VIII
WHAT HATH BEEN SEWN
Timeline Summary:
Chapter is partially set during Summerween, partially set during the morning after.
Author's notes:
Rated 18+ for mildly suggestive humor.
SHOUT OUT to this story's favers/followers:
✨Car9723, CritterTheCryote, GunCon, johnnycatalina, LordStar8045, NVS Tobi, Obvious Ghost, Straightjacketed, Theory of Weirdness, William Easley✨
This chapter marks the start of this story's hiatus, since this installment offers some closure to the events thus far. Rest assured, this story is a much bigger adventure that we will explore more of, in due time.
"We ought to blackball you, bowling ball!" seethes an accent from the land of tea and crumpets, whose rage completely contrasts with its prim and proper lineage.
Juxtaposing it is the soft chuckle of a drawl like honey. "Is that fair smack? You're actually bald whereas I myself am balding..."
Voices wafting through the car's windshield.
"We have an entire neighborhood of witnesses, Gleeful! There's no way the Society can orchestrate a mass scrub within its target time!"
"That's true, Ivan, but might I ask: since when did we rely solely on brainwiping for all our problems?"
"Hmmmm. A fair musing indeed. If I were forced to pinpoint the exact moment, I'd say that it was at the very beginning, WHEN WE CREATED AN ENTIRE CABAL DEDICATED TO THAT SOLE PURPOSE AND INVESTED IN THESE NON-REFUNDABLE ROBES FROM THAT HIGH SCHOOL DRAMA CLUB!"
"So, what you're saying is that since we're erasing minds anyway... what? We should just let ours go to waste?"
"NO! What are you even-?!"
"Then why not pause for a moment, Ivan? Jus' take a breath and consider all th' factors of our present predicamen' before ya go steamrolling over them:
"It's Summerween. A time for suspension of disbelief.
"We also have in our ranks someone with access to a printing press.
"People think they saw, in the dimly-lit festivities, a giant Li'l Gideon rampaging through the city.
"I have a patent pending for a skyscraper-sized Gideon animatronic for my family's future Gideon-Land venture.
"I'm also on good terms with our mayor, who will happily use town funds to repair the few patches of cracked asphalt, the only inconvenience done, in exchange for, say, a couple comped gallons of New Car Smell for his chariot.
"So instead of running around like chickens with their feet cut off, why don't we bring all these factors into harmony?"
In the listening boy's mind, he can see the web of sausage fingers as they thread together like the mating of fat, inbred worms. It is the fool's signature flourish to visually compound synergy.
Ivan sputters. "... How would a chicken even run with no fee-?"
"Hey, listen, I'm folksy, so you don't get to question my chicken knowledge, that's our culture, but look: Bigger Picture. Let's look at what we do have, not what we don't.
"'Cuz what we don't have is an uncontrollable supernatural crisis that terrorized this town into some kinda Great Awakening.
"What we do have is simply an upcoming attraction working through some bugs. An attraction meant to entertain and uplift our loyal locals. A distinction which Toby will be happy to clarify in his paper, which Shandra Jimenez, once she realizes it's actually carrying sumthin' of substance, will shamelessly plagiarize and make mainstream. An account that our beloved Mayor will also endorse as what officially went down, warning how any disinformation to the contrary will actually hurt our great town's tourist revenue, and how anyone who questions the city's narrative is naturally and conclusively worse than the Germans in both World Wars. Plus all future ones too."
There's a surprised chorus of agreement and a general consensus that Germans are irredeemably the worst and should all force-feed themselves chocolate until they die of diabetes.
"A bloody fine fairy tale for the sheep," sneers God Save the Queen, "but what of the rampaging beast who caused this whole mess?"
"Don' ya worry your entirely-bald head about it now," the Gleeful patriarch chuckles. "I'll give th' boy a talkin' to." The wink is audible in his voice.
"Forgive us, Bud, if your past ventures showcasing your widdle offspring as all-knowing and perfect take the bite out of your assurance."
"Y'know... I 'ppreciate what you're sayin', Ivan. I really do. And hey, I might even feel that way myself if I were in yer shoes. But, as you well remember, the terms of our revised agreement outline that I am now solely responsible for the boy's penalizations. So, while I thank ya fer yer openness on the matter of my judiciousness, isn't it fair to say that it's nun'ya business?"
While the boy's calibrating brain can't pinpoint every single negotiation technique deployed in the persuasion algorithm comprising his father's response, he catches the rhetorical tag-on question that's hung at the end there. Like Daddy reminds him, If I say it, it might be true. If they say it, it is true.
"Oh, it most definitely is fair, Bud!" There's a dangerous upswing in the Englishman's voice, climaxing with a harsh finger-snap. Bud suddenly grunts, accompanied by the rustling of fabric and the skidding of soles against pavement. Sounds of a struggle, and his daddy ain't on the winning side. The smirk in Ivan's voice unsheathes: "But I have a feeling you won't be remembering all that for much long-"
"I've stashed copies of the paperwork all throughout my residence and dealership, Ivan." Father's voice. Emotionless. Matter-of-fact. Influence isn't an arm wrestling match, pum'kin. You're the cap'ain at the helm, subtly steering. If someone is raging at you and it's a situation you gotta salvage, then bring them down to yer level. "Not to mention," the elder Gleeful continues, "I've backmasked audio recordin's of it into all my vinyls. One way or another, I will remember, Ivan."
The sound of crickets magnifies, like some gigantic primal heartbeat.
"... Bud, think of the liabilities," Doctor Whozit's voice now reasons in measured tones. "Not just for the town but for your son too. Do you know the trauma that can imprint itself on that young a psyche by an experience like this? Let us help."
"Not my son." Oftentimes Sugar Plum, standing up for yerself in the world of negotiation requires only simple, straightforward statements. There's no cause to get emotional about it. Nobody cares how you feel and when they do, that's 'cause yer riling them up. "Never again. Kindly release me now, thank ya." Thank folks in advance for what you want 'em to do.
Pregnant pause now, one that can birth too many clashing possibilities. The boy considers cracking an eye to see if Father-
"This is never to happen again," orders MI5.
"It won't, Ivan," drawls Bud.
"And if it does...?"
"Well, it won't."
Fingers snap, fabrics rustle, and the pitter-patter of footsteps retreating into the night are soon ironed out into silence.
The front of the car dips slightly as Father leans against the hood, catching his breath.
... It's not long before this peacefulness is disturbed by the Open Door Alert chiming from the dash. It's soon silenced by the jangle of keys shutting off the engine.
The mechanical pop from the passenger side door sounds shortly after. The boy's seat belt unfastens, to be replaced by two sweaty sumo arms scooping up his tiny sleeping form.
The clickety-clack-clickety-clack of Father's wingtips snips into the night air before the opening krrreeeeeeeee of his home's squeaking door interrupts. Father's footsteps then evolve into the muffled scrunch-scrunch-scrunch of their living room carpet, dovetailing into the crick-crack-crick-crack creaking of the stairs and upstairs floorboards.
The boy's small frame is soon laid upon his queen-sized mattress. Father fluffs his pillow - the boy can still hear it however delicately his daddy's managing to do it. A doughy arm snakes under the child's back as a clay hand scoops his ankles and rotates his body to tuck him under his comforter. Knowing that kisses are exclusively the privilege of the boy's gramammy and the Pines girl he's so sweet on, the father instead cups his son's face with one of his sweaty sausage-fingers, caressing his child's cheek.
The boy doesn't hear the clickety-clack of wingtips but instead dull, low crkkkks as Daddy does his darndest not to make a peep on the hardwood as he steals away and seals the bedroom door.
... The cool wind rustles the curtains. It rustles the boy's mind, too.
Upon reflection... his father is smarter than he gives him credit for.
But Father's still the dumbest creature on all of God's green earth if he thinks he can pull one past widdle ol' him.
What is this society? Who is this Ivan fool?
And didn't his daddy say that they are never to brainwipe his son... again?
The white knuckles of the boy's already albino-leaning skin are almost translucent against the pillow he strangles.
Despite everything that's happened tonight, the biggest villain has yet to be fought: the almost Shakespearean scoundrel that is the Caper Thief.
Dipper, however, is so doggone tired at this point, that he doesn't even have enough energy to pull the covers over himself as he climbs into bed, let alone pick up his copy of The Sibling Brothers.
So he flops into his mattress like a dead fish. He needs all the rest he can pocket. As much as it shames him to admit, he had - however unintentionally - set off the chain of events leading up to tonight. He never should have gone to Pacifica. For that, he has to make things right with Mabel in the morning. (Which, thankfully during summer, can qualify as whatever hour before noon that he wants.)
His sister is brushing her teeth in their hallway bathroom, and the sound of the running tap begins to lull him. His exhausted mind begins free-floating, drifting from thoughts of his amends to... well, thoughts best left quarantined. Thoughts that are obvious fallacies. Thoughts that, nonetheless, make other very convincing arguments about how tonight's chaos and misfortune could've been easily avoided, had he and Mabel preserved a different timeline at the fair. A timeline where Miserable Mabel sucked it up and let Waddles go, allowing Dipper to win Wendy her Panda-Duck.
Which is so stupid.
... Yet seemingly, so logical.
... Maybe he shouldn't have tried to manipulate Time in the first place. Too much headache. And heartache.
Sounds great on a college application, though. Manipulated Time. Heh. Manipulated TIME ITSELF.
All in order to manipulate Wendy-
Dipper's mind suddenly catapults itself outta its half-conscious Alpha State. His body jolts, flinging a volley of sweat clear across the room.
Uh-oh.
Dipper's guts begin twisting, recalling Wendy's earlier admonishment: "Th' ooooonnnnnllllyyyy thing you did wrong... was not coming clean about the whole lyin' and manipulating-me thing."
Oh no. Ohnononono...
... In hindsight, his actions at the fair don't seem quite as selfless as they did in the moment.
... But still... objectively speaking, that alternate timeline would've been the best thing for both of them, right? If Wendy and Robbie had never gone out, then tonight's fiasco at the party would've never happened...
... Wendy might not be willing to consider that though... she might hyper-fixate on his own motives...
... Well, it's past now, right? (Pun not intended.) There's no point in dredging all that up again. No good can come from her knowing.
... And seriously... she must never, ever know...
The urban legend (or rural legend, given its place of origin) of The Skulking Minstrel traces its roots back to a darkened, pixelated, vertically-shot cellphone video taken by some rebellious tweenagers who decided to stay out past curfew and have a campout in their local woods. The video was uploaded to YouView during the summer of 2012 (back before the website had undergone the stylistic evolution to UView and then later the Mandela-Effected UVu.) And while the video in question has been the subject of many Top 5/10/15 Eeriest and/or Unexplainable-est Internet Uploads on a host of different channels with a huge reverence for atmosphere and absolutely zero appreciation for fact-checkers, the overwhelming consensus in these videos' comments sections is that the footage is debunked trash. This popular opinion has been spearheaded by distinguished sceptic, Buffy'sATurd.
The minority of believers - nicknamed by fellow commenters as Mulders- interpret the video as showcasing a radioactively-glowing reaper staggering between the Oregonian pines, with a flayed face ghoulishly exposing muscle and tendon.
The majority of sceptics - christened Kill-Joy Skinners Because-Scully-is-Hot-and-You're-Not by the small but very vocal opposition - have highlighted that the skeletal body of the figure could easily be explained as a glow-in-the-dark costume. They also point out that the reddened face could simply be caked blood, presumably from a gash in the head. This stance is strengthened by the seemingly concussed nature of the Minstrel, giving momentum to the speculation that this individual is nothing more than an ugly teen who's (deservedly?) been handed his butt.
This tentative conclusion is lent some threadbare support by the content of the hauntingly tone deaf tune that the figure belts out in a disrespectful parody of Rick Springfield's classic hit, Jessie's Girl.
Buffy'sATurd has released supplementary video of the footage with cleaned-up audio and interpreted captions. Though the power of suggestion must not be ruled out, the upvote-to-downvote ratio indicates the widespread acceptance of the following postulation:
"🎶DIPper's not A friEND /
No, he's NEVer been a GOOD friEND of mIne /
But lAtely SOMEthing's chANGED and it's someTHING I'll deFY /
DIPstick's got HIMself my gUrl and I'm GUNNA make him frY~🎶"
Though the complete context is obviously unknown, the lyrics, if true, are so straightforward that no discussion has been bridged about the meaning behind them.
"🎶Doo-dee-doo-doo~🎶" sings the equally tone-deaf Stan at his breakfast table throne, signing a Declaration of War with his warped fork and chipped steak knife. "Eatin' my bratwurst," he sings between onion and peppery bites, the blood of German mustard staining the rolling hills of his stomach. "🎶Annnddd it's made of Waaaaddddllllleeeessss~🎶"
"Look at ya," grates a voice rustier than his utensils.
"Bad idea when you're eating."
"Livin' exactly like ya duhserve, after what ya did to yer family." Despite not having lungs, the tone emanating from the severed-head centerpiece of Filbrick Pines is as clipped and controlled as it was in life. The pain is a dull ache for Stan, but nothing excruciating. How can it be? When your mind replays the same browbeating decade after decade, fatigue smothers everything else after a certain point.
Stan rubs his face. "Listen, it's been a long week and a longer night. I deserve a good dream right about now. So unless you transform into a disco ball and make me laugh with some falsetto karaoke, move on, tumbleweed."
The head shakes itself in disgust. "Always the wise guy. You won't be so quick with the jokes when ya have to explain that those kids were killed under yer watch-"
Stan has to give him credit: his old man is at least showing some range. Stan of course remedies this by shoving the head's mouth full of wadded napkins soaked with his sauerkraut juice.
"Nothing," Stan growls with rabid fury, "and I repeat, nothing will ever hurt those kids while I'm around."
"Ah mah gaaahhhh!"
"It hurts SO MUCH!"
Stan spins around to see-
Gideon, levitating like a false god before him, with the twins trapped in his telekinetic grip. Chains bind Dipper and Mabel's bodies, snaking around them ever tighter.
"BWAHAHA! BWAHAHA! Lookit me go Stanford!" proclaims Gideon, breaking out into an Old World Russian jig. "I made the opposite of what you just said happen!"
Stan stares blankly at the boy before snapping his fingers. In a poof, the twins' chains turn into pool noodles and the two kids fall in a jumbled mess. Also, Gideon's hair is now flat-out gone, his head as bald as one of those vaguely obscene thingies that just hang-out all limp-like under a turkey's neck.
The kids untangle themselves from their foamy briar patch and group-glomp Stan. Gideon screams as he claws at his now-bald head, before yanking out his Stan voodoo doll and plucking out the two pins to- okay, that's just unsanitary. He didn't even sterilize those needles before stabbing out his own eyes.
Nevertheless, Dipper looks up at his Grunkle in absolute awe. "You're the best-"
"What?" Stan cups his ear.
Mabel clarifies: "He said you're the best Grun-"
"WHAT?"
"YOU'RE THE BEST UNCLE EVER, GRUNKLE STAN!" Dipper screams.
"'I'VE GOT THE INSTABUL FEVER?' WHAT?"
"NO, YOU'RE THE-"
"You know what, let me mute him," Stan declares. (For context, Gideon's been absolutely screaming his throat raw this entire time.) With another snap of Stan's fingers, a pool noodle lodges itself into Gideon's mouth. Better.
"You know what, it doesn't matter what you have to say," Stan decides. "I don't care, sorry. But I will take that hug, 'cuz I've earned it." They hug in Hallmark-perfect harmony, before he ends the embrace to stare at his two gremlins deeply. "And I promise you two, no matter what weirdness haunts these woods, or what maniacal li'l troll dolls try to mess with us, I will always keep my family safe."
The kids smile, blinking in absolute serenity.
This is the last human look Stan enjoys from them.
Without warning or precedence, their eyes are replaced by a blue luminescence. It shines from behind even their teeth, their faces now portraits of brightly-lit jack-o'-lanterns.
And, in Ford's incongruous baritone, Dipper replies "Oh, I beg to differ, Stanley."
Gideon is knocked aside as the vending machine suddenly bursts through the doorway like a gunslinger through a saloon. Its door falls off its hinges, its shattering glass a banshee shriek. That's only the first howl. Revealed behind the door is a monstrous, swirling void.
... Walkabouts are a very popular but arguably very shallow way to get in touch with oneself. An understandably less popular but ultimately undeniable way to impress the full weight of existence upon oneself is by watching the lives of your loved ones slip through your fingers.
Stan feels this merciless weight bear down against his bones as the twins are sucked into the vortex.
He reaches out a wild hand, desperate to snag an arm, leg, piece of clothing - but he's trapped, continually jogging in-place as if imprisoned by an invisible force.
"Kids!" Stan calls out, pointing to himself. "Copy me and activate your treadmill-mode dream physics!"
The kids continue circling the drain of infinity. Stan grits his teeth and leaps from his quicksand-paralysis, outstretched hand going for the nearest twin's chest only to grip blood.
Wet. Hot. Sticky. Not just seen but felt.
Stan blinks the sleep from his eyes, realizing his surroundings have changed. This... this is his bedroom.
He's crouched on the ground, twisted blankets ensnaring his ankles and his fist in a floor now as cracked as the ceiling above him. His body heaves with ragged breath, his sweat thick and ammonia-like.
A dream. An obvious dream.
... So why doesn't it feel like the nightmare's ended?
... Because the stakes have been raised, that's why.
He knows the risk of this town's Weirdness. But he never would've bet that Gideon knew about it. And seemingly, can harness it.
... He should put the kids on the first bus back to Piedmont.
NO! No, that's crazy talk! They'll be fine, he can look after them! He...
... He can't be alone. Not so soon. Please. Let him have this. Just for this short, short summer.
He looks down at his stuck arm. With effort, he dislodges his gushing hand from the smashed floorboards. Turns it over, inspects the splinters.
And then clenches his fist, driving them in even deeper. Tears spurts from his eyes, and he fights back his trembling.
He thinks of Ford.
Stanley! Stanley! screams the memory of his brother, the arcing blue of the portal devouring him. DO SOMETHING!
And Stan will.
He will get his brother back. And he will keep the kids safe.
Whatever the cost.
On the very few occasions that she was conscious for them, the Wee Hours have always been a very sacred time for Mabel.(Adorable name for that time of night aside.)
It was quiet.
Mabel, as you know, is not.
In no small part because the high fructose-powered vibrating ball of yarn draws on her very small reservoir of self-control to get to bed at a reasonable hour. She hates playing dice with her energy. So it's always been early-to-bed, early-to-rise. All to consistently keep - in her own assessment - Healthy, Happy & (All-Knowingly) Wise.
But on the times she did experience this special limbo between dusk and dawn (New Year's; waking up to pee; an all-night weekend binge on the Capitalism-high of Monopoly with Dipper) it impressed a serenity that Mabel revered.
clink-clink
It was as if a curtain had enclosed the Stage of the World, with all the obnoxiously glittering and neon lights (which she admittedly loved) dismantled and the props stashed away in the janitor's closet. A pure quiet as deep as only those Pilgrims & Indians had known, an empty echo of a world not yet clattering with beep-bop-booping machines.
clink-clink
Sometimes, in the depths of her heart, she thought she felt God peeking through the Veil of this special solitude. Looking through the multifaceted lenses of star-twinkles, singing a lullaby from deep within the humming earth, comforting her through the caressing wind. Simply there, all around, like a parent watching their sleeping child.
Other times, she didn't feel as if the Veil had been gently pulled back. She felt in the pit of her gut that it had been ripped away and desecrated. Times where she knew faceless nightmares were out there, running about on the blacked-out Stage, even worming their way through the keyholes and cracked sills of her own home, camouflaged in the darkness of her room, waiting for her to leave the safety of her bed.
clink-clink-clink-clink-clink
Her now Great Dane-sized pig lethargically paddles his hooves against her tummy, his hot breath smearing itself against Mabel's now-awakening face.
Her eyes flutter open. Through the attic window, she sees a familiar hunchbacked clump of hideous candy. And as she locks eyes with his pleading peppermints, it's the first time these feelings of Wee Hour-dread and tranquility merge as one in perfect harmony.
"... See what I'm doing here? What I'm doing with my jacket?" comments Trick'othy, threading Mabel's sewing needle through his ripped scarecrow suit. "This is, like, what I need to be doing, but with, like, my life."
"Does 'references' have two F's or five?" wonders Mabel, tapping her crayon against her notepad.
"Are there any newspapers with columns dedicated to writing, like, y'know, analogies? Maybe I can get a job writing those? I thought the one I just made now, y'know, with the sewing needle, I thought that was a pretty good one..."
"Sure!" she nods, with all the enthusiasm of someone in a neck brace. "Or... maybe cooking school?"
"I know you're a kid, Mabel, but let's quit kidding ourselves," Trick'othy laments, returning her loaner-needle. "My only real option is to sell myself as discounted wedding rice on eBuy."
Mabel stands up from Wendy's lawn chair and places her hands on her tall-but-thankfully-sitting friend's shoulders. She looks him sympathetically in the eye before kneeing him in the gut and slapping his crusty face to-and-fro no more than eight times, showering the sundeck with clumps of sugary purple rain.
"AH MA GAH," wails Trick'othy, handprinted-face now a portrait of The Scream as it wobbles on a stem of a jaw. "WHY?"
"Because you are never to talk about yourself like that when you're over my roof! Next time I'm washing your mouth out with veggies! Now: CAPICHE with your NICHE!"
"I HAVE NONE! I'VE BEEN REJECTED BY THE WORLD'S TONGUE!"
"THEN GO FOR THE EYES AND EARS! Taste is only the hot bratty daughter in the Five Senses Family anyway!"
"Don't you GET IT?! I would need to find a calling where I can be both REVILED and REVERED! Like a... a raunchy late night talk host who burps out polarizing politics!"
"OR A GO-GO DANCER!" eureka!'s Mabel, sweater-arms a'flailing and wall-eyes a'bugging!
Yes, it feels like their brainstorming is on the precipice of something!
...Before the logistics burst their shared mental lightbulb, leaving them without a climax. (Stovetop heat'll melt Trick'othy, so cooking school's out. Studio lights'll melt Trick'othy, so no dice on the talk show. Stage lights'll melt Trick'othy, so go-go dancin' will forever remain a hobby.)
So in darkness they sit, surrounded by the shards of half-baked dreams.
"... Sleep on it," Aha!'s Mabel, fingers a'snapping.
"I don't need sleep, so I chicken-dance. But I'm too sore tonight after getting mowed down."
"Then let's go settle in for the Gravity Falls Bargain Movie Showcase! Dipper might've left it running."
"Wut?"
"You'll luv it!" she explodes, 'Y'-ing her arms. "We were checking it out before bed. It's a B-quality banana-zana of poorly-lit freaks, geeks and society's gross little mistakes!"
"That's the most depressing thing ever, and this is coming from a guy whose dream is to get stuck in people's teeth."
She waves him off. "Oh, you wouldn't feel that way if you were on the other side of the set. I mean, can you imagine if you were a star in one of those flicks? Real or not, you'd be rubbing elbows and makin' BFFs."
... They share a look. A new lightbulb blinks into their minds, this one brighter than the dawn to come.
Speaking of, the dawn can actually be a real psycho stalker, which is why Mabel considers her restraining order - in the form of a sleep mask - her continuous Friendployee of the Month three and a half years running now.
Dipper would teasingly call her a canary, which she always took as a compliment because canaries are CUTE, son! Either way, it's a fair comparison. To her perpetually-running mind, the slightest stimulation could yank her from Dreamachusetts back into the real world.
So when the warm aroma of something sweet wafted right under her nose, she would defend to the death that her first instinct was to hug her pillow tight before BITING INTO IT LIKE A FRIGGIN' HIPPO.
The foam she's coughing up now is like fluffy hail.
Meanwhile, Dipper stares like a man who's been told the sudden hallucination he's experiencing is, in fact, the way the world has always been. Which is actually a very accurate metaphor when your sister is Mabel.
Their staring match, which started during her now-passed pillow-vomiting, continues relentlessly.
"... It wasn't irregularly-shaped polyurethane foam," she defends, pointing to the mangled pillow, "and therefore... it was ruining... America?"
Dipper says nothing. Answering in his place is the grating of porcelain against wood, as he slides a plate of pancakes towards her. "Dig in," he orders, plopping down the frumpy-looking plastic bottle of Sir Syrup.
"Stancakes?" a disbelieving Mabel clasps her goldfish cheeks. "By Chef Boyardipper?"
"... Yeeeaaaah, I need to burn that nickname from my brain," Dipper groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"But you made them so dee-liciously Standippity!" she exclaims in-between bites, washing them down with a swig of Sir Syrup straight from the bottle.
Dipper rubs his face. "Well, you deserve them to be... Listen, Mabel..." He sounds old, more exhausted than Stan before he has his coffee. "... It was so wrong of me to go to Pacifica for any kind of help." Paz's name is like vinegar in his mouth. "Especially without telling you."
"Yeah, that was barking-mad bonkers, bro-bro! What got into you?"
"I was selfish. I needed an investor to build my prototype of the Time Tape, and I rationalized that if Edison could work with a cutthroat tycoon like JP Morgan, than so could I."
"But why not have it built for free by-" She conjures a hick accent. "-Old Man McGucket!" She takes a deep inhale and hocks a loogie like a puck into the far corner of the room. "I reckon he can build most anythang, like a robodic replica of a woolly mammoth with a microwave in its tookus!"
Dipper's face is a grumpy cat meme. "You answered your own question there."
"Of how awesome my idea is? Yeah I did!"
"Y'know what?" He rubs his temples. "I'll give you that. My ideas have sucked regarding this."
"How could they not?" she philosophizes, twirling her shish kebab of a fork. "In a Court of the Passions, you'd be tried for malpractice for refusing to consult-" Her eyes bleed pink as she flips down heart-shaped shades- "the Luuuvvv Doctor..."
"That's not the definition of malpractice-"
Mabel shoves a finger to his lips, shhh-ing him in a sprinkler of Stancake bits. "Dictionary-talk is bug spray for girls."
Dipper bats her hand away. "Not that it matters." He rises to his feet and looks at her somberly. Mabel senses sincerity instead of his usual flailing posturing. He turns his body to the side, giving her full view of his Mystery Board that he's dragged out from behind their tarp-divided storage nook. It sits, as usual, propped against the ship portrait hanging beside his bed, balancing haphazardly on piles of messy books deepening the sinkhole on his mattress.
"We need to focus our energy on what actually matters," he quietly declares. "The new mystery."
Dipper climbs on his bed up to the cork board. He plucks out the ballpoint pins holding up the two torn cardboard flaps displaying his Great Question: WHO IS THE AUTHOR?
... This bears repeating.
Dipper is putting his search for the Author on hold.
He wrings out a bulging file folder from under his own pillow. Splaying it open, he pins up a new mystery heading:
MABEL LAND
Mabel watches as he pins more and more cardboard scraps underneath it, like a mosaic of stars being laid out by... ummm... well, by whoever created the stars. (Was it that hunky Greek centaur? To be honest, she always envisioned some kind of heavenly space squid squirting them out.)
It's these thoughts she has to drop-kick out of her brain when she realizes all the jigsaw pieces have been presented:
OMNIPRESENT 80s SOUNDTRACK?
TOY-PRODUCING PLANT LIFE?
MUSCLE-BOUND WAFFLE GUARDS? (a.k.a. SCHWAFFLENEGGERS?)
DID WENDY REALLY MEAN IT?
Dipper tapes an aged paper torn from Journal 3 underneath the plant caption, and Mabel admires his detailed sketch of that Stuffed Animal Tree they encountered in the bubble. Underneath Schwafflenegger, he tapes her concept art of the muscle-armed waffle she had originally considered for her wax sculpture the other week.
These aren't the only papers on the board, though: his pondering about Wendy is actually scribbled on a worn Post-It and stuck carelessly and crookedly on the border. Like a little green pimple.
Dipper must've felt the same when he looked at it, because after a meaningful pause, he rips it off and crumples it. After pitching it into the wastebasket, he returns to fiddling with the board, as if all he truly did was just toss a post-it.
Her worried gaze pierces the back of his head, the concern so sincere she doesn't even have to add any intensity to her stare. He looks over his shoulder when it becomes unbearable. "No more chasing carrots," he clarifies as casually as he's able to fake, before turning back.
He feels her gaze retreat and breathes an inward sigh of relief. But then feels her hand on his shoulder.
"You're right, Dipper," Mabel seemingly concedes, before clapping her other hand to his shoulder and trying to hoist him up into the mesosphere. "WE NEED TO CHASE DREAMS!"
"Mabel! Mabel stop!" Dipper chokes out before slapping her hands away. "Just stop. This is a pipe dream. Wendy herself confirmed the obvious: our ages are too big a canyon."
"You're giving up that easily? Wow. This, from Wendy's supposed Dream Guy?"
Dipper looks down, flustered and flushing. "OK, she said that, yeah, but it was alongside the disqualifier of-"
"Not Dreamboat, Dipper. Dream Guy. That's not just Like, that's luuuuuuuuvvvvvvvvv..."
Dipper bows his head, quiet. "Mabel, please. I just... I don't want to be some stupid kid setting my hopes on something that could just never work."
"Uuuuuuhhhhhh I'm sorry, how far into the future did we jump at the carnival? Because the farthest we saw, she said herself that deep down, SHE. LIKES. YOU." Mabel jabs a finger into each one of Dipper's immediate orifices to stick home the point.
Dipper rubs his throbbing face, reflecting. "Do you... really think I've got any chance, though?"
"Bro," she says sternly, "when your whole I'mma-Marry-Dat-Gurl junk started, it was such an awesome leap of development for you in your neglected romance department! But realistically? The both of you together? C'mon Dipper, how could I?"
The phrase knife-to-the-heart is based on very tangible experience, Dipper realizes.
"... But we were thinking along the lines of unlocking her heart. And come to find out, you've already done it! Now we just gotta ease it out of its cage."
Dipper remains skeptical. Mabel lets one hand fall with the other hanging on, squeezing gently. "Look... I'm here to help you when and if you're ready, OK?"
Dipper smiles, grateful. "Thank you, Mabel. But right now, we need to focus on what we witnessed during that last time-jump. What is Mabel Land? Is it some kind of fortress that you eventually build? The way Wendy spoke, she made it clear you wielded some serious power."
"As I should."
"But how?! Do you become a Demi-God? Do we have a long-lost ancestor who's tied to the magic here and takes you on as her apprentice?" At this, Mabel whoops. "And I can't remember all the details of when we were falling to our deaths," Dipper rambles on, "but the air outside was barely breathable. And the sky was... it was wrong, Mabel. I-Is this place we saw some kind of safe haven you construct?"
"A safe haven from what?"
"I dunno, Mabel..."
They fall into silence.
"... Well," Mabel begins, "we're aware of it now, so doesn't this undo that whole future? What's the whole timey-wimey, physics-make-me-sickus verdict?"
Dipper sighs, tiredly. "As far as I now know from all the peer-reviewed papers I've scoured and indignant movie reviews I've read, a runaway Butterfly Effect that can warp reality is the stuff of sci-fi legend."
"Well, we are legend, aren't we? We changed the course of history in that one timeline at the fair!"
Without warning, Dipper bites the pen he was chewing on in half. He hacks up the other end, where it clatters to the hardwood. Ink running down his chin, he mops up his face with the seemingly infinite sweater-wrist Mabel holds out.
"Before we destroyed that one timeline, yes," Dipper concedes. "BUT that was before either of us knew about the Time Police. I've reflected on this aspect a lot this morning. At this point, I'm convinced that had we-" Here a stone forms in Dipper's throat. With some effort, he clears it: "Had we just left that timeline alone, they would've shown up in force to change it back. These things have repercussions."
"So we can't change the future?"
"It doesn't seem like it, even if some pieces don't fit yet. But then again... do we really want to change a future we know nothing about?"
Mabel looks down, drawing circles in the floor with her toe. "... I dunno, Dipper. I mean... are you saying that you want me to age you up in the Future? Like Mabel Land-Wendy suggested?"
Dipper blinks. Opens his mouth. Voice catches, like a hand lunging to hoist up a man gone overboard, before recoiling at the murkiness of the waters. "N-No. No, c'mon, Mabel, that's not what I'm saying. And even if I was, I mean... didn't Future-Wendy seem confident that you'd want to age me up?"
Mabel says nothing.
Dipper takes off his hat, raking a hand through his hair. "Look, there's no point arguing over what may or may not happen in the future. We have too many variables for us to paint any kind of solid picture, at least for now. We have to track our timeline's progression and reconcile it week-by-week, day-by-day to what we saw in the bubble."
Mabel nods, some undefinable but definitely not happy expression brewing on her face. "But... we're in it together, like always. Aren't we?"
"Of course!" Dipper agrees, slightly off-put despite himself. He holds up his fist for the ultimate confirmation of their bond: "Mystery Twins?"
"MYSTERY TWINS 4 LYFE!" she ferociously agrees as they bump, before they explode laughing. As they settle down, their gazes slowly travel back to the Mystery Board on Dipper's bed.
4 lyfe, indeed.
Nothing would put a wedge between them.
Nothing.
Dipper turns over his broken pen in his palm. Huh. This is the first time he's ever been angry enough to chew one in half.
Mabel simply enjoys watching her dorkus. That pen-chewing quirk will always stay with him. Some things never change.
That's right, some things... never change. She has to remember that.
So there's no reason to regret saving the WenDip ship from sinking in her brother's mind. None at all. Even though the dream was clearly dying right before her eyes, and… well, had she just kept her big mouth shut and let it take its course, she'd never have to worry about the possibility that Dipper would want to age himself up. Even with how impossible it was that he'd actually follow through with the prospect.
She did the right thing by giving him hope. It wasn't like when the crush first started a couple weeks back, when it was obviously Dead On Arrival. Because now, The Future has proven them wrong! They have confirmation of the very opposite! Wendy likes him back! She said so herself! She just needs to get over their stupid age thing, that's all! And she will. She has to. She's his friend, both of their friends! If she truly cares for Dipper, she'll meet him halfway. She won't abandon him. She won't abandon either of them. Just like Dipper wouldn't abandon his one and only sister, his true best friend.
Mabel's done the right thing, she knows she has. All this weird uneasiness she feels is just dumb.
As is this inexplicable surge of relief she feels... at the idea of Dipper not pursuing Wendy after all.
... Neither twin will admit it. But regardless of any potential butterfly effect or immutable destiny...
... something, however undefinable, has changed.
END OF ARC I