.

“...you’re making a big mistake,” Stan quietly said, though he didn’t know if he was talking to himself or Waddles anymore. 

If the Ocean of Reality really contained all of Mabel’s bad memories, he probably couldn’t avoid seeing them. 

Was he one of those bad memories? He couldn’t blame her after everything that happened tonight. 

“Maybe. She was crying because of you tonight,” Waddles agreed. At least he wasn’t sugarcoating it. “But she’s also willing to give you another chance. She wants to trust you.” 

Trust the guy who trashed her house, scared her half to death, and almost got her arrested? How desperate is this kid? 

“Like I said, a mistake.” 

Stan wasn’t changing his stance on that, though he couldn’t stall his talk with Mabel any longer. 

So he plunged into the Ocean of Reality, leaving Waddles and Sweater Town far behind. 

Chapter Text

Stan used to dream about exploring every ocean in the world. 

Complete freedom, treasure hunting, kissing pretty girls with colorful flowers in their hair, fighting sea monsters, comparing wild stories to other rough and tumble sailors at bars where only the most hardened men hung out, sharing a drink with his nerdy brother on the deck…

But when the half-pirate, half-research boat of his fantasies finally became real, he’d found that sailing into wild, stormy waters wasn’t the daring adventure he thought it would be. 

There’d been leaky holes and broken ropes he couldn’t patch. No proud sail to fly, just a single, sputtering motor. He’d been stuck with a compass that always pointed north for a navigational tool. 

Go west from Anchorage, he once believed. I’ll make it to Siberia eventually. 

Then he died without ever making it to Siberia, and his body became nothing more than fish food on the seafloor. 

Before the light faded away, he’d seen a golden beach with sparkling sea glass and azure waters, a mysterious seaside cave with an old, wrecked boat inside, and a boy with six-fingered hands tugging him forward, eager to discover the mysteries of a secret location only they knew about. 

There’d also been…a voice? 

But Stan couldn’t place it. A man or woman, young or old, someone he knew or didn’t know…it was impossible to tell. 

In the face of Mabel’s chaos, he didn’t have time to reflect on the last moments of his life. 

But now that she wasn’t here to distract him, the silence made him think.

And he wasn’t the thinking type of guy. He solved problems with his fists, and if that failed, he’d run away, letting the issue eat his dust. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to find Mabel by punching the water until it gave her up or wandering aimlessly until he stumbled across her by luck. 

The Ocean of Reality hadn’t taken Mabel by force, though his task might’ve been easier if it had. 

From everything Waddles told him, Mabel chose to hide away here instead of attending the birthday party of her dreams. 

In Stan’s experience, there was no better hider than a kid who didn’t feel like being found. 

Strands of yarn, unfinished art projects, and cotton stuffing drifted along the currents. The sweaters underfoot were soggy and half-buried in sand. 

He peeked through a boarded up window of an old candy shop that must’ve been part of Sweater Town before it was submerged, but he didn’t see anything other than stray pieces of loser candy no kid wanted to eat. 

He tried the remains of a fabric store next, half-expecting to see Mabel playing with the bolts of cloth, but she wasn’t there either. 

She wasn’t at the abandoned boutique or the shell of a house with a washed out rainbow paint job.

Even the playground, a copy of the one in the real world, was empty. 

Stan almost reached for the rusted chains of the swingset, but he thought better of it and walked away before he thoroughly destroyed this one too. 

He walked along the seafloor–among rock formations and paper scraps, faint glimmers of moonlight somewhere far above him. 

The Ocean of Reality, despite its name, didn’t function like a real ocean. He could walk normally instead of swimming, and he didn’t need any breathing gear. The lighting was dim, but he could still see where he was going.

One thing was certain though. This Ocean wasn’t natural, and Stan was ready to leave it behind forever once he found Mabel. 

Maybe he’d have an easier time believing this was part of Mabel’s mind if he’d run into a mermaid princess castle. 

There were no plants or animals here. It was just a whole lot of sand, rocks, and more sand. 

Stan kicked a rock as he walked, unable to find any sign of life no matter how hard he looked for it. Even a crab or a tiny fish would’ve been fine for him. 

Too much silence wasn’t good. If everything went quiet, it just meant there was some unknown danger in the area. 

And against his better judgment, he was heading towards the danger instead of running away from it. 

Not that he had any other choice here.

He’d made up his mind to escape and never see her again. He’d gotten too invested in her life, and it wasn’t the type of investment worth making. 

With a well-placed kick, the rock flew high above the seabed and bounced off an enormous sign in front of a wooden bridge, lodging itself into a tiny gap between slats.

WELCOME TO PIER 39!

The bridge, shops, and ocean-themed decorations appeared out of nowhere. Not even a distant shadow to hint at the existence of something other than sand and rocks. 

Stan knocked on one of the wooden posts lining the bridge. 

Yup, it was solid. 

It was clearly some kind of tourist trap–there were several displays with tacky magnets and keychains, but this was probably the best place to find Mabel. 

Girls liked shopping, didn’t they? 

Marilyn certainly did–well, after she stole Stan’s credit card that he pickpocketed from some guy who’d been too distracted by the slot machines to notice. 

He crossed the bridge, the only sound coming from his footsteps against the planks. 

It was too quiet for a place like this. There should’ve been more people around. 

As much as he wanted to shout Mabel’s name, she’d probably just find a new hiding spot and tuck herself away from the rest of civilization if she knew he’d followed her this far. 

Stan stopped by a large photobooth, his eyes flicking over to the rustling, palm tree-patterned curtain. The sound of popping bubblegum came from within, like the person inside was trying to see how fast they could blow and snap their gum. 

A pair of shoes was visible from the gap under the curtain. 

“Mabel?” Stan said, hastily shoving the barrier aside. 

Only to come face to face with a girl who wasn’t Mabel–her hair and skin and harsh scowl that showed everyone how much she hated existence were all wrong. 

The girl jumped to her feet, and she spat a large wad of bubblegum into her hand. 

“Eat this, brat!” she snapped, lobbing the gum at Stan’s head.

His feet frozen in place, all Stan could do was brace himself for the hit…yet he never felt the humiliation or stickiness of gum mixed into his greasy hair. 

A string of bubbles floated where the gum should’ve landed. They dissipated into the ocean, leaving no trace behind. 

The girl was gone too. 

An outline of bubbles in a vague human shape floated where she once stood. 

Stan reached into the booth, the bubbles popping around his hand, but nothing remained except for a single photo reel in the slot under the screen. 

Mabel was sitting alone, though she was off to the side like there should’ve been someone else occupying the empty space next to her. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and her only pose was a low effort V-sign with her fingers. 

Pink wads of chewed gum covered every inch of her hair. 

Then the current lifted the reel out of the slot, carrying it into the distance.

With nothing else for him here, Stan kept moving until he was in the hub of Pier 39. 

To his left, there was a seafood restaurant with nobody working or dining in it. In front, a merry-go-round surrounded by carnival games, but with no kids riding the horses or guys trying to win giant bears for their girlfriends. And all around, souvenir stores with no salesmen enticing customers to buy their merchandise. 

A flash of lightning. The roar of thunder. A tinny voice on a loudspeaker somewhere, urging the nonexistent crowd to find shelter somewhere. 

A thunderstorm couldn’t affect the seafloor. He was too deep to be hit by lightning or tossed around by the waves. 

But the ocean insistently tugged at Stan’s jacket, threatening to pull it off if he didn’t hang onto it properly. Quickly, he zipped up the jacket and threw on his hood, pulling the strings as tight as they would go so the current couldn’t blow it away. 

All his instincts told him to go into hiding and wait until the storm died down before he began searching for Mabel again, but he couldn’t afford to wait around. He couldn’t stay trapped in her mind forever. 

“Ugh, why did we bother coming at all? We’re way too old for this place,” a white merry-go-round horse complained in a girl’s voice. Her mane and tail were styled into yellow ponytails, and colorful bands decorated her legs. She tossed her head with disdain. 

Yeah, I really need to get the hell outta here, Stan thought. 

“Maybe, but at least Mabel’s spending time with us for once. She’s been so moody it’s hard to be around her sometimes,” said a black horse with a witch’s hat pulled low over her eyes. “And not the fun kind of moody either.”

The white horse snorted. “We could’ve just gone to the mall.”

“She had to consider the boys.” The black horse rolled her eyes. “You know her. Ever the people pleaser.” 

Stan slipped away before either teenage girl in a merry-go-round horse body caught him eavesdropping. 

This was too weird, even for him. 

He stuck to the shadows under the upper deck. Though the creatures of Mabel’s mind didn’t seem to have anything against intruders, the rules could be different in the Ocean of Reality, and he wasn’t about to push his luck. 

It wasn’t a guarantee that the bubblegum girl, the merry-go-round horses, and whoever else was here would be as welcoming as the residents of Sweater Town.

One wrong move, and he’d be thrown out by whatever authorities existed in Mabel’s head before he could blink. 

It was strange though. Back in Sweater Town, nobody had anything bad to say about Mabel. She was a beloved celebrity to them, and she'd still be admired even if she committed cold-blooded murder.

The voices of those gossiping horses didn’t have the same cartoony feel as everyone from Sweater Town though. 

They sounded way too real, and maybe the bubblegum girl was the same. 

However Mabel knew them, their words must’ve haunted her a lot. She probably didn’t want to be anywhere near them, so Stan resigned himself to a long search. 

He leaned against a wooden column with a sigh. 

“This ain’t what they meant by being alone with your thoughts, kid,” Stan muttered, running a hand down his face in frustration. 

This place was huge. Stan had already passed dozens of great hiding places for a kid to tuck themselves away and ignore the world around them. 

Hell, if he could fit into those spots he might’ve tried to do the same.

She couldn’t be on the upper deck, despite the presence of an ice cream store and other fun things that attracted kids.

Stan knocked the back of his head against the column, annoyed that he couldn’t feel even the smallest flash of pain from that hit.  

He’d walked practically the whole length of Pier 39! What, did some mermaid prince drag her down to his underwater castle? 

If that was the case, Stan was just gonna have to kidnap her or something. Though he’d have to put some tape over the kid’s mouth first. She was a screamer. 

No point in standing around and asking himself a bunch of dumb questions though. 

So he combed through Pier 39 again, deliberately going against the strong current’s flow. Didn’t matter if he was spotted anymore. Just punch them and move on, maybe shake them down for any information on Mabel’s whereabouts. 

Entertainment was a bust, so Stan moved onto the tourism area. He stopped in front of a kiosk filled with brochures on all the offered tours–whale watching, Alcatraz, San Francisco sightseeing…really, Mabel could’ve snuck onto any of these to get away from her problems. 

Yeah…sounded appealing enough. 

It’s what I would’ve done. 

Then somebody’s hand plucked a whale-watching brochure from the kiosk. 

Stan jumped, fist clenched in the beginning of a left hook. He shouldn’t have gotten distracted, he shouldn’t have let his guard down–he couldn’t find Mabel if the Ocean of Reality decided to use Alcatraz for its original purpose and throw him into a cell for trespassing…not that there was any prison out there that was completely escape-proof, but it would’ve set Stan’s progress back by a lot. 

Without thinking, Stan threw a punch at the stranger’s face…and a cane blocked his fist at the last possible second. 

“That was close,” the stranger said, unbothered by the sudden attack as he lowered his cane–and Stan’s fist by extension, to a less threatening position by their waists. “Could’ve been a bad accident.” 

Stan took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to run away now that he had confirmation that he could be seen. He didn’t trust this old man’s smile, his polo shirt, or the friendly attitude even after Stan nearly clocked him. 

In Stan’s experience, that sort of casualness just meant he’d greatly offended the big boss, who was just hiding his grudge until he was ready to order some goons to put enough holes in Stan’s body to make a cheese grater jealous. 

The old man, who had several strands of gray hair sticking up in the back even though the rest was combed neatly, only chuckled at Stan as he skimmed through the whale-watching brochure.

Stan was torn between running for his afterlife and trying to figure out where he’d seen the old man’s face before–he knew he had, even though he couldn’t place it. 

“Got some real animal lovers in the family,” the old man said cheerfully, not paying any mind to Stan’s lack of contribution. He pocketed the brochure. “Think my wife would appreciate a more relaxing activity. And my granddaughter’s sure to love the photos. I’ll have to take enough to fill one of her scrapbooks.” 

Stan looked away. He didn’t want to hear anything about family from some old geezer, even though he spoke fondly of them. 

“Who’s your granddaughter?” Stan asked, though he had a feeling he knew exactly what the answer would be.

The old man handed Stan a photo. It was the same picture of Mabel and her brother that he’d seen in her bedroom. 

Stan stared down at their smiling faces in disbelief. 

Nobody bothered hiding the Pines surname in Mabel’s house. It had been displayed on the walls with pride. 

Stan ignored it as best he could, convinced himself that it was Price or Bines or something else that looked similar to Pines and his eyes were still as shitty as they were in life, but now that Mabel’s mind gave him photographic proof, there was no denying it to himself any longer.   

His hand grew clammy, and he quickly gave the photo back. 

“Shermie…” Stan felt like he was going to faint. “How the fuck are you older than Pa?”

Shermie just chuckled, like he found Stan’s question more amusing than irritating. 

God, he’d only seen Shermie once in the last few years (decades?), sometime after he got back from Vietnam. 

Stan never knew Shermie returned. He’d only heard whispers and rumors about the war during his travels, catching stray pieces of news from crappy cable in motels–if the motels got any cable at all, and from the radio in the Stanleymobile if he was driving through a place with any semblance of reception.

Sometimes he listened in–maybe Shermie’s name would come up, for better or for worse, but it was one of the few connections he had left to New Jersey. 

Except Shermie’s name never came up. Not in heroics or disgrace, not as a leader’s name of a platoon, and not as a casualty of war. 

But Shermie’s problems weren’t Stan’s problems. He’d stopped keeping up the news–it wasn’t relevant unless they were reporting Stan’s crimes under his many aliases–and focused on staying alive long enough to pay back his debt to the family. 

Then Shermie visited. 

No family ever visited Stan in jail before, and he wished it stayed that way. 

“I want to help you, Stanley,” Shermie said as he limped towards Stan in his cell, ignoring the guard’s warning about prohibiting physical contact between inmate and visitor. 

Shermie’s eyes were hollow, his voice meek and not at all how a man should sound when he was making demands.

Stan violently wrenched his shoulder away from Shermie’s hand, backing up to his rock-hard bunk far away from his older brother. 

“Help?” Stan spat bitterly. “I don’t need your fucking help, asshole. And shove your pity up there while you’re at it, cause I have no idea who this Stanley person is. I’m Eightball Alcatraz, so get it right or you ain’t worth my time.” 

Shermie’s face pinched, giving Stan that same long-suffering expression that everyone else always did when they dealt with him for too long.

“You’re driving Ma to an early grave,” Shermie snapped, bracing his right knee on the bars, and the fake goodwill was finally gone. “You and Ford both.” 

Then Stan hurled his pillow at Shermie’s face, and the visit was declared over. 

Now that he was face to face with Shermie again, Stan didn’t know what to think of him. 

He was friendly instead of angry, cheerful instead of looking like a kid got murdered right in front of him.

This wasn’t the real Shermie, or there’d be a lot more screaming and violent threats involved.

“That’s right,” fake-Shermie said, like he could read Stan’s mind. “You must have a different image of me than Mabel. To her, I’m an old man who yells at baseball players on TV and brings her gifts for every special occasion.” 

Stan grabbed the Alcatraz brochure from the kiosk, feigning interest in Al Capone’s photo and avoiding eye contact with fake-Shermie. 

The real Shermie never would’ve allowed himself to get this soft. He was the eldest son, the one who took responsibility for everything. Next to Pa, he was the one tasked with getting Stan in line, even though he was too busy with a war and his own family to really accomplish anything with Stan. 

Couldn’t Shermie see it? He had his wife and a young kid to take care of. The only son who would’ve remained close to home, to Ma, and to the shop if he hadn’t been shipped overseas.

And Stan was just a lost cause–at best, a charity case to be taken care of by people who saw him as a prop to make themselves look good. 

“...you’re old enough to ride dinosaurs,” Stan said uselessly, still hung up on the gray hair and cane and wrinkles. 

Fake-Shermie smiled, taking Stan’s comment in stride. The real Shermie would’ve acted a lot more insulted. 

It would’ve been so much easier if Shermie insulted Stan back. 

“I guess I am,” Fake-Shermie agreed, stuffing the brochure into his lapel. “Wanna come along for this tour? It’ll be fun.” 

Stan scowled at him. The Shermie he knew would’ve drowned himself in the ocean long before letting him and Ford tag along with his buddies, no matter how many ‘but you’re family’ lectures Ma gave him. 

“Not a tourist type.” Stan said, refusing fake-Shermie’s offered handshake. And yet again, fake-Shermie wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by Stan’s attitude. “Just gonna look around for a while, I guess. Real easy to get lost in this place.” 

Fake-Shermie didn’t take offense. He just accepted Stan’s refusal with a nod of his head. 

“True. The ocean can be overwhelming even if you’re used to it,” he said. “But if you ever feel lost–or if you need to find something you lost, I’ve always found that the beginning is the best place to start.” 

Stan opened his mouth, ready to snap back at the unwanted advice when the currents picked up–faster, stronger, and more insistent than before. 

It swirled around his clothes, lifting Stan several feet above the dock. Stan punched at the water instinctively, the loss of control over his body terrifying, but even the best boxers in the world couldn’t beat the seas into submission. 

“Shermie?” Stan cried out, unable to grab anything to keep the Ocean of Reality from spiriting him away. He punched and kicked and thrashed, but there was nothing he could do against the current by himself. “Shermie, help!”

But Shermie stayed where he was. He didn’t lift a finger, nor was he alarmed by the ocean taking Stan away. 

“Don’t worry, Stan,” he said with a traitorous smile, hands resting on his cane. “I’m sure you’ll find whatever you lost.” 

The ocean shoved Stan’s back, carrying him far away from Shermie, who was soon out of sight. 

“Hey, I’m not done talking to that asshole yet!” Stan yelled, though the water couldn’t reply back. His punches and kicks didn’t slow him down in the slightest, and while he knew he couldn’t do a damn thing to the Ocean of Reality, it didn’t stop him from assaulting the place out of spite. 

Stan’s stomach dropped as the current switched to carrying him by the hood, leaving his arms to dangle awkwardly. 

It was a long way down to even the tallest of the wooden structures below him, and though Stan entertained the idea of letting his arms slip out of his jacket and plummeting a thousand feet to his…whatever came after death below, the water pressure suddenly forced him to look straight ahead. 

At the very edge of Pier 39, a dark, cavernous abyss stretched off into the horizon, sucking all the light from the tourist attractions and leaving nothing but emptiness behind. 

The jagged, rocky walls left no place to climb up for anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. 

There were tiny boats docked along the border of Pier 39 and the abyss, but none of them were seaworthy. Black ink weighed the boats down, punching holes through their hulls and breaking them apart until they were nothing but scrap. 

And the only splash of color in the void was that of a lone, bright pink figure at the end of a long pier extending far beyond the seabed. 

“Mabel…” Stan murmured. Nobody else in the world wore such an eyecatching shade of pink. It was impossible for her to be anybody else. 

You can’t get more confusing than this, braces. Big birthday celebration back there and all you wanna do is stand on the pier like a weirdo. 

There was only one reason why someone would come all the way out here, alone and without telling anybody else. 

Stan knew the type. He’d met plenty of them. But he kept his head down, said nothing, did nothing. Once someone got to the brink, that was it for them. They didn’t want to be saved, so there was no point in trying. 

Better to let them go. Best to let the misery end than force them to suffer through life. 

This is all in Mabel’s head. It’s not real. 

At most, a fall would just startle her awake. It wasn’t going to hurt her, unlike the real world.

Mabel had way too much energy to burn. She threw sharp weapons into people’s eyes and let her jerk cat get away with everything cause she thought he was cute. She didn’t understand the concept of ‘leave me alone’ and screamed way too loud to the detriment of his eardrums. 

She couldn’t possibly be thinking of suicide. 

Especially not on her birthday of all days.

“Let go,” Stan snapped as he tried to take his hood back from the Ocean, but it had a firm hold and wasn’t releasing him for shit. He hated heights, but he couldn’t care less about falling a thousand feet now. 

They weren’t moving anymore. Now he was just dangling inches away from the border, where the tourist attractions ended and the abyss began.

The entrance to the long pier was right below him. He had to get there, whatever it took. 

“I’m going after Mabel whether you like it or not.” Stan forcefully kicked the water, and he felt himself drop a few inches. “So just try and stop me.”  

The water held him in place, and Stan felt an upward tug on his hood, like it decided to take him even further away from Mabel. 

Stan’s fist clenched, ready to browbeat it into doing what he wanted regardless of how stupid it was to try and fight nature. 

Then the Ocean shimmered with a strange pink light, gently taking Stan down to the seabed, depositing him on the edge of the abyss. 

“That’s what I thought,” Stan scowled, defiantly flipping his hood over his head. He held it in place out of stubbornness in case the Ocean tried to snatch him up again.

But before he could take his first step above the abyss, a pair of tridents clashed in front of him, blocking his path. 

Stan glared at the dolphin and sturgeon in his way. They held the tridents in their fins, leaving no room for Stan to duck underneath the sharp ends. 

“Nothing exists beyond this point,” the dolphin chirped, adjusting his white captain’s hat. “Turn back if you wish to continue your existence.” 

But while the dolphin was willing to give Stan a chance to leave on his own, the sturgeon’s bulging eye bored right into Stan. The other eye was missing, and the scales that surrounded its ugly snout were heavily scarred. Green, scraggly seaweed grew all over its body. 

“Yer trespassin’,” the sturgeon growled. “We oughta skewer ye where ye stand.”

Ugh, do they have to remind me of those really annoying smugglers I got stuck with in Panama? 

He didn’t have time for all this bullshit. 

Stan shoved his way past them, flipping them off for good measure. “Murder me all you want. Not gonna make a difference.”

The sturgeon cursed him out in return, but it didn’t try to follow Stan onto the pier. 

He thought this place would’ve been in disarray with missing planks, rotting wood, and barnacles that cut into people’s feet like the piers at Glass Shard Beach had been. 

While it wasn’t the most well-kept pier out there, it wasn’t on the verge of falling apart either. 

And when Stan looked closely, there were faded drawings etched into the wood. A hopscotch board, games of tic-tac-toe that were comically lopsided in one person’s favor, and cartoony sketches of animals. 

Running across a bottomless pit was a little less daunting when he had a million drawings of art pieces labeled ‘caticatures’ to keep him company during his crossing. 

Whispers came out of the darkness, warning him to turn back or face the consequences, but Stan shut them all out. He didn’t listen to the dolphin and sturgeon back there, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna listen to any more attempts to dissuade him from seeing Mabel. 

“Don’t give me that look, Jacob! She’s like this because you’re barely home, and when you are, you never make time for her without thinking about that stupid company!” 

“‘That stupid company’ will make the money that’ll set her and Dipper up for life! Even if she wants to pursue something useless like art, at least she won’t struggle financially! So don’t point your finger at me when you always act like she’s still in preschool!”  

Ahead of Stan, two merfolk were locked in an intense argument. They took up the entire walkway, blocking Stan’s path. With a flick of her pink tail, the mermaid turned her back on the merman, long hair fanning out and smacking him in the face.

Jacob sputtered and reached for her shoulder.

“Rebecca, can’t we talk about this?” he asked, only to be thrown off with an angry shrug.

Rebecca crossed her arms, refusing to turn around and face the merman. 

And Stan was rooted to the spot, unable to follow the sudden urge to find a place where he didn’t have to listen to them argue. His body abided by the old, kid-like thought of ‘if I pretend I’m not here, they won’t notice me’. 

They’re Mabel’s parents. They’ve gotta be, the way they talk about her…

The merfolk thing must’ve been an invention of the Ocean of Reality. They were probably normal people with 9-5 jobs in their daily lives, not magical creatures like in Mabel’s fantasy. 

But the way they dismissed all the art around them, how Jacob acted like Mabel was gonna be a financial failure years down the road if she didn’t choose a different path…

A vague memory of Lil’ Stanley and his own childish attempt to launch his cartoonist career started to rise, but Stan quickly shoved it back down. 

Whatever. That stupid strip was doomed to fail anyway. 

He still mourned the extra pocket money he could’ve gotten from it though. 

“Can’t you just listen to me, Becky?” Jacob snapped. “If you didn’t coddle Mabel so much, maybe Uncle Ford would’ve accepted her at the Institute along with Dipper. She could’ve been just as smart if you didn’t fill her head with nonsense.”

Everyone looks stupid compared to Ford. It’s not her damn fault. 

Then Stan remembered the newspaper cutout posted above the bed belonging to Dipper. Though he’d been shocked to learn that Ford was world-famous, he put it out of his mind. Let Ford live the life of a rich and famous scientist if that’s what he wanted, it wasn’t Stan’s business anymore.  

But he couldn’t ignore that headline any longer. 

North of Normal and West of Weird. Stanford Pines and Some Weird Guy’s Name Open the International Institute of Oddology…is that why I haven’t seen Dipper? Because Ford’s letting him go to his nerd school? 

Stan crossed his arms, looking for a way past the merfolk without drawing their attention, but neither of them budged. 

He was done. He didn’t need to listen to any more of this conversation. He’d gotten the gist already. 

Dipper and Mabel go to school. 

Dipper did something impressive enough to be accepted to a famous science school run by the great Dr. Stanford Pines. 

Dipper leaves for the better school, barely sparing a thought or a glance at the sibling he left behind. 

Then Rebecca’s expression hardened. She wasn’t happy about Dipper leaving either. 

“You sent my little lamby away,” she said coldly, throwing a business card behind her without bothering to look. “I’m finished with you, Jacob Pines.”

Jacob stared down at the business card he barely caught in time, his jaw dropping in horror. 

“A divorce lawyer?” he cried out, but Rebecca was already swimming away, retreating into the abyss where she’d never have to see him again. “But I just set up our marriage counseling appointment! You can’t jump the gun like this! Becky? Becky, get back here!” 

He shot off in pursuit, his tail fin and voice fading into the darkness below. 

Even though his path was no longer blocked, Stan still couldn’t move. 

What if they came back? What would they say to him if they noticed he’d overheard everything? 

Questions never led anywhere good. It only led him to answers he never wanted to hear, weird thoughts he never wanted to confront. 

Don’t say anything. Don’t wonder about marriage problems he had nothing to do with. Don’t think about Mabel’s actions tonight and how much they made sense now.

Move. Find Mabel. And…leave? 

Yeah, that’s what he needed to do. 

Put those fish-eaters out of his mind. From here, there was only one way to go. 

Mabel was close. She had to be. 

Stan walked on, and the art surrounding him became rougher and sketchy, half-hearted and unfinished. 

Scribbles of animals that were partially colored in. People whose limbs were never drawn. Countless pieces of scrap paper were scattered at Stan’s feet. He avoided the broken pencils, snapped crayons, and unraveled yarn threatening to trip him up.   

A math test with a big fat F in the corner. An essay with a giant red slash running across the page. A flyer with an announcement for a new school uniform policy. 

And a soggy, yellowing page of a half-circle with incomprehensible symbols and lines connecting to a partial triangle. 

Not even the most confusing of algebra assignments screamed danger like this.

Stan only cracked open the journal once, on his way to Anchorage after vowing to never involve himself with Ford’s bullshit again, but he’d only skimmed through the pages for ten seconds before slamming it shut and tossing it onto the seat so he could ignore its existence for the rest of the drive. 

But even in that short time, a single page stuck out in his memory, one of shapes and symbols that provided no assurance of Ford’s sanity. Black blotches of ink crossed over the drawings in a poor attempt to cover them up. 

So why was it here, in Mabel’s mind, of all places? 

Ford would’ve jumped straight to accusations, though Stan figured that Mabel just saw it when she opened the journal. Like Stan, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. But even if she couldn’t do anything about it, having this knowledge put her in danger. 

He quickly ripped the page into confetti, casting the pieces off the pier and into the darkness below.

He watched from this great height, trying to ignore his old fear so he could be sure the page wouldn’t shoot out of the darkness and magically stitch itself together. 

Then a familiar, piercing cry surged through the Ocean of Reality, blowing back volumes of water as Stan gripped the railing for balance. 

“STAY AWAY FROM MY BROTHER!” 

Stan let go of the rail in an instant, rushing to the source of the voice before his brain caught up to the rest of him.

The Ocean of Reality shoved him back with the force of a thousand waterfalls, but Stan stubbornly pushed through the spray. 

He didn’t care what the depths of Mabel’s mind wanted to prevent him from seeing. 

It might’ve been Mabel’s way of protecting herself, of telling Stan to shove off so she could handle it alone, but that was the sort of raw, desperate cry a person gave when they were trying to puff themselves up to be more intimidating but really didn’t have the strength to back it up. 

Well, he was used to being the hired muscle. This really wasn’t any different. 

Stan burst through the waterfall, right in front of two kids who didn’t even notice his intrusion. Mabel looked the same as she did in the real world–same obnoxiously pink sweater, same long brown hair with a cowlick in the back. The only new accessory was a seashell bracelet tied around her wrist. 

She stood protectively in front of a boy who wore a similar seashell bracelet on his wrist. 

Dipper. 

He looked just like her…and just like a young Ford, sans the frames that always seemed too big for his face. 

And like Ford, his eyes shone with dangerous curiosity–a feeling that Mabel didn’t reciprocate. 

Their attention was entirely focused on a giant shadow looming over the end of the pier. Its featureless face looked down on the twins from a hundred feet up, like they were barely worth its notice. 

There was no barrier here. It was all open. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

“Hey, get away from there!” Stan shouted, but neither twin responded to his warning.

Stan gritted his teeth, left hand curling into a fist. He didn’t know if punching would work on a shadow, but he didn’t have any other options. He’d just have to do it, and if nothing else, he could stall just long enough for the kids to get away from the danger. 

But before he could commit to yet another terrible decision, the shadow’s hand hovered over the kids for just a moment before coming to rest at the edge of the pier. Its palm faced up, the shadow standing motionless, patiently waiting for the twins to make their move.

Dipper and Mabel stared warily at the shadow’s long fingers–six fingers, Stan realized.  

Here in Mabel’s Ocean of Reality, he looked like an ocean god from the depths where the sun would never reach, enticing the young twins into giving themselves up for his own selfish curiosity. 

Ford’s shadow was barely human at all. He wore the general shape of one, but he was a hundred feet tall and had no other defining features other than his six fingers. 

You barely know Ford at all, kid…

Once upon a time, it might’ve been an accusation. Stan would’ve spitefully spat upon Crampelter or any other bully who tried to pick on Ford, even though Ford hadn’t done anything but live in the same shitty town as them. 

But now, Stan understood that even he didn’t truly know his own brother either. 

The paranoid recluse was now a world-renowned genius, and that’s probably the only role that Mabel ever knew for him. 

Stan highly doubted Ford had gotten any better about keeping in touch with his family over the years, or talking to people without sounding like he was lecturing babies.  

And now the youngest members of the family were acting like Ford was the boogeyman. 

Stan couldn’t blame them. 

Then Mabel’s alarmed cry shook Stan out of his stupor. 

“Ow, quit it, Dipper!” Mabel protested as Dipper pushed back against her protective stance. “Hold on, where the heck are you going?”

But Dipper didn’t reply, his eyes fixated on Ford’s shadow. He was so fascinated that he wouldn’t even respond to his own twin. 

“Dipper?” Mabel tried, repeating herself like a broken record as Dipper broke away from her. She grabbed his hand, trying to forcefully pull him away from Ford’s shadow, but she only succeeded in sliding the seashell bracelet off his wrist. 

There she stood, stunned and speechless, while Dipper eagerly climbed onto the shadow’s six-fingered hand. 

He didn’t even notice the missing bracelet. 

And his twin’s distress meant nothing to him either. 

Ford’s giant hand lifted Dipper off the pier, who showed no fear as he was carried out into the open water. His attention was all on the boy on his palm, soaking up all of his admiration. 

“Guys? Hey, what about me? I’m still here!” Mabel yelled, waving Dipper’s bracelet in the air. “You forgot your bracelet! I made it for you! Come back!”

Though she cried out with every bit of air in her lungs, she went unheard and ignored. 

Ford’s shadow lumbered into the depths, taking Dipper away until he was beyond their sight. 

And Mabel was left behind, standing at the very edge of the pier, begging and screaming for anyone to notice her existence.  

Then she fell silent, quietly watching the open water as if they’d turn around and come back for her. 

She didn’t notice Stan’s presence. 

But he’d seen everything. He couldn’t relax his fist, even though Ford’s shadow was long gone. 

It’s happening again. Nobody in this family changed a damn bit. 

At least Stan had been a few months shy of adulthood when Ford quit talking to him. But Mabel? 

She was nowhere close to that. 

Was everyone really so blind to everything going on with her? 

Stan opened his mouth, finally making up his mind about revealing himself, just as Mabel turned around and backed away from the edge. Her head was hung low, strands of hair escaping the confines of her headband and floating loosely around her face. 

Then she paused, tilting her head to the ocean surface. Her eyes were full of stubborn determination. 

It was the sort of determination that led every Pines family member to trouble. 

Then Mabel spun on her heel, shoes thundering on rotten wood as she sprinted towards the open ocean with all her might. 

With only a split second to make his decision, Stan ran after her in pursuit, throwing himself forward just as she leapt off the edge. 

He dove onto his stomach, somehow snagging the neck of Mabel’s sweater between his fingers without falling from the pier. 

But the kid wasn’t going quietly. She screeched to the heavens as she dangled several hundred feet over the abyss. 

“LET GO! I HAVE TO GO AFTER DIPPER!” Mabel screamed, violently thrashing in Stan’s grasp. She was still clinging to Dipper’s forgotten bracelet. 

Mabel began slipping through the fabric, every desperate kick only worsening her already precarious situation. 

Stan braced himself against the pier. Mabel was gonna get roughed up a bit, but any outcome where she didn’t fall was good enough for him.

Now her sweater was halfway off, exposing her plain t-shirt underneath. Mabel shivered and clung to her only lifeline, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. 

The chill must’ve snapped her out of doing the most reckless thing she could’ve possibly done. 

Her struggles were weaker now, her voice raspy and tiny. All she could do was cling. 

And the sight of her exhausted tears…well, Stan quickly put it out of his mind. He had other concerns at the moment. 

“Mabel, look up here,” he said. It took a moment, but Mabel’s red-rimmed eyes finally met his. He was the only thing preventing the Ocean of Reality from consuming her alive, yet Mabel’s breath hitched from uncertainty. She couldn’t be sure of that when she’d been in danger in the short time they’d known each other, though she couldn’t afford to be picky now. “I’m gonna haul you up now. Don’t let go.” 

Her body had gone so limp that it was a wonder she was following Stan’s instructions at all. 

But Mabel’s jump had been a last-ditch attempt to make herself seen, and now she’d driven herself to the point of exhaustion. 

It was the only reason she was letting Stan pull her to safety. 

Slowly, Stan stood up and planted his feet on the edge, his firmer stance making it much easier to hang onto the sweater that was slowly becoming a rope with a strange, yarn-like consistency. 

As long as it held Mabel’s weight, he wasn’t gonna complain. 

With one last, enormous tug from Stan’s end, Mabel finally climbed back onto the pier. Her sweater was in tatters, and without it, she seemed much smaller than before. 

She was breathing hard, her eyes wide as she looked up at Stan. Her face drained of all color as she inched away from him. The pier’s edge was just behind her, and she was just about ready to jump again from sheer fright. 

Stan heaved a sigh. 

God, I know I’m gonna regret this…

Slowly, he sat down on the pier’s edge, dangling his legs over the steep drop. Getting up and close and personal like this, it wasn’t anything new for Stan. He’d stared down churning waters, dirty city streets, and sharp rocks from high above plenty of times before. 

Sometimes, he imagined falling. Disappearing off the face of the earth. 

Leaving no trace behind. 

Maybe Rico’s gang would fire guns in celebration, or the IRS agent stalking him would lament the taxes they couldn’t squeeze out of him anymore. 

And Ford…would he ever know that he was gone?

Probably not. But even if he found out, whether through a headline in the news or the authorities, he wouldn’t care as long as his research was preserved. 

It’s what mattered more to him than family. 

And Dipper…from what little Stan learned about him, he could tell the boy had an enormous, deep-rooted admiration for Ford. To the point that he’d do as Ford had done years before, abandoning his own twin without a second thought. 

And now Stan had a crying, heartbroken kid on his hands. 

“It’s not…it’s just not fair!” Mabel yelled, wringing the seashell bracelet in her hands. “I gave him the bracelet this time, and he still left me behind! I-I knew I should’ve used more of the twisty ones…”

She wiped her nose with the tattered sleeve of her sweater. 

Well, at least she didn’t seem to think of him as the biggest threat in the ocean anymore. He’d take it. 

Stan rested his hand on his chin, gaze fixated on a point far into the ocean. He was starting to make a breakthrough with her, and he wasn’t about to spoil it with direct eye contact. “No idea what you’re talking about, kiddo.” 

Mabel hesitated for a moment, then slipped Dipper’s bracelet onto her wrist, just above her matching one. She scooted closer, offering Stan a better look. 

He almost shoved Mabel away by the head again, but since that didn’t turn out well for him last time, he stuffed his hands in his pockets instead. 

And to think, he wasn’t the twin who had a whole mental hang-up about hands.  

“...I gave Dipper a sweater before he left,” she admitted, like she’d just confessed to kicking a puppy. “He said he liked it, but now…I think I should’ve gone with the bracelet instead. He…he might’ve stayed if I did.” 

He might’ve cared if I sailed far away and buried the journal where nobody could ever find it. 

Stan buried that thought six feet under, surrounded by concrete and barbed wire. 

“So what’s the big deal? A sweater’s not a bad gift. Sounds like your brother isn’t turning into an icicle anytime soon. A bracelet’s not gonna do that for him.” Though Stan tried to keep his tone light and flippant, Mabel still wasn’t receptive. “Especially not bracelets with all those fake shells.” 

Mabel’s eyes could’ve burned another hole in Stan if she had Captain Nazi-Puncher’s heat vision. 

“They’re not fake!” she snapped. “The shopkeeper said they’re special seashells imported all the way from Seychelles! And if you give them to someone you care about, they’ll be blessed with love and will never, ever get divorced or run off to some dumb school without you…hey, give ‘em back!” 

She lunged at Stan, trying to take back the bracelets he’d swiped from her wrist while she spewed out a bunch of stuff that sounded way too good to be true, but he blocked her with one shoulder. 

“That’s the biggest load of crock I’ve ever heard, braces,” Stan scoffed.

He heard a muffled ‘you’re a big load of crock!’ from Mabel, who accidentally fell face-first into his hood when she tried to climb over him as she tried to take back her bracelets, though he tried to ignore how weird it was to have somebody pushing against his back when he wasn’t supposed to feel anything there in the first place. 

“Look closer,” Stan said, dislodging Mabel from his back. He kept one eye on her hands in case she tried to stab him with a knitting needle again. She crawled around his side, and Stan tried to focus on the bracelets instead of her hands pushing down on his knee. “Real shells are gonna be a lot rougher and worn than this plastic crap.” 

He tossed her the bracelets, but Mabel didn’t make a move to catch them. She just let them bounce off her cheek. 

“...so it was all just one big fat lie?” she asked, fingers digging into Stan’s knee like that was supposed to make that dumb blessing story come true. 

“You said it, kid,” Stan replied. “Not me.” 

He’d run plenty of similar scams before. People had a problem, he offered a quick fix with his products, people bought said products, and by the time they realized the products fell apart without fixing their problems, Stan and their money were long gone. 

Sure, he knew when something sounded too good to be true. He’d learned to tell when someone was lying through their teeth and making offers that were more appealing than a juicy steak.

Yet he took a gamble on the offer anyway. 

For a quick fix. For edible flour and gas money and a motel room. 

Betting everything on a ratty postcard, going all-in for a chance to talk to his brother again, and not remembering that the house always won until it was too late. 

“That shopkeeper said things you wanted to hear,” Stan said as he watched Mabel rip up the bracelets and chuck the pieces into the current. “And you fell for it. Hook, line, and slinker.” 

She didn’t try to argue back. All she could do was think way too hard about things she couldn’t change despite her best efforts. 

Then Mabel leaned against Stan’s side, her tears completely spent. She was past the point of crying now, her eyes wide open yet unfocused. 

It was worse than being treated like a jungle gym. 

How desperate was this kid, to be seeking comfort from a dead stranger instead of running to her living family for it? 

Mabel’s head rested against his rib cage, her tiny body tucked under his arm. Stan couldn’t work up the nerve to shove her away. If he tried, she might break entirely. 

She should’ve been cold as ice, surrounded by all this ocean. 

Yet she was still warm as a star. 

“H-hey,” Mabel said awkwardly, after a long period of silence. She turned her head, gazing up at Stan with still just a hint of fear in her eyes. “I…I’m just so, so mad at my dumb brother right now…I guess I sorta took it out on you. I’m really sorry for getting you caught up in my stupid mess.” 

It was never her fault though. 

Looked like Shermie and Ford never pulled their shit together, and Mabel was getting all the consequences for no damn reason. 

Mabel was right. 

It wasn’t fair, but the world wasn’t gonna do her any favors just cause she cried and raged and screamed her lungs out about it. 

Stan had done all three of those things, along with plenty of crime as a petty form of revenge, and look where it got him. 

He was dead cause he couldn’t stop fucking up his life. One bad decision after another, no money to make up his debt to the family, everybody he ever met coming and going in the blink of an eye. No face ever stuck around for long, because they all took advantage of Stan and left him in the dust, if he didn’t rob them blind first. 

I have to get outta here. Run for the hills and never look back. Mabel’s just gotta learn how to deal with it on her own. 

But as a kid, he hadn’t been up against the world by himself. He used to have a reason to fight back, a twin to help him accomplish his dream of sailing the ocean. 

Beside him, Mabel was getting restless. She’d stopped leaning against him, and she snuck uncertain glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, toying with a tassel on her sweater.

He’d been silent too long.  

“Hey…I just remembered something,” Stan quickly said, to fill in the awkwardness before Mabel fully committed to blaming herself. He put one hand behind his back, copying that magic trick he’d seen in Sweater Town. The Ocean of Reality was still part of Mabel’s mind, and just like he assumed, the trick worked perfectly here. “Your pal Porky back there, he wanted you to have this. Since you insisted on missing your own birthday party and all.” 

From behind his back, he pulled out a single, chocolate cupcake with pink frosting in the same shade as Mabel’s sweater. 

Nothing fancy on it like rainbow sprinkles or cherries, but Mabel’s jaw dropped open anyway. 

Waddles hadn’t actually asked Stan to give her a cupcake, but giving him the credit wasn’t gonna hurt anyone. 

“Are you sure?” Mabel asked as Stan dropped the cupcake into her hand. Though her stomach rumbled loudly, she only stared down at the cupcake in uncertainty. “It looks amazing, but-” 

“-but you better eat it before I take it back and don’t leave a single crumb for you,” Stan finished for her. 

At his threat, Mabel devoured the cupcake. 

It ain’t much, but this’ll probably make her birthday suck a little less. Who wants to be reminded they’re one year closer to death and paying taxes? 

Mabel licked the frosting off her fingers, chocolate crumbs and pink smudges framing her mouth. Judging from the humming noises she was making, it must’ve tasted good. 

Within seconds, the cupcake was completely gone. Even the wrapper was licked clean. 

And Mabel flashed the biggest smile that Stan had seen from her all night, stretching from ear to ear and exposing both sets of chocolate-stained braces. 

“Thanks a bunch, mullet guy!” she exclaimed, snickering behind her hands as Stan frowned at her.  

Again with the damn mullet! Couldn’t she just let him hold onto the extremely tiny shreds of dignity he had left?  

“Really?” Stan complained, shoving Mabel’s shoulder in retaliation. She only laughed harder. “I come all the way out here, and what do I get in return? Nothing but a weird nickname!” 

But it was worth it. Mabel could call him anything she wanted, and even the most insulting nickname would’ve been worth hearing. 

She should’ve spent her birthday smiling, laughing, and not having to worry about family who were too blind to see how much they were hurting her. 

Instead, here she was at the world’s worst party venue, celebrating with a ghost who wasn’t here by choice. 

Mabel dropped her smile as she gave Stan a more inquisitive look. “So what’s your name then? Cause I’m gonna keep calling you mullet guy until you tell me.” 

Stan swung his legs over the pier’s edge, avoiding Mabel’s eyes. She drove a hard bargain, but he couldn’t tell her his birth name, or even any of his aliases. 

Stetson Pinefield, Andrew ‘Eightball’ Alcatraz, and Hal Forrester were all wanted criminals with bounties from criminals and the feds alike and countless felonies under their belts. His accomplices were probably either very old or dead at this point, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. 

Knowing any of them would paint a target on her back, and Rico was the type of guy who ordered hits on a rival gang’s family members even if they weren’t involved in heavy crime. 

Even the name of Stanley Pines would bring more problems than it solved. Mabel wasn’t a dumb kid. She’d have to notice the one-syllable difference between him and his twin’s name. They were too similar to be a coincidence. 

But if she went around asking her parents, Shermie, or even Ford as the absolute last resort about a distant relative she’d never heard of, she could get in trouble too, just not of the life-threatening kind. She was too sheltered to understand, but when somebody got kicked out of their house, that was it. 

They were never to be spoken of again, and any traces of their existence would naturally be wiped away by the passing years. With enough time, nobody would remember them anymore. 

“I don’t bother with names, kid,” Stan huffed. “They’re useless to me.” 

He was almost tempted to say I don’t care, call me whatever you want, but with his lack of luck, she’d try to name him Stuart Piña Colada or something even worse.  

“Well, they aren’t to me!” Mabel declared stubbornly. “I’m gonna count to three, so either you give me something to work with, or I permanently name you Mullet Guy without giving you a say, mister!” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “You’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to-” 

“Oooonnnnee,” Mabel drawled, holding up an index finger just to annoy him further. 

“I’m way past the age where that sorta thing could’ve worked, braces,” Stan said, trying to ignore the chill creeping up his spine. Not even the vast stretch of nothingness below was more frightening than Ma counting to three when he and Ford were being too unruly for her to handle. 

“Twwwooo…” Mabel’s middle finger popped up. 

She let the timing of the final number hang in the air, far longer than Ma ever had the patience for. But she was definitely channeling her spirit, in some weird ironic sense.

The Pines haven’t changed one bit. 

And just this once, he didn’t feel particularly bitter about it. 

“Alright, alright! Call me Spirit if you have to, just cut the counting already! Yeesh!” Stan threw up his hands in defeat. 

At least his answer proved satisfying enough for Mabel. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Spirit,” she said with a soft but still equally bright smile. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of sarcasm in her tone. 

Stan scratched the back of his head. Pissing people off? Easy. He could do it in his sleep with all of his limbs hog-tied behind him. 

Talking to someone who only seemed more relaxed with every second they spent together?

Too weird, even for him. 

Spirit wasn’t the flashiest alias he could’ve come up with, but with Mabel, it was the one name that just fell into place for him.

And with that important question settled, Mabel leaned against Stan’s side once more. Then she curled up, head resting against his ribs, and closed her eyes with a contented yawn. 

Stan nudged her, but she didn’t move an inch. 

She must’ve exhausted herself within her own mind. 

“Hey,” he coughed. “You still gotta let me out of here, kid. At least show me the door.” 

Stan sighed, throwing his head back in defeat. If he hadn’t already kicked the bucket, Mabel would’ve been the death of him. 

But as he glanced up to the Ocean of Reality’s surface above, a thin trickle of rainbow-colored light shimmered through the water. 

Weren’t they too deep for any light to come through, much less something with that many colors? 

It should be nothing but darkness down here. 

Unless…

Stan glanced down at Mabel, who didn’t seem to be waking up anytime soon. She wasn’t particularly bothered by the sudden light source either. Unconsciously, she reached towards it like it was something she could grasp. 

Now Stan understood. 

Tucking Mabel into the crook of his arm, he carefully got to his feet and balanced on the pier’s edge. 

“Guess we’re going together,” he said, trying not to think about the lack of weight in his arms. He’d picked up feathers heavier than Mabel. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

Mabel just buried her face into the thin fluff of his hood. 

I’m gonna ignore that.   

Then Stan kicked off the pier, swimming towards the light above with Mabel in his arms.