Timeline Summary:
This story begins during the final act of Time Traveler's Pig, shortly after Dipper sacrifices his desired timeline with Wendy in order to restore Waddles' ownership to Mabel. Blendin has retrieved the Time Tape by now. These plot points have already occurred "off-screen," while the events you are about to read diverge from canon, due to a soon-to-be referenced variable.
Author's notes:
Contains spoilers series-wide.
Rated 18+ for mildly suggestive language and themes. If you're not 18, then an even better read will be either "Forest of Daggers" (w w w . fanfiction s/12486618/1/Dipper-Wendy-and-the-Forest-of-Daggers) or "Dipper's Birthday Rumble" (w w w . fanfiction s/9119625/1/Dipper-s-Birthday-Rumble) And if you've read those already, feel free to PM me for other recommendations you'll enjoy.
"The action of even the smallest creature leads to changes in the entire universe."
— Nikola Tesla
EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT FOREVER.
Whether thought or felt, the realization floods Dipper's being.
Man... just... honestly, his biggest problem this morning was not making an idiot of himself when he asked out Wendy. And yeah, taking her to Stan's liability-minefield of a carnival was by no stretch of the imagination a perfect date, but admittedly, it was still a pretty fun one, if only in an ironic and borderline masochistic way. Also, it was cheap. And being a jobless 12-year-old with no steady allowance, he had to 'spare every expense' almost as much as his Grunkle did.
And ok, well, if we're really gonna be all technical about it, he didn't ask her to go out with him to the Mystery Fair, per say. If we're truly arguing semantics here, his exact words were 'hang out.' But still, it involved all the same butterflies and heart-hammering and horrible, horrible armpit-sweating.
And that wasn't even the worst of it. Whew boy. His biggest problem this afternoon was manipulating the fabric of time to erase his repeated idiocy at the Baseball Toss and keep Wendy from going out (as in 'go out-out') with an even bigger idiot.
Important priorities for sure, but now... now...
... After what he and Mabel experienced in that last time-jump... and the secret they discovered...
Perspective, man. It's savage.
Just like the back pain he's earning himself as he drapes his noodle-body across the plywood of the Slopey Toss. Or the burn that the setting June sun, earlier a friggin' tanning lamp, has beaten into his scraped and bruised and dust-choked skin.
He lies a broken boy.
Dusk peels away the sky and the stars peek-a-boo through. The fairy lights of the carnival spring to life, almost like an alchemy experiment, a manmade sunrise to counter the sunset. His eyes search the universe around him, silently asking some exhausted and desperate question.
From the universe's perspective, he looks like a dropped snow cone.
A carny coils cable, passing by and shaking his head at the puddle of a kid. "It's called 'assumed risk,' boy-o," grunts the carny.
Sure. As if a ride did this to him. As if anything physical could do this to him.
(Though... in a twisted, philosophical kind of way, it was physicality that did this to him nocan'tthinkaboutthatdon'tthinkaboutthatithurtstoomuchshutupshutupSHUTUP)
Almost in response to this, the sun leaves Dipper. Though not because it's burrowed behind the tree line. It's blotted out, eclipsed by what can only be described as a lump of spoiled meat growing around an ancient and gnarled oak trunk.
Stan, in his rumpled coffin suit and unstrung ribbon tie, dries the water from his ears with a tried-and-true cleaning rag as he peers down at his great-nephew.
"Alright," the old man huffs, "let's put ya back t'gether."
The Mystery Shack's front door nearly flies off its rotting hinges as Dipper is tossed through the threshold. The kid somersaults into the floorboards, lurching to a stop on his rear, his slimjim frame drooping over itself like one of the dead flowers in the Shack's Zombie Botany exhibit.
Stan's knees crack like his 12 Gauge as he rises from his squat. Have to lift with yer legs, never yer back.
A life lesson that Dipper's dad apparently never taught the kid. That plywood the boy was loafing on was gonna wreck his spine. More importantly, it was messing with the game's ticket sales! Who wants to drop money on a skee-ball when some schlub is blocking all the bullseyes?! (Unless the schlub is the target, which, come to think of it, isn't a venture that's entirely out of the question...)
Stan steps inside, running a heavy hand over his face. Oy, these niblings. First Dipper going all catatonic on him, then Mabel trying to shoehorn a squatter into their home…
On instinct, Stan pulls a Maverick, managing to casually turn mid-step before fiercely jutting his leg out to bar the way he came. "No," he declares to the girl in his periphery, leaning his beaten-and-weathered body against his equally beaten-and-weathered doorframe.
"Aww c'maaan, Grunkle Stan!" protests Mabel, bubblegum voice threatening to burst. It's hardly three seconds later when she squeezes an oinking ball of pinkness underneath her uncle's hamstring. The pig pops out like a fat cork and the girl slides after him like champagne.
"His name is Waddles! How could you not love Waddles?!" she demands. "He WADDLES!"
"Why would I want to watch anything with rolls of fat jiggle?" Stan challenges. "Especially without pants?"
"Now you know how we feel!" she beams.
"I knew long before you were here, kid."
"C'mon, look into his eyes!" she beseeches, hoisting her new pet up by the pig-pits and placing him into Stan's hands. "How can you say no to thaaaaaaaaaaaat?"
"... He looks like a gallbladder," Stan finds himself whispering in reverential fear.
"YOU SAY THAT ABOUT ALL MY FRIENDS!"
"Guys, ENOUGH!"
What in th' heck…? Stan's stare pivots, Mabel's head following. The source of the noise is Dipper, who's bludgeoning them both with a glare. Stan's reaction is delayed by just a second, still processing what's happening, but when realization clicks-in, the gravel in his gut starts churning and his blood starts boiling. But as soon as he's ready to lay down the law, the need for it passes. Dipper's 'tude vanishes in a blink, replaced with the same jadedness that Stan had seen when he had found the boy staring up at the sky.
"Let her keep it, Stan," Dipper sighs. "We went through a lot for this pig, ok?"
Stan stares. His brow curves in, like a bow string about to release an Arrow of Deduction into his brai-
FLASH!
Stan's head swivels towards Mabel, who's shaking a fresh Polaroid of him hoisting up Waddles. "If you don't do it, I'll tell the world you both hugged," she threatens with good cheer.
Stan drops the pig, hands begging to strangle something as he tries to will away what's probably an ulcer and an aneurysm competing for his attention. After a couple of very tense moments, he manages to fast-track from the GAAAAHHHHH stage of grief into Acceptance. "Alright, fine, FINE! But he's my emergency sausage, nothing more!"
He motions for the incriminating Polaroid. To better put his mind at ease, Mabel eats it.
… Seriously, did some nurse switch Shermie's bassinet with another baby's? Is he really related to this? Geez.
Not that Mabel has any concerns about genetics right now, or any concerns at all, really. Heck, the li'l fairy's walkin' on air, prancin' over to her brother, throwing her sagging sweater-arms around his neck an' all.
But what is up with the boy today? Dipper's totally unmoved by this, staring into a personal abyss. Mabel's brow quirks, hurt mingled with concern.
But she nods at her sibling, keeping his gaze. And it's clear even to someone as meatheaded as Stan that there's some kind of unspoken understanding between the two. Hey, life is cruel enough that some days, even twins need their space. (That friggin' Crampelter…)
The moment doesn't last long. She turns from her brother, refocusing her attention on the newly consecrated member of the family. "C'mon Waddles," she coos while cocooning him in her arms, "let's learn Sudoku!"
Even while cradling the fatty, she practically floats out. Stan pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. He then promptly falls flat on his head after tripping over his nephew.
"Sorry," Dipper drones.
Stan pushes himself up from the floor - his first push-up in years - and rubs his jaw. "You an exhibit now?" he grunts.
"Be happy. You can use me for a footstool."
Stan stares back, at a loss.
Dipper looks right through him.
Stan hangs his head, bites his cheek, glances down at his watch (which may or may not have been snatched off a bloodied and beaten Columbian street-falcon.) He's gotta go now if he's gonna fit in his shower before dinn- oh wait. No, the dunking tank took care of his B.O. already.
He's got time.
Dang it.
Stan sits beside Dip, spreading his legs, settling himself but not unsettling the silence.
"... So, uh, years ago," the old man begins, "I was passin' through this one town on… 'business.' And on this particular trip, I happened to forget my wallet in another state. It happens. Well, none of the diners were willin' to spring for a tab, so one thing led to another, and before I know it, there I was, arguing the merits of an 'I.O.U' with this girl scout troop. Now, should I have raised my voice? I guess not. Should the pigtailed one have said what she did about my mother? HECK no."
Stan drums his fingers idly against the floorboards. Dipper says nothing. Honestly, Stan's debating whether the kid's even blinking right now.
"So anyways," the old man continues, drawing up his pant leg, "that's how I got this scar. It's also why the Shack is blacklisted from any scout cookie sales. Every time I see those sashes 'n' badges, my fight-or-flight kicks in, and I just end up swattin' the little punks with my broom. It's important that I admit these kinds of things to myself."
Dipper's at least looking at him now, even if it is with one majorly-raised eyebrow. Having secured his audience's attention, Stan makes his play: "So, uh, is there anything you need to admit?"
"No, Stan."
"GREAT!" the sixty-seven-year-old leaps to his feet. "Roll yourself into the corner then, 'kay? I've gotta eat pickles."
"You wouldn't care anyway."
Stan halts, fingers curling. "Ugh. Is this one of those womanly tactics where you tell me 'oh no, nuthin's wrong, hun,' and then next thing I know, yer tossin' a baby alligator into my tub?"
"I wouldn't have to resort to that, given the nest of alli-rachnids under our sink already."
"Those are regular 'rachnids! They do not have snouts!"
"Right, just scales and a tail," counters Dipper dryly. "No such thing as Hawktopuses either, right? They're just birds that stole someone's squid. And forget about sasquatches, right? Right? I mean after all, they're just a new breed of Amish with elephantiasis!" He's risen from the floor now, having worked himself into a fury. "When is this town going to wake up and face reality, man?!"
"Oh fer- ya almost worried me, y'know that? I thought you were mopin' over a real problem."
"It is over a real problem, Stan! But the only reason I even have this new, messed-up problem is because of the science fiction-y and magical hotbed that this town is built on!"
Stan arches a deliberate brow. "Soooo... you sayin' this ain't a girl problem then, Slick?"
Dipper's own brows almost shoot through the roof. "Wha-? No! I mean, yes! I mean... It is but it isn't."
Dipper glances off to the side, at a loss. Stan stares. Dipper finds whatever strength he needs to meet the old man's eye.
"If I tell you, you promise not to say anything to Wendy?"
"Scout's Honor," Stan mock-salutes.
"Stan. Seriously."
"Kid," Stan replies, actually serious. "We're talking man-o a man-o here. You don't even have to ask. Got it?"
Dipper holds his gaze. Debates himself. Then:
"Stan... have you ever stumbled onto something you weren't supposed to?"
Stan wanted to tell him sure. He had 'stumbled' into the girls' locker room once or twice in his youth. "Stumble onto what, Dipper?" the old man prods, mentally preparing himself to fetch the Why Am I Sweaty? puberty manual.
Dipper looks down. "Like... a secret."
An image of the vending machine streaks into Stan's mind and he clenches his gut, hard. Stop. Keep cool. The kid said he had chick troubles, remember?
"... What kind of secret?" Stan rasps, softly.
Dipper rubs his arm. "Like... a conversation you weren't meant to hear."
Ugghh. This was either innocent sitcom-y hijinks or Dipper was entering that creepy age where he was spying on girls. "So you were eavesdropping on Wendy?" Stan clarifies.
Dipper flushes a brutal red. "U-uh, well, yeah, but by accident! And, technically, she wasn't even our Wendy."
"... What?" Stan asks, adjusting his hearing aid. "What'd you say?"
The boy's stammering now. "I mean... she's not our Wendy yet. But she will be. Maybe tomorrow, maybe months from now... She still looked the same age..."
"... What?" Stan repeats, sharper. Was the kid having a stroke or something? What was he talking about?
"Look, it's... it's complicated," groans Dipper. "It's like... Okay... It's... It wasn't the Wendy of our timeline." The boy sets his jaw, that underdeveloped li'l adam's apple of his bobbing as he gulps. "It was the Wendy of... The Future."
Stan stares, cheek twitching in confusion and irritation. "... Did you hit your head when you fell from the sky tram?"
"Look, there was this bald guy, and he had this device, and me and Mabel got time-tossed across all these different eras, right? And we landed in this place we weren't expecting. This really weird place. And Wendy was there. And she said some things. And..." Dipper's fists clench as his eyes drop. "OK, I know I'm not making any sense, but Stan... do you at least know what time travel is?"
The air stills. Stan crosses his arms, his barrel-chest expanding with his slow inhale. He retracts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "... Why do I feel like you're about to pitch me life insurance?"
Dipper deflates. "Why did I even think...? You know what, just forget it. I can't even..." He waves at the air in frustration. "I can't even broach a paranormal concept with you, let alone get into what actually happened!"
"Well to be fair, you never denied the insurance accusation," Stan snorts.
Dipper just stares, sagging. His eye-bags are darker and uglier, his clothes scuffed up, his skin smudged and sunburnt… he looks beat. Slap a couple more years on him, he'd slightly resemble some of Stan's harsher street days.
This comparison doesn't do anything to squelch the slow-churning guilt bubbling in the old man's stomach. Doesn't squash the suspicion that whatever the boy's babbling about actually stems from the Falls' weirdo magic rather than his nephew's neuroses.
But he can't let Dipper suspect that. Can't let either of the niblings.
"You know what sucks the most about this?" Dipper sighs, and by the sound of it, it's more from resignation than disappointment, two feelings that Stan knows all too well. "It's that I really do wanna talk about this man-to-man. I mean, right now, I don't even wanna talk to Mabel about what her and I witnessed. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful to be able to go to her for advice about it, it's just that..."
His voice trails off and he doesn't hurry to catch it.
Advice on what? is what Stan's thinking, and almost saying, but he restrains himself, fingers digging harder into his crossed arms. He can't encourage this paranormal junk, can't let it hurt the gremlins. Or worse, consume them.
Like Sixer.
Stan's dentures almost grind to dust. His nails manage to draw blood from his biceps, even through the fabric.
And meanwhile, Dipper is left probing his Grunkle's gaze, finding neither irritation nor invitation behind the glasses.
"Forget it," the boy waves his uncle off, tugging the bill of his cap over his face. "I don't even know why I'm upset. Me and Mabel saw a lot of unbelievable stuff today: pioneers, dinosaurs, a genocidal laser-baby... but that last place we were time-tossed into? What we saw? What we overheard from that Future-Wendy...?" He gives a desperate, defeated laugh. "If I hadn't been there, well... I wouldn't believe it either."
Dipper marches up the steps, dragging his spirits with him.
Stan stares after the kid, with the silence practically becoming tinnitus. When he hears the attic door shut, his beef jerky-skin tightens into a grimace.
"What do I care?" he mutters. He strides past the easily-accessible kitchen in favor of the living room before making a sharp left into the gift shop, turning to greet the vending machine. With a few well-placed slaps against the keypad, he then uses his elbow to crowbar the door open. (A move he sure as heck never taught Soos, whom the security cams had nevertheless proven to be the heinous culprit behind his missing snack inventory.) The old man settles on a bag of Chocolate-Covered Rat-Shaped Raisins™, nuthin' at all like Toffee Peanuts, and chews.
And thinks.
… Time travel? Like… like that whole Flux Capacitor sci-fi crap? Sure, that made for one heckuva movie, but for the real world? That is way too unsettling. Life is already a big enough mess, it doesn't need any meddling poindexters goin' back in time to marry dinosaurs or spray-paint Stonehenge or cross-out the 2A. And that goes double for his nephew.
… But seriously, time travel? No. That's just too… No! The kid's mistaken on this one, he's gotta be. As weird as this stupid town is, it only attracts the supernatural. Something like time travel is just a whole 'nother level, somthing in Ford's realm-
His line of thought derails. His sphincter clenches, along with the fist around the empty snack bag.
… Time travel is something stupid enough that Ford might've attempted… And something that his brother might've been smart enough to achieve.
Holy–! What if… What if Ford actually did it? What if Dipper had run across, like, one of the nerd's old science experiments from his Have-You-Come-to-Steal-My-Eyes days? Maybe some kinda time capsule? (Har-dee-har-har, no pun intended.) Was that what had bent the boy so outta shape? Did he stumble onto some kinda prototype hidden somewhere in the shack?!
Sweet Paul Bunyan! What if somewhere, under some loose floorboard or behind some secret bookshelf or inside a random hollow panel, is the very thing that could bring Ford back! B-Bring him back before he even left?!
An icy sweat pricks Stan's back. Slowly, shakily, he scans the room around him, seeing its new raw potential. Before it's even a conscious thought, he tosses the wrapper aside, lunging at the walls, shelves, furniture, anything he can slap his hands onto and feel for trap doors or secret compartments or hidden switches. It's here, it's somewhere, hiding from him, he'll bet his life on it, WHERE IS IT?!
"What are ya doin', Stanley?"
Stan blinks. It's kinda like an underwater sensation, almost an outta-body-experience if you really wanna push the dramatics, but it doesn't sink in until a moment later that he's the one who's asked himself the question.
And just what exactly is he doing?
He's on his hands and knees, scrounging. Which, ok, yeah, he's not exactly new to. But for Pete's sake, in his own house? In his own-
The concept of home tightens his throat, sours his stomach a little. He shakes it off.
This is stupid.
He's had a single focus for thirty years: Fix. That accursed. Portal. And now what? He's just gonna blow that off for, at best, a lukewarm lead? He's already been divvying up more of his after-hours to the niblings than he oughta be, now he's gonna dilute his mission even more?
… A three-decade-long mission. Three grinding decades. Cram-session after skull-splitting cram-session. Computer Engineering, Mathematics, Physics, and whatever relevant Einsteiny subjects he could get his mitts on, until he couldn't tell where he ended and the textbooks began. Coattail-riding on Ford's scavenged notes to the point where he could hear his brother's voice in them. And that was only, what, the first 15 years…? So half of these lonely thirty spent on just being able to conceptualize all that knowledge that Ford lived and breathed.
And the grand results? He's hit a wall. It's a wall he'll eventually break through, he knows it, he has to, but he's still at a standstill. It's a well-earned feat to have written that genetic-targeting algorithm to pinpoint Ford's location… but that software relies on hardware that still won't even turn on.
He doesn't have the passcodes. No passcodes, no dice.
In the middle of the gift shop, this business he's built from almost nothing, he suddenly remembers how old and alone and beat he is.
Doesn't matter. None of that'll matter when Ford's home.
And the only way to bring Ford home is that abominable portal that Stan wants to destroy just as much as he wants to see working.
He's combed the shack. Did it the very first year that he lost Ford. Ransacked all his brother's secret studies and dark nooks & crannies. Forced himself to forget about some of them, from what he discovered in them.
And there wasn't a single thing about time travel. Not even a friggin' post-it. So he's best off not chasing imaginary rabbits that'll derail his timeline even more.
… Of course, he's never found the other journals either, and they certainly exist…
So then… time travel?
He doesn't realize he's letting himself fall until his back thumps against the vending machine's glass. He stops a stray loafer from sliding out from beneath him, steadying himself.
Okay. Okay. Maybe this whole notion hinges on a mediocre lead, but it's better than no lead. Dipper saw something, experienced something. Or at least, is convinced he did. And if there's one thing that kid ain't, it's stupid.
… He can't risk them, though. Can't entangle the twins in the Weirdness. It's too dangerous. If he's directly betting the kids' safety, then… then not even Ford is worth that gamble.
… So he's just supposed to forget about it? Brush off a potentially very real and viable resource to bring back Ford?
No. No, of course not.
He's just gotta be smart about this.
Just like he's been smart about tiptoeing around the Magic while the kiddos are here.
He'll work the rest of the story out of the boy. Tease it out. The Long Con.
Lying's always been his gift, hasn't it?
… He feels so worn, so done. Just like that empty wrapper on the floor…
… A wrapper just like the one Ford found at the Science Fair…
His brain goes primal. There's not a single verbal thought in his mind, it's only the fire of his HATE HATE HATE as he viciously stomps the bag, grinds it under his toe, wanting to DESTROY THE THNG JUST LIKE IT DESTROYED HIM-!
"Uh, Grunkle Stan?" asks the voice of his great-niece. He turns, seeing her head peeking out from the living room, her hand holding a pitcher of her 'Mabel Juice' aberration. "Whyyyyyyyyy are you bullying the garbage?" she prompts.
Stan swallows involuntarily, his tongue going leaden on him. He manages to wrangle it back under his control, and harsher than he means to, barks: "Very legitimate reasons! Now scram!"
"Whoahohohokaaaayyyyy…" she uncomfortably chuckles, flashing out her free palm in a peace gesture. "Diva on the runway, people!" she teasingly alerts the rafters, turning back the way she came.
Stan blinks some wetness from his eyes once she disappears. He hears a hoarse chuckle mirror her own; so chalk up 'laughter' to the myriad of bodily noises he seemingly can't control now.
Oy, that kid. Both of those kids. What would he ever do without them?
… What will he do without them?
His fury matchsticks itself back to life, and now everything his five senses experience is a personal affront: the birds outside that never shut up, the fading sunlight making the room harder to see, the mildewy musk of this crap-shack, the bitter dryness in his throat, his yellow nails digging into his old palms.
His gaze helicopters around, checking the gift shop's entrance points and exits, making sure there's no Peeping Toms in the windows. OK, good. He fingers the access code into the vending machine and slips inside.
He has to get away for awhile; he needs to or he's gonna crack. He can't trust himself not to barge up to the attic and break down the door, then shake that boy like a Raggedy-Andy doll for answers.
He slumps against the wall, mid-shuffle down the stairs. He inhales deeply, resentfully, before smacking the side-paneling with his fist. Some stray splinters dig in.
He'll have to sneak back out in a couple hours, monitor the evening's ticket sales and then make the call of when to tell the carnies to pack-up. For now, he's just gotta power through. He's been doing it during all his time in this town, heck, pretty much all his life. Just gotta keep stomping one foot in front of the other, can't let the universe whip ya. Can't.
There's no specific reason why his moment of hesitation comes, but it does. He's just about to type in the elevator code when his hand halts, wavering.
Probably just Battle Fatigue. He needs to get away from the kids but, at the same time, doesn't wanna go into the pit tonight. A good ol' Catch 22.
Then, the proposition hits him like a flying brick: the thought of dashing back up the stairs, grabbing the nibilngs, spilling his guts out as he slides down the banister with them tucked under each arm. Kicking down the vending machine, briefing them on their mission to bring Ford home as a family, combining their shared knowledge of the Weirdness and unlocking the secret to the portal before celebrating their victory together as his brother finally staggers back into his home dimension, malnourished and mangy and stinking-to-high-heavens but so grateful to be back that he can't help hugging Stan until it's just plain embarrassing but it's OK because they're all embarrassed and cracking up and Mabel starts a chain-hugging reaction and they're all together and happy and-
-and it sounds like something outta Soos' cockamamie 'fanfiction.'
His finger curls into a fist and he punches the code in with his knuckles. The elevator opens, and for a split second, Stan sees a cell door beckoning him.
He clenches his jaw. No more puttin' off the inevitable. He steps in, deliberately pressing the DOWN button with his middle finger.
The rage seeps outta him once he's inside. Resignation, his true-blue pal. The doors snap shut like some giant trap.
He's just gotta keep the ruse up a little longer. Maybe not even that long, depending on how credible Dipper's claims are.
For now, though, the kid can keep to himself if he wants. No skin off Stan's back.
Besides, this house has plenty of secrets. What's one more?
Author's notes:
Welp... This story is a thing that exists now.
Actually, it's existed since 2017, and has slowly, but surely, been convalescing into something worth publishing (or, at the very least, worthy of seeing the light of day.) This was made possible only by the feedback of savvy beta readers and talented editors, who worked with me on this project across multiple different timelines. So, a gigantic and alphabetical Thank You to these awesome people for their guidance, feedback and support:
🌟Caleb Nova, author of the long-running and fan-favorite Gravity Falls drama/romance fic, "Anyway, I've Been There" (w w w . fanfiction u/14209/Caleb-Nova); (w w w . fanfiction s/11855746/38/Anyway-I-ve-Been-There)
🌟CodyLabs, the bard behind the Gravity Falls sci-fi epic, "Forest of Daggers" (w w w . fanfiction u/9204218/CodyLabs); (w w w . fanfiction s/12486618/1/Dipper-Wendy-and-the-Forest-of-Daggers)
🌟DetectiveJigsaw, writer of many a solid What-If? GF fic (w w w . fanfiction u/5621726/detectivejigsaw)
🌟Obvious Ghost, the storyteller responsible for so many great deep-dive character dissections and golden shorts within our fandom (w w w . fanfiction u/4737319/Obvious-Ghost)
🌟Straightjacketed, the mastermind behind some of the most deliciously dark GF tales you could dream of: (w w w . fanfiction u/1837461/Straightjacketed)
These amazing amigos made Mensch Rising, Volume I a reality. Yep, ya read that right: Volumeno Uno. For all you fellow Millennials who remember the pilot to The Last Airbender, when we got that white fade-in clarifying that the first season was only 'Book I?' Same deal here. This story is paced like serial fiction, just like Gravity Falls itself. So, there will be several episodic arcs spanning across the overall story, building to the grand finale. And because this is the first book, that means this volume will end on a cliff-hanger. And like the publishing periods between actual books, there will be a hiatus after this volume. You've been warned. Remember though: the broadcast history of the show was sporadic, but ultimately worth it. I sincerely strive to make every story update worth the wait, as well.
Finally, I cap off this first chapter with the most unique suggestion evah: Fave, Follow & Review. BUT, I got some cool news for you: there are perks to this.
➡️White Belt Reader Benefits: By Faving & Following, you will get a SHOUT-OUT in the author's notes of each and every chapter.
➡️Black Belt Reader Benefits: By Faving, Following & REVIEWING, you will earn a SHOUT-OUT plus a SNEAK PEEK of the subsequent chapter. Da Rulez: One SNEAK PEEK per chapter review. And SNEAK PEEKS will be given in proportion to the word count of a review. (I.E., a review akin to 'reelly gud need MOAR,' while appreciated, will garner the SNEAK PEEK equivalent of something like '"OK, let's do this," nodded Dipper.')
We all on the same page? Awesome.
Current posting schedule: one chapter per week, with a midpoint hiatus TBA.
This story will eventually be cross-posted to DeviantArt. Though I prefer this platform, you can re-type this URL to see the cover art in all its high-def glory: w w w . deviantart rickyromascadillac/art/Mensch-Rising-967023100
'Til this time next week, stay safe, sane & smiling!
