When Trembley left, the Pines felt strangely reassured. It was clear the man had taken the occasion in his stride, no matter whether it was a stride taken pantsless.

The problem at hand was a multiple-fold one. They were all well aware that this court case was going to reveal a lot of truths. A lot of truths that had needed revealing for a very, very long time. Perhaps the entire Northwest story was about to be overturned. Perhaps the nature of the town's very existence was ready to be put onto public record.

Perhaps the Government was going to try and silence them.

The fact was, nobody could be too certain how far the case could go, or how far its effects could reach. One thing, no matter what, was clear - there was not a chance they'd make peace with the town authorities if they didn't end up behind the docket.

And was not a chance they'd end up behind the docket if they didn't let themselves get re-arrested, either.

Dipper furiously scribbled in one of his many notebooks, desperately thinking of answers he could use to any question even remotely possible in the courtroom. His natural paranoia was working tenfold, as was his love of frenzied pre-planning. If he was going to face off against some kind of reborn Nathaniel Northwest, he wanted to at least appear smart.

He had gotten through at least two and a half notebooks when Pacifica wordlessly grabbed one of them and sat on his lap, blocking access to just about every logical thought he could possibly manifest. And causing a flood of colour to his face.

"He-hey, what are you-"

"Dipper, y'know how you told me not to worry?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a big hypocrite." She chuckled, throwing the notepad to the floor and handing him a can of Pitt. "Give me attention instead of your dumb notebooks."

"They aren't dumb, Pacifica. We need to get prepared for this stuff. We could be facing an utter maniac and-"

"You don't need to keep reminding me how crazy things are, Dipper. But you always do what you think is right, right?"

"Well yeah, but-"

"Then own it." She said, tapping his nose. "You can't take notes when you're gonna be met by a crazy person. Nathaniel Northwest is probably even crazier than Mr. Poolcheck. How can you reason with that kinda guy? You gotta reason with the jury."

"And we freakin' know the jury," Stan added. "Still can't get outta-towners into the courthouse. Thought I could smell a pig roast. Ended up being a literal pig roast."

Pacifica and Dipper looked at him with eyebrows raised.

"Like - like cops. Whatever. Freakin' wasted in this joint." Stan huffed, carrying a crate of what was very obviously not a soft drink.

The two kids glanced to eachother and blinked.

"...Anyway." Pacifica said. "The more obsessed you are with getting it right, the more you're gonna act like some weird robot. And I'm pretty sure you aren't a robot. Mabel checks you for circuits like, every night while you sleep."

"You can never be too certain!" Mabel chimed in. "But man, this is crazy. Someone else is making sense! Wish you two had hooked up sooner. And not just for the bougie clothes."

Pacifica rolled her eyes and smirked. "Thanks for the valuable input, weirdo."

"You're welcome, Lady Richenbottom." Mabel saluted with her tongue out. "I'll leave you too to making out. Mabel away!"

"Quentin's having way too much of an influence on her." the young socialite winced.

"Na, she does this. She spent the first day of last summer acting like Soos. It was like the sister he'd never had."

"Bet that was a sight to see."

"Rumour has it she actually improved the wiring at the shack…"

Pacifica giggled and leaned back a bit against her boyfriend. "Y'know, for what it's worth, I think we're probably gonna do pretty good."

"Really? You think Quentin is gonna do a good job?"

"Hell yeah. He might be crazy, but he's a serious sort of crazy."

"Maybe he's getting all of his sources in order."

"When it's Trembley, that could mean paperwork or ketchup."

It was true that Quentin had an impressive archive of historic documents, and was poring over the journals - but between all of them, he had reasoned, the Northwests were most definitely in a superior position. He had often heard Nathaniel Northwest, back in the day, boasting about his intentions to own a library.

And like hell was he letting the fraud run a library in the place of the completely legitimate town founder and eighth-and-a-half president!

Unbeknownst to the Pines inside their tenement, Quentin sprinted through the gold-paved Crawlspace in his favourite secret-agent-trenchcoat-that-made-him-look-more-like-a-flasher, while quietly humming one of his many legendary self-created theme tunes. His vintage winkle-pickers gently clattered on the solid metal like salad tongs, only maintaining traction thanks to their suspiciously nimble owner.

"And so, the valiant man of justice, the shadowy knight - the dark knight of the night - makes his way to the underground layer, his leathery wings flapping through the dark night, as he was, truly, the dark knight." He whispered to himself, throwing open the Northwest family's underground door with his spare President's key. One of twenty. (One for each tooth. Such was the presidential way.)

He shimmied against the damp walls, as if he was atop the narrow ledge of a skyscraper, and weaved into the library with such ease you'd think he was a natural cat burglar. (Any evidence Quentin had stolen cats was pure hearsay.)

He adjusted his cravat, and weaved through ancient oak and mahogany bookcases, deftly dappling the floor with his pointed shoes in such a manner that the footsteps were practically invisible to the naked eye.

There were few families for conceited than the Northwests - and few with more autobiographies, biographies and pictographies stored underground. Quentin put a battery-powered candle - of many, he reasoned, technological marvels this century had provided - into his mouth and began studying them quietly.

He was soon distracted by a groaning.

A gurgling.

A very visceral, ugly sound. Undeniably bizarre. And Trembley was not a man willing to leave the bizarre uninvestigated. He slipped his way out of the library, having taped a series of books to his torso, and stealthily made his way towards the laboratory.

He had a strong, unpleasant feeling that his old nemesis was arising. The waste-shovelling-village-idiot with the scarily conniving, ruthless intelligence…