Glass
"What separates you and I – is glass. Are we not the same, hunter?" (Monster Falls AU)
Tad Strange x Mabel Pines
Be careful if they are too friendly
I
A twig snaps, and Dipper quickly jolts from his perch; fingers pressed to bark, listening to the ominous singing and chattering of birds. He pauses his movements – keeping his wicker basket filled with dogwood flowers pressed to his ribcage. He scans his surroundings, swallowing once out of impulse, then silently chuckles to himself – damning his fawn instincts in wanting to flee. However, he can't shake the feeling of being watched.
He waits, slowly taking in his surroundings before he continues his meaningful task; fingers brush over white petals, quickly pulling them from their beds. His hoof digs into rich, churned earth, and the feeling of peace is almost intoxicating. He hums, inquisitively turning over a plant, wondering if this would be something that Mabel would enjoy. She did ask for flowers, after all, and never did quite clarify to which family of plant she yearned for the most.
Dipper shrugs, carefully placing his findings with the rest in his basket.
It has been six years since he's felt human, a distant memory of running on two legs seemed like a complete anomaly; the end of time is nipping, and slowly reality does begin to fade. The skies are not as blue anymore, and finding flowers for Mabel was almost impossible; but there's always flowers on her shore, pretty little petals stained purple and bled dark, thorns enwrapping the bud like an engagement ring. The flowers are unidentifiable, and while Dipper worries about their existence, Mabel finds nothing malicious about the gesture that roots from nature: just a few human hunters, who haven't had a drop of Gravity Falls' water, trying to appease to the rumored mermaid of the lake.
It started with the water supply – that's how the two notorious dream demons first dropped the rapture. Mabel always did mention that the water tasted funny, saying it almost tasted bitter. However, the twins merely wrote it off as the pipes in house are old – and erosion only added flavor. Grunkle Stan is a cheap man, after all. And repairing something – that would cost him a good amount – didn't seem worth it. Spending was a mere luxury.
Communication to the outside world is an abstract subject; the news station buzzes, and radios refused to turn on. Dipper tried, frantically, calling his parents once the changes occurred, and once Mabel completely lost her ability to live on land, Dipper felt completely helpless in this timeless paradox. This Pandora-effect phenomenon. It was like Gravity Falls was in its own forgotten world, its own drifting island, and the only time outsiders came around - it was only for the sole purpose of the mighty hunt, claiming a monster as their prize, or their pet.
There was no way to contact the outside world; he has lost six years of his life, his childhood, to the call of demons' selfish games. He hasn't heard from his parents in so long. He wonders, in this horrid world, if they were still alive among the cattle – forgetting about them and the pinpoint of Gravity Falls.
Dipper sighs, asserting his stance and pulling himself from his thoughts, he quickly sets out to bring his findings to his sister.
I
By the shore, the lake plays the mirror – reflecting the moon and carrying it in small swells. Dipper stands in his usual meeting spot, clamoring over the wooden dock with hooved clicks. At the end of the dock, he places his basket down by the edge. He waits for a moment, before he works the nerve to grip at the chain that garnished his neck; twiddling the whistle that adorn his hollow throat, he brings the cool metal to his lips and blows once. And so he waits again in the stillness of harsh night, listening to the gentle whoo of an owl leering near. This was all far too forlorn.
Dipper doesn't have to wait long till he sees a goofy grin in the shallow, haunting depths of the lake. He can see the flow of floating hair follow, and an oddly placed giggle echo off the waters. Mabel's fingers grip the beams of the dock, hoisting herself forward to catch a better look at her brother. There's something enchanting to Mabel's movement, but that was the mere art of a mermaid – even if they didn't mean to allure those to their watery graves.
"Dipper!" Mabel uses her upper body strength to pull herself completely up the dock, accepting her brother's help with the slide of hand; she keeps her tail submerged, while the rest laid out on the dock with a silly huff. "How's it hangin', bro-bro? Give me a minute. Have to catch my breath."
"Snapping turtles, again?" Dipper inquires, slowly kneeling down to his sister's height. "I told you Mabel, you can't make friends with everyone."
"But the turtle I've been following just laid eggs, Dipper! Eggs! You know me, trying to be a good neighbor in the lake, I thought, "I bet Ms. Snappers wouldn't mind if I cleaned her hatchlings while she's away." Wrong! Dipper, did you know turtles can swim fast? I just wanted to get into watching that baby-hatching action."
"It took you six years of living in the lake to finally catch on?"
"Psst," Mabel waves off her brother's mockery. "Now I got one angry neighbor on my side of the lake; she always tries to latch on to my tail when I swim by." She snorts, keeping her plastered little grin. She sits up, tail flicking across the water's surface.
"Is that for me?" Mabel finally asks, catching the sight of the basket her brother laid out on her drying dock.
"They're always for you, Mabel. You're the one who asks for them."
"There's nothing pretty about watching algae grow off the sides of rocks, Dipper. You should try it. Trust me. It's boring. You got a whole forest to explore. Me? Well, I can always scout for the prettiest pebbles at the bottom of the lake." Mabel makes lite on her situation, clammy fingers sorting through the display of withering flowers and broken stems. The end of the world wasn't the best for finding exotic plant life, but she tried to cherish whatever her brother brought her per request. Though, the quantity and quality was rapidly diminishing, and soon, there will be no more flowers for Dipper to pick for her.
"You know I've been itching to take you on one of our classic adventures," Dipper consoles, pulling a smile of his own – even if the curve didn't catch his eyes just right. He wanted to appear happy when he visited his sister. "These were the best I could find."
"And they are worth it!" Mabel beams, leaning forward, her fingers dive in to study every plant. "And, maybe, one day we'll fix this whole mess and return to our old lives, right? Gotta have faith in a world like this."
Their little reunion is cut short with the booming effect of an echoing shotgun; with a gasp, Mabel quickly dips off the dock seamlessly, submerging herself amongst the swell of stagnate waters – pulling Dipper's basket along with her. Dipper flinches, hooves stumbling, he jolts from his perch and dashes for the brush of darkening forest.
I
"Do you find no shame in your hunting technique? Stalking takes time – learning about your prey is the most sufficient way to retrieve two prizes for the price of one hunt."
"I always thought a meaningless problem could be settled with a damn-good bullet, or a sloppy blood ritual. Mass murder works well enough, too. But I guess I was wrong, brother," Bill mocks, and Tad can find the lie in his argument. Tad doesn't like the way that Bill holds his gun towards the prey, pretending as if to shoot them both. His mockery was a damning thing, but Tad subsides his own annoyance by gritting his teeth. "Of course, you're always right."
He patiently watches the siblings exchange pleasantries, each one finding a reason to laugh. He found their laughing an oddity – how could one find joy in being the lesser of the species? The creatures meant to die at the end of a gun, or by mortality.
Siblings. Tad watches the interactions between the twins with much interest; where they are born of blood and bone and a mother's touch, he and his brother was pulled from void and smothered nightmares, ripped by burning embers and suffocating ash. They simply came to be. Full of hatred and unjust vengeance, they filled the minds of humans with benevolent nightmares, and ominous prophecies; they've enlightened great kings with fear and madness, and caused a plague to wipe out civilizations.
"Remember Vlad Dracul?" Bill cuts Tad from his thoughts, a hollow-point grin set into motion. With that single, haunting eye, Bill watches his brother turn to finally face him.
"What about him?"
"Well, you were criticizing my hunting technique, but let me remind you just who implanted that meat-bag king with the brilliant idea of impaling his enemies; I'd say my hunting approach to the lesser is quite spot-on."
"The man roasted children, whom he fed to their mothers; he cut off the breasts of women, and forced their husbands to eat them. After that, he had them all impaled, Bill. You're hunting without dignity. I hunt for prize."
"Well, the man had done one right thing: he killed his brother by pushing molting spikes into his eyes; that's something even the Devil could admire. Speaking of the Devil, why haven't we visited Hell this year? I heard it's quite lovely at this time – still frozen over, and the lost are still mourning." Bill gives his brother the most sadistic look, sharp teeth clenched and hungry. A morbid laugh follows.
"Hey brother, watch this," Bill finally stands from his hiding spot. Shotgun pointed heavenward, he cocks the mechanism and releases a single shot in the air. From down the hill, the siblings jolt from their spots, splitting off out of fear. Smoke pools from the demon's barrel, and it is for certain that the twins can hear Bill's malleolus laugh over the hills – following them as they go.
Tad is strained, furious, but his anger is hidden well behind his thin lips.
I
He stands by the shore, sand and muck clinging to his boots. Abstract nature slowly pulling in the autumn season, leaving summer to reflect on its deathbed. Northern downpour riddles the lake's surface, calming gentle ripples that separates with a sweet sound; the moon is masked with dark, churning clouds, lulling in a sense that it almost makes him sleepy. Which, to Tad Strange, is a foreign emotion, indeed.
He admires the lake and what it stands for – holding his prize with extreme care, save for the turtle he knows that stalks her in the deep. While he knows everything about her, she has no idea what he is; she knows of him, he's sure. She flees from every fishing attempt he's pulled on her, every time she catches him trailing the shores of her lake. Plain fear marring dark eyes, a hollow gasp coming from her bare chest, escaping from a trembling lip.
Her brother tells her to fear him, and Tad shows no ill-feelings towards her brother for that. It is true. She should be afraid.
He haunts the shore with blooded transgressions, slowly dropping to his knees to unfold his long-giving trap. He prides himself on patience, a gloved hand smoothing out the sands with care. Where he could conquer hell and horrid nightmares by his touch, tonight he serves a different purpose. A glorifying one.
Smothered, his palm moves over the sand, bringing to life a different breed of flower; lovely greenery tickles the underside of his palm, and by demonic power, the petals slowly bleed out a light and illuminating violet. His gift is considered few, but he knows that Mabel won't be able to help herself when she drags herself up upon the shores, nails digging into earth and farther away from the arms of the lake, just so she could indulge the texture of a life who would sooner wither away.
He won't strike tonight, or tomorrow. No. He takes his time – believing to be better than his brother's honed skin of snatch and steal. Mabel's naïve – in a sense; her rose-colored glasses much too big for her damning reality. He wants her comfortable, unaware before he snatches her and claims her. And once the time comes, and his hunger of companionship has been fed – he will help destroy the rest.
He enjoyed the game of waiting.
I
Mabel grins into the mysterious petals of purple left at the shores of her lake, sunbathing under hooded and churned skies, her tail lapped with the gentle hum of the lake. The morning has been pleasant enough for her, indulging on raw fish and pulling pedals slowly away. She absently wonders when her brother will come around so she could return his basket to him.
She finds time to worry and finds time to relax under God-given autumn warmth; the smell of kindling hickory wood flooding the air. One by one, she snaps the stems of her beautiful flowers, dew-kissed and fragrant, braiding the stems in thick, dark hair. Her mermaid instincts nibbles away at her ego, vanity coming to her like a favored emotion.
She stares into the mirror of her lake, admiring the way purple clashed with dark brown. Slender fingertips tracing around shiny pebbles and fishing line that garnished her neck, decorative across bare breast. She can't hold back her smile over how pleased she felt.
But she feels watched. She always feels watched.