Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Was he dreaming? Or was this one of those dreamless sleeps that somehow felt too real to question?

Either way, Paul Jackson was surprisingly comfortable; though he couldn’t feel the softness of any blanket or pillow beneath him. The texture was… dusty? Maybe with a faint hint of something slick, like the surface couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

“Hello, Jackson.”

Okay, that was definitely not the voice of his mom or dad barging into his room again. With a startled jolt, he shot upright, eyes wide open.

And then came shock number two. He wasn’t in a house. He wasn’t even on solid ground. All around him floated tufts of fluffy, luminous clouds suspended in a blueish, shimmering void. And right in front of him stood a massive, aquatic creature; panting softly, a wide tongue lolling out like an exhausted dog’s.

Its feathery, external gills fluttered lazily on each side of its head, rippling like strands of hair underwater. The thing towered over him, somewhere between 'ancient sea god' and 'Godzilla’s friendly cousin.'

Paul turned slowly, scanning his surroundings.

Now came the million-dollar question: who, exactly, had called out his name?

There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls; just endless blue and a single cloud acting as his makeshift mattress. If this was a dream, it was the most lucid one he’d ever had.

“I assure you, this is no dream.”

The fish-like creature rested its head on its front paws, almost like a lounging cat. “You have nothing to fear from me, boy.”

The fish was talking to him. And it hadn’t even opened its mouth! Paul could just... hear the words echoing in his head.

“W-what the—what the fuck?”

The entity grumbled deep in its throat, a sound somewhere between a growl and a bubbling stream. “Language, young man.” It tilted its snout, tail flicking with faint irritation. “Such words are unbecoming; and far too close to the kind of chaos Bill craves. Though, I must admit, even he maintains a certain… composure.”

Before Paul could respond, the creature’s tail swept lazily through the air. The void around them shimmered; and in a blink, they stood in a dense forest, a calm river glinting between them.

Paul stared in disbelief at the sudden change of scenery, blinking at the sunbeams filtering through leaves that hadn’t existed seconds ago. The creature, meanwhile, yawned contentedly, stretching its gills.

“Would you mind if I refreshed myself?” It asked. “It has been ages since I last broke my silent meditation.”

Paul could only blink, his brain short-circuiting from the sheer absurdity of the situation. The creature seemed to take that as consent and bent down to drink deeply from the river, its reflection rippling across the surface.

When it finally lifted its head, tongue hanging out once more in a rather un-godlike fashion, Paul found his voice again.

“What… what are you?”

“I suppose lacking knowledge of my world must be confusing for someone like you.” The creature replied, snorting softly. “And using the male pronoun is acceptable. Nevertheless, I am the AXOLOTL."

An Axolotl?

“Aren’t those, uh… you know, fish?”

The entity chuckled, rolling onto his back with surprising grace for something that could squash a car. His gills fluttered as he pawed playfully at the clouds above, exposing his pale underbelly. For all his cosmic awareness, he behaved like an oversized, mischievous pet.

“In your world, maybe.”

That was the last straw.

“Okay!” Paul threw his hands up, voice cracking with exasperation. “You know what, dude? Why don’t we start from the beginning?”

He dropped to the grass, crossing his legs until only an awkward oval of space remained between them. Then, pointing at himself with both thumbs, he declared: “I’m Paul Jackson; Jacky to my friends. Now tell me: where the hell am I, and why am I talking to a giant, psychic, talking fish?!?”

The AXOLOTL didn’t immediately respond. His long whiskers twitched faintly, eyes half-lidded, as though he were carefully weighing each word before letting it go. Paul tapped his knee impatiently, desperate for something, anything, that made sense.

Finally, the creature spoke. “You died, Jackson.”

Paul’s face went pale. “W-what?” He stumbled over his own voice. “No… no, that’s—that’s insane! I can feel my heart beating! I’m talking to you! I’m literally catching my breath right now!” He gestured wildly at the field around them. “What kind of dead human does that?!?”

“You are not alive as you understand it." The AXOLOTL replied, lowering his massive head closer to him. “You are a physical reconstruction of an already-departed spirit.”

He extended one massive and sharp claw, and brushed it gently over Paul’s shoulder. To the latter's surprise, the touch didn’t hurt. Instead, it carried an odd, calming warmth, as though the creature had filtered out the pressure of his immense size and replaced it with something gentler, attuned to the boy’s fragile form.

Against all logic, it worked. Paul’s chest loosened; his breath steadied. He ran a trembling hand through his short, dark-brown hair, squeezing his eyes shut before exhaling a shaky sigh.

“Is my family alright?”

He couldn’t remember how—or why—he’d supposedly died. The thought of his parents hit him like a cold stone to the chest. If they were in danger because of him…

“They are." The AXOLOTL said softly, retracting his paw. His tongue clicked once, a sound that might have been sympathy, or finality. “They will mourn you, as they should. But in time, they will learn to live again.”

...

“What are you, exactly?” The boy asked after a long moment of consideration.

“I am a being from a higher dimension."nThe salamander declared, puffing his chest out with unmistakable pride. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Gravity Falls?”

The name tugged faintly at something in Paul’s memory, like a dream trying to resurface after waking. He looked away, thinking. So, this creature was some sort of god? He’d grown up in a Catholic family, sure, but he’d never been the picture of blind faith. Still, he couldn’t exactly deny the evidence staring him in the face; a talking amphibian from another dimension who apparently managed the afterlife.

But Gravity Falls?

“It sounds... familiar." He admitted with a shrug. “Can’t say I ever watched a movie with that name.”

“Not a movie." The creature corrected. “A cartoon.”

Another lazy flick of his tail, and the world shifted again. This time, they stood atop a grassy hill bathed in dawn light. Below them sprawled a small, rustic town framed by towering pines and sparkling rivers. The colours felt too vivid, the angles too clean, like a drawing brought to life.

“Frank used to talk about a cartoon he’d binge as a kid.” Paul murmured, squinting at the sight below. “It was called Gravity Falls.”

“Home of what mortals have dubbed ‘Weirdness.” The AXOLOTL said, sticking out his tongue and blowing a playful raspberry. The darker clouds swirling over the valley instantly brightened into soft, white ones. “Personally? I think weirdness doesn’t need a name.”

Paul shot the salamander a skeptical glance. “So why am I here? I can tell you didn’t just ‘save’ me for fun.”

“Have you ever heard of the concept of a timeline?” The creature asked, lowering his massive snout until one glowing eye was level with the boy. It wasn’t really a question. “There have been... disturbances in the original one. A book misplaced. A clue that shifts position. A stone that rolls at just the wrong angle to pop a tire and alter an outcome.”

Paul frowned. “And you fixed all that?”

The salamander nodded gravely. “For a time. But the errors are multiplying, evolving. Soon they’ll be beyond my control. I cannot directly interfere with this realm, not anymore.” He huffed, a gust of warm, misty air washing over Paul. “I need someone who can walk among them. Someone like you.”

Paul blinked, incredulous. “Me? I’m just a nobody! I’m not some cosmic hero, man! What, you expect me to snap my fingers, pull out some magic crayons, and fix the universe myself?”

“Kind of." The amphibian replied with a yawn that shook the ground. Then, with perfect casualness, he added: “Have you ever watched The Mask?”

Paul’s disbelief faltered. “Who hasn’t? It’s part of childhood pop culture! Jim Carrey rocked that role!”

The entity gazed skyward, a faint smile curling along his features. “Mmmh. Like clockwork.”

“Wha—”

Before Paul could finish, something fell from above; swift, solid, and glowing faintly as it landed in the oval space between his crossed legs.

Paul stared, heartbeat echoing in his ears. Slowly, he reached out… and lifted a familiar green and wooden mask.

For a single breathless moment, it pulsed faintly in his hands, illuminating the carved runes hidden along its surface with a flickering green light.

Paul’s eyes widened. His mouth went dry.

“Oh… no way.”

“There’s no chaos without order." The AXOLOTL said, his tone carrying a deep resonance that rippled through the air itself. “But there’s no order without chaos. And sometimes, the only way to stop a fire…” His eyes flickered towards the object in Paul’s hands. “…is to light another.”

Paul glanced down at the mask. “It chose me?”

The creature nodded slowly. “For this reason.”

“What does The Mask even have to do with all this?” Paul asked, running his fingers along the surface. The texture was slick and wooden at once, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. “You’re not even from the same world.”

“The Mask...” The AXOLOTL rumbled. “...breaks reality to prove it’s a playground.” A brief note of irritation laced his voice as he narrowed his gaze. “A bit too chaotic for my tastes, but what better way to mend a broken world than by creating a more… contained form of chaos?”

His feathery gills rippled as he stuck out his tongue in mild distaste. “Bitterly, I struck a deal with the Mask’s essence. He may have his share of fun in Gravity Falls—where Weirdness already thrives—and in return, he will help restore the timeline.”

Paul blinked. “And I’m the one wearing it?”

The salamander let out a low rumble, somewhere between a purr and a distant earthquake. “Consider it a second chance—a chance to live again, this time as the protagonist of your own story. You’re never too old for an adventure, Jackson.”

Paul traced the carved runes with a trembling thumb. “Will I… change?” He murmured. “And how much?”

“It will unlock what lies deepest within you." The AXOLOTL replied. His tail curled lazily through the grass, stirring faint ripples of golden light. “It’s different for everyone. But we chose you because you still believe. Somewhere deep down, you’ve always wished childhood could’ve lasted just a little longer; to see the world through wonder again.”

Paul took a long breath, the air feeling heavier than before.

“I don’t even know anything about Gravity Falls." He admitted. “Are you sure I’m the best guy for this?”

“It wouldn’t be an adventure without a challenge, now would it?” The AXOLOTL chuckled softly, eyes half-closing. “My paw was… forced. Destiny can be oddly specific with its choices.”

Paul stood, gripping the mask tight enough for his knuckles to ache. “Alright!" He exclaimed, voice steadier than he felt. “Maybe it’s time for a little unrestrained fun.”

The AXOLOTL purred, the sound vibrating through the ground. “Then…”

The world began to fade, the edges of Paul’s vision darkening, his heartbeat echoing like a distant drum.

“…it’s a deal.”

The next words that left the boy’s mouth when he reawakened were simple; perhaps the purest vocal expression of pain and confusion ever uttered by humankind.

“...Ow.”

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Another forest?" He muttered, blinking around. “Are you kidding me?!?”

It wasn’t exactly a normal forest, though. The trees were tall and gnarled, their roots curling like tendons over the mossy ground. As Paul leaned closer, he noticed the trunks seemed to twist into faint, distorted outlines of... feet? Human feet, reaching downwards, frozen in bark.

“Okay, that’s weird!”

He brushed the dirt off his jeans and stood, taking a slow breath. Then he shrugged. “You know what? Talked to a god-sized salamander already. This is practically a Tuesday.”

Weird was starting to feel like the new normal.

Something small thumped against his head and bounced onto the ground.

“—Ow, again!”

He glanced down. The mask.

Paul snatched it up immediately, clutching it against his chest like a long-lost relic. The carved runes shimmered faintly, a greenish glow pulsing through the wood as though the object recognized him.

“Okay." He said to himself, scanning the endless treeline. “Middle of nowhere, check. Step one: find civilization. Step two: track down whatever ‘weirdness’ I’m supposed to fix. Step three…” He sighed. “Find somewhere to crash that doesn’t involve trees shaped like dead people.”

SNAP!

The sharp crack of a twig froze him in place.

Paul slowly turned towards the sound—

—and came face to face with a hulking, gray-furred monstrosity. Its fur was thick and matted, covering everything but its hands, feet, and face. Two intelligent eyes blinked down at him through a curtain of tangled hair.

Paul’s jaw went slack.

“Okay..." He whispered. “...either that’s a Bigfoot… or I seriously need a refund on that afterlife deal.”

The creature responded by roaring right in his face, blasting Paul with the stench of rot and a spray of warm saliva. It raised a claw the size of his head and swung.

Paul barely ducked in time. “AAAAHHHHH!”

He bolted, feet pounding through the underbrush, while the Bigfoot’s guttural hiss echoed behind him.

The thing was fast; way too fast for something that bulky. Every heavy thud shook the ground as it charged after him, foaming and snarling like a starving predator that had just found lunch.

“Not good, not good, NOT GOOD!”

A flash of hope: a small gap in the rocks up ahead. A cave. Small enough for him, not for the monster. Perfect.

Paul threw himself forward, skidding through the grass and dirt. He hit the ground, rolled, and tumbled into the dark space just as another claw slashed through the air where his head had been.

The beast roared and reached inside, claws scraping the stone walls, coming up short by inches. Paul pressed flat against the cold rock, heart hammering. Sweat and mud clung to him in equal measure.

Then, the mask pulsed in his hands. Its runes glowed brighter, almost impatiently.

“Okay!” Paul panted. “Quick ground rules! Don’t hurt anybody... too bad. Don’t make me go crazy. And maybe try not to level the entire forest, please!"

The cave trembled. Pebbles fell. The Bigfoot snarled again.

“Having said that…” Paul raised the mask to his face. “…don’t make this hurt more than it has to.”

The mask lunged forward on its own.

Its edges stretched like tendrils, wrapping around his skull with a wet snap! The wood melted into his skin, replacing it with a slick green sheen. His scream twisted into a laugh, echoing through the collapsing cave as the mask sealed shut.

The runes flared; bright emerald.

Then came the whirlwind. Paul’s body spun into a glowing tornado, kicking up dust and debris. The gust blasted the Bigfoot backwards, sending it tumbling into the trees.

When the spinning stopped, a figure stood in the clearing.

Paul—no, The Mask—leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed, lips stretched into a wide, toothy grin.

He wore a crimson button-up rolled at the sleeves, khaki trousers tucked into scuffed boots, and a leopard-print scarf that fluttered in the wind. His massive belt buckle gleamed: HUNT MASTER 3000.

He smirked at the recovering Bigfoot… then turned, eyes meeting the audience.

“SMOKIN’!”

Tearing his eyes away from you—yes, you, the readers—The Mask strutted towards the Bigfoot with exaggerated, flamboyant steps that squeaked like cartoon shoes.

“Why, hellooooo, Footy!" He sang, tapping his chin twice before framing the monster’s head between his fingers like a camera lens. “What a specimen! Big, hairy, mysterious! I could lock ya up, sell tickets, make a fortune, maybe even get my own Nature Channel spinoff!”

The Bigfoot roared, finally shaking off its confusion, and lunged.

The Mask casually stretched one leg sideways, like a spring, and released. The creature’s claws met only air as it crashed face-first into a nearby trunk, leaving a perfect Bigfoot-shaped dent.

“Strike one!” The Mask cackled, twisting his leg back into place with a rubbery snap. “Guess you could say that was pretty... leg-dy! Get it? ‘Cause you say ‘handy,’ but—eh, whatever, tough crowd.”

He looked straight back at the audience and sighed dramatically. “Bigfoot... more like Smallbrain! Am I right?”

The creature roared again, more furious than before, and charged once more. This time, The Mask didn’t dodge; he simply placed a single gloved palm on the Bigfoot’s chest and gave a light push.

And by 'light,' of course, we mean cartoon physics.

The Bigfoot was sent flying backwards, tumbling through the trees until it landed squarely in an oversized armchair. A red carpet unfurled beneath its feet, a game-show desk slid into place, and a microphone descended from the heavens with a ding!

The Mask spun around, his outfit transforming in a swirl of glitter and smoke; from hunting gear to a sleek tuxedo complete with a ruffled cravat. He plopped into the host’s chair and straightened his tie.

From the bushes, a hidden squad of cameramen appeared, lenses whirring and lights blinking to life.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” The Mask slapped a stack of blank papers on the desk, shuffling them dramatically. “Tonight’s guest: the myth, the legend, the shampoo commercial gone wrong—Bigfoot!”

The invisible audience erupted in cheers and canned laughter.

Bigfoot blinked, bewildered, as if questioning not just reality, but the genre it was currently trapped in.

“As I read from these totally real documents.” The Mask said, tossing the papers into the air. “Bigfoot has been called a myth. But I say... B.S.!”

He kicked his feet onto the desk and grinned at the cameras. “Let’s give our furry friend a chance to speak! Ask him whatever you want, folks; but make it fast! This is a limited-time engagement!”

He pointed a finger downwards at a crudely painted slogan across the front of the desk:

BIGFOOT: HAIR TODAY, GONE TOMORROW!

The cameramen immediately swarmed the bewildered creature.

“Mr. Bigfoot!" Cried a woman in a blazer, raising her hand eagerly. “How do you respond to allegations that your existence is merely a myth?”

Another reporter popped up from the opposite side, microphone in hand. “Is it true you abduct hikers and devour them? Are you a carnivore, herbivore, or... some kind of snack-ivore?”

“Bigfoot! Over here!”

“Mr. Bigfoot! Look this way!”

Flashes burst from every angle, blinding the poor beast. Bigfoot groaned, squinting against the harsh lights, his massive arms thrown up to cover his face. With one panicked grunt, he turned tail and bolted back into the woods, branches cracking in his wake.

“Awwwww!” The crowd of phantom journalists collectively deflated, lowering their cameras and microphones in disappointment.

The Mask brushed invisible dust from his lapel and tsked. “Well, folks, guess he just couldn’t handle the spotlight!”

He tossed his cue cards into the air, then clapped his hands together. “Okay, people! Show’s over! Pack it up! I’ve got worlds to save, people to wow, and egos to inflate; namely mine!"

The phantom crew cheered one last time before fading into thin air with a poof! of stage smoke.

Left alone amid the rustling forest, The Mask planted his hands on his hips and glanced around. “Now then…” He shaded his eyes dramatically, scanning the tree line. “Where oh where could little ol’ Gravity Falls be hiding? Guess it’s time for a good old-fashioned running montage!”

He gave the camera a wink.

A tornado of motion followed as his tuxedo melted away into bright running gear; complete with a sweatband, tiny shorts, and fluorescent sneakers. He crouched, took in an absurdly deep breath (inflating like a balloon), and then—

FWOOOSH!

He was gone in a green-and-yellow blur, zipping through the forest at impossible speed. Trees bent backwards in his wake, wildlife spun like pinwheels, and even a few Gravity Falls anomalies stopped to try and calculate what they’d just witnessed.

After a few seconds of cartoon sprinting sound effects and motion lines, The Mask skidded to a stop atop a familiar hill; the very one Paul had once sat on beside the AXOLOTL.

He stared down at the valley below, where the quirky little town of Gravity Falls stretched out in the distance. His grin widened.

“Ahhh." He sighed theatrically. “Smells like weirdness.”

With a snap of his fingers, the running gear shimmered away, replaced once more by his crimson hunting outfit and leopard-print scarf.

The Mask turned sharply, grinning directly at the camera.

“Hey! Author!”

A confused voice echoed from the void above him. “W–what?”

“Yes, you, Dorango05!” He barked, pointing straight at him as his finger stretched three feet longer than necessary. “You think I don’t know when someone’s typing about me? Puh-lease! I’m allergic to anonymity!”

The Mask planted his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest. “I don’t like being called 'The Mask’ all the time. I want a name. An appellative."

The voice sighed. “Alright… what do you want to be called?”

He snapped his fingers. “In honour of the original movie—and my old pal Stanley—I’ll be…” He paused for dramatic effect, teeth glinting like polished ivory. “Jim!”

“Jim it is, then.”

“Excellent choice!” Jim declared, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “Has that nice ‘I’m-about-to-do-something-insane’ ring to it!”

He suddenly pulled a pair of binoculars from nowhere and extended them like a telescope. Peering through, his eyes comically bulged out of the lenses.

“Let’s see… big forest, weird vibes, creepy triangle cult energy… ah! There we are!”

His view settled on a crooked building tucked among the trees: The Mystery Shack.

Jim lowered the binoculars and smirked. “Now that looks like my kinda joint! A tacky tourist trap in the middle of nowhere? Perfect for a little ‘Mask-on-the-loose’ warm-up episode.”

He casually tossed the binoculars over his shoulder. A massive CRASH! erupted off-screen.

“Eh. That wasn’t important.”

Then, in a single motion, he reached into thin air and pulled out an hat perfect for his setup. He dusted it off reverently.

“As a certain catchy intro once said…” He put it on, striking a dramatic pose. “LOOK OUT! THIS IS—THE MASK!”

He leapt into motion, sprinting down the hill. His arm elongated like a rubber band, stretching far behind him as he held the hat aloft. For one glorious, suspended moment, the object hovered midair; then whooshed forward, landing perfectly on his head as his arm snapped back into place.

“Now that’s what I call continuity!”

Chapter Text

Distance wasn’t a problem for Jim. When you could run faster than a turbocharged luxury car on caffeine and confidence, nothing was.

However, even a living cartoon had to admit; barreling into Gravity Falls’ town center at Mach 3 wasn’t exactly subtle. And subtlety, as Jim would say, was simply chaos in a tuxedo.

So, for once, he opted for discretion.

Hunched in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, Jim tapped his chin in thought. “Alright, Jimmy boy..." He muttered to himself. "How are we gonna blend in with the local yokels without giving the steering wheel to Junior?”

He snapped his fingers. A literal lightbulb blinked to life above his head, flickering once before shining bright enough to attract a few moths from nowhere.

“But of course!” He declared, grinning wide. “How could I not think of this sooner? It’s brilliant, it’s simple—heck, it’s stupid enough to work!”

He dug both hands deep into his pants pockets, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. With a magician’s flourish, he pulled out—

“Ta-da!”

—a hockey mask, eerily similar to Jason Voorhees’ infamous model, complete with exaggerated breathing holes and a few cartoonish cracks for character.

He held it up like a prized artifact. “A mask… wearing a mask!” He giggled uncontrollably, shoulders shaking. “Talk about Inception!”

Without further ado, Jim slipped the mask over his already green visage and placed his hands on his hips. “And just like that, I’m anonymous! Well, double anonymous. I’m like a secret wrapped in a mystery dipped in confusion!”

With a sonic whoosh! he zipped out of the alley and into the waking streets of Gravity Falls.

The town was every bit the small, sleepy hick village he’d imagined; half tourist trap, half paranormal hotspot. Rustic wooden buildings leaned ever so slightly, giving the impression the town was tired of its own weirdness. 

Jim, ever the showman, tipped his hat at passing civilians. Some gave polite nods. Others simply ignored him, muttering about 'summer tourists.'  A few even waved back absentmindedly, as though a neon-green man with a hockey mask were just another Tuesday in Gravity Falls.

Jim grinned beneath his disguise. “Either this town’s too gullible to question me, or their cartoon logic’s blocking the red flags. Either way…"--He struck a little dance step mid-walk—“…I love it here!"

Then, abruptly, he stopped dead in his tracks. A sound effect of squealing tires and a crash echoed dramatically behind him, though there was no car in sight.

He turned sharply, spotting a nearby shop window polished enough to serve as a mirror. After checking both directions for witnesses, Jim leaned close and tugged his hockey mask upwards.

A gleaming reflection stared back.

Beneath the green complexion and cartoonishly broad grin, traces of Paul Jackson peeked through; short brown hair jutting from beneath the beret, a boyish youth barely concealed by the manic energy bubbling beneath the surface.

Jim tilted his jaw left, then right, inspecting every angle with exaggerated precision.

“I look…” He began, pausing dramatically as he adjusted his coat and flared his nostrils. “...fantastic."

He grinned wider. “Like a young Gary Busey on prom night!”

Leaning closer to his reflection, he puckered his lips and planted an exaggerated smooch on the glass, leaving a faint lipstick mark that appeared from nowhere.

“Perfection.” He whispered, flexing his nonexistent biceps as heroic trumpets played faintly in the background.

The window, as if offended, let out a squeak of protest.

Jim winked at his own reflection. “Can’t blame ya for falling for me, handsome.”

It seemed his transformation had followed the same pattern as those from the movies and the animated series. Only his face and the upper stretch of his neck had turned that trademark emerald green, while the rest of his body, hair included, retained its natural colour. His teeth, of course, were comically oversized, gleaming like polished ivory piano keys. It was as if reality itself had watched The Mask (1994) and taken notes.

Then came the distant commotion.

Faint shouts and startled exclamations echoed through the sleepy streets. Jim’s left ear twitched, then began to grow, ballooning outwards until it was larger than his head. The exaggerated lobe strained to catch the direction of the noise.

It only took a few seconds before he caught it; the telltale signs of trouble.

He grinned wide enough to make his cheeks squeak. “Oh-ho! Sounds like good deeds are callin’! Probably need a dash of heroism, and maybe a sprinkle of property damage!”

The ear deflated with a squeaky hiss, snapping back to normal. Jim turned back to his reflection and jabbed a finger towards it, his grin matching that of his mirrored double.

“You...” He said, voice brimming with mock seriousness. “...are one hell of a mask.”

He clicked his tongue, gave a slow wink, and wiggled his nonexistent eyebrows. “Don’t wait up for me, sweetheart.”

With a tug, he pulled the hockey mask back down over his green face and pivoted sharply to the left, bounding towards the sound of chaos with remarkable elasticity.

For a moment, the reflection lingered in the glass pane, still visible even after Jim had vanished from view.

It sighed dreamily, resting its chin on both hands. “Come back, I beg of you!” It called after him in a falsetto that was somewhere between a 1940s actress and a bad high-school drama student.

The pane fogged from its own exaggerated breath before flickering, then reverting back to an ordinary reflection of the empty street.

What Jim found when he finally traced the source of the commotion was not a pretty sight. Not from a moral standpoint, and certainly nt from a socio-cultural one.

Three teenagers stood at the end of a narrow street, their laughter bouncing against the sleepy walls of Gravity Falls’ main strip. Their target? A boy no older than twelve, half their height and twice their courage.

He wore a brown hat with a pale star stitched front and center, a navy-blue sleeveless vest left unzipped over a reddish-orange T-shirt, khaki shorts that brushed his knees, black sneakers with white soles, and socks rolled just high enough to show someone still cared about neatness.

Two of the older boys were engaged in the classic pastime of jerks everywhere; one held the kid by the shoulders while the other dangled a worn notebook just out of reach. The book clearly belonged to the child; it wasn’t hard for Jim to see that it was his prized possession. The third teenager, a little farther back, was busy filming the whole thing with a phone, holding it sideways like an amateur documentarian.

But it was the next line that made Jim’s grin falter and his eyes narrow into slits of glowing green.

“Aw, man! This is the best vacation we could’ve hoped for!”

Ah. Tourists. The kind who treated small towns like playgrounds, and small people like props.

“Give it back!” The kid shouted, twisting in vain against the older boy’s grip.

“Nuh-uh.” The tall one twirled the notebook with a smirk, wagging a finger like a disapproving teacher. “You’ve gotta work for your bread, buddy. Come on — jump for it!”

“How am I supposed to reach it if you’re holding me down?!?”

The teenager snorted. “Well, maybe you should’ve waited for your growth spurt before going outside, huh? You never know when height might come in handy!”

“Oh, come on!” The boy groaned, trying to kick backwards. His foot slipped instead, sending him sprawling face-first onto the pavement. The smack echoed; when he pushed himself up, a dark bruise was already forming along his elbow.

The teenagers doubled over with laughter, clutching their sides until tears glistened in their eyes.

“Yo, Castle!” The one with the notebook called. “You get that on camera?”

“I did, Rick." Replied the cameraman, scrolling through his phone. “Patrick’s cousin’s gonna love this one.”

The third boy, Patrick, apparently the muscle of the group, chuckled. “Oh, she will. She even makes edits!”

“Can I have my notebook back now?” The kid muttered, still lying face-down on the sidewalk. His voice was small, worn thin between pain and humiliation.

“Oh, sure you can!” Rick called cheerfully, and with a flick of his wrist, launched the notebook onto the roof of a nearby shop.

“There, go fetch it, tiger!”

Jim’s teeth clenched audibly, grinding like metal gears. He watched as the trio climbed into a shiny jeep — of course they had a jeep — and roared away, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

The boy remained kneeling in the street, staring up at the roof where his notebook now sat, a tremor of frustration tightening his shoulders. With a quiet, defeated groan, he buried his face in his hands.

Jim’s grin slowly returned, but it was not a kind grin.

He tiptoed sideways from behind the boy, careful to stay out of his line of sight. Each movement was punctuated by a playful boing and sneak-sneak-sneak sound effect that seemed to follow him on its own accord, as if an invisible orchestra of mischief trailed his every step.

He ducked into a nearby alleyway and found the backdoor that led into the shop. Tilting his head, Jim examined the brick wall like a professional art critic contemplating a modern masterpiece.

“Hmmm…” He rubbed his chin theatrically. “I could climb it like a normal person…”

Then, snapping his fingers, he grinned. “Ah, what am I saying? I’m me!”

From his back pocket he pulled out a full-sized ladder. The thing unfolded with a loud clang-clang-clang! before settling neatly against the wall.

Retrieving the notebook took all of ten seconds. Getting back down? Five. Jim even struck a gymnast’s landing pose when his boots hit the pavement.

“Hey, kid!” He called out.

The boy blinked, momentarily distracted from inspecting the fresh bruise on his elbow. His face lit up when he spotted what Jim was holding.

“I believe this is yours.” Jim held out the battered notebook with a grin hidden behind his hockey mask. “Next time, keep clear of those punks, alright? No one likes a walking cliché.”

“Isn’t that the truth!” The kid sighed in relief, flipping through the pages as if checking for any damage. Jim didn’t care much; good deed done, halo polished, time to move on.

“Thanks a ton!" The boy said, slipping the notebook safely into his vest pocket. He squinted up at Jim, studying his outfit. “Uh… say, why are you wearing a hockey mask and, uh, that?”

Jim looked down at himself: crimson hunting shirt, khaki trousers, oversized boots, and of course, the Jason Voorhees--style mask. He raised a finger like a man explaining something deeply philosophical.

“You could say I’m a cosplayer." He said sagely. “Conventions always need a little slasher spice, y’know? Especially after that atrocious Friday the 13th remake.” He extended a hand. “Name’s Jim. Jim Carrey.”

The kid blinked, brow furrowing. “Like… the actor Jim Carrey?”

“Yes.” Jim said flatly, giving a solemn nod. “But I’m not affiliated with him.”

The boy stared for a beat, then shrugged. “Okay, then. I’m Dipper Pines. And thanks again for saving me back there.”

“No problemo.” Jim cocked his head, grin widening behind the mask. “Dipper? That your real name, or did your parents just really like breakfast food?”

Dipper chuckled sheepishly. “Nah. Real name’s Mason. But… everyone’s been calling me Dipper since I was little. Guess it stuck.”

Without thinking, he lifted his hat to scratch his head. The birthmark, that distinctive constellation-shaped mark, peeked through.

“At this point, I’ve just accepted it." Dipper said with a sigh. “Makes life easier.”

“Hey, Bro-Bro!”

Jim’s eyes widened, and his grin somehow grew even wider, as a multicolored blur of energy launched itself onto Dipper’s back, nearly knocking him flat with a surprise bear hug.

The boy flailed helplessly. “M–Mabel! Too tight— can’t— breathe!”

The girl only squeezed harder, laughing in delight as she swayed side to side, refusing to let go. “Nothing breaks a Mabel hug..." She sang. “...except the magic wooooord!”

“Please?!?” Dipper wheezed.

“Bingo!” Mabel finally released him and bounced backwards on her heels.

Jim took the chance to study the new arrival. She was a walking explosion of colour and charm: a purple sweater with a rainbow shooting star splashed across the front, a matching magenta skirt, white knee-high socks, and shiny black flats that clicked against the pavement. Friendship bracelets jingled from her wrists like little trophies of social conquest, and her braces gleamed every time she smiled, which was apparently every second.

She turned her attention towards Jim, eyes sparkling like twin disco balls. “Hellooooo!” She greeted, waving enthusiastically before springing onto her tiptoes to meet his height. “I’m Mabel! Mabel Pines! What’s your name? Are you new in town? I love your outfit! Are you hunting? Do you hunt? Do you hunt monsters? Because that would be, like, amazing!"

Jim chuckled behind the hockey mask, utterly delighted. The way she launched her hand for a handshake mid-sentence, while simultaneously firing a full verbal barrage of questions, only made him admire her more. The girl was pure chaos; the unfiltered, sparkling, sugar-fueled kind of chaos. And he liked it.

If he ever threw a party, the kind that left a trail of confetti, broken furniture, and faint police sirens in the distance, Mabel was definitely going to be on the guest list.

Meanwhile, Dipper turned red, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry about my sister." He muttered. “She tends to… exist at maximum volume.”

Jim waved dismissively, the corners of his unseen grin curling higher beneath the mask. “It’s fine.” He said, before jabbing a thumb in Dipper’s direction. “Say, kid, those guys roughed you up, huh? Why don’t I sweeten the ordeal by offering you a chance to win a prize? You seem like a sharp one.”

Dipper opened his mouth to respond—

“WHAAAAAT?!?”

Both of them nearly jumped as Mabel’s shriek echoed through the street. In a blur of color and chaos, she darted forward and clamped both hands around her brother’s face, yanking him down to her level for inspection.

“Why? What happened? Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Should I call an ambulance? Oh! Maybe Grunkle Stan has a first-aid kit in the Shack!”

“Mabel, it’s fine!” Dipper gently pried her hands off and showed her his elbow. “See? Just a bruise. Purple, not deadly.”

Mabel squinted at it as if analyzing a rare artifact, then sighed with melodramatic relief and patted the spot carefully. “Okay… but if it turns green, I’m calling Soos.”

“Anywho…” Dipper turned back towards Jim, trying to regain his composure. “You mentioned a reward? Awesome! Guess this day isn’t a total disaster.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” The Mask wiggled his finger playfully, resisting the urge to add a Looney Tunes sound effect. No need to blow his cover just yet. “I said chance to get a reward, bucko. Let’s not sprint before we walk, capisce?”

Dipper nodded earnestly, curiosity already lighting up his expression.

“As I was saying...” Jim continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "...you seem awfully smart and perceptive for a kid your age. That a thing that runs in the family?”

“My brother is super smart!” Mabel declared proudly, cutting in before Dipper could answer. “He even solved a physics problem that made our teachers’ heads explode! Not literally—but I kinda wish it was.”

“I just… like keeping my mind sharp.” Dipper replied, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “You never know when those formulas might come in handy, right?”

“If only you were that good at having fun.” Mabel teased, puffing out her cheeks. “You’re such a dork!”

“Hey!”

“That’s great!” Jim interrupted with perfect comedic timing, stepping between the siblings before a full-blown bickering match could break out. “Tell you what—let’s put that big brain of yours to the test. I’ve got a puzzle for you. Solve it, and I’ll give you fifty bucks. No strings attached. Whaddaya say?”

Dipper’s eyes gleamed. “I’m in!”

The Mask reached behind his back and, like a magician pulling rabbits from thin air, produced three cards. One bore a pristine diamond symbol; the other two, grinning skulls wreathed in flame.

“Cards!" He announced, his voice bursting with theatrical enthusiasm. “Who doesn’t love cards? One of the oldest, simplest, and most dangerously addictive forms of entertainment known to man!”

He began to twirl them effortlessly between his fingers, flipping and shuffling them with the dexterity of a Vegas illusionist. The motion blurred into streaks of colour that left both twins watching, slack-jawed. Paul Jackson could never have pulled off something like this; but then again, The Mask was a walking miracle, a trick born from Loki’s divine brand of chaos.

Jim shuffled the cards with a flourish, fast enough that Dipper couldn’t glimpse a single face, and then fanned them out dramatically. One card in his right hand, two in his left.

“Alright, kid.” He said, his grin audible even through the mask. “If you catch the diamond card, you win! But be warned: the odds can be… tricky.”

He leaned closer. “Pick one. There’s no wrong choice… yet.”

Dipper studied the options for a moment, then pointed towards the solitary card in Jim’s right hand.

“Good!” The Mask nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice! Now—” He dropped one of the remaining two cards with exaggerated ceremony. It fluttered to the ground, landing face-up to reveal a flaming skull. “You’ve eliminated one of the bad ones.”

Jim’s tone dropped to a dramatic whisper. “Now comes the big question: do you stick with your choice… or switch?”

He could practically see the gears turning inside Dipper’s brain; cogs whirring, logic spinning, formulas writing themselves on invisible chalkboards.

“I switch." Dipper said finally, arms crossing with quiet confidence.

“Oh?” The Mask cocked his head. “And why’s that, Einstein Jr.?”

Dipper smirked. “Variable change. At the start of the game, I had a sixty-six point six percent chance of picking a bad card. You just revealed one of the losing ones, which means, statistically speaking, my odds improve if I switch. Two out of three chance the diamond’s not where I started.”

He pointed at the new choice. “So probability says… switch.”

The Mask blinked, impressed. “How old are you, kid?”

“Twelve.”

For a twelve-year-old to explain the Monty Hall problem on the spot? Now that was impressive. Mabel, meanwhile, was tilting her head, utterly lost somewhere between 'variable' and 'change.'

Unfortunately for Dipper, the diamond card had been his first choice. But hey—why ruin a good day?

With a flick of his fingers so subtle it could’ve fooled the devil himself, The Mask made the symbols swap places. The diamond shimmered onto the new card like a magic trick out of a Saturday morning cartoon.

“Eeeeexactly!” He cried, resisting the urge to summon a blaring quiz-show buzzer from thin air.

Jim turned the card to reveal the shining diamond. “You win!”

“Yes!” Dipper punched the air, eyes lighting up with triumph. He then coughed politely. “So… uh, the reward?"

“Right, right…” The Mask reached towards Dipper’s ear and pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “…here!”

“Awesome!” Dipper snatched it with a grin and tucked it into his pocket. “I can finally buy those video cameras!”

“Hey, no fair!” Mabel huffed. She crossed her arms, but her pout melted into a sly grin. “Please, sir, can I have a gift too?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can totally help you design invitations for your next birthday party! My art style? Unmatched!”

Jim winced behind the mask. A sir? Oh, that stung. Biologically, he was Paul Jackson’s age; sixteen. Hearing himself addressed like someone’s middle-aged uncle made something in his spine twitch.

“No ‘sir,’ please.” He waved his hand in mock horror. “I'm sixteen! Still got one foot on the youth express, thank you very much.” Then, striking a heroic pose with his hands on his hips, he added with a grin: “As for your request…”

Well, he could always borrow a page or two from his old act with Stanley, couldn’t he?

The Mask reached into one of his endless pockets and pulled out a long, rubbery balloon. With a magician’s flourish, he blew it up in one comically huge puff, twisted it this way and that, and—voilà!—a perfectly shaped giraffe balloon now stood proud in his hands. He handed it over with the grace of a showman taking a bow.

“There you go, sweetie!”

Mabel gasped, her eyes going as wide as dinner plates. “A giraffe! Oh my gosh, I love it!”

She practically tackled him in a grateful hug, squealing with joy. The impact sent Jim stumbling backwards a step or two; he puffed his cheeks, letting a small plume of smoke escape from his lips before it could escape anywhere else. Thankfully, neither twin seemed to notice the little supernatural leak.

“Thank you so much, Jim!" She beamed up at him, balloon clutched tight. “Oh, oh—will we see you again?!”

“Yeah!” Dipper stepped forward, the shy smile tugging at his mouth betraying how much he actually liked the guy. “You’re pretty cool.”

Jim chuckled softly, gently untangling himself from Mabel’s enthusiastic embrace. He straightened his hunting jacket and adjusted his cap with a jaunty flick. “I’ll be hanging around town for a while." He replied. “Seems like a lively little place.”

In truth, he had read that morning’s local paper. The Mystery Shack, it said, was owned by one Stanford Pines. And if these kids shared both the last name and the affectionate 'Grunkle' title… well, that couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Say..." Jim began casually, “I’ve got a buddy—Paul Jackson—looking for work. Any chance your Grunkle’s hiring?”

The twins exchanged a brief look, that wordless sibling telepathy sparking between them, before Dipper answered. “Actually, yeah. Grunkle Stan’s been grumbling about needing extra help around the Shack. He might be willing to hire another pair of hands.”

Then, lowering his voice with exaggerated secrecy, he added: “But don’t tell him I said this; the pay is terrible. He’s really sensitive about money, and also… kinda stingy.”

Jim couldn’t help but snort. “I’ll take that under advisement, kiddo.”

Looks like he’d found a roof for Jackson to live under. Convenient.

“Alright, kids.” He squinted towards the road where the jeeps had disappeared earlier, his tone slipping into something just a shade darker. “I’ve got some business to take care of. You’ll hear from Jacky soon. Be sure to let your Grunkle know, okay?”

He patted both of them on the head, a motion halfway between genuine affection and cartoonish paternal instinct, before waving goodbye. The twins waved back enthusiastically, Mabel’s balloon giraffe bouncing in rhythm with her excitement.

Once he turned the corner, however, that cheerful grin hardened into something sharper. His steps quickened, his body starting to spin in place—faster, faster—until he was nothing but a swirling blur of colour and wind.

Because somewhere down that road, three bullies were still laughing.

And The Mask was about to turn their vacation into a permanent trip.

Jim found them loitering near the edge of the forest, clustered around their red 1987 Jeep Wrangler YJ. The trio were still cackling over the video they’d recorded, replaying Dipper’s humiliation like it was the highlight of their vacation.

The Mask crouched behind a tree, eyes gleaming. He slipped off his hockey mask and casually tossed it aside, the object tumbling into the undergrowth. He wasn’t about to deliver justice without his real face on screen, after all.

He slicked a hand through his hair, spat on his fingers for shine, then blew theatrically into his fist. “Showtime, fellas." He muttered—then, turning his head slightly, winked straight at you, the reader. “Don’t blink.”

From behind the tree line, he strutted into view, every step accompanied by the faint tap-tap-tap of an invisible jazz beat.

“Yo, Patrick.” Castle snickered, jabbing the beefiest of the three with his elbow. “Check this out, man. That little brat was squirming like a worm! How’s he that small and useless? We were already tall at his age!”

The three of them laughed again.

Then they noticed him.

“Hey—who the hell’s this clown?” Patrick growled, chin jutting towards Jim.

“Ohhhh!” Jim gasped, clasping his gloved hands together like a delighted teacher. “Language! My, my, such a vulgar greeting for a stranger!”

In a blink, he whipped a pair of glasses from thin air, perched them on his nose, and slung a stethoscope around his neck. A clipboard materialized in his hands, complete with a pen.

“You know...” He began in an overly scholarly tone. “...a study published this year in Child Abuse & Neglect found that approximately thirty to forty percent of youths who engage in bullying behaviour suffer from underlying family dysfunction or maltreatment.”

He nodded sagely, flipping through his imaginary pages as if confirming his own diagnosis. “Fascinating correlation, isn’t it?”

The three bullies just stared at him, completely thrown off by the sudden intrusion, and the even stranger medical monologue. Then Patrick, the tallest and broadest of the trio, cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.

“Alright, you freak..." He said, voice dropping to a low growl. "What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jim looked up at him, slowly, his grin stretching wider and wider, until it seemed to defy human anatomy.

“Tall, strong, confident…” He muttered, circling Patrick as if studying him under a microscope. “But not a single thought behind those eyes. Classic case.”

He tossed away his props, the stethoscope, the clipboard, the glasses, all vanishing in midair with little pops. Then he rolled his shoulders, straightened his tie, and locked eyes with Patrick again.

 “You really wanna know what it means?”

Patrick’s glare could’ve melted steel. His fists clenched, veins pulsing against his forearms.

Jim leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a whisper that dripped with mock gravity.
“It means…” — his grin widened — “…that a good ol’ wedgie’s on the way!”

Before any of them could blink, The Mask spiraled forward like a human tornado, arms stretching and twisting in impossible directions. In a blur of motion and elastic physics, all three bullies suddenly found their underwear yanked skyward — and over their faces.

Their muffled yelps and flailing limbs turned the clearing into a circus act of chaos.

Jim dusted his hands theatrically. “And now, for my final trick!”

He spun on his heel, and in a flash of swirling light, his outfit changed.

Gone was the hunting gear. In its place: the full Rambo regalia. A red bandanna around his head, sculpted abs gleaming under nonexistent studio lights, bullet belts crossing his chest like an action hero straight out of the ’80s.

Only… the gun he held wasn’t quite standard issue.

Instead of ammunition, the belt feeding into the machine gun was strung with fruit, oranges, apples, bananas, and for some reason, an entire row of canned chocolate pudding.

The bullies froze, watching him. Then they followed his gaze… and their eyes landed on their precious red Jeep, its doors and trunk flung wide open.

Rick paled. “Oh, God! Please, man — I just bought that! My parents are gonna kill me!”

Jim tilted his head, mock sympathy twisting his grin. “Then this..." He declared, slapping a hand to his chest. “...is for justice! Retribution for every nerd, dork, and four-eyed dweeb you’ve ever mocked!”

He pressed his hand to his mouth, let out a comically exaggerated “AYYAYAYAYAYAYA!” war cry, and pulled the trigger.

The machine gun roared to life.

A rapid-fire splat-splat-splat! filled the clearing as a technicolour storm of fruit and chocolate exploded toward the Jeep. Melons burst against the windshield, apples cratered into the seats, and pudding cans launched like grenades, coating every inch of the vehicle’s interior in sticky chaos.

“Say hello to my little snack!” Jim howled, sweeping his arm towards the bullies.

They were instantly drenched in juice, pulp, and pure indignation. One gagged, another slipped on a banana peel, and the third, poor Rick, looked ready to cry.

For just a heartbeat, time seemed to slow. The Mask’s laughter echoed as the world turned to cinematic slow-motion; abs glistening, fruit midair, every spray of juice catching the sun like a battlefield epic filmed by a deranged director.

And then… silence.

Jim blew the imaginary smoke from the machine gun’s barrel, smirking. “That’s what I call smoothie justice.”

Spinning once more, he reverted to his hunting attire. Adjusting his beret, he jabbed a finger at Castle. “Remember, lads, every pipsqueak’s got a guardian angel!”

He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at the ruined phone clutched in Castle’s hand. “Delete that video. Or next time, I upgrade to heavy cream.”

With that, he gave a jaunty salute. “Toodles!”

And in a green blur, he was gone; sprinting into the trees, laughter echoing in his wake.

Man, that was so fun!

The Mask finally slowed down near a narrow forest river, his boots splashing into the shallow edge as he looked left and right for any witnesses. The forest was quiet; just the whisper of wind and the trickle of water over stone.

“Oh, well!” He shrugged dramatically, placing his hands on his hips. “Guess I’ve had my fill for the day.”

Then he turned toward the rippling water, pointing a finger at his own reflection. “Your turn now, Junior. I’m not exactly what you’d call a serious guy; and the last host who tried interviewing with me on ended up a few tacos short of a combo meal!”

He snapped his fingers, and poof! a small backup bag appeared in his hands out of nowhere, as if it had been waiting in the wings for its cue.

“Buuuut we can’t have any bad guy getting their grubby hands on me, can we?” He grinned, twirling the bag by the strap. “Not that I’d turn them — pfft, I’ve got taste. But you and me, kiddo, we’re bonded for the summer! You’re the only one who gets to wear me.”

He gave the bag a little pat, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “So here’s a gift. Keep me safe in this... and, y’know, maybe use it for school lunches or evil spirits, whichever comes first.”

With that, he raised both hands to the back of his head...

“See ya later, son!”

...and pulled.

The green material stretched, rippling like living latex as it resisted. The Mask’s tendrils clung to Paul’s skin for a heartbeat too long; reluctant, playful, almost unwilling to let go. But then, with a wet snap, the separation was complete.

Paul stumbled backwards, gasping as cool day air rushed into his lungs. His skin tingled where the mask had been, and his head swam with leftover adrenaline.

“Man...” He wheezed, holding the artifact in his hands. “...that was so weird!”

Some of the memories, the laughter, the chaos, the fruit-slinging, played clearly in his head. Others flickered and blurred, like half-remembered dreams. He wasn’t sure if that was shock or The Mask’s doing… but he had a feeling it was the latter.

For a moment, the mask shimmered faintly; an emerald flash across its surface, almost like it was winking.

Paul blinked, unsure if he’d imagined it. Then he sighed, slid the mask carefully into the backup bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Okay." He muttered, scanning the treeline. “Just gotta find this ‘Mystery Shack’ place... and maybe a summer job that doesn’t involve cosmic weirdness.”

He started walking along the riverbank, the water reflecting streaks of gold and green light through the trees.

Of course, knowing Gravity Falls...

...he probably wouldn’t get his wish.

Chapter Text

Well, it wasn’t like he’d expected anything better.

Paul shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his worn sneakers crunching over the gravel path as he studied the so-called Mystery Shack. The backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, its strap creaking with each motion.

He could almost feel something whisper at the back of his mind; a faint echo of laughter, a teasing murmur that didn’t belong to him. It was probably the last traces of The Mask’s chaotic personality still clawing at the edges of his consciousness. Thankfully, the artifact was safely sealed away, far from having any chance to reattach itself to his face.

According to the local map, this was indeed 618 Gopher Road. The address matched perfectly with what Dipper had told him earlier. And while the boy’s warning about his 'stingy Grunkle' lingered in Paul’s thoughts, he doubted any self-proclaimed businessman would go so far as to forge his own home address.

Still... the sight before him didn’t exactly scream 'professional.'

Honestly, the Shack looked less like a home or business and more like a runaway carnival that had decided to settle down out of exhaustion. The building leaned slightly to one side, its wood panels warped and splintered from years of weathering. Paint flaked off in uneven patches, leaving pale scars beneath the once-vibrant reds and browns. The porch steps creaked in protest even under the weight of the wind.

Above it all hung the MYSTERY SHACK sign; crooked but defiant, painted in an almost garish blend of yellows and reds that stood out against the gray, weary structure. The bold lettering carried an odd charm, like an old circus banner that refused to die.

A dusty golf cart rested beside the entrance, a few soda cans rattling around inside. Nearby, a small gazebo leaned in solidarity with the main building, its roof patched up with mismatched tiles.

It was, without a doubt, a tourist trap in every sense of the word.

Paul smirked as he finished his inspection.

“Wonder if Mr. Stanford pays extra for a mascot.” He muttered under his breath. “Wedgies never go out of style.”

Then he froze.

That last line hadn’t come from him. Not really. It had felt like his thought, shaped by his voice, dripping with his sarcasm, but he knew that rhythm. That mischievous, punchline timing wasn’t Paul Jackson’s.

It was his.

Paul blinked hard, rubbing his temple as if he could chase away the faint echo of laughter buzzing in his skull. “Okay, that’s... concerning.”

Was The Mask exerting some kind of passive influence over him? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He’d have to have a little chat with the artifact about personal boundaries when the time came.

Then again, knowing The Mask’s idea of personal space... the word boundaries was probably ancient Aramaic to it.

A small cluster of tourists lingered near the Shack’s entrance, phones and camcorders clutched eagerly in hand. They were chatting idly, reviewing clips, laughing at blurry photos of 'ghostly shapes' that were almost certainly smudges on the lens.

Paul squinted at them. What he’d first assumed to be a garage seemed to function as the waiting area. Judging by the chatter and the flow of visitors, Mr. Pines must have organized his tours in batches. Either that, or the man simply wanted to keep the crowd manageable; or, more likely, profitable.

Paul adjusted his shirt, patted his jeans to smooth out the wrinkles, and drew in a steadying breath. Time to play the part of the polite job-seeker.

“Uhm, excuse me?” He said, raising a hand towards an elderly man standing a few paces away.

The man planted his cane in the grass and turned, his back hunched and his thick glasses magnifying two watery eyes.

“Are you waiting outside for your turn?” Paul continued. “How long does it take?”

The old man shifted his jaw, then leaned to the side and spat directly onto the grass.

Paul fought the urge to grimace. Why do old people do that? He thought. They want respect, but they spit like pigeons. Can’t they pick one?

“Yes, we’re waitin’.” The man replied hoarsely, pointing his cane towards the building. “Last group went in about half an hour ago. We’re the last ones before lunch break. Then ol’ Mister Mystery shuts down till afternoon.”

That tracked. Even a scam artist needed to eat. Any small-time tourist trap would run on limited staff and limited hours; especially one that looked this rickety.

“Mr. Mystery said our group’s getting a special surprise!” Chirped a voice beside the man.

An elderly woman, presumably his wife, stepped forward with a delighted grin. “He told us not to spoil it for the others, though.” Her eyes twinkled with the conspiratorial excitement only retirees and children could pull off. “It was only five dollars extra!”

Paul barely had time to nod before a familiar buzzing filled his ears; not the kind from mosquitoes, but the faint, maddening whisper of a certain green artifact.

What now? Didn’t Jim say you’d had your 'fill for the day'?

He blinked, shook his head slightly, and forced a polite smile. “Thanks for the info, ma’am.”

“Oh, what a young gentleman!”

Oh, fuck.

Before he could react, the woman’s wrinkled hands seized his cheeks. He yelped as she pinched and tugged them like dough, dragging his face down to her level.

“We need more youngsters like you,” she cooed approvingly. “At this rate, your whole generation will have their brains fried by those tiny screens!”

Paul froze, cheeks squished between her fingers.

Lady, it’s 2012. If I told you about TikTok in 2025, you’d probably have a stroke.

"And that’s all for today, folks! Make sure to drop the cash in that basket over there!"

When sweet mercy was finally bestowed upon him, Paul turned away and rubbed at his cheeks. They burned; the old lady had yanked them like she was trying to stretch out fresh dough. Elderly people, he realized, weren’t much different from kids; neither group knew when to stop.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing as the man himself emerged from the Shack alongside the previous tour group.

Mr. Mystery.

The man wore a black suit topped with a red fez and matching bow tie, an eyepatch covering one eye. Paul had seen pictures of him on Gravity Falls journals before coming here; and in every single one, the eyepatch was on a different side.

Some threads suggested that Stanford Pines had to sacrifice part of his vision every day to guard the ancient secrets hidden in the Shack.

Please.

Anyone with half a functioning brain could tell it was just a gimmick. A tourist hook.

And, judging by the glow of greed practically radiating off the man as the guests dropped bills into the woven basket, the gimmick worked. If The Mask had been in his hands, Paul could already picture the transformation: pupils replaced with spinning dollar signs.

That big, fake grin plastered across his face? Paul’s knuckles itched. He would’ve paid good money just to wipe it off with a single, satisfying jab.

Still, as long as people were entertained, as long as they left happy and none of it broke any major laws, who was he to complain? If you could sell nonsense and still have customers smiling, maybe that was a skill in itself.

As the previous group drifted off chattering excitedly, Paul’s group gathered at the Shack’s entrance, waiting for the next grand announcement. Inside, Stanley Pines was already licking his chops as he counted bills, flipping each note through his fingers like a deck of cards.

After storing the basket somewhere safe, he strutted back out with his cane, a ridiculous contraption topped by an eight-ball, and twirled it with exaggerated flair.

“Welcome, everybody!” He bellowed, his voice smooth and confident, showman to the core. He spun the cane again, the gesture half magician, half con artist. “Today’s a special day, folks! The crew at the Mystery Shack has captured and incapacitated a dangerous beast!”

He pointed dramatically at his audience, as if he were challenging them to disbelief. “But fear not! We’ve already stuffed its remains! And for the low, low price of just five dollars extra on top of your usual admission fee, you get to witness an exclusive preview! That’s right, ladies and gents; you’re the first ones seeing it!”

The tourists erupted in cheers and excited chatter. Cameras flashed. Someone clapped too early.

Paul, meanwhile, snorted. The man looked sturdy for his age, broad shoulders, a trace of old muscle still visible beneath his suit, but there was no way he’d wrestled anything more dangerous than a tax form in years.

Still, Paul silently thanked whatever higher power existed that payment at the Mystery Shack was always after the tour. Because he didn’t have a single dollar to his name.

Jim hadn’t exactly thought ahead to conjure up spare cash after that little trick with Dipper.

Which meant, unless he could talk to Mr. Pines and make his case as a potential hire, Paul Jackson was royally screwed.

He trailed after the group, lifting his arms slightly as two children darted past him like startled rabbits. Their parents sent him apologetic smiles, which he returned with a casual two-finger salute. He didn’t mind. Kids were kids, and while discipline was the parents’ duty, Paul had no reason to scold them.

Besides, after what he’d been through, a little noise was the least of his concerns.

Despite most of the merchandise being a Frankenstein patchwork of random taxidermy and movie props, Paul couldn’t deny that the Mystery Shack had a certain pull to it; a charm that hovered between absurdity and enigma. 

Each exhibit was some bizarre collision between cryptozoology and yard-sale craftwork. There was a 'pterodactyl' with metal toes, its leathery wings stretched wide under a dusty spotlight. To an ordinary tourist, it was an amusing oddity; to Paul, it was a perfect example of how easily the human mind filled gaps with wonder. A ridiculous clusterfuck of wires, bolts, and imagination; yet, somehow, believable enough for five bucks and a photo.

Then, out of nowhere, a metallic clang! split the air.

Paul stumbled backwards as a wrench slammed against the floor inches from his sneakers. His heart skipped. For one ridiculous instant, he imagined The Mask giggling in the back of his mind.

“Oh, man!”

The voice came from above. Paul’s gaze snapped upwards to find a man leaning on a stepladder, tightening something on a ceiling fixture. Early twenties, maybe late ones, Paul couldn't tell by the deep coice; round face, brown cap, jade-green shirt with a dark green question mark on the front, beige cargo shorts, and scuffed brown sneakers.

“Dude, you alright?” The stranger called down, half-concerned, half-cheerful.

A few tourists turned their heads, but once they saw no blood, they lost interest almost immediately. Paul exhaled, crouched, and picked up the wrench, giving it a little spin in his hand before offering it back.

“Yeah, I’m fine." He answered cooly. “You just gotta be careful, man. Wouldn’t wanna leave someone a few screws short because of you.”

He tossed the wrench upwards. The man caught it midair, his eyes widening.

“Dude!” He grinned, showing off slightly bucked teeth. “That was awesome! You got some moves! I’ve been trying to learn tricks like that, but, y’know—” He patted his gut with a chuckle, “—not exactly in prime double-oh-seven condition.”

Paul couldn’t help but snort. The guy radiated warmth; the kind of goofy, easygoing energy that disarmed people instantly. But as he looked down at his own hand, something strange flickered in the back of his skull.

That toss had been too smooth. Too natural.

The Mask’s influence again, perhaps; still bleeding through even when sealed away. Normally, he wasn’t this casual with strangers. Respect first, friendliness later. Always keep boundaries clear.

“Name’s Soos, dude." The man said, holding out a hand.

Paul blinked, then shook it firmly. Despite the other’s chubby frame, his grip was surprisingly strong, a mechanic’s hand; calloused, steady, real.

“Paul Jackson." He replied.

“Cool, dude. Welcome to the Mystery Shack!” Soos said, grinning wide. “Hope you’re ready for, like, the craziest monsters you’ll ever see. Mr. Pines says we’re upgrading to animatronics if budget is met; if they don’t eat me first!”

Paul chuckled despite himself. The guy was ridiculous… but in a way that felt genuine.

"I'm actually looking for a job." He countered, his tone casual but deliberate. His gaze drifted along the corridor, noting the dusty corners and crooked frames, one hand slipping into his pocket. "Heard from a friend that a position was available."

"Dude, for real?!?" Soos’s eyes widened, lighting up like Christmas bulbs. "Yeah, actually, I heard Mr. Pines saying another pair of hands might help out!" He jabbed his thumb behind his shoulder, towards the front counter. "Go talk to Wendy. She’s the only one who can interrupt Mr. Pines mid-tour and live to tell the tale."

Soos blinked, reconsidering. "Well, her and Dipper and Mabel. I usually just hang around as, y’know, emotional support; shoulder to cry on, dispenser of wisdom, collector of tears."

It was Paul’s turn to blink. Was this guy serious?

"Oh, well!" Soos gave him a friendly pat on the back a bit too hard, almost sending Paul stumbling forward. "Can’t wait to work with you, dawg!"

So they’d already upgraded from 'dude' to 'dawg' in less than half a minute. That had to be a personal record for Paul in accidental friendship speedruns.

"You really shouldn’t trust people so quickly, Soos." He rubbed the back of his head, managing a crooked smile. "Not that I’m complaining—it’s good we’re getting along. Just… y’know, some folks might take advantage of that kindness."

Hell, Soos was older than him. Shouldn’t he be the one giving him advice?

But Soos only chuckled, puffing out his chest a little. "In my twenty-one years of existence, I’ve accumulated great knowledge, dawg." He tipped his brown cap with mock dignity. "As I always say: my wisdom is both a blessing and a curse."

Paul couldn’t help laughing under his breath. The guy was impossible to dislike.

He waved as he turned towards the front counter...

...and towards the girl stationed behind it.

She was roughly his age, maybe a year older, maybe less. A jade plaid flannel shirt hung open over a white tank top, paired with black jeans and scuffed rain boots. A tan lumberjack-style hat with furred earflaps sat tilted over long, reddish hair that spilled past her shoulders. Silver earrings glinted under the dim light.

Overall, she carried that effortless kind of beauty; the kind that didn’t need makeup or pretense. There was something both rugged and soft about her, as if she could chop firewood in the morning and roll her eyes at the world by afternoon.

She was perched lazily on the counter, one leg crossed over the other, a magazine propped open in her hands. Paul blinked—no phone? Right. It was 2012. She was probably born in the late ’90s, before the doom-scroll era fully set in. A time when people still entertained themselves with paper.

He leaned closer to inspect the souvenirs arrayed on the shelves: keychains, magnets, 'authentic' monster claws, and other kitschy trinkets. Some hats, a couple of grappling hooks; because apparently the Mystery Shack’s business model included preparing customers for amateur burglary.

Another ripoff. He thought, smirking. And another point for Mr. Pines.

"You gonna decide what you wanna buy?"

Paul snapped out of his inspection. The girl, Wendy, presumably, hadn’t even lifted her eyes from the magazine. Her smirk, however, said she knew exactly what he’d been doing.

"Hats and minor gadgets are on discount today." She added. "Stan’s feeling generous, or maybe just less capitalistic than usual. Happens once a decade."

Her voice carried an easy rhythm, like she was perpetually two steps away from boredom but too cool to care.

The boy shrugged. “I actually need to speak with the owner. Privately.”

Wendy finally tore her gaze from the magazine and flashed him a grin. With a lazy stretch, she unfolded her legs from the counter, twisted towards the showroom, and cupped her hand around her mouth.

“Hey, Stan!”

Immediately, the old man’s head snapped towards her like a turret locking onto a target.

“The IRS is finally here!”

Paul blinked. “Wait, the what—?”

Wendy leaned forward on the counter, eyes glinting with mischief. “Looks like they’re hiring even younger people this year!”

“Hold on, I’m just here for the jo—”

“Aaaand..." She continued mercilessly. “...they say you still owe thirty-five percent for last trimester!”

BANG!

Stan’s eight-ball cane clattered to the floor. He froze in place, mouth slightly open, before recovering enough composure to awkwardly clear his throat and flash a smile at the bewildered tourists.

“Ladies and gents, I’ve, uh, got some—eh—business to take care of.” He gestured vaguely towards the jars on the shelf. “Keep admirin’ these authentic zombie eyeballs! Got ‘em wholesale from the afterlife!”

In the blink of an eye, he was gone from his previous spot and reappeared beside Paul, one arm hooked around the boy’s shoulders, steering him briskly toward the hallway.

As they rounded the corner, Paul glanced back just in time to see Wendy covering her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. She caught his eye, winked, and mouthed: "You’re welcome."

She had done this on purpose.

“Look...” Stan started, his grin tight and twitchy, “I—I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. I’ve got documentation of that so-called tax fraud from two years ago, y’know? And it was just a measly thousand dollars! A tiny—” He pinched his fingers together, “—itty-bitty accounting error!”

He laughed, a desperate, wheezing sound that made Paul wonder if this was the man’s standard reaction to stress.

“Thirty-five percent? That’s gotta be a joke, right?”

Paul stared flatly, unimpressed. How can someone this old still be this dumb?

“Mr. Pines…”

Stan visibly flinched at the sound of his own name.

“I’m not from the IRS." Paul clarified, deadpan. “I came here to apply for the job you posted. Your great-niece and great-nephew probably mentioned me—Paul Jackson.”

The gears in Stan’s head seemed to turn with all the grace of a rusted vending machine. Then, his shoulders sagged in relief. He gave a heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead, before slapping Paul on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“Guess Wendy pulled one on me again, huh?” He barked a laugh that was equal parts annoyance and admiration. “Yeah, those kids mentioned you might be droppin’ by! Tell you what, kid—lemme finish bleedin’ this tour group dry, and we’ll talk business right after, capisce?”

Paul forced a smile. “Uh… sure?”

“Perfect!” Stan exclaimed, twirling his cane like a magician’s wand. “Remember, kid, the Shack runs on teamwork and mutual respect!”

Paul watched him strut back towards the tourists, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, sure. Right after tax evasion and emotional blackmail.”

Behind him came the faint sound of laughter. He turned his head just in time to see Wendy trying, and failing, to hide her grin behind a raised palm.

This chick is insane. He thought, lips twitching. But probably fun insane.

He leaned on the register, resting his chin on his fist. “So..." He said, voice deceptively calm. “Mind explaining what possessed you to do that?”

Her grin widened. “Your whole serious businessman vibe, dude.” She dropped her magazine and waved her hands in mock dramatics. “‘I need to speak with the owner. Privately.’” She quoted, pitching her voice an octave lower to mimic him. “You sounded like a secret agent in a soap opera.”

Paul snorted, crossing his arms. “Oh, really?”

“Relax, I’m just teasing." Wendy said, flicking a finger-gun his way. “You handled him better than most. Stan usually scares off potential new hires or embarrasses them into quitting.”

Paul smirked, feeling that dangerous spark of mischief bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him; the kind that didn’t quite feel like his own. “You just can’t help but stare at my savoir-faire, huh?”

The line slipped out perfectly, smooth and confident; just the way Rob Paulsen’s Mask would’ve said it.

"It's shining, I'll give you that." Wendy leaned back, propping her boots once again onto the counter and crossing her legs in lazy satisfaction. "It's actually kinda refreshing to see a new face around here. The Pines are cool to hang out with, and Soos helps whenever he can, but this Shack’s been missing a little thrill, y’know?"

Paul smirked. Her tone and energy confirmed what he already suspected; she wasn’t just a part-timer. She was the kind of girl who needed chaos to stay entertained. Definitely a teenager, like him. The mystery was just how much like him.

"My friends and I once broke into our school at night." He began with a grin that came a bit too naturally. "One of them was a plumber’s kid; picked up a few tricks from his old man." He chuckled. "We rerouted the pipe system just a little. Next morning, when the teachers went for their bathroom breaks..." He mimed a burst with his hands. "Let’s just say the place turned into Old Faithful. But hey, Carl knew how to redirect the water pressure. Nobody got hurt."

For a moment, Wendy just stared, then she burst out laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach. Tears welled up in her eyes as she gasped for air.

"D-dude, that’s awesome!" She managed between giggles, flipping a fiery strand of hair off her shoulder. "You’re cool, man." She extended a hand. "Wendy. Wendy Corduroy."

Paul grabbed it, and instantly regretted it; her grip was ironclad.

"Paul. Paul Jackson." He wheezed, trying not to show the pain.

Holy crap, does she arm-wrestle bears or something?

It clicked. The strength, the confidence; she had to be a lumberjack’s daughter. It explained everything: the balance, the grip, the mix of grace and raw power that somehow fit her perfectly.

"S-so." He flexed his sore fingers behind his back, clearing his throat and trying to play it cool. "Did I pass your test, or what?"

"Hell yeah, you did." She released his hand and offered a fist instead, which he bumped with genuine enthusiasm. "You seem like fun, Jackson. You should totally hang with me and my crew sometime; we’ve pulled off some pretty wild stuff ourselves."

Hanging out. With real people.

For a guy who’d been living more in shadows than sunlight lately, that sounded... good.

"Yeah, sure." He responded with an easy shrug, though a grin tugged at his lips. "I’m down, whenever."

The front door swung open, the little bell above it chiming cheerfully as two familiar silhouettes stormed into the Shack. One was practically made of caffeine and glitter, braces catching the light like disco balls; the other trailed behind her, radiating the calm exhaustion of someone who’d already said 'no' five times that morning.

"We’re back!" Mabel declared, loud enough to rattle a few display jars. "We found a snake in the woods, so I wanted to bring it home; but Dipper refused!"

"Uh, Mabel?" Dipper adjusted his hat as he stepped up beside her. "That was a King Cobra. I'm not even sure what it was doing here, outside of its natural habitat. They don’t make good pets. Or any pets, really."

"But its hood was so cute!" She protested, pinching her eyes shut in dramatic agony. "And those eyes!"

Wendy snorted from her spot at the counter and jerked her thumb towards Paul. "The prodigal twins have returned." She announced, deadpan.

Paul turned, inhaled subtly, and raised two fingers in a casual salute. "Heya!" He greeted, tone friendly but measured. "So, you’re the kids Jim told me about, huh? The owner’s great-niece and great-nephew?"

Of course, he already knew exactly who they were. The Mask’s fragmented memories had merged so neatly with his own that it was hard to tell where Jim’s recollections ended and Paul’s thoughts began.

They were separate minds; yet somehow, the same soul split in two.

Mabel’s eyes widened like twin suns.

"Oh my gosh!" She squealed, grabbing his hand and shaking it so fast he feared it might detach. "You’re Paul Jackson?!? Jim was so cool! How do you know him? Is he, like, a magician? The way he handled those cards was—"

She clenched her fists, raised them near her temples, and flung her fingers open in a tiny, glitterless explosion.

"—a total bombshell!"

Paul nearly laughed out loud at how much she reminded him of... well, of Jim himself.

Jim Carrey adored this kid; she had enough energy to power Edge City for a week.

But Paul wasn’t The Mask, and he sure wasn’t Jim. He’d learned the hard way that his best disguise wasn’t just a change of face, but of attitude.

Like Clark Kent hiding behind his glasses: brave as Superman, clumsy as the reporter.

Dipper, ever the responsible sibling, gently pried his sister off the poor newcomer and offered a sheepish smile. "S-sorry about that, man. She’s... enthusiastic."

He crossed his arms. "So, you’re Jim’s friend, right? You here for a job?"

"Gotta start somewhere." Paul replied, eyeing the Shack’s cluttered interior with mild amusement. "Despite the, uh, creative marketing, there’s something kind of… mysterious about this place."

Dipper followed his gaze, unimpressed. "The real mystery is why anyone would pay fifteen bucks—and extra for the ‘deluxe experience’—to see it."

Wendy snorted. "Nice one, dude."

"Thanks!" Dipper replied.

Paul tilted his head slightly.

Holy crap... is that a blush?

He’d seen that look before; the half-second eye twitch, the nervous laugh.

The boy had a crush, and Paul didn’t even need The Mask’s charm to spot it.

He wasn’t judging. God knew he’d had his share of awkward crushes and rejections. And to be fair, Wendy was… well, Wendy: confident, smart, and radiating that effortless cool that made anyone her age go speechless.

No shame in that.

"Your Grunkle’s busy finishing up the last batch of tourists." Paul advised, setting his backpack on the counter. His spine popped in three distinct notes as he stretched. "Guess I’m stuck doing nothing ‘til he’s done with the tour."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, eyes flicking towards the entrance. "By the way, what’s the ‘special surprise’ that costs an extra five bucks?"

Dipper sighed like a man already burdened with too much secondhand embarrassment.

"A T-Rex-V." He muttered, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Grunkle Stan chopped the head off an old plastic T-Rex display and replaced it with a TV screen. Hence the name."

Paul blinked.

He wasn’t impressed. And judging by the faint, muffled snickers echoing from his backpack, neither was The Mask.

“A dinosaur with a built-in entertainment system. Brilliant. Maybe next he’ll sell a toaster with fangs.”

Paul coughed to drown out the whisper.

"Did you seriously just say ‘hence’?" Mabel interrupted, blowing a dramatic raspberry. "Dooooork!"

"Hey!" Dipper shot back, bristling.

"Anywho!" Mabel chirped, already zipping across the room. She grabbed Paul’s hand with surprising strength and started dragging him towards the hallway. "We’ve got time to kill, so I say we give our new friend the deluxe tour!"

She glanced up with sparkling eyes. "Oh! And I’ve got some drawings to show you!"

Paul managed a helpless smile as Dipper trailed after them, muttering something about 'liability insurance.' Behind the counter, Wendy lifted a lazy hand in farewell, and Paul waved back with mock solemnity.

"God help me." He murmured.

He made sure, however, to keep his other arm securely looped around the backpack slung over his shoulder.

There was no way in hell he was testing that particular rule; the one about the Mask transferring its magic to whoever touched it. Not even by accident.

He’d seen enough chaos firsthand to know that some myths weren’t worth challenging.

So, he let himself be half-dragged up the creaky wooden stairs, like a child surrendering to a sugar-fueled babysitter. The Shack’s upper floor groaned faintly beneath their steps.

And all the while, Paul could feel Dipper’s gaze burning into his back. Analytical. Like a magnifying glass searching for a flaw.

It puzzled him.

The kid had loved Jim; the magician tricks, the puzzles, the eccentric charm. So why was he so... reserved now? So cautious?

Distrustful. Paul thought. No... not exactly. More like curious. Studying me like I’m a new anomaly in his precious mystery chart.

It wasn’t paranoia; it was instinct. Dipper Pines was the kind of person who trusted evidence, not smiles. He was already dissecting Paul’s every move, weighing his tone and words for inconsistencies.

The boy sighed through his nose, hand unconsciously brushing the edge of his backpack.

The Mask.

It could charm, amuse, inspire... but it was still chaos given shape. And chaos had a nasty habit of leaving footprints even when it wasn’t directly involved.

Paul’s expression hardened slightly.

That was the price of his deal; the one truth he had to live with, all the way to the bitter end.

"Soooo..." Mabel drawled, stretching the syllable until it nearly echoed. "This is the upper floor! There’s not that much to see since the living room and kitchen are downstairs; but hey, the bathrooms are mostly clean!"

She giggled, then added with a shrug, "Y’know, as clean as a house in the woods can ever hope to be."

She pointed dramatically at a door at the far end of the corridor. "Anyway, aside from the balcony, the best room in the whole Shack is ours! Two beds, one kingdom!" Mabel’s grin widened as she tugged on Paul’s hand with renewed excitement. "C’mon, it’s this way!"

He followed, half-stumbling behind her, and couldn’t help but admit: for a remote cabin with limited utilities and a questionable structural lifespan, Stanford Pines had still managed to set up a surprisingly cozy arrangement for his great-niece and nephew. Clearly, the twins had decorated the place according to their own chaos-infused tastes.

Anyone could recognize a child’s room when they saw one. Give kids a few planks and some nails, and they’d build a fortress; somewhere to eat snacks, hide from adults, or launch imaginary quests for conquer.

The vanilla-toned space featured a triangular attic window overlooking the front yard, a couple of dusty old arcade machines, and an alcove containing a fortune-telling machine that looked one good sneeze away from a lawsuit. Against one wall, an old coffin had been repurposed into a TV stand, and a secondary window allowed filtered sunlight to creep in through streaks of grime.

What truly defined it as their domain were the two beds; one draped in blue sheets, the other in pink. Colour-coded chaos.

Mabel, of course, immediately jumped onto hers and began bouncing in rhythmic glee.

"This is our kingdom!" She declared, throwing her arms out dramatically. "Bow before the Queen and King!"

Paul caught Dipper’s expression from the corner of his eye; the poor kid’s teeth were practically chattering as he crossed his arms and stared at his twin in silent mortification.

Yeah. Maybe Mabel’s royal declaration could’ve been phrased a little better. Out of context, it strayed dangerously close to something you’d read in the wrong corner of the internet.

And, sadly, Paul had read about that kind of thing before.

There was always some weirdo out there making scandals about fictional siblings. The thought alone made his stomach churn.

Still, he played along, because that’s what you did when a kid offered you joy instead of cynicism.

He took one step back, bowed with gallantry, and knelt. "My lady, does your humble knight have permission to enter this magnificent castle?"

It was the sort of pretend game he hadn’t indulged in for years. A flicker of his younger self peeked through; the version that hadn’t yet learned to hide his silliness behind sarcasm or restraint.

Mabel tilted her head in mock thought, then rummaged in her sweater pocket. "Mmh... you may!" She announced proudly, slapping something onto his shoulder. "By royal decree, I dub thee... Paladin Sparkles!"

Paul blinked, craning his neck to see. A sticker, slightly bent from pocket time, sat stuck to his jacket. It bore the rough drawing of a sword... and it was green. The same wild, gleaming green that reminded him of a certain other artifact.

He chuckled softly and pressed a finger to the sticker, securing it in place.

Of course it was green.

"Paladin Sparkles." He repeated under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. "Guess it’s official now."

Mabel grinned wide enough to rival a sunrise.

And as absurd as the name sounded, Paul couldn’t help but feel it fit.

The girl was crazy, but the good kind of crazy.

The kind that made life worth following for a while.

“Uh, Mabel?” Dipper pointed at a corner of the room between the two beds. “Mind if I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure!” Mabel leaned close to Paul’s ear and whispered conspiratorially, her breath tickling his skin. “He’ll probably tell me I shouldn’t be so casual with you. Dipper doesn’t trust new people unless they challenge his logic first.” She shrugged, lowering her voice even more. “It’s like... his version of a personality test.”

Okay, that actually made sense. Mabel Pines was infinitely sharper than she liked to pretend.

“Mabel?” Dipper waved again, impatience creeping into his voice.

“Coming!” She chirped. Then she turned back towards Paul with a mischievous grin and booped his nose. “Boop! You’ll see I’m right.”

Paul couldn’t help but chuckle as she skipped over to her brother, her sweater jingling faintly from the sequins.

He pretended to rummage through his backpack, his fingers brushing over the smooth, solid shape of The Mask hidden inside. In truth, there was nothing else in the bag; it was just a prop to give his eavesdropping some cover. He leaned ever so slightly to the side, tuning his ears like a human antenna.

“Mabel, why are you being so casual with him? We literally just met the guy.” Dipper hissed, trying, and failing, to lower his voice. The kid clearly believed distance was enough to muffle his words.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Paul’s fingers traced the strange runes carved into The Mask’s surface. They pulsed faintly beneath his skin, as if recognizing his touch.

“He’s Jim’s friend!” Mabel countered, hands on her hips. “And come on, Dipper, I could ask you the same thing. You didn’t question him when he was amazed by your brainy logic tricks.”

“Yeah, yeah, but…” Dipper hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, you’re right.” He sighed in reluctant surrender. “I got distracted by my inflated ego. I’ll… try to be friendlier.”

“Good!” Mabel said, her voice softening. “If he’s gonna work here, he deserves a warm welcome! Besides..." She leaned closer with a smirk. "He’s got a certain dorky energy to him. Might be fun to have another playmate around for both of us!”

Him? A dork?

Paul’s grip on The Mask tightened, his thumb pressing against one of the glowing grooves.

Sure, his grades were excellent, and he didn’t exactly struggle socially, though his circle of friends was small. His dream was to become a doctor, not some goofball entertainer. Was *that* dorky? He wasn’t even particularly logical; half the physics he’d passed came from rote memorization, not insight. If life ever threw him a real equation, he’d probably just stare at it.

He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half offended.

Maybe he needed to throw in a little manipulation.

Paul carefully lifted The Mask from the backpack, letting its strange green sheen catch the light for a brief instant before he sat cross-legged on the wooden floor. He forced a small, wistful smile, melancholic, but believable, just as the twins turned their full attention to him.

Thankfully, the runes had stopped glowing.

“What’s that?” Dipper asked, pointing at the artifact with both curiosity and caution.

“A wooden mask I carved with my father.” Paul said, his tone softening. “Back when I was a little younger than you two.” He closed his eyes, fabricating the nostalgia as easily as breathing. “There was this little school project where parents could join us. We visited a sawmill, and the owners let us use some of the equipment; under supervision, of course.”

The twins were hooked, wide-eyed and silent.

“After a bit of fumbling around, my dad and I decided to carve something simple.” He lifted The Mask slightly. “This. It’s one of my fondest childhood memories.”

Dipper’s expression gentled, the analytical sharpness in his gaze fading into empathy.

“So...” The boy asked. "...why carry it all the way here? Shouldn’t you keep something like that at home?”

Home.

Paul suppressed a dry laugh. As if he had one in Gravity Falls. Between his potential 'temporary job' at the Shack and his uncertain sleeping situation, the forest floor was closer to a home than anything with a roof. But at least he’d prepared a cover story for questions like this.

“I’ll let your Grunkle explain it.” He retorted, tucking The Mask back into his bag. “No point in repeating myself.”

He turned to Mabel, cocking his head playfully. “Now, didn’t the little artist over there promise to show me some of her finest works?”

Mabel perked up instantly. “Oh! Right!” She squealed with joy and dove towards her side of the room, rummaging through piles of glittery paper and sketchbooks like a squirrel on caffeine.

Paul smiled faintly, then looked over to Dipper, who was gnawing absently at a fingernail, still clearly studying him.

How did one earn the trust of someone like Dipper Pines? Analytical, skeptical, always two steps ahead in his head. The only way in was to appeal to that logic; to his pride, his love of being right.

So, Paul leaned back against the wall, arms folded, his tone casual. “You know...” He carefully murmured, as if thinking aloud. "Some people still claim we never landed on the Moon because of the Van Allen belts.”

Dipper froze, then frowned, the spark in his eyes reigniting. “That’s absurd! You just have to account for how Earth’s magnetic field interacts with charged particles. Basically, you exploit the Lorentz force to bypass radiation exposure—”

Paul smirked. Gotcha.

“Alright then." He gestured grandly. “Let’s make a game of it. Pretend I’m one of those conspiracy guys who doesn’t buy the science. You’re the brilliant physicist who has to convince me otherwise. Grab some paper. Show me how it works!”

Dipper’s face lit up like a lightbulb. “Challenge accepted!”

The next forty minutes passed in a whirlwind. Mabel proudly displayed her best drawings, sparkly animals, sweater designs, while Dipper, hunched over a growing pile of notes, launched into a full-on lecture.

Paul had to admit, Mabel wasn’t half bad. Her art was still that of a twelve-year-old, but there was flair, a spark of vision; something that could turn into real talent one day.

As for Dipper… the kid was brilliant, in that over-caffeinated, too-many-thoughts-at-once way. Some of his formulas Paul actually recognized from school. But when Dipper veered into quantum mechanics, Paul blinked, tilted his head, and politely asked him to repeat the last bit.

The boy stammered, cheeks pinking, clearly flustered yet thrilled that someone was actually listening to his rambling.

By the end, the paper was covered corner to corner in complex equations and diagrams. Paul didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough. Enough to admire the genius behind that restless, paranoid little brain.

The door to the twins’ bedroom creaked open. Paul, Dipper, and Mabel turned their heads towards the sound. There stood Stan, clearing his throat into a closed fist; a man who clearly talked too much during guided tours.

“Hey, you two.” He greeted, his tone lazy but carrying authority. “You seen—?”

He stopped mid-sentence once he took in the scene: Paul sitting cross-legged on the floor, papers and drawings spread around like the aftermath of a creative storm.

“Uh… what’s happenin’ here?”

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel bounded to her feet, pointing dramatically at Paul. “Paul was keeping us company while you were busy with the tour.” She giggled. “He made Dipper squeeze his brain dry explaining some bands or whatever.”

“The Van Allen belts, Mabel.” Dipper corrected with patience. “They’re important for space exploration; especially during the Moon landing.”

Mabel waved him off. “Blah, blah, science talk.”

Stan blinked. “Uh, that’s… great.” Then, turning back to Paul, he beckoned him with a wave. “Come on, kid. Tour’s over. Let’s head to my office and get the interview goin’. We’ll grab some sandwiches for lunch; you’ll start workin’ this afternoon anyway.”

He then aimed a pointed glare at Mabel. “And make sure those sandwiches don’t have sprinkles this time. Eat like the rest of us normal people.”

“But the sprinkles raised the flavor bar!" She whined.

“Maybe for you.” Stan grumbled. “I had to unclog the pipes from all the rainbow puke after that little experiment.” He shuddered. “Still get flashbacks.”

Paul smirked, politely sidestepping the bizarre family dispute, and stood. He gave the twins a friendly wave as he followed Stan out, closing the door behind him.

“This way, kid.”

Stan’s 'office' was located just above the living room, tucked away in the Shack’s confusing layout; a space somehow both cramped and sprawling, like a house built one room at a time over the years.

“You can drop your backpack by the door." Stan said, pointing at the floor. “You’ve been clutchin’ that thing like it’s a life preserver.”

Paul nodded and set the bag down gently. He wasn’t about to let The Mask out of his sight for long, but it was better to keep up appearances.

The room itself was a chaotic wonderland of questionable organization. A massive safe loomed against the far wall, its surface buried under boxes of fake skulls and rubber bones; props, hopefully. Chalkboards covered in scribbles and taped documents lined the walls. An ancient printing press, half-broken but still somehow humming with life, sat off to the right.

And in the far corner stood Stan’s desk: a fortress of paperwork, trinkets, and the faint smell of coffee and dust, illuminated by a single green-shaded lamp.

“Welcome to my private paradise.” Stan said, taking a deep breath as if savoring fine wine. “Ahh, the scent of ink; just the right mix of business and bankruptcy.” He chuckled nervously. “Not that I’m printin’ anything illegal or anything. Just, y’know… legal money-making ventures.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, then squinted suspiciously at Paul. “You sure you ain’t from the IRS?”

Paul sighed, folding his hands calmly. “Mr. Pines, if I were from the IRS, do you think I’d show up here looking for a job?”

Stan grunted, unimpressed. “You’d be surprised what those IRS weasels’ll do. They’re like the Hydra; cut off one auditor, two more show up with clipboards.” He jabbed a finger upwards in frustration. “They’re my archnemesis! What’s the point of taxing everything up to our breathable air if they won’t even let honest folks like me run small businesses and create jobs?”

Paul hid a smile. “A tragic injustice, I’m sure.”

Stan slammed his palm on the desk dramatically. “Exactly!” Then, with a quick motion of his hand, he gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Sit down, kid. We’ll make this quick.”

The chair groaned faintly beneath Paul’s weight; old wood, tired but stubbornly holding together.

That was the Shack in a nutshell: half of it solid, the other half perpetually one screw away from collapse. A perfect reflection of its owner, and maybe, in some strange way, of the Pines family as a whole.

And as that thought lingered, Paul couldn’t help but wonder: did Stanford Pines have a brother of his own?

Not that it was any of his business. Still, the question scratched at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.

“Let’s get a few things straight, Paul.” Stan laced his fingers together atop the desk. “I don’t have an official contract or anything fancy for you to sign. This gig’s more of a summer-job deal: low pay, long hours, and fewer benefits than a lemonade stand.”

He leaned back, grabbing a bottle of orange juice from a nearby shelf, as if that alone could qualify as hospitality. “You see, the bigger herds—uh, tourists, that is—usually show up in summer. That’s when the Shack’s at its busiest. Come winter, things calm down. Wendy or Soos can handle the foot traffic alone. They just wave at the rubes as they buy overpriced trinkets, and boom!, profit.”

He poured two glasses, slid one across the desk, and raised his own in a mock toast. “But since we launched an online site last year, business has been boomin’! We’re pullin’ tourists from all over the country. Even got a guy from New Jersey once; paid extra for a selfie with a wax dummy.”

Paul caught the glass and took a sip. To his surprise, the juice was excellent; fresh, tangy, real. Not the cheap, watery kind you’d expect from a man like Stan.

“Course...” Stan continued. “...when business booms, so does the workload. I gotta raise prices, deal with more customers, and, unfortunately, hire extra hands. That’s where you come in, kid!” He jabbed a finger at Paul. “You’ll run the register, help my great-niblings clean the place top to bottom; walls, floors, maybe even the ceiling if some maniac throws gum up there again.”

Stan began ticking tasks off on his fingers.

“You’ll also assist Soos whenever he’s fixin’ stuff; lightbulbs, wiring, generator repairs. The kid’s a genius with machines… well, ‘genius’ might be a stretch, but he’s got enthusiasm, and sometimes that’s enough to keep the lights on.”

Paul smirked faintly. Factoring in the Shack’s 'unique' business model, it was no surprise that Stan’s employees were probably paid under the table. Cheaper, quieter, and perfectly shady; just how Stan liked it.

“I don’t mind these conditions, Mr. Pines.” Paul eventually responded, eyes soft but steady. “I’ve gotta start my new life in Gravity Falls somewhere.”

Stan blinked. “Hold up—‘new life’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paul hesitated. He could’ve dodged the question, but that would only raise more suspicion. Better to plant the seed now; something that would justify the mystery of his situation later.

“I don’t have much with me, sir.” He admitted. “Everything I own is in that backpack. And 'everythin' being a mask I carved with my dad when I was little.” He nodded. “That’s it. No ID, no phone, no license.”

Stan frowned slightly. “You serious, kid?”

Paul took a slow breath, letting a note of weariness enter his voice. “Things back home got bad, really bad. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say the situation turned toxic. I snapped, packed what I could, and left. No plan. Just… gone.”

He sipped the juice again, staring at the small ripples in the glass. “I hopped the first train heading north and kept going until I hit a place that felt quiet enough. A place they’d never think to look for me.”

He raised his gaze, meeting Stan’s. “Gravity Falls felt right.”

Stan’s usual smirk had faded, replaced by something softer, almost fatherly.

“So you’re tellin’ me you ran away? ’Cause of your folks?”

Paul nodded, the lie delivered with the weight of something half-true. “Yeah. I did.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The ticking of the old clock filled the silence, steady and loud.

Stan leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Kid… you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Not a lot of people pick up and start over with nothin’ but a backpack and a dream.”

Paul tilted his head. Was that… recognition in Stan’s voice?

“Normally..." The old man went on, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I’d probably take your story, nod politely, and move on. Business is business. But…” He hesitated, eyes flicking towards the wall as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “I had this brother once. Stanley Pines.”

Paul leaned forward, curiosity piqued.

“Guy threw away his whole future over one mistake.” Stan said quietly. “Ran off, couldn’t face our folks. Guilt ate him alive. He bounced from one country to the next, broke, desperate, and tryin’ to prove he wasn’t the screw-up everyone said he was.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Took him years to build somethin’ again from the ground up. But he did it.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint creak of the Shack settling.

Stan exhaled. “Look, kid… you’re in the same boat he was. Gravity Falls ain’t a big place, but it’s a good one to start over. Folks come and go, jobs open up, people get weird and move on; it’s kinda the town’s charm.” He tapped his fingers against the desk. “But you’re not local. You just got here. You don’t know how the game’s played yet.”

Paul frowned slightly, unsure where this was going.

“So how about this?” Stan said at last, leaning forward with a smirk that softened into something genuine. “While you get your bearings—learn the town, meet the people—I’ll let you stay here. At the Shack.”

“Mr. Pines, I can’t—”

“Shush, kid.” Stan cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t get sentimental on me. You’ll still be payin’ for your keep. Food, hot water, electricity; all of it comes outta your pay. I’m generous, but I ain’t stupid.”

He cracked a small grin. “Consider it… your onboarding fee.”

Paul blinked, momentarily speechless. “You’re serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.” Stan confirmed. “Besides, the twins could use someone around their age around here. You’ve got an easy way with them. Maybe you’ll rub off some normal on those two.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Paul. “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Pines.”

Stan’s face softened, though his voice stayed gruff. “It’s nothin’, kid.” Then, after a beat: “And quit callin’ me Mr. Pines. Just… Stan is fine.”

Paul smiled, reaching out to shake his hand. “Alright then. Thanks, Stan.”

Their palms met in a firm shake.

“I’ll have to explain this to the kids.” Stan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But I think a welcoming committee to celebrate your employment is due.”

With that, Stanford Pines led him back into the living room. Paul still held his half-empty glass of orange juice, absentmindedly swirling what was left before taking one last sip.

Now all he had to do was quietly grab his bag—with Yhe Mask—and—

“BUGABUGABUGA!”

Paul nearly dropped the glass as a blur of colour leapt from the sofa.

He’d faced plenty of 'jumpscares' in his life, horror games, Halloween pranks, cousins who thought fake blood was comedy gold, but he didn’t spit out his drink because he was scared.

No. He spat it because Mabel Pines was wearing The Mask.

She cackled, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Dipper! Did you see that?!? He totally jumped!”

From somewhere to her left, Dipper laughed. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw it.”

Paul blinked once. Twice. His brain refused to compute what his eyes were seeing.

Because Mabel hadn’t transformed. She wasn’t possessed. She just… wore it. Like a regular mask. The wood sat loose on her face, her bright brown eyes peering through the holes.

His stomach dropped.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Fragments of memory whispered through his head:

“Buuuut we can’t have any bad guy getting their grubby hands on me, can we? Not that I’d turn them—pfft, I’ve got taste. But you and me, kiddo, we’re bonded for the summer! You’re the only one who gets to wear me.”

A failsafe. That’s what it was. A security feature; like the one that stopped Stanley Ipkiss from wearing it in front of Dr. Neuman. Only this time, the enchantment had evolved: it could function whenever, day or night, and recognize its rightful bearer.

Stan’s laughter cut through his thoughts. “Yeah, that was pretty funny, not gonna lie.”

Paul forced a shaky smile. “Uh, Mabel? D-do you mind taking that mask off? I’m, uh… very personal about it.”

“Oh!” Mabel’s expression softened into instant remorse. “I’m sorry! We found the bag with this mask inside, and I thought it’d be funny to prank you!”

Paul quickly stepped forward and plucked the artifact from her hands, clutching it to his chest like a fragile heirloom. “It’s okay. Just—yeah. It’s not really meant to be worn. I like to keep it as a reminder of… good times.”

Stan and Mabel exchanged a glance, awkwardly avoiding his eyes.

Paul exhaled, thinking the moment was finally over...

...until—

“Would you mind wearing it for a second?”

Dipper’s voice broke the quiet. The boy’s expression was sharp, calculating.

“I’m just curious to see how it’d look on you." Dipper continued.

Well, shit.

Paul froze. Dipper wasn’t just curious, he was testing him. The boy must’ve noticed Paul’s unease when Mabel wore it, and now he wanted to see what would happen if he did.

Paul stared at the mask in his hands.

Please. He thought. Just do the same as before. Let’s not make a scene.

He brought The Mask towards his face…

...

Nothing.

The room held its breath as he stood there awkwardly, peering through the green wooden eyeholes.

“Uh…” Paul struck a pose. “Ta-da!”

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then Dipper snorted. “Yeah, you look stupid.”

“He does look stupid." Stan added helpfully.

“Maybe, like… cute stupid?” Mabel chimed in with a grin.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Paul tore The Mask off and waved his hands in mock surrender. “Geez, what’s up with you people insulting my style?"

“Anywho…” Stan brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle. “Hey, Soos! Wendy! Get over here, will ya?”

Ten seconds later, the two familiar employees emerged into the living room.

“What’s up?” Wendy asked, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

“Heya, dudes.” Soos flashed a peace sign. “How’s it hangin’?”

“Look alive, people!” Stan threw an arm around Paul’s shoulders like a proud game show host. “After a long and very intense interview, I’m officially welcoming a new recruit to the Mystery Shack staff!” He spread his free arm dramatically. “Say hello to Paul Jackson!”

Applause filled the room; uneven, spontaneous, and perfectly chaotic. Dipper clapped politely, Wendy half-heartedly. Mabel, of course, clapped like a maniac. Soos whooped and fist-pumped.

“Pleasantries aside…” Stan patted his stomach. “I’m starvin’. Who wants some sandwiches?”

“I do!” Mabel shot her hand up like she was in class.

“Count me in, boss!” Soos echoed, already following her.

“Come on, Bro-Bro!” Mabel grabbed Dipper by the shoulder, dragging him toward the kitchen. “Help me add those sprinkles!”

Paul just shook his head, smiling faintly, and slung his backpack over one shoulder. As the others vanished behind the kitchen doorway, he slipped The Mask back inside, hiding it.

“So, dude…”

He turned. Wendy had stayed behind, elbowing his side with her trademark smirk.

“You’re stickin’ around with us, huh?” She tilted her head, half teasing. “Can’t say anything weird ever happens here. Probably gonna be a pretty boring summer.” She shrugged, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Guess we’ll have to make it less boring ourselves.”

Paul glanced down at his backpack. Through the fabric, a faint green light pulsed; slow, steady, alive.

“Yeah…” He muttered, following Wendy towards the kitchen. “Somehow, I doubt your optimism.”