low standards for high fives
The sound that echoes through the lab is like the world's largest car failing to start, the stuttering wheezes of a mechanical giant starved of energy. Great-Uncle Ford lets go of the lever and looks at it with evident disappointment.
"Blast. Still short on the wattage," he mutters.
Dipper has been helping his great-uncle solder wires and run cables for hours. The generator with the Quantum Destabilizer core at its heart is a brushed steel orb with thick cords jutting out in every direction, draped over its frame and along the floor like an undone ball of string. There's a six-inch-thick plexiglass porthole on one side revealing the flickering blue sphere which gives the machine life. It looks a lot like the original atom bomb, which makes him glad it's hidden in the secret basement. It's a generator, of course, not a bomb, but knowing Ford it probably could be a bomb with a few alterations.
"The pins?" Dipper says. He's holding yet another cable, but it sounds like a lack of cables isn't the problem.
"Yes, the issue here isn't with the feed. It must be closer to the source."
Dipper looks at the porthole, where the bright, shifting gleam of the core glints against the plastic. "It looks like it's working…"
"I think the core itself is functioning perfectly, but the power isn't reaching the cables. We're just splitting what little we've been able to draw." Ford approaches the device, hands clasped at his back as he peers inside. "I think our problem lies with the cradle. It's not strong enough to withstand the core. Look closely; you can see it's warping."
The Quantum Destabilizer's core sits atop a pylon made from alien metal, held in place by a web of conductive filament. When Dipper stands next to Ford and looks, he can see at least some of the cradle has bent and is no longer touching the core.
"Harmonic resonance. I should have known this would be trouble," Ford grumbles. "The core is a strange and extreme energy. What I pulled from the walls of Crash Site Omega isn't cutting the mustard."
"Can we use the hyperdrive shell from the portal?"
"Cracked. Broken when the portal fell apart; too much stress. Stanley was not the most careful of operators." Ford pauses, considering that. "…Not that I'm ungrateful. But we'll need to look elsewhere."
Dipper wracks his brain. "Well… there's a lot of weird stuff around. There must be something that will work."
"Agreed. I've got something in mind, assuming we can find it." Ford flips open his journal, revealing a sketch of a vicious-looking creature. "A werebear is said to have claws that can cut through anything. I don't know if that's true, but if it is then this might be the anomalous material which will do the trick." He tucks his journal away. "Usually, I'd reach out to my magical contacts in the area. But I've been away for… a while."
Dipper smiles reassuringly at his great-uncle. "I think I know a guy."
"How about that view, huh?" Dipper remarks.
The Multi-Bear's cave is perched near the top of a craggy mountain, overlooking the rippling sea of trees. The entrance itself is high up, the forest spread out down below, but some of the sides of the mountain are gradual enough to have forestation. Where Dipper stands the trees are nearly level with his feet, providing the sensation of flight, or riding a wave. He knows it wouldn't actually work, but a part of him feels like if he picked up enough speed, he could hit the treetops and keep running, one step ahead of gravity.
Mabel stands on top of a flat rock in a crane pose, arms bent over her head like wings. "CA-CAW!" she crows. "Move over eagles, there's a new boss bird in town!"
Pacifica is standing nearby, moving her phone in a slow lateral sweep in a clear attempt to stitch together a panorama. "Mabel, be beautiful," she says, pointing her phone in the other girl's direction.
Mabel drops her arms and strikes an exaggerated stance, hands at her hips. "Fierce!"
They've been taking a lot of pictures together on this expedition and Dipper suspects that Pacifica has been converted by Mabel's scrapbooking zeal. As usual with Pacifica, it's hard to tell if she's genuinely enthused or just cooperating enough to satisfy Mabel. Either way, Dipper's been on the business end of her camera a few times already.
Not particularly eager to be the subject of yet another poor photograph of himself, he edges away from the girls and puts his toes at the ledge. He could hang glide from here, maybe. He wonders if Great-Uncle Ford has enough aluminum to machine a frame. Of course, given the entire vista before him is an ocean of evergreens, landing might be an issue…
His thoughts are suddenly interrupted when a hand grabs the back of his vest and yanks him away from the cliff edge. "Hey!" he squawks, flailing blindly until he knocks the hand loose.
It's Mabel. "Getting kind of close to the edge, there."
"I was fine," he protests.
She gives him an apologetic pat on the shoulder, though she doesn't look sorry. "Just looking out for ya, Dip," she says.
Dipper isn't sure what that's all about. While Mabel goes back over to Pacifica, he wanders up the incline to the cave entrance to see how things are going. He can hear Ford conversing with the Multi-Bear. The two had met briefly during Weirdmageddon but there hadn't been time for full introductions. Dipper is pleased to see they're hitting it off.
"And it's just the one?" Ford is saying.
"He is a solitary creature," the Multi-Bear rumbles.
"If he trims his claws, I can barter for the clippings. What is he after? Money? Shrunken heads?"
The Multi-Bear sighs. "The Werebear lives beyond the trade of man. A word of warning, seeker—he's a massive tool."
That doesn't sound promising.
Shortly after, the four of them descend back into the trees. The forest is lovely in the afternoon air, coniferous copses waving in the gentle breeze, sunlight streaming down through the gaps in the canopy in shifting pools of shadow and light. They follow a stream as it winds through the woods, rippling over smooth rocks and under the occasional fallen log. Their small group is chattering and lively; Pacifica and Mabel pause frequently to take pictures while Dipper and Great-Uncle Ford discuss the environs. They spot a plaidypus. Dipper gives a neutral wave to a couple of gnomes, past sins forgiven but not forgotten.
It's when they get closer to what the Multi-Bear described as werebear territory that things start getting stranger.
If the Werebear had been a regular person, Dipper would have said they live on some bizarre magical equivalent of frat row. He'd been to Mom and Dad's college once for an alumni event and they had driven through a section of town in which every available trash receptacle seemed to be filled entirely with beer cans. There's more than a few of those scattered around the roots of nearby trees, along with graffiti sporting such stimulating statements as 'WEREBEARS ROOL' and 'SCREW UNICORNS' (Mabel nods approvingly at that one). And it looks like someone has TPed a few branches.
"Oh, ick," Pacifica says, stepping around some sodden lumps of toilet paper that haven't survived the morning dew. "What is this, the trashy side of the forest?"
"Reminds me of Backupsmore," Ford says, looking like he's having a minor flashback. "That's… not good."
The trail of empties ends at the mouth of a cave. The garbage bags hanging down over the opening as a makeshift curtain and the blacklights haphazardly wired around the edges give it the ambience of a low-rent nightclub. Phosphorescent paint declares it to be 'THE REAL MANCAVE,' which Dipper thinks the Manotaurs might have something to say about. The air coming from inside smells like stale beer and gym socks.
Ford eyes the entrance dubiously. "I'm hoping this will go smoothly, but I'm beginning to have doubts. Wait here and stay quiet; I'm going to have a look before we commit to anything."
The teens crouch in a divot between two tangled masses of tree roots. Ford sneaks forward to peer through the gap at the edge of the plastic curtain, then disappears around the side of the cave.
"You always take me to the nicest places," Pacifica deadpans, nudging a crushed beer can away from her knee.
"Hey, that restaurant was nice," Dipper reminds her.
"So does this mean you owe me another date?"
Dipper figures he might be able to get some more date money off Stan, but it's going to be awhile. "How about grilled cheese and the finest cinema Gravity Falls Public Access has to offer?"
She leans in closer; the scent of the forest in her hair makes him want to bury his face in it, to pull her into his arms. "Do we get to make out during commercials?"
"It's Gravity Falls Public Access," Dipper says wryly, "we can make out whenever."
Their eyes are locked in shared amusement and attraction. And he could not have put it into words, but his heart swells with the fact that they have this; this moment, this back and forth; this bright push and pull.
Then he remembers they aren't alone. He looks away to find Mabel watching them with a wide grin. "You guys are too cute," she gushes, hands clasped beneath her chin. "So close and couple-y. You should totally kiss."
Dipper doesn't miss the phone she's holding. "Are you recording this?" he says, outraged.
"Come on, one scrapbook kiss," Mabel says, neatly sidestepping his question. "You kiss all the time! What's one more for the scrapbook? Pacifica, babe—you love the scrapbook. I know you do."
Dipper's eyes widen when he sees Pacifica actually considering it. She taps a finger against her chin. "…No," she eventually decides. "I don't have any breath mints and he's been eating that nasty trail mix your uncle made."
Ford's 'trail mix' is really just chunks of marbleized nutrients in a plastic bag. It tastes like bitter chalk, but Dipper has been dutifully eating it to maintain his energy. "It's not that bad," he says in a decidedly half-hearted defense of the stuff.
"No, it is," Pacifica says.
"It tastes like disappointment," Mabel adds.
Dipper isn't sure this is an argument he can (or should) win. He's saved from having to when Ford returns.
"He's in there," Ford confirms. "He's doing squats—I'll spare you the details. We'll need a distraction as our contingency plan. Any volunteers?"
Dipper opens his mouth immediately. "I—"
"I'm on it!" Mabel interjects, overwriting his first syllable.
Ford nods. "Good. There's a small entrance around the back you should be able to squeeze through. Make sure his attention is on us before you go all the way in and be ready to make some noise if we need it. Pacifica, do you see that trail going up to the left? There's a second level to the cave, a sort of ledge that seems to be used for storage. You can get to it if you climb up that way. From there you can be our eyes and direct Mabel."
"What about me?" Dipper asks.
"You and I are going in together," Ford says, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll present a united front. If we're lucky, the girls' subterfuge won't be necessary."
They split up, Mabel and Pacifica disappearing into the woods while Dipper and his great-uncle march right up to the front. They wait about five minutes to give the girls time to get in place and then push through the plastic curtain into the cave.
Dipper is immediately taken aback by the humid stench of a locker room. Exercise equipment is scattered everywhere, along with crushed cans, animal bones, and a layer of moldy straw that seems to serve as carpet. The walls are covered with graffiti, along with a dartboard or two and a basketball hoop. Up above the left half of the room is a ledge decorated with an enormous pyramid of light beer cans.
The Werebear is in the middle of the room with a barbell across his oddly human shoulders, doing squats. He's a strange combination of man and bear, standing on two legs but covered in thick brown fur. He has large, human-like eyes which are currently squinted in concentration; the lower half of his face is a squashed muzzle with a big flat nose and a toothy maw. His only concession to human standards of dress is a dirty green basketball jersey, number sixty-nine.
He's grunting, talking to himself. "Six…Sssssseven…" he pants.
Ford clears his throat. "Greetings!"
The Werebear's eyes fly open. "…One hundred!" He sets the barbell down. "Who the funk are you?"
"Yes, I'm Stanford Pines, a local physicist—among other things—and this is my young protégé, Dipper," Ford says, gesturing to Dipper and himself. "We were hoping to do business; you see, I'm in the market for an anomalous material for a project I'm working on and—"
The Werebear's eyes glaze over somewhere in the middle of Ford's second sentence. "Slow your roll on the nerd talk, bro, you're wrinkling my brain." He turns his attention to Dipper. "Sweet hat, mang, but you should flip it. Chicks did the backwards lid, you know what I'm saying?"
Dipper hesitantly reaches up and turns his hat around. When in Rome, he supposes. "Uh, yeah… Cool."
"Ch'yeah, brah. Haul it, ball it, never call it."
Ford is tinkering with one of his gadgets, his expression perplexed. "My Dimensional Translator must be failing to trigger the parse backend. Didn't understand a word of that."
"Ditto," the Werebear says. "So are you dudes here to thrash, or what?"
Ford still looks lost, so Dipper figures it's up to him to take the lead. "Um, so we heard that—"
"Hold up." The Werebear takes a deep sniff of the air, his brow furrowing. "What's that wussy smell? Smells like… oh, no, no way. Did the Multi-Bear send you over? That dude is a total dweeb."
Dipper isn't sure how to handle this development. "I mean, we talked to him but he didn't send us…"
"Bogus. You're bogus, bruh!" The Werebear sniffs deeply again, his eyes filled with mounting rage. "You think I don't know you aren't alone, but I do know! I know things! Smells like you brought some females into my mancave and that's a violation right there, brother, that's a red frickin' flag!"
Dipper doesn't intend to antagonize the Werebear, but he's caught so off guard by the creature's attitude that the words just tumble out before he thinks them through. "What, you think you're going to catch cooties?" he says with an incredulous laugh.
The Werebear swells with rage. "Oh, you did it now, son, you came in and stepped all over my steez. You think you can come in here and laugh at me? Do you even lift, bro?! DO YOU EVEN LIFT?!"
"Uh… he's not being chill about this. Okay, what now?" Dipper asks Ford as they back away from the snorting, slavering Werebear.
"I believe we run," Ford says.
"HEY! OVER HERE!" Mabel's voice suddenly rings out from the back of the cave. "I'M SHOUTING AT YOU! RIGHT NOW, WITH MY VOICE!"
The Werebear spins around. "What the hey?"
"PRETTY DISTRACTING, HUH? HUH HUH? HOW ABOUT IT?"
The Werebear takes a threatening step towards her. "Do you not see me hulking out?! I am on the edge, little girl! I'M GONNA BREAK YOU!"
"HARD NOPE."
There's a motion from above; Dipper looks up just in time to see Pacifica throw herself into the pyramid of beer cans. As she pushes against it, he realizes that they aren't empty: they're full.
The mountain of cans comes crashing down onto the Werebear, slamming him to the floor and burying him until only his head peeks out from the hissing, foaming wreckage.
"Dude… not… cool," the Werebear gasps, and then passes out. He begins snoring loudly a second later.
Ford removes his hand from his jacket with an expression of relief; Dipper assumes he had been about to draw his gun. "That's one way to do it," he laughs. "Well done, Pacifica!"
Pacifica climbs down a nearby ladder and surveys her handiwork. "He deserved it," she confidently concludes.
Mabel comes skipping around the pile, her face filled with delight. "Ha ha… that'll teach him to listen to me."
As Ford goes to work collecting his samples, Pacifica pulls her shirt out with two fingers and sniffs at it. "I smell like a werebear," she says with a moue of revulsion.
The stench of cheap light beer really is overwhelming. Dipper hopes Great-Uncle Ford finishes up soon. The scientist is crouched over the slumbering werebear, hard at work with a laser cutter.
"I can't believe he just fell asleep like that," Dipper says, making a note of it in his journal. "I wonder if werebears hibernate?"
"They do if Pacifica's around," Mabel says gleefully.
It doesn't take long for Ford to finish up. A few minutes later, they make a quick retreat back into the forest. The air seems especially fresh outside after being in the Werebear's less than sanitary abode. The sun is still high overhead and birdsong twitters through the trees.
Dipper falls in beside Mabel as they walk. "You were pretty eager back there," he says, studying her closely.
She doesn't look directly at him, a sure sign that something is up with her. "You know it. Action-Mabel, hi-yah hi-yah!" She karate chops the air.
He watches as she runs ahead to take another picture with Pacifica. He's obviously going to have to corner her at some point, because it looks like they need to talk.
Low Standards for High Fives by Hunter Gatherer (Scene Police, 2000)