Archive of Our Own

The tent is blue, and so are their jackets, and so is their magic. Not that they do the magic in the tent, of course- the twins are smart enough to know that people don’t go to psychics to see real telepathy. They go to see a parody of telepathy. A cute little act that they can take pictures of and remember for a few years down the line, a tiny, cautious taste of the real thing. When you shove the real thing at them, something primal and afraid clicks in their brain, and they throw up their blinders and laugh and scoff at how they can see the strings. It’s a protection mechanism, in its own way.

No, people don’t like real telepathy. But they do like twins. Dipper and Mabel give them what they want. They do silly double-comedy acts, throw in a dash of acrobatics, a smidgen of charm, and a tiny spark of spellwork. It pays the bills.

“Hello, and welcome to the greatest show on earth!”

Twins faces, in twin outfits, speaking with twin-synchronicity. They say and do the whole opening piece in unison, sparks flying from their fingers and blue fire hidden carefully in their eyes. Then they split up into short segments.

Mabel calls up old ladies and sceptical teenagers and wide-eyed children, produces candy and trinkets from her sleeves, and tells them what they had for breakfast. Her dark eyes flash blue briefly, and she files away their PIN numbers and their safe combinations in her brain. Nobody ever suspects the girl with the braces and the cutesy magic act of identity theft.

Dipper is cold, calm, reserved. People call him creepy when he’s young, but by the time he’s a teenager, they call him aloof, intriguing, mysterious. He doesn’t care what they call him, as long as they keep bringing in their money. He’s the hypnotist. Nobody really volunteers for that act on account of the time he told a guy to throw himself off the stage- which the man did, and gladly (Mabel dragged her brother off the stage immediately, because even she could see that the blue in his eyes was too bright, that the magic was too strong in him). Still, somebody always ends up in the hot seat when Dipper’s segment comes on, and it’s always worth a watch.

Like now, for example.

The kid up on stage is a tiny, chubby little guy. His name is Gideon Gleeful, but he doesn’t like to tell people that. In his opinion, it’s pretty dumb. In his opinion, a lot of things about himself are dumb. His hair is too white, and that’s dumb. His voice is too squeaky, and that’s dumb too. But what’s really the dumbest, least-worthwhile thing in his life right now is this telepathy show. Honestly. ‘Tent o’ Telepathy’. Who came up with that?

“I did,” says Dipper Pines in an offended sort of tone. “I thought it was pretty good.”

Gideon gasps. There are murmurs of confusion for the audience, and Dipper puts on a small smile. It’s as showy as he gets.

“Sorry folks,” he says. “Gideon here was just wondering who came up with the name ‘Tent O’ Telepathy’. He thinks it’s… dumb.” He wrinkles his nose in overexaggerated distaste.

The audience appears to be scandalized.

“How’d you know I was thinkin’ that?” Gideon bursts out. I never told him my name, he thinks. He’s gripping the sides of the wooden chair he’s sitting in, and his knuckles are even paler than usual. He’s starting to have a series of increasingly solid second thoughts.

Dipper smirks. “Well, you see, telepathy is kind of my thing.”

The audience liked that one; they’re laughing up a storm. Gideon’s toes are tap-tap-tapping out a nervous rhythm on the flat boards of the stage. He’s afraid now; this kid feels like the real deal, and Gideon doesn’t want the real deal. He looks desperately at his dad, sitting in the audience behind a blocky video camera. He finds no help there.

“Now, let’s start the actual hypnosis,” Dipper says, and he places two cold fingers at Gideon’s temples. It’s all for show, of course. He could do this with anybody in the room, from anywhere. His magic has a much broader range than you might think. He makes just the slightest brush against the kid’s mind, lighter than the proverbial feather and- yeesh. He’s barely touched this kid and already he’s been thrown walls. Guards. Mental blocks. Gideon just won’t let him in.

Gideon’s tapping is more frantic now. This guy is in his mind and it feels so wrong, the mental equivalent of wet socks. He screws up his face for a second, and Dipper hands jerk back as he receives a loud mental shout of STOP STOP GET OUT YOU’RE BAD.

Gideon calls out, “I don’t wanna do this anymore!” He leaps off the chair.

The audience is confused.

Dipper is also confused. Nobody, not in the years and years they’ve been coming to this trash town, has ever refused a hypnosis. He makes sure that they don’t, with little mental nudges to keep their mouths zipped and their minds willing. “Kid, I don’t understand,” he says, spreading his hands out. The round green jewel at his throat glints in the stage lights. “It’s not like I’m gonna hurt you.”

Gideon shakes his head frantically and, jeez, it almost looks like he’s having a panic attack. “That’s exactly what you’re gonna do!”

The audience murmurs amongst themselves. Dipper pays attention to the charge of the room, to the atmosphere of everybody’s thoughts and auras. They’ve shifted in favor of Gideon, a tiny, nervous kid panicking on stage. He does cut a sympathetic figure, Dipper has to admit. He’s a couple years younger than Dipper, maybe eleven or twelve, and he’s small even for that. The whole tableau paints Dipper as the bully, the pusher. That’s a bad image. Dipper thinks to himself (and only to himself). Gotta fix this. He pastes on his show smile again. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t care.

“Listen,” he says, and he broadcasts calm and friendly. The audience begins to simmer down. “You look pretty shaken up. How’s about you go backstage, maybe find somebody to get you some water. Maybe a snack?”

“Um,” says Gideon, unsure. On the one hand, there was definitely something very wrong with this guy a few seconds ago. But on the other, he seems okay now. Gideon can feel himself calming down, and, incredibly, he begins to trust Dipper. Just a little bit. But enough.

Dipper’s eyes flash the smallest, lightest amount of blue. He gives Gideon’s mind a tiny nudge. Go backstage, he says. It’s okay, he says. Gideon is still unsure, and Dipper keeps the angry twinge off his face. Honestly, why won’t this kid just go? He pushes harder.

Gideon teeters, wavers, and finally, he gives in.

“O-okay,” he concedes, looking back at the dark draping behind the stage. “It’s just- just through here?”

“Yup,” Dipper says. “Go on.”

Gideon pulls back the heavy curtain, and Dipper turns back to the audience. His smile is smaller now, more secret. He sends a thought out to his sister. Heads up. Got you a new toy.

“Sorry about that, folks. Alright, let’s get a replacement up here. Yes, you, with the red hair. No, not you, the other one with the red hair. No, the other-” Gideon drops the curtain behind himself, and all sound from the stage is completely cut off. So is most of the light. All he can see is a dim hallway, going forward for a bit before sharply forking off into two different directions. The walls are cheap plywood, painted a dark blue. The floor is the beaten dirt of the lot outside.

He walks forward hesitantly, zipping up his sweatshirt and hugging it closer to himself. It’s colder back here, for some reason. Maybe they’ve got an A/C somewhere, he reasons, and keeps trudging on. The hallway seems longer than he first thought it was. He passes a door. FX ROOM is written on a small scrap of notebook paper in blocky blue capitals. He stops, thinking, then doubles back to ease open the door. Maybe someone inside can tell him where he’s supposed to go.

Inside is a bunch of sound boards and screens, showing the main stage room and Dipper performing. The audience is enraptured as a red headed boy does a one armed handstand, and begins to sing the alphabet backwards. Sitting in a swivel chair in front of the largest sound board is an old man in an suit and fez, fast asleep. Gideon steps forward slowly, and places a hand on the man’s shoulder. He doesn’t move, and Gideon notices that he’s covered in a fine layer of actual, honest-to-god dust. For a second, his heart catches in his throat. Is the man dead? But no, a faint breath of air comes in and out of his mouth. He’s asleep, and he’s been asleep for a very long time.

Gideon nervously shifts his feet, and his shoe hits something on the ground. He looks down. It’s a coffee mug, empty. He picks it up out of curiosity, and something clinks from inside of it. He turns the cup over, and a large, off-white tooth falls into his palm. He yelps and throws it away from himself. It bounces off the old man’s head and clatters down the sound board onto the floor. The man doesn’t move. Gideon is frozen for a second, his heart racing in his chest.

This is crazy. I’ve gotta be dreaming.

He feels off-kilter, confused. Everything that’s happened to him in the past ten minutes has felt fundamentally off somehow, like the whole world has been moved a foot to the left. He looks one more time at the sleeping old man and the tooth on the floor, and leaves the room.

Back in the hallway, something feels wrong. Where before it was just cold, now it’s positively frigid, and it feels like someone’s watching him.

“Hello?” he calls. The watching feeling does not change, but manages to give an impression of amusement. Gideon frowns and steps down the hallway some more. “Hey, c’mon now, if y’all are watchin’ me just come out and say so.”

If the watching feeling had a sound, it would be positively cackling. The watcher themselves, however, is silent. Gideon’s heart begins to race. He’s reached the end of the long hallway, and now he has to choose. Left or right? something says in his brain. It doesn’t feel like his thought. Choose.

Gideon chooses to turn right on a whim, or so he thinks. It’s as dark as ever, but the wooden walls are painted purple instead of blue. His palms are sweaty. He rubs them on his jacket. Suddenly, he hears footsteps behind him. Slow, decisive footsteps, like someone in kitten heels creeping along a dirt floor (that’s exactly what it is). Gideon speeds up. So do the footsteps. He slows down. They slow down. He slows till he’s almost standing still. The other person matches him step for step.

Suddenly, without warning, he bolts. The footsteps don’t even miss a beat. He’s sprinting now, dashing along a dark hallway, and the person behind him is catching up.

He reaches the end of the hallway. A door stands before him, dark rich wood looking out of place and yet right at home. Gideon turns the knob and pushes. Nothing. The door doesn’t budge. The footsteps are louder. He turns the knob and pulls. No dice. He jiggles the knob, tries to peek through the keyhole, looks around frantically for other ways to go. There’s nothing. The footsteps are pounding in his ears, and Gideon smacks his forehead in realization. He turns back to the door and knocks.

It swings open.

Inside is a cluttered room, filled with all manner of odds and ends. There’s a few half finished knitting projects laying in a pile, and a huge wardrobe up against the far wall. Black and blue dresses and jackets and skirts spill out of it onto the floor. Fairy lights are strung up all around the perimeter of the room, and in the very center is one of those makeup tables, with lights around the edge of the mirror and endless drawers and shelves for anything one might need.

There’s a girl sitting at it. Gideon freezes as he recognizes her.

Mabel Pines looks at him from her dressing room mirror. She puts down her mascara. She stands up and looks down at Gideon and smiles a dangerous smile. Her new toy has delivered itself straight to her doorstep. Thanks, brother.

“Oh, there you are! Would you like something to drink?”

Her voice is friendly but everything else about her is not. Her eyes have a manic sort of look to them, and her smile is less pretty and more predator. Gideon backs up a step.

He's panting still, and he looks at her in confusion. "Weren't you- somebody was- outside, I heard-"

Mabel laughs. "Just a little trick to get you here faster."

Gideon frowns. "Uh. I'm- I'm sorry, I don't think I'm 'sposed to be here-"

"Nonsense!" Mabel grins. "Dipper sent you, didn't he?" Gideon's face must give her the answer, because her eyes light up even more with excitement. "Wonderful."

She turns to the small mini-fridge by her table and pulls out a ceramic pitcher. It’s decorated with painted sunflowers. She pulls down two glasses from one of the shelves that line the walls of her room. Gideon watches apprehensively, his back against the door, as she pours out the liquid. Something in the drink is solid, and it clinks against the ceramic and the glasses. Probably ice cubes, Gideon thinks.

Mabel turns around, a sunny smile on her face. Her braces glint in the yellow-white light, and her black skirt- frilly and poofy tonight- makes a rustling sound as she moves. It reminds Gideon of the sound a snake makes as it slithers forward.

“D’ya want some Mabel Juice?” she asks, holding out one cup. Gideon, not wanting to annoy her, takes it. The juice inside is pinkish in color. There are no ice cubes floating in it. Mabel takes an exaggerated sip of hers and smiles even bigger. “I always drink it before I go on. Gives me an extra pep in my step!” She takes another swig. Nothing goes down her throat, but Gideon doesn't notice. He looks down at his glass, and doesn’t taste what's in it. He doesn’t trust Mabel as far as he can spit, and with everything that’s happened in the past few minutes, he thinks that drinking this stuff might be a pretty bad idea.

“What’s in it?” he manages to ask. He’s looking down at his cup, and so he doesn’t see Mabel’s eyes (and the jewel in her headband) flash blue with irritation. The little whelp isn’t supposed to be asking questions. She pulls herself together by the time he glances up at her nervously.

“Oh, you know, a little of this and a little of that. Drink it! You’ll love it,” she gushes, and downs the rest of her glass. A tiny nonverbal spell vanishes what's inside. She turns it over to demonstrate to him that it’s empty. “See? It doesn’t hurt me, so it won’t hurt you!”

Gideon stares into the cup again. The drink seems pretty innocuous, and Mabel did drink a whole glass… he lets a little bit of his guard down, just for a second, considering. Mabel grins, and slips through the cracks.

Drink it, go on. Drink it.

He frowns. Mabel pushes harder. Dipper is better at this sort of thing than her, but it’s not so hard. All it takes is a little finesse, the right timing, just the right amount of pressure… and the victim cracks open like an egg.

It’ll be good! It looks good. It’s probably just Kool-Aid. Just drink it!

Gideon shrugs a little. What’s the worst that could happen? he reasons, and he takes a tiny sip.

It’s good. It’s really good. It tastes kind of like cherries, and kind of like chocolate. There’s a small bitter undertone to it, but Gideon hardly notices it. Mabel watches him with shining eyes. Gideon takes another sip. And another. He smiles politely at Mabel.

“It’s very good, thank you.”

Mabel’s eyes begin to actually shine, glowing with a faint bluish-green light. Gideon chalks it up to the weird lighting, and takes a third, much larger sip of the drink. He’s starting to feel a little light-headed.

“Uh,” he says, looking at his cup. “Is, uh- hun, is this alcoholic? ‘Cuz I don’t drink alcohol.”

Mabel laughs. For some reason, it’s the scariest thing that’s happened to Gideon all night. “Nah,” she says easily. “It’s not alcoholic, Gideon. Take another sip.”

And, for some reason, Gideon does. It’s the last in the cup, and as he downs it something small and hard slips into his mouth with the juice. He coughs, surprised, and spits it into his hand. It’s a flat, oddly shaped, off-white tooth, almost identical to the one he’d found in the old man’s coffee cup.

“What is this?!” he shrieks, staring down at the tooth in disgust. It had been in his drink. Mabel giggles and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a handful more of the weird, spiky teeth.

“Deer teeth!” she laughs. She drops them all onto the carpet laid across the dirt floor, thudthudthudthudthud. Gideon feels sick, but from the juice or the teeth he doesn’t know. Mabel is still laughing. “You want more, kid? I got tons!” She pulls out another handful and tips it into Gideon’s empty cup. The teeth ting and click against the glass, and he drops it in surprise and horror. The light headed feeling is stronger now, and he stumbles backwards, his back against the door.

“Y-you’re insane!” he manages, looking up at Mabel. She seems so much taller all of a sudden, and her eyes are glowing in earnest.

“Not insane, sweetie,” she says. “Just powerful.” She tilts her head to one side, listening to something he can’t hear. “Oh, what a shame. My cue is coming up. And I so wanted to stay and play…” She pouts comically, then brightens. “Well, that just means we can have extra fun when I come back!” Gideon’s vision is doing something funny as she talks; all the colors are fading, the world going grayscale. Mabel grabs both his hands and begins to drag him away from the door, and he notices hazily that the only things about her still keeping their color are her eyes and her headband. They gleam turquoise, even as everything else fades to stark shades of black and white.

Mabel props him up against the side of her makeup table, and opens the door.

“Buh-bye now!” she calls over her shoulder, and Gideon’s eyes slip closed as the door does.

-------------

“You shouldn’t’ve had that juice, kid.”

Gideon blinks blearily, trying to look around. Everything is incredibly blurry and dim, and he feels like he’s been knocked out with a sledgehammer. Two dark shapes sit in front of him, one markedly bulkier and larger than the other. Gideon groans and blinks again. One of the shapes resolves itself into the sleeping old man from the FX room, his red fez and tie standing out sharply against the grayness of the rest of the room. He’s not sleeping anymore, and his eyes are sharp and serious.

The other shape is… well. It’s a shape. A triangle, golden and floating, with a black hat and black bowtie. It has one eye in its center and no other features. A faintly glowing blue chain is secured to its ankle, trailing off into the gray space.

Gideon blinks a third time. The two people (person and shape?) are still there, staring at him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few more seconds, willing himself to wake up from what is obviously the worst dream he’s ever had. He opens his eyes. They’re still there.

“Hey. Shortstop. Are you in there?” the old man says gruffly. “I said, you shouldn’t’ve had that damn juice.”

Gideon sighs and rubs his forehead. “Yeah, I kinda- kinda figured that out, thanks.” He looks around. They’re in Mabel’s dressing room still, and there is no color anywhere except for the three of them. “Ugh… what did she do to me?”

“Welcome to the Mindscape, kid,” says the triangle. Gideon jumps. He didn’t know it could talk. “Available activities are: none. Escape is impossible. Your sentence is forever.” He ends his speech with a grandiose hand flourish. Nothing happens. Gideon and the old man watch as the triangle flourishes again, and again. Finally, he gives up. “Damn kids,” he mutters. “I’d be able to do it if they weren’t using all my magic for that dumb show.”

“You can’t even do anything on your best days,” points out the old man. “Face it, Bill. You got nothin’.” The triangle glares at him.

“Yes, Stan, and why is that? You wanna remind me why I can’t do shit?” he snaps. Gideon’s eyes ping-pong between the two of them, surprised at the sudden change in the conversation’s tone.

“Right! Here we go again!” the man- who is apparently named Stan- says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Let’s play the blame game! Like we’ve been doing for- I don’t know, the past two months!”

“You brought those hellspawn kids into this town, Pines! You’re the reason they even found out about magic, you and your dumb brother's journals!” Gideon’s eyes widen.

“Wait- Pines? You’re related to the twins?”

Bill and Stan turn to look at Gideon in unison, as if they’d forgotten he was there. There’s a moment of tense silence before Stan sighs and runs a hand down his face.

“Ugh. Yeah. I’m their great-uncle. Asked them to call me ‘grunkle’ for short when they were kids, but it never stuck.” He looks sad for a split second, before he pulls himself together and continues. “And no matter what this stupid triangle here says, it’s not my fault we’re stuck here. If anything, it’s his.”

“What?!”

“Can it, one-eye, I’m talkin’ here!” Stan shoot Bill a scathing look, then turns back to Gideon. “Anyway, yeah, this dumbass piece of geometry actually made a deal with those brats. They gave him a few measly bits of gold and a deer carcass and- What’d you give ‘em again, Bill?”

The triangle mumbles something inaudibly. Stan puts his hand up to his ear and says, “What was that? I can’t hear you, I’m an old man.”

“Temporary use of my…” Bill trails off before the end of the sentence.

“Of your MAGIC,” Stan finishes for him. He looks at Gideon. “Can you believe this guy? Exists for millennia, an all-powerful dream demon, hundreds- if not thousands- of deals made over the years… and you know what this idiot forgets to do?” Gideon shrugs weakly. He’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. “He forgets to set a damn time limit! ‘Temporary’ is vague! Open ended! This guy literally gave two twelve year olds unlimited power and black magic, and they ran with it and bound him to them for eternity!”

Bill’s body darkens a few shades. Gideon wonders if that means he’s blushing.

“They were kids! I didn’t think they’d be dangerous!” he protests.

“And yet who’s out there gettin’ the money and doin’ the blood rituals, and who’s in here with a chain on his leg?” Stan crows triumphantly.

Bill folds his arms. “Hey, Stanford, I don’t know if you can hear me way up there on your high horse, but you’re stuck here too.” Stan’s jaw snaps shut. Bill turns to Gideon. “Since Stan got to decide your first impression of me, I’m gonna return the favor. Let me set the scene here: it’s the first show of the summer, tent’s packed, our man Stan here is sitting in the FX room like he does every damn summer, and Mabel Pines walks in. Get this, he knows these kids are batshit, right, and yet, when his sweet little great-niece offers him a blood potion, he drinks it, and gets his fossilized ass stuck here forever!”

Stan splutters indignantly. “Fossil! Fossil! Cipher, if you wanna see a fossil, why don’t you take a quick look in the mirror?”

“Too bad neither of us can look in mirrors anymore, huh, Stan?” the triangle shoots back without missing a beat. Suddenly, the conversation has devolved into rapid fire insults, shot one after the other with barely a breath in between. It’s impossible to follow, and Gideon gets the feeling that this sort of vicious bickering is the norm for them. He pictures an eternity stuck with it. He cringes. Suddenly, as he looks at Stan, something occurs to him.

“Wait.” The other two stop talking for a second. “I saw you in the other room,” he says, pointing to Stan. “You were asleep. And now you’re here.”

“Yeah,” says Stan awkwardly. “That’s where Mabel knocked me out with that gross juice.”

“But you’re here,” Gideon says, confused.

Bill rolls his singular eye and interjects before Stan can even open his mouth. “Kid, the Mindscape is a purely mental concept. Your mind is here”- he gestures to their grey and black surroundings- “But your body is there.” He points to Gideon.

“Of course my body is here, I’m in it!”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Are you totally sure of that?”

“What’re you talkin’ about, of course I’m sure! Look!” Gideon exclaims, lifting both his arms into the air. “I’m movin’ ‘em! They’re mine!”

“Uh, kid?” says Bill dryly. “Look down.”

Gideon does, and screams. He thought he’d been moving his body, but as he looks he sees a version of himself in shades of white and grey, unmoving, fast asleep. It’s like he has four arms. The two he can move, and the two he can’t. He can wiggle his fingers and his toes, kick his legs and turn his head. He can stand up, which he discovers as he leaps to his feet in horror. He looks down at himself. He looks at his hands, turns them over and back again. He looks at Bill and Stan, still sitting on the floor. Their faces seem to say “told ya so”. Gideon can feel himself starting to hyperventilate, and Stan’s face quickly becomes concerned. Bill’s doesn’t change.

“Hey- hey, kid, c’mon, just breathe, but not- ah, jeez. Breathe slower, god damn it,” Stan says, standing up and putting one hand on Gideon’s back. “Look, I don’t even- I don’t know why the twins did this to you, or what they wanna do with you and… And I’m sorry you got dragged into this. You seem like a nice kid.” Gideon begins to breathe slower. Bill looks away in boredom, floating over to poke at Mabel’s trinkets on the shelves. Stan glares at him over the top on Gideon’s head on principle, then turns his attention back to the kid. “Your name’s… Gideon, right?”

Gideon nods. His breathing is almost back to normal, and he’s starting to feel embarrassed about his freak out.

“Okay, Gideon,” says Stan. “Let’s, uh, let’s just stay calm, okay?” Gideon nods again.

“I’m sorry about that, I just-” Gideon cuts himself off with a shrug. Stan follows his gaze to Gideon’s grayscale, passed out body.

“Yeah, it’s- it’s pretty creepy at first, and, uh. To be honest, uh... I reacted worse than you did,” admits Stan. That gets Bill’s attention. The triangle whips around, his weird, glowing chain dragging behind him.

“Oh, man, you shoulda seen him! He was yelling and trying to talk to people… jeez, that was hilarious!” Bill begins to laugh so hard that he turns upside down. It doesn’t make much of a difference in his overall appearance.

Stan frowns. “Quit it, Cipher, I’m tryin’ to comfort the kid here.”

“Oh yeah, and you’re doing such a great job of it. Where’d you learn to parent again, Pines?” says Bill, turning himself upright again. Stan opens his mouth to retort and begin what will likely be another long-winded argument, but before he can, the door opens. All three of them freeze in place. Bill doesn’t even bob in the air, he’s holding himself so still.

Mabel practically skips into the room, trailing a bored-looking Dipper after her. Gideon notices that the jewels that they both wear glow blue even in the grayscale of the Mindscape. Mabel is literally bouncing with excitement, grinning widely as she looks down at Gideon’s sleeping body.

“Aww, look at him, all tired out!” she cooes. Then her voice gets lower, more serious. ”That’s okay though. He’s going to have a nice, long sleep.” Abruptly, she turns and begins rummaging through boxes and drawers around the room. “Ugh, Dipper, you always know just what to get me! You knew I needed another couple pints of blood!” Gideon gasps loudly.

“She’s gonna take my blood?!” he shrieks in alarm, and Stan claps a hand over his mouth.

Mabel grinds to a halt, standing stock still in silence for a few seconds. Gideon begins to worry that somehow she’s heard him. Then her face lights up and she exclaims, “And you know what else? I can take his liver, too! There’s this neat little potion I’ve just been itching to whip up, but, you know, it needs a liver and, well… nobody was really donating.”

Dipper raises an eyebrow as Mabel pulls out a small dagger and a metal bucket from one of the boxes. “Do you really need to do this here?” he asks, looking around. “The blood will get all over your things.”

“Don’t worry, brother, it’ll be fine! I know what I’m doing,” assures Mabel, kneeling beside Gideon and placing the bucket beside his body. “Now… throat or wrist?” She pauses for a second, considering. “Aw, what the heck, I’ll do both.”

Gideon turns away quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears. Stan does the same, but Bill watches in mildly interested disgust as Gideon’s body is drained like a pig’s. Gideon hears the dull drip of blood hitting the bottom of the metal bucket and whimpers, pressing down on his ears harder. Dipper’s voice, slightly distorted, still manages to reach him.

“Mabel… this is… ugh. This is messy. I’ve got a spell that can do this for you, no problem-”

“Awww, c’mon Dipper! Aren’t you having fuuuuun?” replies Mabel. She draws out the vowel in ‘fun’ for several seconds, her voice climbing higher and higher with it.

“Fun isn’t really my area,” Dipper comments dryly.

Gideon can feel hot tears slipping down his face. That’s good, isn’t it? he reasons. If he can feel that, maybe it means he’s not dead. Maybe this is all a dream, he thinks for the hundredth time that night, but he can’t make himself believe it. This is his life, or lack thereof. He tries to calm down and focus on small things, like the texture of his hair underneath his fingertips and the sound of Stan’s ragged breathing beside him. The slow dripping sounds keep going, but quieter. The bucket is filling up. Gideon cracks his eyes open just in time to see Mabel bustle by, her sleeves rolled up and her hands stained red. He closes his eyes again.

“Now, where is that BIG knife?” Gideon hears Mabel say, and then there’s a fair bit of clattering around as she rummages through more boxes and bags. Dipper sighs.

“You left it in my room, remember? When we were talking to that girl, oh what was her name...” Dipper’s voice moves as he talks, going from Gideon’s right side to directly in front of him.

Mabel laughs, remembering. “Pacifica! Oh, she was so sweet. I wonder how she’s doing nowadays. You know, with only one hand.” Gideon opens his eyes again. Dipper is standing only a couple feet away, his arms folded and a slightly amused look on his face. He shrugs.

“I think she moved away.” He taps his fingers against his jewel. “I’ve still got the hand somewhere. Very nice manicure.” Gideon glances over at Stan. He’s opened his eyes too, and he’s glaring at his nephew with the closest thing Gideon has ever seen to hate. Mabel moves into his field of vision, leaning one elbow on her brother’s shoulder and staring dispassionately in front of her. At first Gideon thinks she’s looking at him and Stan, but then realizes that she’s looking through them, at the other Gideon, laying on the floor. He shivers.

Mabel stares for a few seconds more, Dipper easily taking her weight, before she claps her hands once and says with a sunny smile, “Alright! Off to get that knife!” She swings open the door and runs off, her feet making light pitter-patter noises on the packed dirt floor. Dipper closes it behind her, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

It’s okay, Gideon thinks. You’re in the Mindscape, whatever that is. He can’t see you.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t read your mind,” says Dipper calmly. Stan curses several times under his breath. Bill’s eye widens.

“I didn’t know he could do that,” the triangle says in mild surprise.

Dipper smiles and lets a small spark of magic make his eyes flash blue. “Aw, Bill, is that you? What’re you up to these days? Having fun being imprisoned?” He tilts his head slightly. “And Stanford, how’ve you been? Getting your beauty rest and all that?”

“Why you little twerp-” Stan begins, but Dipper cuts him off.

“I’ve tolerated your presence here for a long time, Stan. Don’t push me.” Dipper creates a small blue flame in the palm of his hand and tosses it up and down in apparent boredom. “Anyway, Gideon, sorry about this whole mess, but, well…” He crushes the flame in his fist and grins. “Mabel needed the liver.”

There’s a choking, spluttering sound from behind them and Gideon turns around. His body is set up so that the bucket is in his lap, wrists and head positioned so that all the blood will drip neatly in. As he watches, the choking sound comes again, and the body on the floor twitches and spasms. He feels sick, but he can’t look away. The body coughs again and its head rolls to one side, eyes closed, neck slit in what Gideon can only see as a dark grey line. More dark grey falls from it, dripping onto his zipped hoodie and the collar of his t-shirt peeking out from beneath it. Gideon backs up a step towards Dipper, his hands clapped over his mouth.

“What’s happening?” he whispers, as a third spasm wracks the body- his body. Stan looks on with sympathetic eyes. Dipper clicks his tongue in mock sadness, walking over and turning Gideon’s head back so that the blood falls into the bucket again.

“What a shame. I thought we’d get more out of you but, well. You’re short.” The body coughs again, but it’s weaker.

“What’s happening?!” Gideon shouts desperately, and he thinks it loudly too, for good measure.

Dipper straightens up and wipes a few droplets of blood off his hands with one of Mabel’s dresses, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Then he turns back to approximately where Gideon and Stan are standing and adopts a sort of lectural tone.

“The human body can lose up to fifteen percent of its blood without serious harm. Oh, sure, there will be some light headedness, fatigue, wooziness, balance problems- but you’ll live. Now, when you get up to forty, fifty, sixty percent... that's when things get interesting.” He looks into the bucket in Gideon’s lap, assessing. “I’d say that you’ve got maybe two and half, three liters in here.” He looks up and grins a terrible, awful grin. It’s the most animated Gideon has ever seen him. “You’re all bled out, kid.”

The body retches one last, half-hearted time and Gideon stumbles, suddenly off-balance. Stan moves to help him, but Gideon is already on his knees. He tries to breathe, to take in air, but he can’t his lungs won’t work, nothing goes down his throat. He looks down at his shaking hands and all he can think is, Again? Seriously?

“Kid? Kid, stay with me,” Stan says frantically, shaking his shoulder. Bill watches from the sidelines, only letting off the tiniest hint of emotion, and even then it’s more annoyance at Dipper than real sympathy. Gideon can feel his thoughts slipping, and dimly he hears footsteps in the hallway. Mabel is coming back.

Dipper gives him a tiny wave. “No body, no mind. Goodbye, Gideon.”

“Kid…” says Stan. Gideon can feel a hand on his back, but it’s removed, distant. The door creaks open.

“I found it!” crows Mabel, skipping over to Dipper and brandishing a huge, slightly curved knife. Dipper smiles, moving aside so that she can kneel beside Gideon’s body. “Aw, is that all he gave us?” she says, looking into the bucket. “Oh well. I’ll make do. Better hurry up and get this liver outta him before he starts to stink, amirite?”

Gideon’s vision blurs, greys and blacks and spots of turquoise blending together in a soupy mix. He tries to draw in breath one final time as Mabel unzips his body’s hoodie. He can’t feel Stan’s hand on his back anymore and the only thing he’s sure of is that this is it. He’s dying. Everything comes to him in short, sharp bursts.

Mabel’s eyes gleam with excitement and Dipper’s glow with blue magic-

Stan is saying something but Gideon can’t hear it-

Mabel is drawing her arm back and Gideon’s mouth is dry-

Dipper is smiling and Bill turns away from the whole scene, either from boredom or unwillingness to watch-

Mabel’s arm thrusts forward and there’s a disgusting squelching noise and

everything

goes

black.