A/N: Sorry for the delay, friends and neighbours - I've been dealing with a hurricane of domestic chores that I honestly never expected to ever end up stuck with. But that's another story for another day.
Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls and TSW/The Park are still not mine.
This chapter's soundtrack is the Moeity Theme by Robyn Miller.
Dipper was dreaming.
By itself, this wasn't surprising: it had been a very long and tiring day, and he'd seen more than his fair share of horrifying things, so a few weird dreams were more than justified. No, what made this out of the ordinary was that Dipper was fully aware of it. Most of the time, he was only dimly aware that he was dreaming, if at all; even when Bill Cipher had appeared to him with offers of help, Dipper hadn't clocked to the fact that he'd been asleep until that last jumpscare from Bill had startled him awake. But here, there was no deceptive sense of reality in what he was experiencing; he knew that he was asleep, and he knew that what he was seeing couldn't possibly be real.
He had a machete in his hand, already stained up to the handle in blood.
For some reason, he was wearing white gloves.
He couldn't tell where he was at first, because almost every single ceiling light had been broken, plunging the area into near-total darkness; the one remaining halogen overhead revealed only rough concrete walls, pillars, and a greasy-looking floor, suggesting a parking garage or something similar. Whatever it was, the place was strewn with bodies, most of them wearing purple combat fatigues and carrying assault rifles, and all of them sporting wounds too spectacular for any firearm to produce: frozen craters across the bellies, limbs charred down to the bone, electrical burns on every inch of flesh, and here there, bodies lying in huge pools of blood but with no sign of broken skin anywhere…
And before him, a terrified-looking figure in overalls was cowering on the oil-soaked concrete floor, sobbing incomprehensible entreaties. At the sound of Dipper's footsteps, the figure looked up with a start, horror written plainly on every line of his face; he was pale, balding, forty-ish, and clearly terrified out of his life.
"Please," the man whimpered, "you don't have to do this. I won't tell anyone, okay? Whatever you people were up to, I won't tell anyone, I swear on my mother's grave. Just let me go, and you'll never see me again, I promise. I mean, it's not like anyone would ever believe me if I talked, right? I'm just a mechanic, and I've got a record, so it's not like the cops would ever listen to me. So-"
"Shut up," said a cold voice from somewhere behind Dipper.
Instinctively, he turned; standing in the shadows of the parking garage was a man dressed in an immaculate white uniform, his blue beret slightly askew. But even with the costume change, Dipper had no trouble recognizing the talent scout he'd seen in Lorraine's memories, not with that clerkish face and neatly trimmed moustache.
"You have your orders," said the talent scout. "No witnesses."
Dipper opened his mouth to reply, but the voice that emerged didn't belong to him; for a moment, he thought the dream had strayed into a flashback to the time he'd drank McGucket's voice-altering potion. But within a few words, he realized that his new voice clearly belonged to Lorraine.
"You heard him," Lorraine's voice pleaded. "He's nobody; who's going to know or care about what he's seen?"
"The Illuminati will," hissed the talent scout. "They haven't gotten this far by ignoring data; as soon as they realize that the smuggling party went AWOL while this mechanic was clocked on, they'll track him down and make him talk, and then it'll be all over."
"But-"
The talent scout darted forward, slinking across the oily floor until he was practically whispering into Dipper's ear.
"The Illuminati will use this information to humiliate us, Lorraine," he growled. "They want to erode our powerbase even further so they can seize even more political influence; they won't hesitate to spill our secrets if it means grinding us down at little further. Once the rest of the Council hears about what we've been up tom they'll have this division shut down to mollify the other secret societies, and they'll be forced to farm you out to the rest of the secret societies to maintain the balance of power, just so each of them can reverse engineer the implantation procedure from you. And you might think you're immune from consequences now that you're immortal, but if you're ever unlucky enough to end up in the Illuminati research labs, you'll wish you could die. No daylight, no company, no movement, no sedatives, and nobody who could possibly give a damn about your suffering – only endless paralysed vivisection carried out via remote. And that's assuming you're not just packed right off to the Hive. Is that what you want?"
But Lorraine's only reply was a pained, terrified-sounding whimper.
The talent scout glared disapprovingly at Dipper. "Right now, the only faction keeping you safe from exploitation. More importantly, we're the only people on this planet who care enough to provide you with food, shelter, company, and the medication you couldn't afford up until now. Do you want to go without that, Lorraine? Do you want to be alone, Lorraine?"
"…no, sir."
"Good. Then you have your orders."
Dipper felt himself turn to face the cowering mechanic once again, felt his hand reach out to grab the man by the collar, saw his other hand raise the machete. He wanted to stop, wanted to throw aside the blade and stop right then and there, but of course, he couldn't: this was one of Lorraine's memories, and he was just a spectator.
The mechanic was crying now. "Please, I have a family, just let me say goodbye to them, my daughter's only five, she deserves to know-"
"I'm sorry," said Lorraine. Dipper's vision was starting to blur, so he could only assume she was crying too.
And then the blade swept in from left to right, and for a moment, the only thing Dipper could see was red – and through the haze, a human-shaped silhouette crumpling to the ground, twitching its last. Eventually, Lorraine wiped her eyes, but couldn't bring herself to look at the corpse on the ground.
Instead, she turned to stare up at the talent scout – a man nowhere near as powerful as her, yet somehow holding her leash in every way that mattered.
"This is going to go on forever, isn't it?" she asked quietly, her eyes blurring with tears again.
"Only as long as it takes to fix this weird little world of ours."
"Like I said, forever."
"Perhaps. You'll be the one to see it happen, though, not me. If there's ever any hope for the Council, you'll be the one to see it through to the end, Lorraine."
There was a pause, and for the first time, the talent scout seemed a little downcast. "You might think I was cruel giving you this life, Lorraine, but believe me, it'd have been far worse if I hadn't recruited you. You wouldn't have died in prison; in fact, I doubt you'd ever be charged with anything as serious as you'd hoped for, not with so little evidence at the park. With you insisting that Callum had to be real, you'd have been sent right back to the mental hospital… and I know how much you hated it there, Lorraine. They wouldn't have let you leave ever again, and they wouldn't have allowed you the dignity of a razor blade. In there, that self-loathing of yours would have eaten you alive."
He sighed, as if saying this much had been some terrible burden. "So, what I did for you was a kindness. At least this way, you can find a little redemption in helping us. I know it might not feel like the right thing in the moment, but this is what we have to do to hold back the tide. We're rebuilding the world, Lorraine, one fallen pillar at a time: one day, the Council of Venice will be respected again, our laws will be obeyed, our forces unmatched, and through our influence, atrocities like Atlantic Island Park will never happen again."
He took a deep breath, then seemed to collect himself.
"Come on, we've wasted enough time here as it is. Division chiefs contacted me while you were finishing off the last of these Phoenician rats: we've got another mission for you – signs of a major dig in Antarctica."
"You always send me to the nicest places, Captain," Lorraine remarked mirthlessly.
The talent scout smirked faintly. "It's Major, now."
"You've been promoted again?"
"What can I say? Loyalty and diligence pay off. You might find yourself in line for a handsome reward yourself, Lorraine, if only you could find it in your heart to want something for a change. Now, run along: I'll meet you at the Sunken Library."
Dipper's POV turned to leave, but at the last minute, Lorraine glanced back. "There was something I wanted, Major," she said; though her voice still raw with grief, there was now a note of something else – something that sounded almost like curiosity. "You warned me that the other factions all have methods of putting down Gaia's Chosen for good; I want to know what they are."
"Why? You'll never meet any of those operatives."
"Just indulge me. I want to know what I'm up against."
"Fine. I'll have a list ready for you by the time you make it to Venice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a cleanup crew to direct-"
Suddenly, the dream abruptly shifted gears: the talent scout (or the captain or the major or whoever he was) went on talking in the background, but now a new voice was suddenly echoing through Dipper's ears.
"Dipper? Dipper, wake up! Wake up now!"
For a second or two, Dipper didn't know where he was or what had happened.
He was dimly aware that he was lying on something soft and warm arms were encircling him, and somewhere in the background, a voice was whispering urgently to him, but he couldn't make sense of the voice and he couldn't remember where he'd fallen asleep. Bits and pieces of memories – his own memories, not Lorraine's – were creeping in as the seconds ticked by, but it was a slow, uphill journey towards full consciousness: his brain was like a gridlocked highway, only letting in a few memories in at a time. He could just about recall that the arms that were hugging him probably belonged to Lorraine, and that was it.
He was dimly aware that the sensible thing to do would be to open his eyes so he could see what was happening, but right then and there, he was too tired to do much more than groan sleepily and bury his face in the cushions.
Then he felt the first tremors rippling across his body, and he realized that someone was shaking him, trying to get him upright and moving. More importantly, the voice in the background was calling him by his name – and with a jolt of surprise, Dipper belatedly remembered that Lorraine didn't call him "Dipper" or even acknowledge that it was his name.
And with that, all the other memories came rushing back at once, gridlock broken in one spectacular torrent. Prising one eye open, Dipper found that he was still in the treehouse, still lying on the decomposing couch with Lorraine asleep beside him, her arms loosely wrapped around him. Standing over him was none other than Mabel, her braces agleam in the moonlight.
Her forehead was glistening with sweat, her hair was clustered with twigs and leaves, her sweater was befouled with ash and soot, and her knees were in dire need of a few band-aids, but she was still standing, her eyes still bright with wild irrepressible energy. Either she'd been carrying a hidden reserve of Mabel Juice or three, or she was still riding the adrenaline high she'd gained just by getting this far.
"Come on, Dipper," she whispered urgently. "We've gotta get out of here, quick."
Dipper blinked, trying valiantly to clear the sleep from his eyes. "How did you get here, Mabel?" he croaked. "Actually, how did you even find us?"
"Long story short, I did your job for a change."
"What?"
"I had to do some investigating of my own, bro-bro. I've been-"
At that moment, Lorraine, who'd been lying still and breathing regularly up until then, let out a loud snort. Dipper could see that her eyes were still shut, but he could feel her beginning to wriggle in her sleep, almost as if she was about to wake up again.
Mabel's eyes widened. "Could you get up and get moving?" she hissed anxiously. "We'll walk and talk, but we've got to get out of here quick before she wakes up."
Fortunately, Lorraine wasn't a light sleeper and her grip on Dipper was loose at best; with a little effort, he was able to wriggle free and slip out onto the rough plank floor. From there, Mabel led him tiptoeing outside and up the ladder leading to the treehouse's ersatz second floor.
Keeping up with her was a bit of a trial, though: Dipper's shoelaces must have loosened during the last six or seven hours, because now his sneakers kept wiggling back and forth on his feet. Plus, the collar of his shirt was starting to itch and chafe ever so slightly, which did hold him up with irritating distractions a little more than he'd have liked. Eventually, though, he managed to follow Mabel up into the privacy of the lower rooftop – and by that stage, she was already gearing up for a major rant.
"I've been following you ever since that crazy lady grabbed you," she explained breathlessly. "Those glowing footprints she leaves whenever she's running really fast, they hang around for a little while before they fade, and I was able to keep track of you up until I reached Black Goat Pass the first time, so I followed you through the forest, but things got a little weird once I started running into monsters, and I think I might have bumped into Lorraine and I might have accidentally knocked her out of a tree and I might have accidentally killed her-"
"What?"
Mabel took a deep breath, and then plunged heedlessly onwards. "I lost your trail for a while, but I met this weird lady in a hazmat suit and she pointed me to this patch of forest just north of here, and she gave me a working human-sized hamster ball! And there's actually a Bigfoot tribe on Solomon Island! I mean, can you believe it? But anyway, the sasquatches or Bigfoots or whatever you wanna call them, they showed me the way here, and getting from the woods to the treehouse got a bit messy at first because there were all these scuttling bug-things in the way-"
"Ak'ab," Dipper interjected helpfully.
"-but they couldn't even try to keep up with me once I got up into the branches." Mabel paused, and finally exhaled. "Anyway, it's not too far to the road from here if you're travelling by grappling hook, so let's get moving: it's only a five-minute walk to the Overlook from here, so we've just got to hope that Grunkle Stan and Ford are still there and they've figured out a way to get us-"
"No."
It took Dipper a second or two to realize he'd been the one who'd spoken.
A long and uncomfortable pause followed. Even Dipper didn't know what to say next: quite apart from the fact that he needed to remind himself why he'd say such a thing in the first place, he was starting to notice that something about his voice sounded slightly off. It wasn't like the morning after he'd taken McGucket's voice-altering tonic, where the change was immediately obvious as soon as he'd opened his mouth; his voice didn't sound like it belonged to someone else entirely – it just sounded like his own voice had gone just a tiny bit off-pitch. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what had changed, because it didn't sound bad or even totally unfamiliar – just weird.
After several seconds of bewildered silence, Mabel demanded, "What do you mean, 'no'?"
"We can't leave, not yet: we need to figure out why Lorraine's so obsessed with me and how we can snap her out of it."
"Dipper, this really isn't the time to go hunting for mysteries."
"Why not? I've had nothing better to do than try to learn more about her for the last couple of hours. I mean, weren't you wondering why she called me Callum before she ran off?"
Mabel glared at him. "No," she replied icily. "I guess I was just too busy trying to rescue you to think about that kind of thing. Silly, silly me."
"Look, I'm just saying…" Dipper hesitated, wilting slightly under Mabel's disapproving stare. "I've been learning a lot about her in the last few hours: she thinks I'm her son Callum – a kid who's been dead for nearly thirty years. I still don't know how it happened, and I'm still not sure what her problem really is, but I think we might be able to fix it. And if we can do that, we can get out of here without having to worry about Lorraine hunting us down."
"And maybe we can do that anyway, Dipper! Right now, she's asleep and as long as she stays that way for a few hours longer, we can get out of dodge without having to figure out what makes her tick. I mean, all we need to do is get out of this treehouse, get onto the road, and get back to the Overlook; that's two minutes to get across the trees, five minutes to get from Solomon Road to the motel. Seven minutes, and we can see Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford again, we can open another portal, and we're home free in time for our birthday!"
"And what if Stan and Ford aren't there, huh? What if Ford can't get a portal open? What do we do if Lorraine wakes up and starts looking for me while we're trying to solve that little mystery?"
"Easy! We keep moving: she can't be everywhere at once, right? And if that doesn't work, we hide you someplace she wouldn't think to look, and if that doesn't work, I've got a whole Sasquatch tribe on my side! Let's just see her try to take on my huggable Bigfoot army!"
"It's not as simple as that, Mabel. The longer we string this out, the higher the odds are that someone's going to get killed: I don't want to see you or Grunkle Stan or Grunkle Ford or anyone on the island hurt because we didn't fix this issue when we had the chance."
"Neither do I, bro-bro. But what if we can't fix this? What if we're just wasting time? What if, the longer we string this out, the crazier Lorraine gets? I mean, what's she going to do when she wakes up and finds me helping you uncover the mystery of the Bee Lady of Maine or whatever we're calling this?" Mabel paused for thought, and added, "Actually, how do you even know that she can be fixed at all? What gave you that idea?"
For a moment, Dipper floundered: how the heck was he supposed to explain that a magical Bee from the Hollow Earth of popular conspiracy theories and the World Tree of Norse mythology was now living inside Lorraine, and had told him that he had to reveal the truth to her? And that wasn't even taking into account all the weird, abstract things the Bee had said: it had mentioned leaving treasures for him, but did that mean literal treasure, or did it mean clues that could help solve this mystery? It had said the first treasure was "up," but did that mean that the treasure was directly above them in the League's safe, or was this a needlessly cryptic means of pointing north? Looking back on it now, it sounded totally bonkers… but somehow, he had to make Mabel believe it.
"Um… I may have used the Mindscape spell on Lorraine," he said at last.
Mabel's jaw very gently thundered open. "You did what?"
"It was all I could think of, okay? I needed to find out why she thought I was her son and if there was any way I could convince her to let me go-"
"Why?!" Mabel exploded. "Why would you even think that was a good idea? I mean, going into Grunkle Stan's brain when Bill was on the loose inside was bad enough, but… you know what, why did you even bother? You didn't need to know anything about Lorraine: she's crazy and that's all there is to it!"
Of course, Mabel hadn't been privy to everything that Dipper had seen while he'd been exploring Lorraine's mind; she didn't know that there were important details hidden away in her memories, that her motives were a lot more complicated and even more desperate than they'd first appeared. He knew that the sanest thing to do would be to just explain himself in as calm a manner as possible – after all, it wasn't as if anything Mabel had said in the last few seconds had actually hurt his feelings… and yet, Dipper found himself feeling sudden stab of anger.
"It's more complicated than that," he said, his voice suddenly cold.
"It's really not, Dipper. She's crazy, and that's all we need to know: why did she kidnap you? Crazy. Why did she think you were her son? Crazy. Why did she run halfway across the island when there was nobody chasing her? Crazy. Why did she threaten Marianne? Crazy. That's all we need to know."
"Nice, Mabel, real nice. Were you thinking the same thing about Old Man McGucket, too?"
Mabel recoiled incredulously. "Excuse me? McGucket wasn't crazy, not really: he was just brain-damaged, and he got better once he started remembering who he was. Plus, he was harmless! Sure, he did weird things for attention every now and again, and maybe totalled a few boats here and there, but he never actually hurt anyone. Lorraine kidnapped you, remember? Before that, she put a gun to Grunkle Stan's head! And after that, she threated to kill Marianne, and she did something so bad that it's gotten all the Bigfoots worried!"
"And she had a good reason for doing so! You can't boil everything she does down to "crazy," Mabel; she had reasons, reasons that made sense to her… and maybe even to me. I don't know what went wrong inside her head – maybe it's a mental illness, maybe it's some kind of brainwashing enchantment, I don't know – but if we can undo it, maybe we can all get out of here in one piece without making Lorraine's life any worse."
"Why do you care so much about Lorraine all of a sudden?" Mabel asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"I don't, I-"
"Yes, you do! You're defending her!"
"I'm just saying she's a lot more complicated than you think."
"You know what I think? I think you either got so close to her in the Mindscape that it's started to rub off on you, or she's done something to you! I mean, if you used the Mindscape spell on her, she had to have been fast asleep – so why didn't you just run?"
"What, through a forest that's crawling with Ak'ab?"
"Okay, fair enough. But if you really don't care about Lorraine, then answer me this: why were you letting her cuddle you?"
Dipper blinked. "Er, what?"
"You heard me. You didn't have to play nice with her all the time, Dipper: once you were finished looking around inside her head, you could have just stolen one of those couch cushions and slept on that. Or – here's an idea – you could have just looked for the clues to this big mystery then instead of taking a nap. So why, if you don't really care about Lorraine, were you all snuggled up to Lorraine like she really was your mom?"
And for once, Dipper couldn't think of a response.
What had he been doing? Why had he wanted to comfort Lorraine? He could understand feeling sympathy for her after everything he'd seen inside her memories, but why had he called her 'mommy?' He'd even caught himself thinking of her as his mom, very briefly. So, what had caused it? He doubted that Lorraine could have deliberately brainwashed him: her magic was obvious and flashy, not subtle in any way; besides, if she did have power over his thoughts, then she'd have used it to keep him from running away at the CDC camp. But what if he'd accidentally gotten too close to her memories while exploring her mind? What if something from inside Lorraine's Mindscape had changed him somehow, made him think that he really was Callum – if only for a second or two?
Meanwhile, Mabel took his silence as an opportunity: while Dipper was still struggling to find a rejoinder, she marched over, grabbed him by the hand and began dragging him towards the next ramp. "Let's shelve this conversation 'til later, shall we?" she grumbled over her shoulder. "Just so you know, I'm really not comfortable being the serious sibling, Dipper, not when-"
Less than three feet from the treehouse's lookout post, she stopped and stared at Dipper.
"What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
For a moment, Mabel could only gape in confusion, running a hand through the air as if she was setting up an invisible tape measure. At last, she murmured, "Have you been using those weird crystals again?"
"What?"
"You've shrunk, Dipper!"
And in the stunned silence that followed, it occurred to him that since he'd awaken, Dipper had either been lying down or standing on a shadowed stretch of ramp where Mabel couldn't clearly see how tall he really was – and more importantly, where he couldn't get an idea of his own height in comparison to her. But now they'd stopped on a level stretch of the rooftop, and up here, the canopy of trees was just clear enough to let in some moonlight; now there was no ignoring the contrast between the two of them.
Dipper was now almost a full inch shorter than Mabel. And he knew that the reason why his shoes had been so loose was because his feet were now a size too small for them to fit; in the same vein, his shirt had been itching him because the collar no longer fit as comfortably as it once had. Even his cap wasn't sitting so snugly on his head anymore. And with a jolt of shock, he realized why his voice had sounded so odd a moment ago: the infrequent crack and wobble that everyone had delighted in teasing him about was gone, and in its absence, his voice had just a tiny bit higher than before.
"I haven't shrunk," he realized out loud. "I've gotten younger."
Mabel peered closely at his face in the moonlight. "Maybe about a year younger, maybe two. You're not turning thirteen next week, that's for sure."
"So now I'm – what? – eleven years old? Ten? How could this have happened?"
"I think I can make a few guesses."
"Oh, come on, you can't keep blaming this kind of thing on Lorraine-"
"Then who else am I supposed to blame? She kidnapped you, Dipper! She dragged you through the most dangerous place in the world without so much as "I'm sorry," she left us high and dry in the middle of a monster-infested motel, she's got so many magical powers its not funny, and we don't know what she's planning on doing! Who else is there to blame apart from her? How do you know it's not her?"
Once again, Dipper had nothing to say. He knew he wouldn't be able to blame the Council for this mess, because if they had the power to randomly mess with people's age at a distance, they wouldn't have hired Lorraine. And yet, even with all the weird and wonderful powers she'd demonstrated since they'd met, Dipper couldn't believe that Lorraine could have done this, even by accident. If anyone was to blame, it was whoever'd been messing around with Lorraine's head.
Once again, though, Mabel was already seizing the initiative: no sooner had Dipper opened his mouth to protest Lorraine's innocence, Mabel had already grabbed him by the hand and begun escorting him towards the roof. "Come on," she hissed. "We're getting out of here. Grunkle Ford can figure out how to fix this back at the Overlook."
By way of a rebuttal, Dipper latched on to the doorframe as they tottered out, digging his nails in and hanging on for dear life. "We can fix this right here and now!" he snarled between gritted teeth. "All we've got to do is-"
"Nothing. We do not have to do anything."
"But the Bees said-"
"Dipper, do not make me have to be the responsible sibling again."
"Look, we just have to a bit of digging; it'll be just like the Quentin Tremblay business-"
"No, it's going to be you pretending that you're not brainwashed and me trying to be Miss Mature!"
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"Is not!"
"Oh stop it! You see what I mean? You're making me be the sensible one! I mean, why can't you at least let me be silly for just a little while before-"
There was an ominous creak from the foot of the ramp, and in near-perfect unison, Dipper and Mabel froze.
"What's going on up here?" Lorraine demanded.
For a moment, the two of them were totally silent.
Mabel couldn't think of anything that she could possibly say that could placate Lorraine: no easy lies or convenient excuses sprung to mind. She briefly considered just diving off the edge of the treehouse and taking her chances with what she could reach with her grappling hook, but then she remembered how quickly Lorraine could move… and even if Mabel somehow got the best headstart in the world, it wouldn't mean a thing to someone who could shoot lightning from her fingers.
Of course, there was one other option. Yes, it involved doing something even riskier than running, and yes, Dipper probably would have called it a violation of common sense… but then, tackling a horde of gnomes with nothing but a leafblower would have been a violation of common sense as well, and look how well it had gone for Mabel then.
Mabel very slowly reached behind her back, to the inside pocket in her sweater where her grappling hook was stashed; she felt her hand close around the grip, raised her finger over the trigger, readied herself for the deftest quickdraw in her entire life-
-and then Dipper said, "Mabel and I were just going to check out the League's safe."
Lorraine's eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "Mabel?" she echoed.
"She's my friend," said Dipper, a tad defensively.
"Where's she from?
"Kingsmouth; she was out looking for supplies when the zombies closed in and blocked the roads, so she ran into the woods to hide – made it all the way up the ladder while you were asleep. I told her she could stay, said we could take a look at the League of Monster Slayer's safe while we were waiting. She can stay right, Mom?"
It took every last drop of Mabel's self-control to keep from gawping incredulously. For a moment, she thought that she'd misheard, but no: Dipper had actually called this maniac "mom." Either Dipper really was brainwashed, or he'd learned a lot more from Grunkle Stan than he'd let on.
Meanwhile, Lorraine was looking at Mabel ever-so-slightly askance: she didn't look suspicious, but she didn't exactly look comfortable around her. Still, it was a huge improvement over what Mabel had been expecting, given that the last time they'd met each other, Lorraine had kidnapped Dipper and left the rest of them stranded in a burning motel without so much as "gotta go!"
Did she really not remember doing any of that?
"I'm not sure, Callum," Lorraine said at last. "Shouldn't she be at home with her parents?"
"She doesn't have anywhere else to go, Mom."
"I know, but maybe if I cleared the path ahead, at least enough for her to get as far as Wispwood-"
"Pleeeeeaaaaaase? Can't she stay for a little while – at least until sunrise, when it'll be a little safer to travel? She's really nice, mommy! I promise we won't make too much noise!"
Unbelievably enough, Dipper was now giving Lorraine a Bambi-eyed look, as if he really was trying to sweet-talk his mom into letting a friend stay over for lunch – which had normally been Mabel's gig back home. And even more unbelievably, judging by that look of reluctant acceptance slowly creeping across her face, Lorraine was actually buying the act, hook, line, sinker, and worm.
"Oh, alright," she sighed. "Just be careful on these ramps, don't go sticking your hands into any cobwebs, and put anything you find in the safe where you found it once you're finished, okay? I'll be downstairs, getting some breakfast for the two of you. Hopefully, the League left some supplies under the floorboards. Oh, and don't go too far – I'll be keeping an eye on you just to be safe, but I can't be everywhere at once, and it's not safe down on the forest floor!"
And with that, she turned and briskly retreated back into the depths of the treehouse.
But even once they were certain that Lorraine was out of earshot, it took a good ten to fifteen seconds before either of them could finally release the breath they'd been holding. At last, the two of them finally sagged and exhaled, almost collapsing to their knees as they did so.
"That," panted Mabel, "was way too close."
"I've had closer tonight," Dipper wheezed.
"Really? What gets closer than that?"
"I ran off while we were staying at the Moon Bog with Marianne Chen, got lured off the path, and got grabbed by a pumpkin monster. Long story. I would have ended up dead if Lorraine hadn't gotten there in time."
"Is that why you're calling her 'mom' now?"
"I'm only doing that because she won't listen to me when I try to tell her the truth. And don't knock it: it's the only reason why she didn't drag you back to Kingsmouth."
"Doesn't mean it's not really creepy."
"What was creepy about it?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you're calling the crazy lady who kidnapped you 'mommy'? Or maybe the fact that you actually sounded like you believed it for a minute or two? Oh, and while we're talking about weird and creepy stuff, how come she didn't recognize me? I was right there in the room with her when she nabbed you. Does she have a memory problem or something?"
"I don't think she even noticed you back then, Mabel: while I was inside her mind, I got a good look at the memory of us meeting, and she didn't even see you – or anyone else in the room apart from me."
"Well, at least she doesn't think I'm here to rescue you… which I can't do anyway, now that we've lost our headstart."
Dipper smiled in spite of himself. "You agree with me, then? You're ready to help me learn more about Lorraine?"
"It's not like we have much of a choice, is it? I mean, we can't wait for her to go back to sleep, and I didn't bring my knitting with me, so I don't have much else to do. Plus, it's five o'clock, and I'm due to be kicked out of here at sunrise; that gives me – what? – an hour, maybe a little more. So, for now, it's back to mystery-hunting… I guess."
"You've accepted this idea really quickly, Mabel."
Now it was Mabel's turn to grin. "Hey, you're my little brother; I've gotta look out for you somehow now that you're even littler than usual."
"Har har."
The safe was nearly three feet tall, equipped with a keypad instead of a dial, and looked as if it weighed a ton. Dipper had no idea how any kid would have gotten the thing into the treehouse and up all these ramps even before the Ak'ab had taken over the forest, so he had to assume that Lorraine had been right when she'd claimed that there'd been a few mages among the League of Monster Slayers. Unfortunately, none of the League members had been amateur enough to leave the combination on a post-it-note behind the safe, so he almost immediately went to work on puzzling out possible codes.
Dipper had thought that they'd have to go through every map and paper left on the walls downstairs just to find out how to open it, imagining a long and frenzied search for some hidden cipher that the League of Monster Slayers had left in case they'd forgotten the safe passcode. In fact, he was already halfway down the ramp to the first floor when Mabel grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him back to the safe. Without saying a word, she knelt beside the door, peered closely at the hinges, looked closely at the hairline crack between the door and the casing, and then delivered an open-handed slap to the side of the safe. As if by magic, the door simply swung open.
"Tah-dah," she remarked, giggling maniacally.
"How the heck did you do that?"
"Remember that time we swapped bodies, that whole mess with the rug? Well, once Grunkle Stan was done explaining the birds and the bees, he also decided that I was old enough to learn one or two of the old trade secrets: turns out most people who own safes are really bad about properly closing them. It sounds like League went to all the trouble of getting a safe for their secrets and they never properly latched it."
Dipper looked the safe up and down. "Maybe it wasn't the League. Take a look…"
He pointed at the floorboards in front of the safe: right where Mabel had been kneeling a moment ago, two extremely muddy shoeprints had been left to fossilize in the cold New England air. More to the point, it wasn't a child's shoeprint, and it was far too big to have been made by Lorraine's Council-issue boots.
"Looks like we're not the first visitors to the Treehouse since the Fog hit the island. Maybe someone else is looking into the League's secrets."
"Lots of someones," Mabel added, pointing at the ramp outside.
Now that it was a little closer to sunrise, Dipper could see that the sturdy planks outside were layered with old shoeprints, leftovers from several dozen visitors – probably more Bee-people, given that only they would be tough enough to withstand the monsters below long enough to get as far as the treehouse. Question was, if this place was this popular with visitors from out of town, why would Lorraine take the risk of bringing Dipper here?
Perhaps it was because Lorraine was the only Bee on the island. It would certainly explain why no magical superheroes had flown to Dipper's rescue in the last few hours, but if so, what was drawing all the Bee-people away from Solomon Island? What could be important enough to make all of Gaia's angels simultaneously ignore a zombie apocalypse, a child abduction, and whatever else was happening on this nightmarish rock?
Dipper shook his head. He couldn't afford to get sidetracked now, not when there was so little time to work before Mabel was whisked away again.
Striding back to the safe, he reached into the topmost shelf, eager to begin studying the League's secrets. Disappointingly enough, this one contained only a handful of fireworks, slingshots, and other childish miscellanea; among the junk, there were a few interesting items, like sharpened stakes and the occasional carved totem, but they were in the minority. Dipper didn't know if these were improvised weapons or relics from the League's past, but either, they weren't much help to him. He put the back, trying to wonder a bit about the kids that had formed this weird little club.
The next shelf was empty except for a battered old shoebox containing-
"Oh gross!" Mabel yelped.
Inside the box was a huge collection of glass jars, each one filled to the brim with a clear vinegarish fluid; suspended inside were a revolting collection of long, thin fleshy objects, each one pale grey and the size of a skinned banana. Judging by the colour and consistency, Dipper at first thought they might be rotting hot dogs… up until he noticed that each one ended in a talon-like claw.
"Yuck," he muttered, trying not to vomit. "I guess we know where the League keeps all those wendigo fingers."
"Why would they keep those around? That's just weird."
"Pot kettle, much? You were keeping a tuft of gnome beard hair around for days after our first big fight, Mabel."
"Yeah, but I lost it after a week! I didn't make a rabbit's foot out of it or anything really creepy. This is… this is just crazy, Dipper. You ask me, there was something wrong with the kids around here."
Dipper sighed, shut the box, and put it back on the shelf, hoping that the contents didn't break at any point.
To his immense relief, the shadowy bottom shelf turned out to contain a large stack of yellowed folders, all of them near to bursting with notes, photographs, maps, laminated newspaper clippings, and even small books. Dipper quickly handed one of the folders to Mabel before taking one for himself.
"See if you can find anything about Atlantic Island Park," he advised. "I don't know why, but whatever happened to Lorraine, it all started there."
At first, the search for answers was largely fruitless: the files they were looking through were mainly records of monsters that the League had fought in the past, and while there were a few interesting titbits here and there – like the long list of ghosts that still haunted the Franklin Mansion and the circumstances that had led to their deaths – it didn't help much.
In fact, the only thing that kept it from turning completely excruciating was Lorraine, who provided them with an early-morning breakfast – a small but welcome meal of twinkies and soda – and a few battery-powered lamps, so they were at least spared eye strain while they worked.
In between files, Dipper got Mabel up to speed with a step-by-step summary of his journey across Solomon Island, including everything he'd learned while sneaking around inside Lorraine's mind. In turn, Mabel provided a detailed synopsis of her own journey, most notably the weirder things she'd heard from the Sasquatch tribe. However, just as she was moving on to her attempts to teach the Sasquatch Chief the art of face bedazzling, she happened to turn the page of her folder – and let out a muffled gasp.
"Bingo," she muttered.
"What? What did you find?"
"Looks like a bunch of letters and diary entries. Well, what's left of them: looks as if they got wet and fell to pieces before the League could rescue this stuff… but they mention Atlantic Island Park."
Mabel sat back and peered down at the handful of tattered pages in her hands. "I think this first one was a letter to one of the kids, but it's hard to tell: there's only a sentence or two left of this one. '…living in Atlantic Island Park,' a whole lot of smudges and mud, then, 'Danny calls it 'The Old Man,' I guess because it's always limping along on a cane. He says he heard some weird story about the land from his parents, though mom and dad clam up whenever I ask anyone about it. The Academy kids say that the monster's actually a Bogeyman, and we've got it down in the A to Z of Monsters, but Danny just keeps on calling it the Old Man – even claims he heard the thing talking to itself, calling itself Old Man."
Mabel hummed for a moment. "There's a scrap here as well: looks older than the rest of the letter. Looks like someone was playing 'Pin The Clue To The Mystery' with this one. Uh, just one sentence this time. 'And they say to be careful, because if he gets you, the whole world might just forget about you.' Does that make any sense to you, bro-bro?"
Dipper's brow furrowed in concentration. He hadn't seen any man in a ragged suit in any of Lorraine's mind, unless the nightmare he'd bumped into had been her half-forgotten memory of him, but he did recall how almost everyone barring for a few exceptions had forgotten all about Callum. Dipper had assumed that Atlantic Island Park itself was to blame up until now – after all, the place seemed to have a power of its own: the accidents, the deaths, the unexplained occurrences, even the fact that Don had mentioned that he wasn't in his right mind there. Now, there was someone directly to blame for Callum's disappearance from human memory… and yet, it didn't fully explain everything. After all, if the Bogeyman had been responsible for everything, why had Lorraine's hands had been covered in blood when she'd turned up outside the park?
"I think we've got a piece of the puzzle," he said. "We'll need more if we're to make sense of the bigger picture. What's up next?"
"A whole lot of diary scraps. Looks like the League thought these were really important – they've put them in plastic sleeves and everything. They've glued the old paragraphs onto new paper, even made photocopies of 'em."
"In other words, this is really important. What's it say?
Mabel cleared her throat. "First page here, um… 'purchased the land on Solomon Island – for a pittance, I might add. Whatever old Archie Henderson did to the locals, just the mention of his name had people slamming doors and locking shutters from the moment I arrived on the island. My lawyers had everything arranged in advance, but the realtor still had to come and deliver the keys to me personally. He took it upon himself to offer me another warning. "I don't know what you're planning to do with this land. Mr Winter, but the soil here is bitter with a curse from the old country. Old Man Henderson, he did terrible, dark things. The land remembers, sir." I dismissed him shortly afterwards…'"
"We've got a page from Nathaniel Winter's diary in here? The League managed to get hold of something that actually belonged to the guy who built the park? How?"
"There's a label on this sleeve: 'washed up in Miskatonic River, October 30th, 1991.' Guess we know where the water damage came from, then."
"Still doesn't explain how it ended up in the river in the first place."
Of course, this was hardly the only thing that was troubling Dipper; he didn't want to mention it to Mabel, in part because he didn't want to end up getting teased over how he kept overthinking things, but familiar patterns were becoming impossible to ignore.
Once again, there was the familiar theme of something underground: the Draug and the zombies were digging for something, Lorraine had mentioned how Archie Henderson was trying to harness "the dark energies lurking underground," Don had claimed that Mr Winter had ordered his workers to install machines beneath the park… and now this cryptic remark on how the soil was "bitter with a curse."
Also, considering that Archibald Henderson had most likely died over a century ago, his name kept being mentioned. Even into the seventies, people were still scared of him, clamming up as soon as he was mentioned – as if his name was somehow too cursed to be spoken safely without summoning him up. Lorraine had mentioned that he'd done terrible things, but what could possibly justify all this fear now that he was dead? More to the point, was he dead? Lorraine had mentioned a lot of speculation, but nothing that confirmed that Henderson had ever died.
And then there was the name: one of the kids had called the Bogeyman "The Old Man." Both Lorraine and the journal entries had called Archibald Henderson "Old Man Henderson." Even the monster itself had supposedly called itself "Old Man." And, if Dipper recalled Lorraine's bedtime story correctly, living on as a monster haunting an abandoned amusement park and tormenting single mothers certainly sounded like something an evil sorcerer would do.
But there were still missing puzzle pieces...
Mabel cleared her throat and continued "Uh, second entry: uh… something something… 'I deduced what was needed from the banned writings of Archie Henderson. It's astonishing that a resonance of positive emotions can be used to fuel such process. Henderson himself chose the negative – and that caused at least some of the…'"
She shook her head. "I can't make sense of what it says next. Um, darkness, maybe? Evil? Curse? It's been smudged out. Er, something something, and another pasted on bit: 'Solomon Island is a nexus for dark energies and the thought of that power just dissipating underneath the earth here – it makes my skin crawl…'"
"Okay… what process, how are positive emotions involved, and what did the negative ones cause?"
"Your guess is as good as mine."
Dipper considered this. So, Solomon Island was 'a nexus for dark energies.' Well, that was another funny similarity to Gravity Falls, wasn't it? In much the same way that the crown jewel of Roadkill County was a magnet for the supernatural, this shadowy old rock had somehow become a home for all kinds of malevolent weirdness, drawing it in from all over the world: the Ak'ab were supposed to be from Guatemala originally, but had been brought to the island by Mayans, of all people. Nathaniel Winter could have chosen anywhere for the site of his weird amusement park, but he'd picked Solomon for some reason. And the Fog! Of all the coastal towns the Fog and the Draug could have attacked, they'd picked this one.
But in the case of Gravity Falls, Grunkle Ford had theorized that the town's Weirdness attraction was due at least in part to the alien spaceship that had crashed there eons ago. What was it that had caused so many horrors to be born on Solomon Island, or drawn there or whatever? Could it have something to do with whatever Old Man Henderson had done to the island? Or was it something older than that? And what had Winter wanted to do with those dark energies?
What could be done with "all that power?"
Mabel was nudging him for attention. "We've got a final entry here." She winced, and added, "You might want to cover your ears for this one, Dipper. Winter gets pretty potty-mouthed here; even Grunkle Stan doesn't get this bad when he thinks we're not listening."
"Why are you getting sensitive about this now?"
"Well, you are a lot younger than me now. I'm supposed to set a good example for little kids, you know."
Dipper sighed wearily. "Mabel…"
"I'm just saying, in this light it looks as though you've lost another year or so. I wouldn't be a responsible big sister if I didn't watch my mouth around you-"
"Mabel, could you just get on with it and stop playing around?"
"Killjoy. Okay, I'll just cough whenever there's a swearword, then. Anyway, I think this is the final entry we've got here: ahem… 'Ignorant (cough) short-sighted (cough) pismire (cough)s! The court got wind of that goddamn photojournalist and his broken camera. Now I've been ordered to attend weekly sessions with a therapist. As if I haven't got enough (cough) to deal with everything that's been happening at the park! I've got (cough) safety inspectors casing the property for any reason to shut us down, muckrakers sniffing like starved mutts for a story, families of dead parkgoers trying to sue, harvesting machines that don't work, a potential FBI investigation on the way, and even my friends in the senate are about ready to wash their hands clean of me… and now I have to deal with some (cough) therapist. There's blood in the water now: they know I'm in financial dire straits, know I'm stretching my influence to my limits, otherwise they wouldn't have the (cough) to challenge me so openly. They can smell I'm weak now, and they're moving in for the kill.'"
Mabel paused for breath, and exchanged confused glances with Dipper, before swiftly continuing.
"First session with the therapist today. Tight-(cough)ed (cough) kept asking the most asinine questions: why is the park so important to you? Why are you prepared to sacrifice your fortune to keep it open? Why did a simple discussion over missing children lead to a fist-fight with a journalist? I'm too old and too important for this (cough), I swear to Christ. And then, as if serving as a substitute interrogator on behalf of the FBI wasn't bad enough, the (cough) actually had the goddamn temerity to ask me about my past. "Tell me about your parents." Saccharine-voiced bimbo. Well, I told her only the basic facts: I was born on the West Coat, I was orphaned, I had weak lungs, I was adopted by a family without a penny to their name, and I struck it rich in my twenties. The end, as far as she's concerned. Somehow the damnable woman found out about the childhood night terrors and the bedwetting thing, though.
And after another boring stretch of conversation, she asked, "It sounds like this need to make the park successful is motivated by fear. So, what are you really afraid of, Nathaniel?" She actually used my first name, as if she had the right to treat me like an equal!
But… I have to admit this much: she had a point. I am afraid. I'm so close now. Nobody understands how important this is. I can't let it fail now. I need this more than anything in the world, more than love, more than money, more than my empire: all my life, I've been running from my fears, hiding behind my wealth and businesses, always reaching for the one thing that can protect me from the monsters under the bed… and now this is the final step in the journey, the only way I can be without this terrible fear.
And that's what I think drew me to this place, beyond the more obvious rewards I will earn upon my success: the prospect of being freed from my anxieties. Old Man Henderson began his own project for this very reason; he understood better than anyone else how important it was to live without fear. It was he that showed me the path to freedom – he wouldn't have led me astray on purpose, would he?
I must review his work once again: there's meant to be a hidden stockpile of his writings somewhere under the lighthouse…'"
There was an ominous silence.
"Does it say anything else?" Dipper asked, mouth dry.
"Uh, last page looks like it was torn to pieces. All it says is: "Court case went badly. They're shutting us down. This isn't fair. I was owed so much more in life. I was born for more than this."
Mabel sighed and closed the folder – and as she did so, a tiny scrap of laminated paper slipped free and fluttered to the ground. It might have fallen through the spaces between the floorboards if Dipper hadn't grabbed it in time: it was a clipping from a newspaper, preserved in plastic before the print could fade. Most of the text had been cut out, so the real focus of the clipping was the black and white photograph dominating the page: it was of a thin man in his seventies, dressed in an old-fashioned tailcoat and white gloves, hat in hand and arms spread wide.
Nathaniel Winter at the gala opening, read the caption. Dipper had to admit he was a little surprised: this wasn't how he'd been imagining the man who'd written the notes so far: he looked more like a stage magician than an industrialist.
However, what really drew Dipper's attention was Nathaniel's face, with its broad grin, gleaming white teeth, refined features, swept-back white hair, and dark eyes that seemed to glitter even in monochrome. He knew for a fact that he'd never seen or met this man before in his life, but there was something uncannily familiar about him nonetheless. There was something about those flinty eyes, that ever-so-distinctly smug grin…
…those tombstone-like teeth…
By the time he'd travelled the first ten yards of the journey, Stan had almost run out of bad language. Whenever he'd heard monsters scuttling through the woods ahead, he'd immediately ducked behind a tree and sat there, swearing at near-inaudible volume until the danger passed. It had kept him safe, but it had dragged out what should have been a relatively simple journey into a gruelling, ten-minute slog that depleted his generous stockpile of swearwords.
The last time he'd been this scared, Gravity Falls had been in the throes of Weirdmageddon: back then, he'd been fearing for his own life, consumed with dread over what might have happened to Dipper and Mabel, and constantly worrying about what the Rift might spit out next. But even then, he'd spent most of the crisis safe inside Mystery Shack with a whole army of survivors at his back, and he'd eventually been able to hide his anxieties behind overconfidence, and later, bitterness… up until that final confrontation at the Fearamid. The moment when Bill had said, "I've got some children to turn into corpses!" all his armour had been stripped away, and left him almost crushed with dread.
Here, there was no armour. There was no con Stan could conceal himself behind, no easy lie he could shield himself with, not until he reached the safety of the treehouse.
Up until then, he'd be up against cicadas the size of tractors, at least according to Utterson; and yes, he had Ford's blaster and the weapons he'd borrowed from Lorraine's backpack, but that would only do him so much good before he ran out of charge, ammo, grenades, or whatever. Besides, Utterson had recommended that he avoid combat, if only because the sound of fighting might spook Lorraine.
And in the unlikely event that he could reach the treehouse without getting ripped to bits by giant bugs or whatever else haunted these woods, he'd still have to deal with Lorraine herself. Would he be able to talk her into taking the bait in Utterson's trap? If not, would he be able to kill her – shove her over the railing and leave the bugs to do the rest? It wasn't exactly a challenge for his conscience, considering that she couldn't actually die, so it was just a matter of timing… and hoping to God that Dipper and Mabel weren't watching.
That was another thing to worry about: had Mabel arrived at the treehouse safely?
More importantly, how had Lorraine reacted? What would she do when she found that someone might be trying to rescue Dipper from her? According to Utterson, she was violent, untrustworthy, and delusional, and while he didn't fully trust the colonel, Stan had to admit that most of the testimonies he'd gathered from the townsfolk painted Lorraine unstable and mentally ill… but was she crazy enough to hurt a child?
Could she make the jump from kidnapping children to…
To…
He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence – not even in the privacy of his own mind.
Stan stopped to catch his breath, ducking behind a tree as he did so. He could already see ominous shapes in the distance, enormous chitinous figures scuttling across the forest floor like armoured bears. They hadn't seen him yet, but it was only a matter of time before one of them caught a glimpse; one false move, one clumsy stumble over a tree root, and he'd be deader than two-tone.
So, to sum up, he thought, I'm up against a superpowered madwoman who might have already killed Mabel, and before I can even reach her, I've got to make my way through a forest full of monsters that I can't fight without sounding the alarm, and my nearest ally is a heartless bastard with far too many medals for his own good. Plus, I can't call Ford for help without alerting the monsters, and I doubt he'd be able to do much from wherever he is.
In other words, I'm screwed. Again. Not as if I've been up against worse odds and come out in one piece.
The hell with it. Let's get this over with…
A/N: Feel free to theorize what happens next, ladies and gents - and feel free to share your ideas in your reviews!
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