saturna625

[saturna625]

You work at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls.

It's no big deal, really. I mean, every once in a while, you realize that it's gotta be a front for something. A cult, the illuminati, or the mafia, you weren't really sure.

You weren't paid enough to care, honestly.

But the job was fun enough, and the customers were cool to screw with, and it paid the bills, plus your coworkers were pretty cool.

Your boss was.... an odd man, sure. A good con, a great sense of humor, and a mouth that could make a sailor blush, but you wouldn't say he's evil.

He's got a great nephew and niece, who come up every summer. They're chill, too. Mabel sends you home with at least two new stickers every day. Your binder is getting too full. But you didn't mind, the kid was sweet. You'd find a use for these stickers, later.

Gravity Falls was an odd town, but you didn't really seem to mind that either. A little town, barely even a dot on the state map, hidden behind back roads upon back roads in the great state of Oregon. It had its moments, and it's stories.

You were decently sure the lawn gnome in your garden moved on its own, and your attic was definitely haunted (you regret mentioning that to the kids– you've found that Dipper kid trying to look up where you lived), but it was cheap and homey, and a great place to live after scraping past college.

Then your boss– who was really your boss's brother? Who had taken up his name, when he disappeared, the ultimate con, you actually admired him for that– Stanley, and his twin, the original owner of the Shack, Stanford emerged from behind the vending machine, you knew that you were maybe in a little too deep. Mafia ties, for sure.

Then quite some events happen: ie, the sky splits open, you become a statue for a hot minute, and then... aren't, anymore (dude, the squirrel that you treat as your therapist is gonna go wild when he hears this) and you're back at the Shack.

The building is warmer now. Pointdexter– or Ford, the actual one, is a pretty good man. A little blunt, with not much common sense for the amount of books smarts he has, but good.

If you find anything weird, or out of place, it's his.

If you see him fighting an interdimensional squid, and then you're told there's seviche in the kitchen, you don't question it.

And you take some seviche to go.

The shack is a little louder since Ford's arrival. Stan seems happy. Dipper too. And Mabel, well, she still gives you stickers as you leave your shift.

You're on a walk, something you read that could help with coping, through the woods. The weather is nice today, and for once, it's not raining, and even better, the air is crisp and cool.

You decide to take a new trail. It leads into a bit of a clearing, you can see a rock piling, some flowers, and a creek. It's pretty.

You take your journal out, a small, leatherbound thing (the inside cover is coated with stickers. Mabel, please) and begin to sketch it, a hobby you've picked up in the last months.

You're not the best, but you're not the worst, either. As you're finishing up, you spot a weird shift in the rocks.

Weird is normal here.

So you get up to go investigate, holding your journal at the ready, like a defensive position.

The statue does not move.

It looks like the illuminati symbol. Like the top of the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill. It's overgrown with moss, but you do not recognize it. It's hand is held out, like it's ready to shake yours.

Heh. That would be pretty funny.

If you shook the statue's hand.

It's what it wants. Shake it's hand. Shake the hand.

You draw the statue. It's a shoddy deal, but you actually enjoyed how it turned out. It looks cool.

The hand is outstretched.

You leave one of Mabel's stickers on the statue. It looks a little less intimidating that way.

Your shift starts in twenty minutes, so you tuck your journal in your jacket, and you're off to it.

Maybe you'll come back later. There's a bit more you want to do with the drawing.

Shake the hand.

You've gotta fix the angle on it. You wonder how the sculptor got it to be that way.

You clock in, and pull your journal out again, as Dipper walks through the doors, followed by Ford.

The younger twin asks what your journal is about. He's got a few of his own.

"Kind of random." You tell him. "I draw things I see on my walks, or write down recipes, or stuff like that. Dude, wait until I show you this statue I found in the woods. It'll fit right in with those notebooks you keep..."

[saturna625]

I wanna think about storm chaser!reader and tf141????? (yes, I used to live in tornado valley. I know some of this is unrealistic but I'll make it real enough)

Like maybe Johnny, who watches these absolutely wild YouTubers who chase these massive storms ("Gaz, honestly, take a look at these fuckin' clouds! All spinny an' shit!") And maybe you're the weather predictor, who coaches from the passenger seat as the truck weaves through corn fields, unaware of tf141 within the comment section.

TF141, of course, meaning Twister Force 141, a bit of a nickname for their little weather research team.

Maybe they get so invested that Price pulls a couple strings, and gets satellite view, so the boys can watch both you and the weather live.

Maybe you get a little too close to the tornado, as the county sirens blare in the background, and your audio shorts out. Maybe the boys are on the edges of their seats, seeing you speed headfirst into a storm that is building quicker than your ten dollar weather app can process.

You're too deep in a quick growing storm. None of your tech is working, and you're strapping yourself into your seat, looking over at your best friend who's driving. You don't even know if the camera's still rolling. The wind howls outside, screams so loud you can't even hear yourself yell.

Maybe you hear a gruff voice through your staticky radio, as you see, well, what used to be a barn, crash down in front of you, before disappearing into the murk and dust.

"Throw it into reverse, you muppets!"

Your friend slams on his breaks, and kicks the truck into reverse. You fly backwards as the cameras on your dashboard blink red and green. You're driving blind, and the monster is only growing. A stop sign takes your side mirror clean off, and embeds itself into a tree.

Your friend cuts to the left, turning yall around, and throws it into forward as you build speed, trying to outrun it.

With dawning horror, the team puts together a shoddy storm projection. You won't outrun it.

You, however, have decided to ditch the harness. The haunting sound of a twister, groaning as it builds, lunching towards you. It pulls the roof off a house. A tree flies towards you, and your buddy swerves to avoid it, as you scramble into the back seat.

Soap is so used to watching amateurs outrun tiny squalls, little touchdowns of dust and air, but this thing was processing as E-4.

And you were no amateur.

You call to your buddy to cut left, and drive under the overpass. You're not stopping there. Everyone knows that overpasses are the worst place to be.

You think, somewhere in the dust and wind and debris, that you see a truck pulling a trailer of barrels, but it had overturned. You hoped it's owners were lucky enough to get somewhere safe.

It gets sucked into the storm, and disappears. The sky is swirling black above you, a nightmarish mixture of ink and debris. The truck skids on the pavement, your friend juts off road, as foreign voices coached you out of the storm.

But they were wrong. They're telling him to keep driving forward.

You see the wind shift, in the rolling, whipping grass. The pressure drops, and your ears pop. You stop your commentators explanation to gaze open-mouthed at the sky above you.

"There's.... There's gonna be another one!" You shout at your friend, who seems to pale at your words. "That's good! It'll take the pressure away from that mother over there–" you point. Rain pelts the windshield, but he can make out the shift in the clouds. "They'll fight it out and dissipate! We'll just- I can't fucking see- stop!" You shout, as a house crashes down directly in front of you, but it's too late.

The nose of the truck goes through where the roof had been, burying itself near the chimney. You fly forward and hit the seat in front of you. You think your head knocks against some camera equipment, and the wind howls again, before it all goes dark.

When you come to, you're able to hear the sirens again. The scratchy panic of the radio fills in the rest of the sound, different groups of chasers trying to figure out what the hell they're doing. You no longer hear that European group, though. Maybe you thought it up.

What you didn't know was that, ten miles away, hunkered in the safety of a low level parking garage, the boys cramped around the screen as they watch you pull yourself out of the car. In the unfocused lense, they can tell that you might bruise pretty rough. But in the background, they see the second twister come into view. It's half a mile off, battling out the Mother, as you called it, before suddenly, they both draw back up into the sky, dancing around one another, and then they're gone.

The tornado sirens go out shortly after that, and they hear rain, and thunder, and you– whooping and cheering, and scrambling to find an intact camera.

You thank the audience as your friend joins you at your side. He's probably going to quit after this, you can tell by the look on his face. He was never one for weather anyways.

But it didn't matter. You were usually the driver anyhow.

Simon looks at Price, who looks down at Soap, sketching out the projections, and Gaz, writing all the data down in his uber fancy composition notebook. The livestream ends.

And who knows, there's a ton of storm chasers in town this season. Maybe someone had some people to spare.

(pt2?)