Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How many times had he seen the night sky, filled with thousands of burning stars, and felt the same sense of smallness? Dipper was one man, in one giant world unknown to him. What was beyond the stars, beyond the earth his feet were planted on? That was a mystery he could not solve. But what he could solve, what he will solve, are the mysteries of his world.

 He got off his trusty horse, Mister Neighsayer, as he entered through the gates of the city of Selwyn. Standing amongst the stars in the sky was the large and unbelievably tacky palace. The roofs were tipped with gold, the stained glass windows all showing off a diamond in the center. The outside walls of the castle were all painted white, all of them. No spot of color in the white abyss.

He took out a sheet of paper out of his leather satchel, with directions of where the meetup spot was. He led Mister Neighsayer with him. The main street was wide and spacious, but the streets the map led him onto were narrow and unkempt, weeds growing through the cracks of the bricked road. After a few minutes of walking he reached the spot. A tiny alleyway, with a wooden door at the end. He tied Mister Neighsayer’s lead to a lamp post before he cautiously approached the door, lighting a lantern of his own to guide him through the shadow plagued alleyway. Once he reached the door, his heartbeat fastened and his brows were wet with sweat. He flipped the map to its other side and knocked on the door two and a half times as it said. Nothing happened. Maybe this was the wrong house? 

It couldn’t have been. He followed the directions to a T! He knocked two and a half times again, waiting another minute after. In deliberating on what to do, he heard something behind the wooden door. Dipper gulped as he put his ear against the door, trying to listen carefully…

There! There it was again! It was like two lion roars who were in a fierce fight over territory! Lions in a city, most people would assume madness but Dipper dealt with weirder things. They must have somehow been smuggled in and left in this desolate forgotten space… but then why would his employer ask him to meet him there? What if this was a trap, if his employer was out to get him for some reason. The roars persisted and Dipper's questions remained unanswered. There was only one thing he could do: Run away! He wasn’t risking it for a possible trap, no way. As he decided to turn around and leave, he heard a voice. He put his ear against the door again. 

“Bailiff Durland, Shire Reeve Blubs! Wake up, you incompetent buffoons!” said a stern voice as the “roars” that Dipper heard turned into surprised voices. 

“Wh- what? Justiciar Powers! We were just… conserving energy for the investigation!” said a deeper gruff voice. 

“Yeah, can’t get clues with no rest!” said an enthusiastic voice. 

 “We went through this several times. You were supposed to wait here for the spectrarch! This is a matter of the utmost importance, a job the king can only trust that thing to do. What if it was here and left already? We might’ve lost contact with our only hope to find the suspect.”

Dipper sighed as he knocked two and a half times. Of course it wasn’t lions, Dipper. Think logically. Who smuggles lions in a city for a trap? What would have they tried next, dragons?  

Their chatter stopped as the door opened. A man with black hair, dark gray mustache and a mole above the right side of it, wearing a white tunic with a black vest over it, black hose and boots. Around his waist he had a leather belt with a round gold medallion hooked to it. Engraved on the medallion was a diamond with the words “Nihil Satis Ultra” around it. It roughly translated to “Nothing but best”, which was very like the Northwests. 

“You must be the Spectrarch, correct?” he said with the same stern voice, as he seemed to inspect Dipper from head to toe. 

“Uh, yes… ahem, yes, I am he.” Dipper coughed midspeech to rid his voice of nervousness, facing the intense gaze of the justiciar. 

“Come in. I am the justiciar, these two are shire reeve Blubs and bailiff Durland. They were supposed to be the ones waiting for you.” 

The shire reeve was short, overweight, had a long white handlebar mustache and chocolate skin. The bailiff was white, tall and had a naive face which bore no facial hair. They both wore creme hose and tunics, (what seemed like raccoon) fur vests over the tunic and a silver pin shaped like a diamond. Blubs had a tall hat with a wide brim and he also wore two monocles for each eye (the glass stained black), while Durland had a gray raccoon hat on, the tail of the raccoon going down his face. 

“So this is the so-supposed spectrarch?” Blubs said as he raised his eyebrow. 

“More like… more like… uh… a fopdoodle! Yeah!” Durland said with a laugh following afterwards. 

Both Dipper and the justiciar looked at Durland laughing, their faces contorted to convey a feeling of profound confusion. Powers rushed Dipper in after a few seconds of awkward staring and shut the door tight. Dipper took a seat at the round table. The entire room was dusty and empty, lit only by a single lantern on the round, termite infested table.

“Now… Let’s get to the reason you’re here.” Justiciar Powers cleared his throat.

“You, I hope and I will assume, know that King Preston is holding the annual Grand Gourd Jubilee.” He continued.

“I mean, yeah, sure,” Dipper thought, his mind drifting. Annual celebration: same songs, same games, same acts...

Outwardly, he nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Oh, absolutely. Huge fan of gourds. Love what they’re doing with the... gourd scene these days.”

“Good, so you know how important the festival is to the kingdom and why the king insists on the festival going off without a hitch. The gourds… they must be protected at all costs, Spectrarch. They are a symbol. A legacy.” Powers closed, solemnly placing a hand on his heart.

“Right, a legacy.” Dipper nodded sagely. 

Powers opened his eyes and leaned in closer to Dipper’s face, “This year…we have experienced sabotage. Not only with the attractions but also…” 

Shire reeve Blubs would take out a giant bag from under the table and take out a gourd as big as his head. He turned the gourd around to reveal it had been mutilated with knife slashes. 

“Some of the nominees for the Golden Gourd Competition have been mutilated such as this one here.” Powers continued in a grave tone. 

Dipper stared at the gourd in stunned silence. This… this is what they called me in for? Gourd vandalism? He cleared his throat. “Wow, uh, that’s… truly horrifying. A real squash-cident.”

Powers’ face didn’t budge. “This is no laughing matter, Spectrarch. Do you have any idea what this means for the competition? For the kingdom ?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. No, totally. It’s just…” Dipper pointed at the gourd. “Are we positive it wasn’t just, like, a… very enthusiastic chef? Or, I don’t know, a squirrel with a grudge?”

Blubs gasped, clutching the gourd to his chest like a wounded comrade. “You think a squirrel would have done this? Those tiny claws don’t have the precision for this level of savagery!”

“Blubs is right,” Powers said, his tone dark. “This was no ordinary attack. Whoever—or whatever —did this wanted to send a message. And that message is clear: The Golden Gourd Jubilee will be ruined .”

Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to maintain a shred of composure. “Okay, so… you’re saying someone is waging a vendetta against vegetables. Got it. Totally a normal day for me.”

Powers hit the table with his fist as his voice got louder, “Damn it, Spectrarch! This is not just a vendetta against vegetables! It is a vendetta against the entire kingdom, what we stand for, what we live and die for.”

Powers took the gourd and started pointing at each individual cut, “Look at these. They are all precise, vicious and vengeful. This was done by someone who hates gourds with an unthinkable rage!” 

Dipper raised his hand, already regretting forming this question to ask these psychos, “ Okay… crazy idea but… what if it was just like… a bored kid?” 

Both the shire reeve and bailiff gasped. It was as if Dipper outright suggested a revolution to overthrow the monarchy.

“Bored?!” Blubs’ monocles were fogging up from his sputtering. “A bored person knits scarves or juggles cabbages, not mutilate prized gourds!” 

Dipper let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Right. My bad. Clearly, I underestimated the depth of this vendetta. Please, continue.”

“The reason we called for you, Spectrarch, is because when we launched our own investigations, it was as if… every trace the mutilator left behind disappeared. There was nothing. No footprints, no witnesses, not one speck of dust. And because of that, the prin- I mean, one of the higher authorities suggested we hire a Spectrarch. Insinuating that you could do a better job than us.” 

“But if you guys say there is nothing you three could start with, how am I supposed to start?” Dipper asked, perplexed by the lack of…anything in this investigation.

“Don’t you have some fancy Spectrarch tricks? Can’t you go avada keda-” Durland piped up.

“Don’t! Do not finish that!” Dipper interrupted him. He was sweating bullets just at the thought of Durland having finished that incantation. 

The three men looked at him in confusion. Dipper just sighed and shook his head.

“My powers… don’t work like that. I need something a bit more tangible to start. I can’t even tell what kind of spirit or entity we are talking about now.” Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose again, already tired of this job. 

“Ghosts?! Nobody said anything about ghosts.” Blubs chuckled.

“Ignore Blubs. There is something mysterious, dare I say, supernatural afoot. Hence why we have you. So work your magic, Spectrarch. We’ll provide you with a temporary badge that will allow you to roam freely.” Powers said, sliding a badge just like his towards Dipper. 

“Great…I feel… so honoured…” Dipper grimaced. Can they really not create something that isn’t so tacky?

Blubs leaned forward. "So, are you saying this could be, like, a haunted gourd? Like, a gourd poltergeist?"

Dipper blinked at him, bewildered by the sheer seriousness of the question. "A cursed vegetable spirit? Really?" He shook his head, trying to picture the villain made entirely of sentient, angry vegetables. "Honestly, Blubs, I’m more concerned about the fact that no one’s seen anything. No witnesses, no clues… you guys are telling me nothing happened at all?”

Powers spoke up, his voice dripping with impatience. “Exactly. Whoever—or whatever—did this, is meticulous. It’s as if they’ve covered their tracks with some kind of invisible cloak. We’re at a dead end, Spectrarch.”

Dipper grimaced. “Yeah, well, my expertise doesn’t usually involve… Well, I don’t know, murderous squash. But I will do my best.”

Powers nodded. “Good. You should begin your investigation at the Harvest Square, where we keep all the gourd for the competition.”

“Great. Will do. In the morning. Mind if I ask where I will stay for the duration of my investigation?” Dipper asked, feeling his eyelids grow heavier by the second. 

“We reserved a room for you at the pudding pony inn. Godspeed, Spectrarch.” Powers said. The three men stayed in the house while Dipper went back to the cold tight alleyway. He walked to Mister Neighsayer and took his lead.

The two walked to the pudding pony inn ,where Dipper was greeted by the warm glow of lanterns hanging from the front porch. The sign swayed in the wind, creaking with each gust, as if it, too, was somewhat embarrassed to bear the name. “The Pudding Pony Inn,” Dipper muttered to himself, adjusting his coat as he walked inside. The inn’s interior was cozy, with low wooden beams and mismatched furniture. The walls were adorned with strange knick-knacks—tiny carved ponies, a painting of a pudding with a crown, and a large stuffed potato that sat in the corner, as if it were an unspoken mascot. Behind the bar stood an elderly woman with a lazy eye, wearing a vest that had an absurd number of pockets filled with spoons for pudding.

“Hi! I’m Lazy Susan, welcome to The Pudding Pony!” She cheerfully greeted Dipper.

“Hi… I have a reservation for a room. Dipper Pines?” Dipper looked as the woman flipped a logbook.

“Yes, yes! Room 13 on the third floor!” She exclaimed. 

“Ah, thank you. Good evening.” As he climbed up the stairs he couldn’t help but wonder why the woman was up at this ungodly hour.

 “Whatever, I’m sure she might be a night owl” he muttered to himself again.

Dipper made his way up the narrow staircase, the creaking wooden steps echoing in the otherwise quiet inn. As he reached the third floor, he was greeted by dimly lit hallways lined with more peculiar decorations—small portraits of pudding in various outfits, a collection of porcelain ponies in different poses, and an ornate velvet curtain that seemed entirely out of place.

Room 13 was at the very end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. Dipper hesitated for a moment before pushing it open, half-expecting some kind of eerie surprise. Instead, the room looked... surprisingly normal. It had a big, squeaky bed with a floral comforter, a wooden dresser, and a window with a view of the inn’s oddly shaped roof. On the small table by the window sat a bowl of what looked like a strange, glistening dessert.

“Great. Just what I need,” Dipper muttered to himself, eyeing the bowl suspiciously. “A room with more pudding.”

He shrugged off his coat and set it on the chair by the desk, trying not to let the thought of being surrounded by pudding and gourds for the next few days consume him. As he wandered around the room, he noticed the faint sound of muffled giggling coming from down the hall. Frowning, Dipper stepped toward the door to investigate.

Before he could open it, however, the door across the hall creaked open. A tall, lanky man stepped out, his hair wild and his eyes wide as if he'd been in the midst of a late-night revelry.

"Ah, you're the Spectrarch!" he exclaimed, his voice oddly high-pitched for a man his size. "You're investigating the gourd sabotage, aren’t you? They say you’re very skilled with... mysteries." He squinted at Dipper, as though trying to figure out if he were the real Spectrarch or just some impostor.

Dipper raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah, that’s me. But can I help you with something? It's late."

The man nodded rapidly, stepping closer. "Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that—I mean—I’m so excited that you’re here. So, so excited." He glanced around nervously as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. "I’ve heard things... about the gourd sabotage. Very strange things. Things that maybe shouldn’t be said out loud. You know how people get... when they start thinking too much about vegetables."

Dipper took a cautious step back, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re... um... not making any sense. What do you mean?”

The man leaned in closer. “There’s more to the gourds than meets the eye. Much more. I’m talking about a curse. A curse placed on them by the ancient gourd spirits. That’s why they’re so sensitive! You have to be careful when you touch them, or else, well, you know...”

Dipper stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or be concerned. “Gourd spirits? Are you serious?”

The man blinked at him, looking a little crestfallen. “Ah... you don’t believe me, do you?”

Dipper sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, it’s been a long day, and I’ve already got a lot of weird things on my plate. I’ll look into the sabotage, and if I find any spiritual connection, I’ll be sure to report it.”

The man straightened up, nodding rapidly. “Of course! Of course! You just do your thing, Spectrarch. You’ll see... they’re watching. They’re always watching...”

Before Dipper could respond, the man dashed off down the hall, leaving a trail of nervous laughter in his wake.

Dipper stood there for a moment, processing what had just happened. “Great. Now I’ve got gourd-obsessed weirdos to deal with. This is going to be fun,” he muttered to himself, finally heading back into his room to close the door.

He glanced at the pudding bowl once more. “You know, maybe I should take a bite. Just to get it over with.”

Dipper sat down on his bed, holding the bowl in his lap. The pudding looked normal. It was a simple gelatinous brown pudding. His mind ran faster than his hands that were lifting the spoon of pudding to his mouth. Once he took a bite, it was nothing like he expected. It was a normal chocolate pudding. He had awaited a grotesque gourd pudding, or maybe pony pudding, but no, this was just chocolate pudding. He finished his bowl and got himself comfy on the bed. 

“Maybe… maybe this is just a simple vandalism case. It can’t be gourd spirits. What even are those? I feel like I’m going crazy in this place…” As his thoughts slowed, his eyelids grew heavier. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he'd get to the bottom of the sabotage. But for now, in the odd little inn full of bizarre trinkets, there was nothing more he could do.

With a final sigh, Dipper drifted into a restless sleep, the mystery of the gourd sabotage lingering in the back of his head as he got a well-deserved rest before he plunged himself into the madness of the gourds. 

Chapter Text

  Dipper’s morning wasn’t as pleasant as he wished it to be. He woke up with a sharp headache, having dreamt a stupendous dream, where he had to solve the “murder” of a gourd, and had to stay in a weirdly suspect themed inn. What was even worse was waking up to find out that it was all real. With a loud grunt he heaved himself up from his bed, holding onto the wall so as to not keel over. 

What were you thinking, Dipper? All that Spectrarch training, just to investigate a danged gourdicide. He sighed further as he began changing into a new set of clothes, not that it did anything to hide the faint yet distinct smell of death hanging around him. He only had one outfit and copies for it: a black jacket, a western tie and fitted slacks. 

After he put his slacks backwards and then put them on properly, he prepared himself to head down for breakfast. The main floor was littered with people hunched over meals, alcoholics downing their first drink of the day and waitresses running around.

Out of curiosity, Dipper looked around the room for the gourd-weirdo from last night. There was no sign of him anywhere. Maybe he was just a figment of my imagination… perchance just a case of sleep deprived hallucinations. 

Dipper was quickly taken out of his deep thoughts as a waitress bumped into him, spilling a mug of ale onto the floor. Dipper was about to apologize but she shot him icy cold daggers with her eyes. He just coughed awkwardly and went to sit down at an empty table. 

Lazy Susan bumped into his table, “Hi! What can I get ya?” 

“Just uh… a glass of cold water and some scrambled eggs, please,” Dipper held the table as she almost toppled it over. 

“A glass of pudding and pancakes coming right up!” She hurried off before Dipper could correct her. I guess I got to make peace with eating pudding for breakfast… and dinner… I ought to buy meals in the city from now on.

Dipper took out a black leather-bound journal with a silver handprint on its cover and began flipping through pages. If only I had at least one of the three real journals… 

The pages were filled with Dipper’s serpentine writing and jagged sketches. I doubt it’s a ghoul… or a mermaid… maybe a poltergeist? Mayhaps, but it’d be only bound to one place… I need to see the actual crime scene. 

Dipper’s ears perked up as he heard the clattering of dishes and clumsy footsteps, so he packed his journal away—just in time, for Lazy Susan slammed into his table again and clumsily set down the plate of pancakes and glass of pudding (some spilling over). The pancakes were soggy, drowned in unhealthy amounts of syrup, and the pudding was just… ominous as it jiggled.

As Dipper began eating, Bailiff Durland and Shire Reeve Blubs entered the inn, scanning the tables with a grim look in their eyes. Once they spotted Dipper, they shuffled to his table and sat down. 

“Spectrarch… It happened again.” Blubs said grimly while Durland began shedding tears.

Dipper rolled his eyes, “Another gourd was murdered?” 

“Worse! Some gourds were stolen… and the gourdkeeper was murdered!” Durland howled, letting the entire inn hear about the crime. 

What happened to utmost secrecy…? 

“Lead the way, Shire Reeve.” Dipper raised from his seat. 

The two men and Dipper saddled their horses and began riding at breakneck speed through the city, passing the brick and wood cut buildings—the trotting of the horses sounding like accelerating war drums. Once they passed through the grand white gates of Selwyn, the bricked road turned into gravel and dirt. The trees and hills that once completely surrounded Selwyn were turned into terraces, but beyond them were swaths of thick trees and rough terrain. The shire reeve and bailiff pressed on through the forest, picking up the pace—Mister Neighsayer keeping pace quite well. 

“Where was the murder?!” Dipper shouted as he struggled to stay on Mister Neighsayer. 

“Lord Sprott’s gourd farm! It’s near the coast!” Blubs screamed out.

“What do you know about this ‘Lord Sprott’?!” Dipper screeched out. 

“He’s the best gourd farmer there is! But he also runs a proper animal farm as well! He even has a stroking menagerie!” Durland’s shrill voice echoed. 

“A stroking what?!—” 

“Oh yeah, Bailiff Durland and I love going there!” Blurbs blurbed out. 

“I love stroking!” Durland exclaimed with enthusiasm. 

Dipper’s face warped into one of absolute horror—his own thoughts becoming a dangerous place—and his stomach churned, those pancakes he ate slowly making their way back up. 

“Oh, yes, you do! We’re especially fond of those fluffy sheep! Petting them is like touching a cloud!” Blubs laughed. 

“Oh… Oh. OH! Oh, Thank God! You mean a petting zoo!” Dipper sighed with relief. 

“Yeah! What did you think we meant?!” Blubs looked back at him with a rising eyebrow. 

“Nothing! Anything else about Lord Sprott?!” 

Blubs took a moment to think before speaking, “Well… There’s rumours going around about how he grows the best gourds! Some say he uses… witchcraft!”

“Witchcraft!” Durland repeated for emphasis.

“And he tried to run for Count in Selwynn, but rumours about some shady deals came out and ruined it for him!” Blubs added. 

“Hmmm… I see…” Dipper contemplated.

A disgruntled Lord… could be a lead. Self-sabotage is just a stepping stone to revenge. 

The men rode out of the woods, the endless sea of trees left behind as they approached the gourd farm, where terraced farms sat with workers busily tending to them. A large mansion stood at the other end, extravagant and dark, built out of solid black wood. As they approached the mansion, an elderly man with a gray crown of hair around his head and twirly moustache, jowls on his face and crooked nose and wearing a white dress shirt with a red bowtie,  brown pants and black boots waved his cane at them. Once they got off their horses, a young man next to the old gentleman began singing.

“Looooooooord!~ Sprooooootttttt!~ Welcoooooomes youuuuuuuuuuu!~ Tooooooooo!*~ Theeeee—” 

Lord Sprott tapped the boy on the head with his cane, “Enough of that, Jeffrey. This is a dire situation! No time for pleasantries!” Lord Sprott then hurriedly led everyone through the farmgrounds towards a gigantic barn. He commanded Jeffrey to open the barn doors and behind them lay a dead body with destroyed gourds and squash all around it. 

Durland began sobbing, “The gourds! The gourds!”

Blubs gently rubbed his back, “I know… I know…”

“Right… We found the gourdkeeper dead this morning, some time after sunrise,” Lord Sprott said through Durland’s cries. 

“I’ll investigate. I need absolute quiet, so I'd prefer to do this alone,” Dipper said as he knelt to take a closer look at the body. The gourdkeeper was laying face down, a pool of dry blood formed around his body. On the back of his neck was a small, thin puncture wound. Dipper slid his gloves on before he turned the body around to reveal the puncture wound went clean through the throat. 

This was no amateur… a weapon this precise, this thin and this sharp? This is more than just vandalism…

Dipper checked his pockets but besides a pouch of coins and a royal badge he carried nothing. Dipper got up and took a closer look around. The squashes sure were squashed well… this is not the same refined method it used for the first gourds. It was in a hurry. There was no little chance he was caught by the gourdkeeper, since he killed him from behind. This was premeditated. 

Dipper closed the barn door. Unlike most crime scenes, there were no further bloody footprints in the mud to point him to the killer’s direction—but there was one last thing he could try. Dipper took off the glove on his right hand then took out a round thin metal tin box out of his satchel—the lettering on it long having long since rubbed off. He opened it and inside were dried purple valerian flowers. He picked two out and lifted them to his mouth, the flowers crunching into bits as he began chewing on them—the taste of bitter dirt still made Dipper shudder to this day.

 He then placed his right thumb on the forehead of the gourdkeeper. Dipper began clearing his mind, concentrating purely on his touch. The flies buzzing around the destroyed gourds, the smell of the dead body, the taste of the valerian flowers faded out of his mind and senses. His eyes began to slowly turn yellow—so too did the eyes of the gourdkeeper change from a soulless gray to yellow—and he felt as if something sucked him into the mind of the deceased. In all actuality, it wasn’t the mind he was being sucked into, but the imprint of his soul. Memories and emotions that were not his own began to flood Dipper’s heart and mind, but with focus and concentration he looked for the memories during and after the murder. 

Dipper shifted through a seemingly endless sea of memories until he found it. He closed his eyes, but instead of seeing pitch black he saw—as if watching from grey foggy lenses—as the gourdkeeper opened the barn door and took a few steps inside before a hooded figure drove a stiletto dagger through his throat—it was quick, precise and merciless. Afterwards it began its rampage, throwing gourds around, smashing them with its feet and throwing them into the walls. But amidst all this chaos, Dipper did not make what is under the hood. In fact, every single part of the mysterious killer's body was covered in cloth. The rampage was short lived as it heard footsteps approaching the barn and as Dipper watched with bated breath as to see how the killer was about to escape he was overcome with a deep sense of fear and anxiety as the world around him began disintegrating. He was left floating in an endless void and even though he had no real body in this state he felt as if he was in an ocean, his body engulfed in cold water. Air did not fill his lungs and his throat tightened, making it impossible for him to focus at all. 

As he felt he was about to pass out he somehow opened his eyes and was surrounded again by the squashed gourds and the dead body. His chest heaved as he greedily breathed in every drop of air and the yellow color dissipated from his eye. He took off his tie and opened the buttons on his shirt in the vain attempt of breathing easier. 

Goddamn it… I need to up the dosage again…

With trembling legs he moved slowly towards the wall to lean on it. His heart beat so hard he would not be surprised if it just leapt out and began running around. 

I need… to get back to my senses. I’m alive. I’m alive…

It almost felt like a lie, being able to breathe, feel, see, hear and smell. It felt like he was in the void for longer than he wasn’t, like the void was real and this just a nice pleasant dream to escape the endless horror—his fate. 

Once his breathing got steadier, Dipper struggled to get up. He did not see the end of the memory, but he saw enough. Enough to draw the conclusion that this was not an ordinary person committing these crimes. The only thing that puzzled Dipper was that it stole some of the gourds, while it destroyed others. And when the killer was about to get caught, it still hadn’t destroyed as many gourds as there were on the ground now. Dipper looked around the barn some more, uncertain if he was going to find anything new. Alas, it paid off for him to be vigilant, as he found the black cloak the killer had thrown into a wheelbarrow. He picked it up and inspected the cloak. It was a standard cloak, but the material was made out of wool—not silk nor linen and not particularly high quality wool. Whoever this was, they were a budget killer—their only investment being that stiletto. 

Dipper folded the cloak neatly and left the barn where Lord Sprott, Blubs and Durland were waiting for him. Durland was still sobbing while Blubs comforted him. 

“You found anything, boy?” Lord Sprott inquired.

“Besides the killer's cloak? Not much. Enough for a suspect profile, though,” Dipper stated, “it seems like the killer is an expert. The weapon that he used to cause such a precise wound is no ordinary dagger or sword: it was a stiletto dagger. The cloak though, is extremely cheap. This is someone who is an expert and who constantly changes clothes to escape crime scenes.”

“Of course it was one of those poor ruffians! Humbug! Almost as bad as witches, the whole lot!” Lord Sprott waved his cane frantically in the air.

“Right… My investigation here is completed. I will now head to the city and inspect the first crime scene,” Dipper said as he whistled for Mister Neighsayer. I doubt I’ll find anything more concrete than what I found here, but I must cover all bases. Just like Grunkle Ford taught me. 

“Will you make it into the city on your own?” Blubs asked, “Durland here needs more time.” 

“Of course, I got it.” 

“Oh right, Spectrarch, you need to also report to King Preston tomorrow,” Blubs added. 

Dipper merely nodded as he began trotting away on Mister Neighsayer. It began to rain as he found himself leaving the farm grounds. The thick leaves of the trees along the path sheltered him slightly from the torrent of rain, but it wasn’t enough to keep the rain out of his eyes. Mister Neighsayer was basically riding on his own mind as Dipper barely held onto the reins, using this time to pensively stare ahead, letting his mind wander. It wasn’t a lie that his heart skipped a beat when he heard the gourdicide turned into a homicide, but not just out of pity for the poor deceased Gourdkeeper, but for how exciting it made this case. It wasn’t just a silly plot against vegetables, which could make the suspect list range from small kids to grown adults with a picky pallette—no, now this was a true crime, a true case. The biggest case he has had ever since he started traveling on his own. It is no wonder that King Preston hired him because he couldn’t reach Stanford, nobody could, hence his apprentice/nephew was the next best choice—but he did not let the nepotism discourage him. This was his chance to prove he can handle more than just an odd ghost or merman. Now it was up to him to crack  this case like a nutcracker cracks nuts. Dipper Pines… The nutcracker of the supernatural — no, I need to come up with something better…

Once he finally wiped the raindrops off his face, he saw that he already entered the city. He finally took control of the reins and steered Mister Neighsayer towards the warehouse in the harbour district of the city, where the gourds are first stored before they get transported to the royal gourd emporium. 

The harbour was filled with strumpets with colorful and low-cut frizzy dresses, shirtless tattooed sailors spitting and slobbering in their unique dialect, foreign diplomats and warriors embarking from a long trip on the sea. Dipper pinched the bridge of his nose as the smell of fish from the nearby fish market nearly made him puke. He got off his horse and began walking holding the reins, hurrying to reach the warehouse before he passed out.

He’d get a glare or two from sailors who looked like they wanted to mug him and from women that seemed more revolted by his disheveled hair and smell of ash and brimstone than the smell of fish guts. He shut off their obvious glares and kept walking. He arrived at the warehouse, a medium-sized building with a signpost hanging above the door—on it being scribbled “warehoze”. There were no guards watching the door, so Dipper simply entered by himself. No guards and the door was left open? They need to up their security in this city. 

The warehouse was littered with straws and crates upon crates of mutilated gourds, flies humming above them. It seemed Dipper downplayed the extremity of the vandalism—he had only assumed that a few gourds were vandalised in the warehouse—but this was borderline impressive. Each had precise cuts, showcasing the guts of the gourds. There was a ladder towards the upper floor and as Dipper began climbing, he heard wood creaking above him. His pulse spiked as he undoubtedly heard more creaking. He was not alone in the warehouse. Dipper carefully climbed up the ladder. Once on the second floor, his eyes did not need to glide over the entire room as he saw a cloaked figure hunching over a crate. With extreme caution, Dipper took a flameless torch from the brazier on the wall and tiptoed slowly. Dipper knew this was foolish, but his body for the first time acted on its own and it chose fight instead of flight. If this was the culprit, then not only would the case be solved in record time, but also the risk of others dying would be nil. 

Once he approached a safe distance, he raised the torch high and was about to swing before the figure turned around and kicked him in the nuts—causing him to fall over on the ground with a high pitched squeal. It seems the hooded figure was the true nutcracker between the two. Anyway, the tears swelling up in Dipper’s eyes did not hide as the hooded figure simply ran away instead of pummeling Dipper further. The pain was excruciating, alas Dipper steeled himself enough to raise himself off the floor and run after the culprit who jumped out the window. From the window the culprit jumped onto the roof of a nearby building—Dipper followed suit, almost slipping off from the wet shingles of the roof. The culprit jumped from roof to roof, the rain and strong wind not bothering them at all while Dipper struggled infinitely.

The gaps kept widening until at one point Dipper barely caught the edge of the roof with his hands, pulling himself up with herculean effort—then with even more effort he struggled to get up after a stray pigeon flew in his face. Dipper spit out some feathers when he saw the culprit getting farther away, yet the chase was not over. He spotted his one ticket to catching them: a loose shingle tile. He ripped it out and threw it like a very heavy throwing disc and it miraculously hit the culprit’s legs, causing them to stumble and roll almost dangerously close towards the edge of the building they were on. That gave Dipper enough time to catch up to the culprit and pin them to the ground, holding their arms above their head. Their face was covered by a simple wood mask painted black. Dark blue eyes stared back at him through the eyesockets as the culprit struggled to break free. 

A furious feminine voice spat with venom “Let me go, you idiot!” 

“I got you, you Gourd defiling murderer!” Dipper exclaimed, being a little bit too caught up in this case now. “Let us see what is under that mask!” Dipper yanked the mask off the culprit's face—revealing a woman with skin so smooth it made silk sheets jealous. Her eyes were like a stormy sea that kept sucking Dipper into a vortex. 

“Dipper, let me go!” She shouted. 

Wait, she knows my name?! How does she — no, no, no! Please, God, no! 

“Pacifica?!” A gaping mouth and the hot red blush on his cheeks betrayed the embarrassment and shock Dipper felt. 

“Yes! Now get off, you borderline super-freak!” She shouted, her own face red from the embarrassment—and anger. 

Dipper immediately let her go and helped her get up, “I am so… so sorry about that—wait, no, I am not sorry! What the hell are you doing here?! Why aren’t you in that tacky castle, playing with diamond ponies or whatnot!” 

“Are you actually serious?! I only ride Miss Diamondlocks on Thursdays!” She shouted back at him. 

“Are… YOU serious?” Dipper asked, dumbfounded. 

Pacifica punched him in the shoulder, not playfully but with real intent of inflicting pain, “Of course not! What business of yours is it what I do in my free time?” 

“Ow!” Dipper rubbed his shoulder, “It is my business because you were at the scene of a crime! A crime your dad hired me to investigate!” 

“Well, sure took your sweet time to investigate it! How could I leave it in the hands of a man as lazy as you?” Pacifica smirked cockily. 

Dipper hesitated for a moment before he spoke, “Enough with the hostility!” Dipper hesitated for a moment before he spoke, “A man was murdered today by the same person who vandalised the gourds in the warehouse.” 

“What? I did not know that…” Pacifica’s smirk turned into a grim frown. 

“It happened just this morning. Going there on your own was dangerous,” Dipper shook his head. 

“I held my own against you pretty well,” Pacifica said, “but tell me what happened. Who was murdered?” 

“Let’s first get off the roof, the storm is getting worse and I fear another pigeon will try to enter my mouth,” Dipper kept his head low. 

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to get hit so hard you fall off the roof and splat on the ground,” Pacifica chuckled. 

“How is that funny?!” 

Pacifica ignored his question and slid down a ladder placed against the side of the building. Dipper followed her with a sigh. Back on the ground, Pacifica lifted up her hood and led Dipper through the busy streets to a small pub. A wooden board hung above the door—”Tight Lips Pub” was written in big bold cursive letters. 

Pacifica pushed the door open and Dipper was almost hit by a stray glass flying towards his face. It came from the corner where a giant burly man with orange hair, wearing a half opened button shirt with his chest hair in full display, raged further by smashing the table, sending cards flying in the air and then walking out of the door.

“Was that Manly Dan?!” Dipper asked in shock.

Pacifica sat down at a table in the far corner, signaling the bartender to bring them something to drink, “Yeah, he sometimes comes to Selwyn. Gravity Falls isn’t too far from here, you know that, right? Or can you not even read a map?”

“Haha, very funny. I’m just surprised to see a lot of familiar faces today. And a lot of them haven’t changed much,” Dipper sat down facing Pacifica, glancing at her with a raised brow. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pacifica raised a brow herself. 

Dipper shrugged, “Nothing that really needs to be said right now. Let’s talk business first.”

“All work and no play makes Dipper a dull boy,” Pacifica sneered. 

“Some of us are kind of dependent on jobs to keep them alive. Not that I expect your highness to know,” Dipper looked off to the side, mostly out of annoyance, partially to stop himself from looking at her eyes. 

Pacifica rolled her eyes, “At least I still don’t smell like a teenager.”

“No fair, I wash my clothes now!” Dipper shouted, his cheeks turning red again. 

“No, no, you’re right. You just… smell like a funeral home.”

“We are NOT here to discuss how I smell or not. Tell me why you were at the warehouse?”

“Tut tut, Detective Pines… I thought you would be able to use your fantastic powers to deduce that already!” Pacifica wagged her finger. 

“Actually you mean abduce, but that is besides the point. The Royal Gourdkeeper was killed today at Lord Sprott’s farm and the gourds there were destroyed and some were stolen. This is serious, Pacifica. I need to know everything,” Dipper pleaded with her, sounding sincere for the first time since they met. 

“Fine… I wanted to investigate on my own. I knew Justiciar Powers would not find anything, that’s why I decided to try and find something myself,” Pacifica finally took a sip of the mysterious brown liquid the bartender set down on their table. 

Dipper only pushed the drink in front of him away, “But why? Did you not know your dad hired me?”

Pacifica closed her eyes after the sip, “I did, but two heads are better than one. I was planning to meet you at the inn tonight, but you beat me to it.”

“You care that much about a gourd festival?” 

“Seriously, do you know NOTHING about this kingdom? Gourds are how our family came to own this land, with the you know… whole scamming poor people to work for us. Every year we throw this festival and invite important people and if we have nothing to impress them with, our heads could be put on spikes!” Pacifica raised her voice at the end, almost catching the attention of the entire pub. 

“Alright… I get it. I know how pigheaded you can be, so I agree to let you help me on this,” Dipper extended his hand to shake on the deal. 

Pacifica grabbed his hand firmly, almost crushing it, as her lips curved into a sadistic smile “I think you mean letting YOU help ME, Dipper. It is my dad who hired you, therefore by proxy, it is me who hired you.”

“Of course… Please let go of my hand…” Dipper begged which made Pacifica’s smile grow bigger. After she let go, he cleared his throat, “So… how have you been? It has been a long time since we last… saw each other.” 

“I’d love to have this chat, Dipper, but I need to go back to the castle. I got other matters to tend to,” Pacifica got up and looked away. 

“Right, right. I will meet you tomorrow at the inn. Goodbye, Pacifica,” Dipper said. After Pacifica left, Dipper looked at the floor like a sulking boy before he drank the mysterious drink Pacifica ordered for him. To his surprise, it had a pleasant chocolatey taste. 

Dipper then left the pub, his feet taking him towards the inn. It has been many years since he last saw Pacifica. He often looked back fondly during that time, when he was still an apprentice under Ford after he decided to remain in Gravity Falls instead of going back home with Mabel. Mabel was fine without him, she was strong, and wiser in ways unknown to him. 

Last time he saw Pacifica, it was his third year as Ford’s apprentice. She only went to Gravity Falls during the summer season, so the time they spent together wasn’t much, but it meant a lot to him. She still smells like champagne and flowers…

Dipper shook his head and then slapped his cheeks. No, she is the one that stopped showing up. No word from her for six years and she acts like we weren’t even friends? Forget that! 

Dipper huffed and puffed out of tiredness and anger. When he arrived at the inn, he was soaking wet from head to toe. All he really needed was a warm bath and a good sleep to forget about everything, about Pacifica. 

Alas, a hoarse voice called out to Dipper from a table, “Dipper Pines, is that you?!” 

Dipper looked towards the direction the voice came from and there he saw a lone man with dark ruby hair, green mysterious eyes and sunken cheeks staring at him. He wore a long sleeved white shirt with a bowtie tied so tight it almost seemed to strangle his thin neck. The man’s hands were bony and thin, almost to a severe level. Dipper only knew one man that looked like a walking skeleton and that was a fellow colleague he met under Ford’s tutelage. 

Dipper approached the table and took a seat, “Jude? Is that you?” 

“Of course it is, pal. Been a long time, has it not?” Jude shook Dipper’s right hand and grabbed his shoulder with his left hand before he continued to indulge in his meal. 

Dipper smiled slightly, “Yeah, it really has. You uh… look great!” 

“Come on, we both know that is a load of bull. Forget this. Tell me, how is Ford? He still kickin?” Jude slurped the bone marrow out of the bone of the ribs he just ate. 

“It’s complicated,” Dipper said as his eyebrows furrowed. It’s not like he didn’t trust Jude with information about Grunkle Ford, but Ford himself told him to never tell anyone what happened that night, not even other Spectrarchs, not even Jude. 

Jude finished sucking the bone marrow with a loud pop, “Always is with that man.” Jude switched the plate of bones with a plate of runny eggs, glazed pork belly and succulent chicken thighs.

He cut the eggs in half then smeared the diced up pork belly in the yellow of the eggs and almost choked on it as he inhaled the thing.

After a few more bites he finalled spoke again, “So, last time I saw you, you weren’t dealing with yer powers too well. How is it now?” 

“Well… it depends. No matter how hard I trained, I could never stop myself from being sucked into the void. Grunkle Ford made me study botany, to find a remedy to help me stay grounded,” Dipper said freely. He didn’t have a reason not to trust Jude, as most Spectrarchs treat each other like blood brothers. They had a camaraderie in their suffering, and talking about it often helped ease their pain. 

Jude smirked as he devoured the meat off of the chicken thighs in barely a second, “And? Is that remedy working?” 

“I tried other herbs, but so far Valerian Root helped the most. It’s usually used by peasants to sleep at night since it helps with their sore backs, but for those that walk between the veils, it allows them more control in their dreams or visions,” Dipper rambled. 

“And since your curse basically forces you to view the lives of corpora delicti as a dream, it helps you control it. Smart, wish I had somethin’ to help like that,” Jude cleared the rest of the food from his second plate while he talked. 

“It’s more complicated. Valerian Root can be unstable, and especially in higher dosages. Which I need to keep increasing, since my body gets used to set dosages,” Dipper sighed as he leaned his head on his palm. 

Jude wiped his mouth with a napkin, “Well, at least you got something. Look at me, I get skinnier and skinnier, all just to be able to puppet some damn animals. Hell, none of the jobs I get can even match the amount I spend on not starvin’. A miracle I made it so far, kid.”

Dipper took a look at Jude, who did seem to have lost more weight. Upon further notice, his shirt was too baggy for his body and it was one of the smallest sizes. Dipper could not help but feel a sense of pity. While Dipper could deal with his own powers as the physical drawbacks were minimal, Jude could only do so much to prevent his own health deteriorating.

“Stop lookin’ at me with those pitiful eyes, Dipper. I’ll manage. We ain’t living large just being what these swine call ‘Spectrarchs’, but I still bear the responsibility of our powers with pride. Pride is all we got, even if we get hired to chase pigs covered in white sheets from time to time,” Jude crossed arms. Jude then hollered at a waitress to bring another plate of food before he turned his head to Dipper, “I heard you’re on a big job. One directly from the king. Must pay pretty well, huh?” 

“News travels too fast… but yeah, I am. I can cut you in on it, if you want to work together,” Dipper offered with a sincere look in his eyes.

Jude shook his head, “Nah, it’s alright. I already got a job myself. It’ll do me pretty well for a week or so. Yours though, must be a real tough nut to crack.” 

“You don’t even know the half of it, Jude… I’d love to talk about it, but I really need some rest,” Dipper rose from his seat.

Jude nodded, “Yeah, rest always helps clearin’ a mind. Good night, Dipper Pines.” 

“Good night, Jude,” Dipper said as he sluggishly climbed the stairs. The wet clothes made walking feel like he was carrying a bag of stones and his heavy eyelids made every step seem to take longer. Eventually he reached his room,  fumbling with his keys to open the door. Once inside, the cold of the wind jolted him awake. The window was wide open, which was strange. Dipper never remembered opening the window. He carefully approached it—balling up his fists tightly—but once he reached it there was nothing to be found. That’s when a sharp feeling in his stomach sent shivers down his entire body. His breath seemed to fly right out of his body as the sting got worse and spread through his nervous system. He looked down to see blood stain his wet shirt. Dipper opened his mouth to scream, but a strong cold hand covered it. As his face turned ghost white and his eyes began to tremble while he began to lose consciousness, a quiet yet haunting voice whispered in his ear “Alea iacta est. Pax vobiscum.”

At that moment, Dipper could not hold his eyes open anymore. He closed them as his body turned limp, as the void beckoned his name with joy and despair at the same time. He did not feel his body fall, he only felt as the void embraced him again. Only this time, likely forever.