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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years ago

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I was raised agnostic and tend to remain ambiguous on theological matters.

-but my house has a porch on the second story that affords me a terrific view of my neighborhood and the Colorado Front Range and I was partaking of some peace before the 4th Of July Finger-Loss Festivities begin, and I have had a

~*Spiritual Experience*~

I just watched my neighbor try to unload an actual wooden pallet that had to have been forklifted into the back of his insecurity pickup worth of fireworks.

Except that he does not have a forklift in his garage.

He does have so much sports memorabilia and cardboard boxes of unsold MLM Merchandise and patriotically themed camping gear and posters of women in bikinis and flags of suspect political organizations in his garage that there is only BARELY enough space for the fireworks and certainly none for his truck.

So he had to unload the individual boxes of recreational explosives from the back of his truck and stack them in the minimal space he had cleared by hand. This is a tedious and time-consuming process as this neighbor has purchased a wide variety of recreational and locally illegal explosives instead of many of just a few types, so the individual boxes are rather small.

He begins, and this is crucial to what happens next, by cutting apart the industrial-grade saran wrap his explosives dealer had so carefully wrapped his merchandise in, and discarded it unsecured on his lawn.

Where Outdoor Conditions sometimes happen.

His process for unloading the fireworks is to 1. Climb up through the gate into the bed of his pickup truck (a feat made unusually difficult due to the slope of his driveway, and this man's fascinating decision to wear the world's Siffest and least Flexible Denim Overalls. 2. Once in the pickup bed, he selects ONE (1) box from the pile He is apparently from a niche religious institution that doesn't believe in stacking things. 3. Carries it awkwardly around the palette that barely fits in the truck bed 4. His wife yells "Be careful!" when he nearly falls out of the pickup. 5. He Yells "SHADDUP!" back at her. 6. The Large German Shepherd barks from inside the house. 7. He yells "SHADDUP!" back at her too. 8. He sets the (1) box down on the gate 9. Slowly and awkwardly climbs out of the pickup bed 10. picks the box back up, and carries it into the garage.

Question: Aren't you going to help this poor man? Answer: Absolutely Not.

There's four military veterans, MANY dogs, and several people with dementia in this neighborhood, all of whom are terrified by this chicanery every year and many neighbors have repeatedly asked him to maybe do the fireworks somewhere else. (This is the Eighth Year Running he's held a major demolition event in his driveway, and for those of you who can do math, you may be able to guess the precipitating incident to this little ritual) Additionally, I live in Colorado, a state marginally less prone to spontaneous and catastrophic conflagrations than a rotting grain silo, but only marginally. Our recreational explosives laws are written accordingly.

I am in fact calling the Non Emergency line to report Fireworks violations, and reading off the brand labels to someone named Dorothy, who is gleefully totaling up a SPECTACULAR fine for my oblivious neighbor.

However, while I'm on the phone with Dorothy, I notice the wind begin to pick up. and by "Notice" I mean "The Industrial Saran Wrap he left on his Lawn earlier is suddenly swept up about 100 feet into the air by an updraft intense enough to make my ears pop" And by "Pick Up" I mean "I look up to see the sky has turned a fun and exciting shade of glass green, and the bottoms of the clouds are bumpy and rounded, and the overall effect is not unlike looking up through the bottom of the cup at God's Matcha Boba Tea."

For those of you who do not live in places with Inclement Weather, these conditions mean "You have about 30 seconds before a Major Meteorological Event Occurs."

I move under the eaves. "Hang on Dorothy." I say, nose filling with Petrichor. "The show is about to be cancelled." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" Dorothy cheerfully informs me. "It's illegal for him just to possess those, no matter if he actually gets to set them off or not." "Terrific, because he's gotten maybe five boxes out of a hundred inside."

Sometimes, the weather gods are Merciful and give you a verbal warning, typically in the kind of thunderclap that makes your ears ring.

The Gods were not merciful today.

It's not often that I am in the time, place, correct angle or in a properly observational frame of mind to see this, But I got to see it today. Huh. I thought. I've never seen a cloud just DIVE for the ground before. Oh. I realized as it got closer. That's RAIN.

Sometimes, a thunderstorm will form in such a way that the rain that would normally be distributed over an area of say, five to tent square miles, is instead concentrated into an area of say, my neighborhood exactly.

So today, I was granted the rare privilege of being able to actually see the literal wall of water descend from On High and DIRECTLY onto my porch, my street, and my neighbor's truck, and his pile of unwrapped fireworks.

The sheer impact force of the downpour immediately scatters the teetering pile of fireworks boxes in the back of the truck, like the wrath of God striking down the tower of Babel. Boxes tumble, then are washed out of the bed of the truck by the deluge. Smaller Boxes are carried down the road in a little line by the stream forming in the gutter, like little impotent explosive ducklings.

My neighbor was definitely yelling something, but I could not hear what over the DEAFENING noise several million gallons of water makes upon high-speed contact with the earth's surface, but there was a lot of arm-waving and faces turning red as he went looking for the saran wrap that had probably blown to Nebraska by now, while his wife started disassembling the complex three-dimensional puzzle of interlocking material goods in search of a tarp. They do not have a tarp. They have one of those wretched Thin Blue Line flags though, and my neighbor jogs out in a futile effort to cover what's left in the truck.

Which is when the hail begins.

"HELLO?" Yelled Dorothy. "HI!" I shouted. "WE'RE HAVING SOME WEATHER!" "OH GOOD!" she shouts back. "WE NEED THE MOISTURE!"

I watch for a minute longer, but the loss was immediate and catastrophic- the hail is the size of marbles and dense and cares not for your pitiful cardboard and cellophane, ripping the boxes asunder and punching holes in the few things covered in plastic. The colors on the Thin Blue Line Flag are seeping all over the remains of that it was supposed to protect in a particularly apt visual metaphor. Not even the few boxes that made it into the garage are spared, as the German Shepherd escapes from indoors, and in an attempt to assist her humans, jumps directly into the small stack of not-yet-ruined boxes, scattering them into the driveway and deluge. She even picks one up so her humans will chase her around the yard, before dropping it in the gutter to be swept away.

So. I was raised Agnostic -but even I can recognize when God slaps someone upside the head and shouts "NO!" at them.

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#Family Lore #Long Post #Local Man Experiences Local Weather

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ckret2 · 4 months ago

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due to stuff involving a goat, the only thing that can save the pines family is sticking bill cipher in a cute dress, doing weird 70's things to his hair, slapping makeup on him, and sending him to flirt with a government agent

and if that ain't a setup for a chapter i don't know what is

anyway here's chapter 86 of this thing.

####

"Something about this is just wrong," Stan said. "It isn't natural."

"Oh, I don't know," Ford said, grinning. "I think it's funny."

Without looking over, trying not to move his lips, Bill said, "I'd like to see you do better."

It was still a few minutes until the Mystery Shack opened for the day, and he and Mabel were sitting in the kitchen, with Bill miserably wearing a mis-buttoned Hawaiian shirt so he wouldn't mess up his makeup when he changed into his flirting uniform. The makeup supplies Pacifica had sent them home with yesterday were spread out on the kitchen table, and they were collaboratively trying to remember how to recreate the look Pacifica had given Bill yesterday. Thus far, they'd managed moisturizer and foundation and were debating the finer points of concealer color theory.

"I didn't say it's bad," said Ford, whose opinions on makeup only fell into three categories: obviously hideous; fine, I guess; and potentially magical sigils for ritual purposes. "It's just bizarre watching you care about it."

Bill mumbled, "I'm blending in with the Nacirema." Ford barked a laugh. (About time somebody got it.)

Stan elbowed Ford. "What's a Nacirema?"

"It's— There's this phenomenon in anthropology— I'll explain it later."

Stan grumbled to himself about the nerds enabling each other, then said, "Hey. When you do the lipstick, don't make it look too good. If it looks too good, he'll assume you're out of his league and get suspicious when you start hitting on him. I never trust attention from a lady whose lipstick isn't at least a little cakey."

Offended, Mabel said, "Grunkle Stan, I'm an artiste! I can't do a bad job on purpose!"

Bill said, "It doesn't matter! Once I get my seduction hat on, he won't even glance at my face." He poked the top hat sitting on the kitchen table.

"Oh, no you don't," Stan said. "Hat's gotta go, it's too tall. Guys hate it when their dates are taller than them."

"What?!" Bill stared at Stan, aghast. "You've gotta be insane! The hat's essential—"

"Hold still!" Mabel poked his neck with the butt of a makeup brush.

He reluctantly gave up and turned to face her again, but not without muttering to himself, "Can't wear a seduction hat, can't stick my hand in a goat's stomach acid, god forbid women do anything."

Last night's hunt for Gompers had been an abysmal failure—Dipper and Mabel had never even glimpsed him. This morning, beneath the banter, there was a somber air in the room; the household was trying not to think about the fact that their collective safety was resting on Bill's ability to seem appealing to a normal man in spite of the fact that they were having a conversation, and he wasn't even able to convincingly pretend he had a plan.

Dipper was trying to get breakfast around Bill and Mabel. Once Mabel had puffed on a layer of setting powder, Bill twisted around to give Dipper an unnecessarily wide smile. "Hey! How do I look?"

He glanced up from pouring a bowl of cereal and grimaced. "Somehow even less like a real human than usual."

Bill laughed. "Yep, it's the lack of pores." He turned away to check his mirror as he applied his mascara.

Mabel said, "He'll look better once we get the lipstick on."

Soos ducked in from the living room. "Hey, uh, guys?" It was clear he'd been as distracted that morning as the rest of them; he'd misbuttoned his suit jacket. "I just saw the government dudes' car again. Like, in the parking lot this time, not lurking down the street."

The energy in the air changed, like a subtle electric current shooting through the room. "Okay, enough gawking at the freak show," Stan said. "Ford?"

"Right!" He grabbed up his coffee mug, re-thought it, and poured the mug back in the coffee pot and picked up the pot instead, then bolted from the kitchen. He returned a moment later with his arms loaded with his journal, several books, and a couple of guns that would definitely be illegal on Earth if Earth had ever heard they existed. "Basement."

Bill turned toward the doorway so fast Mabel almost smeared lipstick across his cheek. Basement? He hoped Ford meant his study. If they went all the way to the basement, and noticed that somebody had been moving around the rubble of the portal...

"Bill!" Mabel said.

"I know, I know." He turned back to her again.

A final line, and Mabel sighed in relief. "Okay, you're good."

Stan rummaged through the fridge for the first thing he could find to sustain himself and Ford for the day. "Hey, demon. Remember everything I taught you."

"Yeah, yeah," Bill sighed. "Don't claim I have a job he can fact-check, don't pretend I make more money than him unless I want him to invite me to a fancy restaurant and pretend he forgot his wallet, if he asks my age I'm fifteen years younger than him, my human family lives across the country, I don't have any sisters that might be prettier, and there's nothing I wanna hear about more than World War 2 battle tactics or vintage car repair or whatever hobby he's picked up to make himself feel more masculine."

"And?" Mabel prompted.

"And my favorite animal is cats, my favorite color is pink, my favorite flavor is chocolate, my favorite film genre is not slapstick snuff, my favorite time to get married is next week, and my favorite body part on a partner is their eyes still inside their sockets, but if I specify the socket part it'll worry him."

"Right! Gold star!" She smacked a sticker onto his shirt.

Stan clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Knock 'im dead," he said. "Not literally. Unless you're sure the other two won't catch you."

"I'll see what I can do," Bill said.

####

The three agents eyed the sign that had been set up outside the Mystery Shack's main door. It said, "Self-guided tour today! $15" and there was a cardboard box taped beneath with a slit cut in the lid.

Agent Dale said, "Do you think that's for us?"

"Probably not," Trigger said uncertainly. "We have a warrant."

"Huh." Dale reread the sign, then tentatively rummaged through his pocket for his wallet and pulled out three fives. Trigger pushed his hand back down.

Soos ran around the side of the shack, breathing heavily. "Oh, wow! What a... totally random coincidence... running into you guys again..." He put his hands on his knees, huffing. "Gimme a sec. I was... running pretty fast... for no reason."

"Mr. Ramirez," Powers said. He held out a search warrant. "We're here to search this building for missing government property."

"Oh, dude, that's crazy," Soos said. "Do you like, have evidence that this property is in the building? Like, I don't know, any kind of... signal that it's giving off, maybe? That confirms it's here?"

Powers turned to Dale. He pulled his tablet out to check. "Uhhh... negative, sir. We're nnnot detecting the signal we picked up yesterday."

Powers frowned. "Hmm."

Trigger said, "Maybe the signal's... on the fritz?"

"Good point," Powers said. "We'd better search anyway. Dale, you start in the museum; Trigger, come with me to the back. I'll interview Mr. Ramirez." He gave Soos a sharp look. "And I hope you'll have more to say today than that you don't know anything."

Soos swallowed hard.

####

From the living room couch, Soos called to Trigger, "Be careful with the stuff in here, okay? This old shack's full of priceless antiques and authentic exotic curios. I glued half of them together myself!"

"So." Powers took a seat in one of the armchairs, opened an unlabeled manila folder and propped it on his knee, and clicked out a retractable pen. "Jesús Ramirez, correct? You prefer 'Soos'?"

"Yep, that's right," Soos said. "When I started school, my cousin Reggie, he'd yell at me across the cafeteria to sit with him, like, 'Jesús!' But some of the kids in my grade thought he was saying, 'hey, Soos!' And it stuck."

Powers nodded slowly. "I... see. And, you're the head of the household."

"Yup! That's me!"

"Property records say that the house is owned by 'Stanford Pines'?"

"Uhhh, yeah," Soos said. "He kinda, stepped down as head of the house, unofficially, and I'm running the house now. Also the business."

"And where is Stanford Pines right now?"

"Oh, he's out." (They had agreed that under no circumstances could the agents talk to Stan, lest something from last summer come up; and they definitely couldn't talk to the real Stanford Pines, whom they already knew as a mysterious superior officer from Washington.)

"When will he be back?"

Soos hesitated. "Ooout of the country. World traveling. Yeah, haha, he's been doing that for the past year with his brother."

Powers flipped a couple pages forward in his file. "His brother Sherman? Who lives in New Jersey?"

"No no, his other brother."

His other brother who died thirty years ago?"

Soos paused. "Uhhh..."

Dale ducked into the living room. "Sirs—I've found something interesting. You have to come see this."

Powers got to his feet, closing his folder and tucking it under his arm. "Excuse me." He followed his agents.

Soos heaved a sigh of relief.

"Wow, Questiony,—you were this close to collapsing like a house of cards."

Bill sauntered down the stairs. He was in a dress covered in yellowy-orangey triangles that managed, for the first time all summer, to reveal that he did in fact have curves, and he'd grabbed a set of green triangular clip-on earrings from Mabel's jewelry. A gold star sticker had been stuck on one of the earrings. Soos thought it was kinda weird to look at him all dressed up, with hair and everything. Bill looked like if Bill had a sister.

"Man," Soos said, slumping back into the couch. "I don't know if I can take another round of that. They're using some kind of government interrogation mind tricks."

"Relax," Bill said. "I'll take it from here."

He shut one eye and shot Soos a pair of finger guns as he backed into the gift shop, and twirled around to go pursue his prey.

####

Dale jogged through the gift shop, nodding to a couple of tourists as he passed—"Morning, ladies"—and ducked through the "employees only" door. A moment later, all three agents jogged into the museum. An older woman asked, "Why are so many handsome men in suits running around?"

As Bill let himself into the gift shop, he said, "Secret government agents! They're here investigating a conspiracy."

"Oh my," the woman gushed. "Isn't that exciting!"

"They'll only be here today! See if you can get their autographs!" Bill leaned on the front counter. "Hey, nice to see you back. You were missed yesterday."

Melody gave him an irritated look from behind the register.

"Surprised you came in, after how you felt yesterday!" In part because Soos was attempting to get as many people away from the shack and out of the danger zone as possible. He'd told Wendy she could take the day off, he'd persuaded Abuelita to go visit Reggie and his wife, and he'd tried to talk the kids into hanging out somewhere else for the day and only relented when they argued that their plucky 13-year-old adventuring expertise could be useful if things took a turn for the worse. Surely, he'd asked his fiancée to stay home too; strange that she hadn't. "Word is you're having trouble sleeping. Bad dreams? If it is, I could help you out. I happen to be an expert on—"

"I don't want your help." Her voice was a lot more venomous than Bill had expected.

He blinked in surprise. He knew she wasn't his biggest fan, but that seemed unnecessarily hostile. "Whoa, just offering! Don't bite my head off. Those don't grow back."

Melody sighed. "Sorry," she said insincerely, looking away from him. "I just... This whole plan bothers me. Flirting with some poor guy just to distract him."

Don't lie to a liar, girl. Something else was bothering her. Still, Bill only said, "Do you have a better plan?"

"Yeah? Just don't do anything suspicious and make sure Gompers stays away from the shack until the agents get bored and leave."

Bill scoffed. "And if they don't get bored?"

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Why would they? This town's got gnomes, fairies, and a crashed spaceship."

"Well—yeah, but, that's not a reason to focus on the shack."

"Never underestimate what the government will chuck tax dollars at without a good reason!"

Melody huffed, "Okay, fine. I still don't like it."

Yeah, Bill bet she didn't. Especially with the Bureau of Covert Investigations here looking for someone dangerous.

Okay—he'd given the eagles enough of a head start for it to look natural when he casually bumped into them. He straightened up, stretched, and sauntered toward the museum's curtain. "I won't ask you to wish me luck—" he lifted one wrist toward Melody and shook the bracelet covered in evil eye beads that Mabel had given him, "—just don't wish me ill." And then he followed the agents into the museum.

####

"Here it is," Dale said, stopping. "What do you make of this?"

He was standing in front of the museum's taxidermy Sascrotch display.

Trigger covered his mouth, trying to hold back a snort of laughter.

Dale grinned. "It's pretty great, right?"

Powers looked the Sascrotch up and down. "I don't get it."

"Heeey, secret agent man!" Bill swept into the museum and leaned against the wall, head propped against his hand, other hand on his cocked hip. "Imagine meeting you three days in a row, what a coincidence! I'm starting to feel like you're following me around."

Powers looked at Bill—and then started a little. (Not used to seeing him with his eyes emphasized properly, no doubt.) His cheeks immediately turned pink. Flustered, he stammered awkwardly for a moment before getting out, "I—I—Pardon me, I can assure you, you're not under investigation—" Dale and Trigger exchanged a glance and tried not to grin.

"Hey, whoa! I didn't mean it in a bad way." He flashed Powers his best smile. (He'd practiced in the mirror. Mabel had given him tips on not making it too wide.) "Say, since I was lucky enough to see you again, I've got a question for you, secret agent man."

"Yes?"

Bill batted his long, gorgeous lashes at Powers. "Do you believe in love at first sight, or am I gonna have to arrange a fourth meeting?"

"Uhh." Powers's already stellar posture somehow found a way to straighten a little bit more. "The first three times were more than sufficient, ma'am."

"Haha, you charmer!" All right, maybe Mabel had had a point about not opening up with a line about eyeballs. Still, this would be a cinch. Bill had been manipulating humans for millennia, and flirting was no different. Slipping into this role felt natural. He was in his element. He was good at this. He'd have this guy eating out of his hand in an hour.

Dale and Trigger looked at each other again, and Dale said, "Sir, maybe Trigger and I should search the house. You can take the museum."

"Maybe you could interview the locals," Trigger threw in, before they beat a hasty retreat.

"Ho—hold on!" Powers said; but his agents had already abandoned him. What terrific wingmen. Not the best agents, maybe.

"Sooo," Bill said, "if you aren't here to see me, what brings you by this old dump of a tourist trap again? It can't be the displays." He tugged out the waistband of Sascrotch's briefs with a finger and let go, letting it snap back against its waist; a small cloud of dust puffed out of the fur. "Still looking for some dangerous character?"

"No, not at the moment. Nothing you need to worry about," Powers said. "We're here looking for some... sensitive objects?"

"Oh? What kind of sensitive objects?" Bill asked. "I've been to this little tourist trap a few times, maybe I can help find 'em?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"What, you don't think you can trust me?" Bill batted his lashes. That had been working pretty well for him so far. (The mascara had to be helping. Man, was he glad to have mascara again.)

Powers avoided making eye contact. "I"m sure you're very trustworthy. But—it would be an embarrassment to the bureau, you understand."

"Sure! Sure." Billl's smile wilted slightly. "Well—I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I just watch, would you? I've never seen a real federal investigation in action—seems exciting."

Powers hesitated, his professionalism warring with his very obvious crush. "I... suppose I wouldn't mind." Sure, like he wasn't utterly flattered.

As Powers's inspection took him around the museum and back into the gift shop, he said, "You said your name was Goldie? I don't think I ever got your last name."

Oh he'd better not be planning on a background check. "It's Locke—and yes, I've already heard every comment about it you can imagine."

Powers gave him a quizzical look. "I believe you told us to inform Mr. Gleeful that a 'Mr. Locke' had recommended we purchase a car from him?"

He had said that, hadn't he. If he'd known two days ago he'd have to femme up for this guy... "Sure! I happen to be related to a lot of Mr. Lockes!" Before Powers could pry into this family Bill had just invented, he hurried on: "Say, I never got your name, did I!" Did he? Since he already knew it, he couldn't remember if he'd bothered to ask.

"Of course—I'm Agent Powers."

"Is 'Agent' your first name, handsome?"

Powers flushed a little more, and he mumbled, "Manny."

"Manny Powers?" Bill casually slid between Powers and the vending machine to keep him from looking too close at it. "Like, 'manpower'?"

"Precisely," Powers said. "Obviously, that's... not my real name, just my assigned codename for field assignments."

Bill laughed, "Hey, not bad! 'Manpower,' that's pretty funny."

"Is it?" Powers asked. "Hm. It isn't supposed to be. I'll have to speak with HQ about that."

Bill pressed his lips together. Tell him he's funny, Bill! Guys love it when you tell them how funny they are! Last time hetook advice from a human on anything. He shot an exasperated look toward Melody, who winced in what he hoped was sympathy.

Trigger ducked into the gift shop. "Sir? I think we've found something. Really, this time."

Powers's attention snapped to him. "Show me."

Bill maintained his position until the agents were gone; and then he let out a long, frustrated sigh. He glanced at Melody. "How are we doing?"

She grimaced. "I'd give it... three out of five stars?"

"You're generous, I appreciate that." He nearly rubbed his eyelids in irritation, and only the sight of his red fingernails reminded him of his makeup in time to stop.

In his heart of hearts, Bill felt like he should have already won by now—but then, he'd always hated waiting for things. Usually he could force patience on himself by finding a peephole that would let him see further into the future so he could tell exactly when his latest plan would succeed. In this body, he couldn't see any farther than a few minutes, and he didn't have any eyes he could look through but his own. Like this, he didn't even know whether he'd succeed.

Except of course he would. Of course. He always did. He didn't need to check. He had until the agents left to make some real progress, and that was plenty of time. He'd figure this out.

He almost backed into the living room, remembered at the last second that he didn't want Melody to know about his door ignoring trick, and said flatly, "Door." Melody reluctantly left her station to help open it.

In the living room, Dale was standing on top of the table, which he'd dragged over in front of the TV, and attempting to pry a board out of the ceiling with a crowbar. He asked Soos, "You're sure you don't have a stepladder somewhere?"

"Uh-uh," Soos said. He was hovering in the doorway, wringing his hands together. "It's against the house rules."

"We picked up a faint radio signal," Trigger explained to Powers. "Like from a walkie-talkie with a dying battery, or..."

"Ah-ha!" Dale pulled a gray blocky object out of a space over the ceiling. It appeared to be a radio: it had an antenna, a speaker, a couple of glowing lights flickering on the brink of going out... and a large Bureau of Covert Investigations seal stamped on the front. The eagle peering through the magnifying glass seemed as surprised to see them as they were to see it. "Is... is this one of our transmitters?"

Powers blinked at it in amazement. "What in the Sam Hill is one of our transmitters doing in this building!" He directed the question toward Soos.

Soos flinched. "How should I know, I didn't know this place was bugged! I would've unbugged it if I knew." He paused. "Unless that's a federal crime or something. In which case forget I said that."

"We're the guys that oughta know about it," Dale said, shrugging cluelessly. "Since it's one of ours. Weird."

Powers held his hand out for the transmitter, examined it, and turned it over. On the back a strip of black label-maker tape read, "GOVERNMENT PROPERTY! IF LOST, PLEASE RETURN TO AGENT TRIGGER."

Powers and Dale turned to Trigger.

He looked between them, baffled. "Wh— Well, I didn't put it there! I would've remembered putting it there." He frowned. "I mean... I should remember putting it there."

Powers's lips were pressed so flat together they were almost invisible beneath his mustache. "Well. Obviously, we ought to take it back."

Tentatively, Dale asked, "And... place a new one with a fresh battery, sir?"

Powers's brows drew together in anger. Between gritted teeth, he said, "Not with the civilians listening to you say so..."

Soos was still standing in the doorway, and Dipper and Mabel were peering around him from the staircase. Melody had peeked in nervously from the gift shop. At the callout, the kids and Melody had the grace to withdraw again. But Powers wasn't looking at them. He was glancing sideways toward Bill, standing right by his side—and Bill's wide-eyed gaze never wavered from Powers's face.

This wasn't good—they did not need the agents trying to figure out why they might have left a bug in the shack. Damage control time. "Hey," Bill said. "if you forgot about it completely, must not have picked up anything interesting, right? Otherwise you'da remembered it!"

All three agents' faces immediately darkened and they exchanged meaningful looks. Bill didn't like it when people exchanged meaningful looks he didn't know the meaning of. "Apparently so," Powers muttered.

"I'll just... take this to the car," Trigger said.

Soos backed out of the way to give him room to leave, then trailed after him: "So, are there any other bugs in here we should probably know about...?"

Bill waited until Trigger was already out of the house before he said to Dale, "Hey, does he have the car keys?"

"Oh!" Dale patted his pockets, then hurried out. "Trigger, wait!"

Once his agents were gone, Powers grumbled to himself, "'Place a new one.' What happened to professionalism." He rubbed his forehead. "Find one bug that you mysteriously don't know about, and everyone forgets how to act like government agents..."

He trailed off, giving Bill an uneasy sideways glance. Bill was still staring full force at him. He cleared his throat. "You... have an incredibly penetrating gaze, ma'am."

"Thanks! Keep talking like that and maybe it'll penetrate you," Bill really wanted to say, but didn't; "flirtatious euphemisms that could be about stabbing" and "comments that put the fear of the cruel ever-watching All-Seeing Eye of God in you" were both on Bill's list of banned topics. Instead, he tried, "Thanks! You're incredibly easy to look at!"

"O-oh." Powers adjusted his tie self-consciously. Getting a little hot under the collar, huh. "Am I?"

"You bet! In fact, I was just thinking you really look like dad material."

"That's... kind of you to say," Powers said. "However, I've never liked children."

"Oh." Bill shut his eyes until the urge to turn somebody's bones into thumbtacks subsided. "Sure, that's fine. I can take 'em or leave 'em."

"Sir?" Trigger called from the doorway. "What's our next move?"

"Excuse me." Powers left Bill, heading out to join his agents on the porch.

Bill drifted out to the entryway. Mabel and Dipper were huddled on the stairs. Bill shot Mabel a pained look and hissed, "How could you have steered me so wrong?"

"Sorryyy," she whispered back. "I thought the dad one was a winner!"

"I trusted you, star girl." He slid outside behind Powers just before the door swung shut.

And just before Soos came back in, looking stricken. Dipper asked, "What happened?"

"The agent with the movie star face asked what days the museum's closed," Soos said. "I think they're thinking about searching it more? And, he told me not to leave town? I can't take this, dude." A wild look had entered his eyes. "I'm not cut out for prison. I'm too gentle-hearted!"

"Shhh." Melody took his arm and gently led him away from the door, rubbing his back. "It's gonna be all right, Soos. It sounds like the agents are distracted. Why don't we close the museum early for lunch and try looking for Gompers again, okay? Maybe he's ready to come home. And we can get some fresh air, yeah?"

"Yeah." Soos took a deep breath. "Okay. You're right." He turned toward Dipper and Mabel. "Can you dudes handle the gift shop while we're out?"

"Sure thing, Soos, no problem," Dipper said. "You go ahead."

The twins waited until they heard the sound of the gift shop exit door closing, then Dipper said, "Not it."

"Me neither," Mabel said.

"The gift shop customers can take care of themselves for a few minutes." Dipper opened the back door a crack, and they both crowded against it. Bill—leaning on the wall next to the door with his arms crossed—glanced at the kids through the crack, raised a couple fingers in acknowledgement, and then all three listened to the agents on the porch:

"Well, obviously the flash drive signal wasn't a fluke. They must have hidden it since yesterday."

"We can't leave until we find it and figure out what's happening here." (Bill made a mental note to lord that over Melody later.) "What are our next steps?"

"Should we request more sensitive equipment to scan for electronics? There might be other transmitters in the building with completely dead batteries we're not picking up." (That seemed like a fast way to discover the door hidden behind the vending machine.)

"Maybe we ought to run some more background checks on the rest of the people here. How many of them have we checked out?"

A jolt of fear shot up Bill's spine. And that seemed like a fast way to discover that "Goldie Locke" didn't legally exist. "All right," he muttered through the crack. "I tried this the human way. Now I'm doing it my way."

"Wait," Dipper hissed, "Bill, no! What are you planning?!"

Bill ignored him as he sidled up to Powers. "Not heading out already, are you?"

Powers said, "As soon as Trigger finishes updating HQ." Trigger had walked off the porch and was now making a phone call. Dale surreptitiously scooted to the other end of the porch to give Powers and Bill room to talk.

"Aww, too bad. I was enjoying watching a real investigation at work!"

"Hm. I'm afraid you didn't see us at our most competent," Powers muttered.

"Hey, everyone has an off day or two." Bill leaned closer, just near enough for his bare arm to brush Powers's suit sleeve, and murmured, "And, anyway—not to bad-mouth these rookies, but even on a bad day it's already pretty clear you're the smartest guy in the room. I can only imagine how fascinating it'd be to watch you at work when you're bringing your A game."

Powers cleared his throat, obviously trying not to look flustered. "Well. Yes. We'll no doubt be around a few more days. Perhaps we'll... cross paths again...?"

Not good. Too passive. By now, this sucker was supposed to be falling all over himself to ask out the mysterious blonde. Bill could probably ask him out and it'd go fine—but he wasn't sure how attached this guy was to traditional gender roles, there was a chance it could turn him off.

(That was the excuse he told himself. In truth, part of him was getting mad. He wanted to be the one who was asked out. He should be asked out. He was more than good enough to be asked out, and this over-evolved eukaryote had no right to deny him that.)

He pressed, "Still, I hate to see you go. Three times I've run into you, and I hardly know any more about you than I did on the beach! I get that being mysterious comes with the whole secret agent territory—but I've been going crazy, wondering all night about this handsome stranger in town." He put just the slightest emphasis on all night—and threw in a wink for good measure.

"H... have you?" Powers turned to face Bill fully. "Well... some of my personal information is classified, given the nature of my work, but—what do you want to know?"

"For starters, I think I'm overdue to ask you whether you're single!"

"I—Yes, I am."

"Whaddaya know—something we have in common!" Bill pretended he had to think a moment before saying, "Hmm... Hey, here's another fun little get-to-know-you question: what conspiracy would you most hate to be true?"

(Through the ajar crack in the door, he could hear Mabel loudly whisper, "Bill nooo...")

"That's a fascinating question. I've often wondered it myself." Powers stared off into the distance, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose... I think I'd most hate to find out the government has tried to brainwash its own citizens. Not just propaganda, mind—that's fine—I mean actual brainwashing."

No way. Bill had to pin his lips between his teeth to keep from bursting out laughing. Somebody had forgotten to tell this guy about MKUltra. Wow. Wow. He worked for the Bureau of Covert Investigations. How did he miss MKUltra. Bill had to grope behind himself for the porch sofa and sit before he lost his balance from fighting not to laugh. When he was sure he could manage a few words without a giggle escaping, he squeaked, "Yeah, that—sounds... pretty bad."

"What about yours?" Powers turned toward Bill.

He had to quickly prop his elbow on the armrest and prop his chin in his hand to hide his mouth, pretending to think. He hoped his amusement wasn't showing elsewhere on his face—human faces had too many muscles to keep track of. "Mm! Hmm." While he was trying to get his laughter under control, Bill tried to pick out one of the countless conspiracies in his repertoire that was obscure enough to be impressive but not obscure enough to be suspicious. (Or "obscure" enough Powers didn't know about it—hello, MKUltra.) "Wow, there's—there's a lot that'd be terrible. But hey, as long as we're talking politics—" (Mabel hissed "Bill NO!") "—I've heard a rumor in the area that there's a secret crazy president that was kicked out and covered up in the history books, ever heard about that one?" That oughta grab his attention.

But to Bill's surprise, Powers frowned thoughtfully and slowly shook his head. "No, it's unfamiliar. It must be a local theory," he said. "If the government were to cover up an entire presidency, I'm sure they would have a pressing reason for it—but I do see how the concept would be alarming."

Bill stared at him. Did this guy not know anything the government was up to?! He should have been going out of his mind trying to figure out how Bill knew about Trembley. Powers wasn't the kind of agent who could tell decent lies. If he did know something, he wouldn't play dumb like that; he'd just tell Bill it was "classified." Did he really not know? But the eagles' search for Trembley's remains should have nothing to do with the memories Ford wiped from the agents' minds.

The Bureau of Covert Investigations was so covert, agents usually weren't even told about other bureau investigations they weren't personally part of. So...

Was the bureau running two investigations in Gravity Falls?

Had Powers not been looped into the Trembley case?

"Uh..." Bill scrambled to think of another conspiracy that might catch Powers's interest. (He and Trigger had mentioned Hangar 618; no wonder they had time to work on cases across the country if they were only handling half the active investigations in Gravity Falls—no, focus, focus.) "How about Big Fashion, have you heard of that one? The theory that the fashion industry's teaming up to take down ways for people to get clothes other than buying new. Thrift shops, fabric stores, sewing pattern companies..."

Powers nodded. "I'm familiar with the theory." (Oh good—Bill would've been embarrassed for him if he hadn't known that one.) "I'm afraid I haven't paid close attention to the evidence for it. I already buy all my clothes new—I don't like the thought of another man's skin cells lingering on the inside of my shirts, it feels unsanitary."

It was no wonder this guy had been assigned to Gravity Falls. Bill doubted he was weird enough to really fit in here—but he was just odd enough to feel the town's pull. "For starters, there's the assassination of the president of Valhalla Sewing Machines a few years ago. Sewing machines are one of Big Fashion's top targets."

"Something definitely happened there," Powers agreed, "but all evidence points to the hit being ordered by Crooner Company over their rival line of sewing machines. They did acquire Valhalla just a few months later."

"And Crooner's been battling the bad PR ever since," Bill said dismissively. "Neither company came out of that mess looking good. It was an obvious false flag operation!"

Powers frowned, and for a moment Bill worried that he'd said too much—that Powers either thought Bill sounded like a crackpot, or thought Bill knew too much for some small town civilian... but he said, approvingly, "You know your stuff."

Jackpot. Time to go in for the kill. "I try to! I'm interested in how the gears of the universe turn. Reality, society, politics, business—what greases those wheels? Who winds the clock? There's a lot going on underneath the surface. And I like to keep my eye on all of it." He lowered his voice. "Actually, I'm glad to see you in town. I've also felt like something's going on under the surface of this town, but..." He left the sentence dangling.

Slowly, Power said, "Something... paranormal, perhaps?"

"Ha! Between the Mystery Shack here and that 'child psychic' in town, that's the reputation Gravity Falls has now," Bill said. "I'm not the kind of gullible dope to get spooked by ghost stories without proof. But—whatever's going on here... it does feel spooky."

Powers nodded slowly. "Whenever I'm in this town, I have the exact same thoughts."

Bill fought to keep the triumph off his face.

####

Dipper whispered, "I can't believe this is working."

He and Mabel were crammed against the door, one on top of each other, listening to Bill say, "This has been a fascinating conversation. I'd love to hear more about your work... wink."

Dipper said, "I can't believe this is working even though he says 'wink' out loud."

Mabels shushed him. "Bill's doing great!"

Powers said, "Unfortunately, I do have to go submit my own report to headquarters. But, I'm free this evening. If you'd like to see a movie, or...?"

Mabel gasped. "Idea!" She tapped on the door's window to catch Bill's attention, and, when he glanced her way, she pointed out toward the clearing beyond the porch.

Bill looked at the clearing and twitched in surprise. Through the crack in the door, Dipper tried to see what Bill was looking at. He couldn't see anything in the clearing.

Bill turned to Powers. "Howsabout dinner? There's a diner in town called Greasy's. I've heard good things about it! For starters, that the food is better than the name."

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Wait, hold on—he's not allowed to go out, is he?" But Mabel didn't answer; she was sprinting full speed up the stairs.

From the far end of the porch, Dale said, "Oh, Greasy's is terrific, I went there yesterday for lunch. Makes a damn fine cup of coffee. And try the cherry pie."

"Very well," Power said. "When should I...?"

"I'll meet you at the diner. Let's say seven."

When the agents had left, Dipper yanked open the door. "What was that?! Nobody said you could actually leave to go on a date!"

Bill shrugged. "It wasn't my idea, it was your sister's."

"What?" Dipper frowned. "When did she say that?"

"She didn't. She's going to."

Mabel pounded down the stairs, counting the steps under her breath—"twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty eight"—carrying a neon yellow posterboard folded loosely in half. She ran out the door to the clearing behind the shack, held up the posterboard—she'd written "♡ INVITE HIM TO GREASY'S ♡" in thick black marker—and announced, "Ta-da!"

"You're too late," Dipper said. "Bill already asked Powers and he already left."

Bill said, "I asked him because I saw her telling me to."

Dipper looked between Bill and the poster. "Ohhh. Hang on. This is a future sight thing?"

"Bingo."

"How long should I hold it up?" Mabel called.

"Just give it another ten seconds," Bill said. "That thing's fluorescent, I could probably see it from an hour away."

She bounced on the balls of her feet for a few more seconds, then said, "Okay!" and jogged back to the porch, beaming from ear to ear. "That was so cool."

"Hey, smart girl!" Bill caught Mabel's sleeve before she could run past him. "You know, I've been talking to humans for thousands of years, and you're the first who's ever sent a message backwards in time to me?"

"Really?" Her face lit up. "Shut up! There's no way I'm the first-first!"

"Hand on heart, Shooting Star, no other human's ever tried it," Bill said. "You can't even see the fourth dimension, but you still understand it well enough to send messages through it. I'm genuinely impressed!"

Mabel's delight reached a boiling over point. She cackled in glee, gave Bill a quick hug, and bounded into the living room, crowing, "I'M THE GREATEST!"

Bill watched Mabel zoom into the gift shop, grinning proudly; and then his eyes slid sideways to meet Dipper's. "What's that look for."

Dipper was leveling his best suspicious glare at Bill. "Oh, nothing," he said. "Just thinking about how, the last time I heard you say you were impressed, you were just manipulating me into letting you puppet my body."

"Hmm! Yeah! I did do that!" Bill said. "Did I say I was genuinely impressed?"

Dipper's scowl deepened.

Bill's smirk widened. "C'mon, kid, don't be jealous just because you're not the alpha twin. It'd make your sister feel terrible."

####

"You actually got a date?" Ford asked.

"Sure! As if it's hard!"

Stan smugly held out a hand, palm up. Ford shot him an exasperated look, but sighed, fished around in his pocket, pulled out five large one-dollar coins, and dropped them in Stan's hand.

Bill stared at Ford, brows raised. "I don't know what's more insulting: that you bet against me, or that you've stopped using paper currency." Ford didn't deign to respond.

When they had been absolutely sure the agents were gone—for now—Soos had gone downstairs to let the Stans know the coast was clear; and now the adults were gathered in the living room again to discuss their next moves. Or, rather, Bill's.

Stan said, "So there's still been no sign of Gompers?"

"Nope," Soos said. "He's really run off. Plus, me and Melo—" (at Ford's look, he corrected himself) "—Melody and I drove around earlier looking for him? You know, in case he came out of the woods somewhere? But one of the government guys started following me in a black car? Sooo we had to stop looking, and I guess we're still being watched."

"Which'll make it harder to sneak me out for my date without them noticing I live here," Bill said. Maybe they could sneak him out with the crystal flashlight trick he and Mabel had pulled before, but he'd rather not tell the other Pines how they'd pulled that off in case they ever had to do it again. "We might be able to split 'em up while we outnumber them, but if this goes on for long, they'll bring in reinforcements."

"Ford and I can't help distract them," Stan pointed out. "We've gotta stay inside. And Soos is the only one that can drive Bill to this date. With the kids' help, we've only just got enough people to split the agents up."

Ford muttered, "Meaning there's no one to keep a watch over Bill." He crossed his arms. "Letting Bill flirt with a government agent under our roof is one thing—but I don't like a plan that involves letting Bill out in public and trusting him not to throw us under the bus." (Bill had considered it, but decided it would just cause the government to seize his portal and Mabel to never speak to him again.)

"He wouldn't do that," Soos said hotly—to Bill's surprise. "He already had a chance to run away and he didn't! And if he wanted us to get in trouble, he could have just not helped at all!"

"I..." Ford looked for a moment like he wanted to protest—Bill expected him to protest—but then he grimaced, shut his mouth, and said nothing. There was an even bigger surprise. Bill wasn't actually making progress with Ford, was he? Bill stared at the side of his face, willing him to explain himself; but Ford avoided his gaze.

Stan said, "Listen, I don't like letting him out either, but I don't think we have a choice."

"All right, all right," Ford sighed. "Fine. I don't like it—but unless Gompers shows up in the next few hours, you're still our best hope of getting out of this mess." (Bill decided to pretend that was praise and spent a second basking in it.) "Which means you have to find out everything the agents currently know and suspect, keep them away from anything that could restore their memories, convince them to turn their attention away from our household without the flash drive, andmake sure no one gets arrested. And you've got one date to do it all in."

It was a tall order—but the way Ford said it like a challenge, like he thought maybe Bill couldn't do it, made Bill's blood boil. "Piece of cake! Don't forget it's taken me less time than that to convince you to do a lllot more than that." At Ford's scowl, Bill grinned viciously. "One date's all I need. By the end of the night, I'll have this whole thing figured out." If he said it like he believed it, it was basically true.

####

(The only bits of this that were changed in the wake of TBOB were adding in the discussion about the Seduction Hat; and adding a short section establishing that Powers's team is not involved with the Trembley investigation and briefly mentioning Hangar 618. In the original draft of this chapter, I'd said that a different government department was handling the Trembley case, until TBOB established otherwise. Establishing that Powers's team wasn't on the Trembley case is something that'll be important in future chapters.

From here on out the plot arc speeds up and turns increasingly into some kinda fusion between a spy drama and a reverse heist movie. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts so far and your thoughts on where it's gonna go!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #agent powers #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(this entire plot arc is Bill looking less and less like Bill with each chapter art lmfao)#(he's gonna be so thrilled to crawl back into his triangle hoodie.)

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