#i'm so nervous for this one

[bobfloydsbabe]

motion sickness: next gen || kids of top gun

Rating: G

Summary: The kids of our favorite aviators take on high school. Jamie Lane-Seresin has a crush on Marcus Fitch. Dalia Garcia-Alvarez may have just gotten the two to go on a date, and poor David Floyd has no idea what's going on.

Motion Sickness is the shared universe featuring Jas Lane (Turning Tables) and @joaquinwhorres' Caro and Dalia Alvarez (Tailspin). This is a next generation fic in this universe.

Warning(s): Dalia being a menace, Jamie being done with her shit, confused David. A wild Jas appears.

Word count: ~2.0k

A/N: This fic is a gift for Anna (@joaquinwhorres) who is celebrating her half birthday tomorrow! I couldn't wait, so it's a day early. There is nothing I enjoy more than expanding this universe with you, so I present to you a little next gen fic for your reading pleasure that no one else will probably read. I appreciate you and your friendship more than you know. Enjoy, friends!

Likes are nice, but comments and reblogs are golden.

Dalia poked her side. “Look who just walked in.”

Jamie raised her head from her sketchbook to the entrance to the cafeteria, where Marcus Fitch sauntered in with the rest of the football team in tow.

It was like a scene out of the movies Jas and Caro always insisted they watch on sleepovers. Marcus moved in slow motion as he laughed over his shoulder at something his friend at said that probably wasn’t even that funny. Jamie swore there was even the faint sound of swelling music coming from somewhere.

Jamie tore her eyes away, looking at Dalia, whose smug smirk reminded her so much of Caro. They really were the spitting image of each other. 

“The football team?” Jamie said, shrugging, trying to play it cool. It’s what Jas would have done.

Dalia hummed, but Jamie didn’t love the devious grin on her friend’s face.

“Don’t–“

Dalia opened her mouth and shouted across the expanse of the cafeteria. “Marcus!”

Not only did the older boy’s head whip up, but so did the heads of nearly every kid in the room, as Dalia waved her hand wildly in the air, almost smacking Jamie’s temple in the process.

Marcus said something to his friends before weaving in and out of tables and bodies to make it to them. Jamie begged for the ground to swallow her whole at the sheer embarrassment of being looked at by everyone.

Dalia’s hand landed back on the tabletop unceremoniously. Jamie cursed under her breath.

“Hey, guys,” Marcus greeted, offering them a wide and confident smile that made Jamie’s insides feel funny. She muttered a hello, dreading whatever Dalia would say next.

“Jamie has an art show tomorrow,” she said, looking the picture of innocence, but Jamie scowled.

“You do?”

She raised her eyes to meet Marcus’ warm brown ones. “It’s not my art show,” she clarified. “It’s for Art Club. David is showing, too.”

At the sound of his name, he looked over his shoulder at his friends who were beckoning him to join them again. He looked back at his childhood friends, and Jamie felt smaller, acutely aware that Marcus was older and significantly cooler. “I’ll be there.”

Jamie frowned. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, shaking her head. 

The broad smile Marcus offered her made her heart pound and her palms sticky. “I want to,” he assured her and wandered back to the football team at the far end of the cafeteria.

Dalia’s grin was smug and self-satisfied. “I just got you a date.”

“It’s not a date,” Jamie argued. “Coming to an art club art show after school is not a date.”

“It’s definitely a date.”

Jamie groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

Dalia grinned and waved at David, who was making his way through the crowd, holding on to his backpack and lunch tray for dear life. “You love me.”

“Debatable.”

David slumped into the seat opposite Jamie and Dalia. “What’s debatable?”

“Whether I love Dalia,” Jamie said, sliding her chemistry notebook across the table to David so they could compare results of their latest lab.

“You do,” he said matter-of-factly.

A smug smile crept back on Dalia’s face. “See? David knows.”

“David is also failing chemistry.”

He frowned, opening Jamie’s notebook. “I’m not,” he reminded them. “I’m in AP Chem.”

“You can be in AP Chem and still fail.”

“But I’m not.”

“You sound more like Jas every day,” Dalia interrupted, cutting off their arguing. It wasn’t a new thing that Jamie and David argued over classes and test scores, and though there was never any malice to it, she knew it was irritating to listen to sometimes.

Jamie would have argued with Dalia if she wasn’t right. When she’d first been in foster care with her parents, Jamie had taken to Jake the fastest. They’d bonded over sports. He’d been patient with her, and he’d learned to do her hair. Jamie rarely let anyone touch her hair. The older Jamie got, the more she had picked up Jas’ mannerisms.

She had grown into herself with these people. She was just eight when she met them, but Dalia had decided they were best friends from the jump, and they’d spent countless nights at Caro’s place when Jake and Mickey were deployed. 

Their parents were all friends, but they felt more like family. A family Jamie never thought she would have, but Jake and Jas had opened their life to her. They had always treated Jamie like their own, even before they adopted her.

“Why were you debating if you love Dalia or not, anyway?”

“She’s insufferable,” Jamie said at the same time as Dalia mentioned the Marcus Debacle.

“Marcus is coming to the show?”

Dalia nodded furiously, beaming with pride. “All I had to do was mention Jamie, and he said he’d come.”

“That’s not true,” Jamie said with an incredulous look at her best friend before explaining what had actually transpired.

“It’s a date,” Dalia announced when Jamie had finished relaying the information.

David’s brows furrowed, and he delayed his answer by sipping his water bottle. “Marcus coming to the art show is a date? For who?”

“Jamie, of course,” Dalia answered, sounding like she thought he was dumb for not picking up on that very obvious conclusion.

David frowned. Jamie could practically see the wheels turning inside his brain as he tried to figure out how Dalia had gotten there. By the looks of it, he was having little luck.

“It’s an art club show after school,” David said slowly. Jamie saw a hint of Bob in his brows and mouth when he frowned again. “That doesn’t seem like a date.”

“Thank you,” Jamie exclaimed triumphantly, slamming her palm down on her sketch book, smearing the piece she was working on. She cursed under her breath before closing the book.

“He does like you, though,” David said nonchalantly, looking down at Jamie’s notes from AP Chem, not realizing his mistake until it was too late.

Dalia eyed him suspiciously. “You know something,” she said and pointed to him.

“I have eyes,” he said and shrugged for good measure. His mom hated when he shrugged.

Jamie looked between her friends, not understanding the silent conversation they tried to have through glances alone. 

“We will talk about this later,” Dalia said to David, sounding more like a threat than a suggestion. It was during moments like those where there was no doubt Dalia was Caro’s daughter.

Dalia turned her attention back to Jamie. “You’ve been in love with him since we were twelve. Is it so bad to just call it a date even if he doesn’t know it?”

Jamie groaned, a habit she had undoubtedly picked up from Jas over the years, and slammed her head against her arm resting on the closed sketchbook.

“You’re insufferable,” she murmured into the crook of her arm.

Jamie didn’t have to look at Dalia to know she was grinning triumphantly.

Caro picked them up from school that afternoon because Marcus had a late football practice, and couldn’t take them like he normally did. Jamie waved at the car over her shoulder, walking up the driveway to her front door. 

Jas and Jake had done a lot of work on the house after they moved in together. Mostly Jake. Jas had been tasked with painting the porch and barely managed that, getting paint all over herself, the grass, and the neighbor’s cat.

Jamie loved that story.

She let herself into the house, knowing Jas would be up and getting ready for the night shift. “Mom?”

“In here,” Jas spoke from the kitchen.

She dropped her backpack on the bench in the entryway and rounded the corner to the kitchen where Jas was preparing tea for Jamie and coffee for herself.

She was in scrubs, her hair tied into a tight bun that closely resembled the one she’d been forced to wear in the Navy. She slid the mug across the counter towards Jamie, who sat on one of the tall bar stools.

“How was school?”

Jamie shrugged. “It was alright,” she said, sipping her tea. “I think Mr. Simmons is planning a pop quiz for AP Chem. I compared notes with David at lunch.”

Jas offered Jamie a spoon to stir her tea with, which she accepted. “You feel okay about it?”

“Yeah,” she said, swirling the spoon around the tea, filling the air with the scent of chamomile.

“I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow,” Jas said and mirrored Jamie’s sip of her mug. “I managed to change shifts with someone, so I can come to your art show. I’m not sure if Jake can make it, so you’ll have to ask him when he gets home, but he wants to be there.”

Jamie smiled. Jas and Jake were practical people, and when she made the track team, she wasn’t surprised when they came to every race and tournament, but their support of her interest in art? That was a shock.

“Got any surgeries planned today?”

“Nothing scheduled,” Jas replied, taking another sip. “But emergency medicine is unpredictable, so who knows?”

“It’s like you then.”

Jas paused, the mug halfway to her mouth, and stared at Jamie.

“I know you did not just call me unpredictable,” Jas said in mock outrage, putting her coffee back on the counter and placing her hand over her chest.

“Didn’t you string dad along for weeks when you first met?”

Jas snorted. “He loved it, and if he ever tells you otherwise, he’s lying.”

Jamie chuckled, letting her eyes glide around the room at the pictures and memories scattered around the kitchen and living room. Besides a picture from their wedding that Jamie had recreated in Art Club for the show, her favorite was a picture Caro had snapped on the day Jas and Jake got together officially.

They were at the bar they all still went to. The Hard Deck. The picture was taken from the back with Jas and Jake resting their elbows on the bar top while Penny was getting them drinks. They were looking at each other, foreheads almost touching, and grinning widely like little kids. Jake liked to say that night was the first time he ever saw Jas truly relax in his presence.

“He liked it,” Jamie agreed. “You were still unpredictable, though.”

Jas chuckled. “I guess so.”

They spent the next ten minutes talking about school and homework, about the upcoming holiday season and whether they were going to Texas to stay with Jake’s parents or San Francisco to stay with Jas’ moms.

Jas checked her watch again. “I have to get going,” she said and swallowed the last bit of coffee, placing the mug in the sink. “Would you mind emptying the dishwasher? You know how your dad gets.”

“Of course,” Jamie agreed.

Jas came around the kitchen island and kissed Jamie’s temple. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow for your art show, okay?”

“Okay,” Jamie answered as the corners of her mouth ticked upwards, watching Jas throw her phone and wallet into her bag. Jamie leaned back in her seat so she could see the front door around the corner. 

“Drive safe,” Jamie yelled when Jas took her car key from the bowl by the front door.

“Yeah yeah,” Jas shouted back, probably rolling her eyes at the fact that even her daughter knew she was a terrible driver.

As the door slammed, Jamie’s phone pinged in her pocket with a text from Jake, letting her know he would be able to come to her art show tomorrow and did she want pizza for dinner.

She answered the man she considered her father that she did want pizza and asked if she could invite Dalia to join them.

❋❋❋

taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @arrthurpendragon, @ocappreciationtag, @chrissymunson, @cas-verse, @chickensarentcheap, @asirensrage, @misskatiewrites, @stanshollaand, @eddiemunscns, @raith-way, @wordspin-shares, @veetlegeuse

top gun taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @joaquinwhorres, @fantasias-creativebubble, @lostinwonderland314, @luckyladycreator2, @blue-aconite, @dempy, @alana4610, @littlebadariell, @cherrycola27, @whisperofsong, @another-tblr-fangirl, @flashyourgreeneyesatme, @seymour-cant-read, @wordspin-shares

[sysig]

Permission to headbutt: Granted (Patreon)

[lilybug-02]

Eimmet High...temmiE high. OMG!

Part 28 || First || Previous || Next...(Hiatus)

--Full Series--

Next update may take...much longer! I have finals and an internship and not to mention I have to draw- A LOT :')

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

Do you ever think of Holmes alone at Baker Street after Watson's marriage and. And. And Watson's things are gone. Watson is gone, and there is just this aching gap around Holmes in the flat. The dust has not yet covered the space on the shelf where Watson's books used to be. Half of Holmes's home is gone, and he cannot even run his finger along the edge of the pain because there will only be one plate on the breakfast table tomorrow (and tomorrow and tomorrow), but you can't cut yourself on empty space.

[tcustodisart]

Whenever I drew Connie with a single dandelion behind his ear this scene was playing in my head like wii channel music.

[scissorcraft]

post-canon siffrin design!!!! might change it up more of course but!!!! yeah!!!!

he does HAVE something to represent odile and bonnie too,,, it's not just his partners (romantic & queerplatonic), he's got his family too, i just don't know where to put them yet :) so for now assume he is carrying them in his multitude of pockets!!

[somegrumpynerd]

I like the idea that Cross realised Killer was touchstarved (he didn't have the words for it but he noticed how much Killer would settle down from it) and started giving him very small basic affection. Pat on the back, hand on the shoulder, maybe a quick friendly hug, all things he probably learned through royal guard training and thinks of as normal friend/coworker stuff.

But as they both got more comfortable in the routine of it, Killer started instigating touches and he was not shy about it (like not just leaning into Cross's side during movie night, he looks like he's trying to get into Cross's jacket with him)

And that this more intense affection made Cross realise he might also be just a little bit touchstarved

Bonus:

[hg-aneh]

I think it was about time I introduced tumblr to my book Crowley... who eventually became a walking love letter to Latino culture lmao

(You can think of him as a Book Crowley who spent way too much time in south america)

Language wise, he's an amalgamation of all latin american spanish dialects (+pt-br) so,, have fun translating some of the things he's saying

[pa-pa-plasma]

[introspectivememories]

too many of you guys think nico is the loser and not lewis for letting the divorce go on for so long. like they're both losers about each other. emotionally constipated idiots who can't talk about their toxic homoerotic friendship that imploded on itself like 8 years ago and are now making it everyone else's problem. yeah nico's on television or in beer gardens talking about lewis all the time but like every other month some reporter is like "lewis, what's your favorite moment in your career?" and lewis no hesitation is like "oh man, karting, y'know? everything was simpler then" and then spends another six months skirting around nico's name. like this whole thing they're doing in the media isn't some kinda extended foreplay for them. they're both still pressing on the bruise to make sure it's still there!!! every few months, they're literally just asking on public television, does it still hurt for you like it does for me? and like clockwork, someone will release new information about them or one of them will say something about each other (in my heart, he's still my best friend/yes... and teammate) and the answer will remain the same, yes, of course, always.

[zurka-durka]

they got lost

[luna-lovegreat]

I want. Four to get appreciation. Because

Four gave a ton of unnoticed help when Twilight was injured

The fight with Wild was difficult, and I know we're all concerned about his negative view of the shadow crystal

But Four did something that no one else really thought of to help- He took care of Twi's stuff

From the beginning he told Twilight to not worry about them

So Four took care of pretty much everything but the others (that Sky and Wars handled)

He took care of Epona

Which is so very important- he took care of Twilight's horse. After her arrival at the stable Four followed up on her

And for Epona, a horse so attached to her human, having some company can help so much for reassurance

He took care of Twilight's stuff

He got Twi's shield- his bags and equipment, and organized it into one place

And he was worried. He obviously found the shadow crystal while handling Twi's stuff, but his negative reactions to it were out of concern.

Also- because of his placement in this scene

I'm fairly convinced Four was ready to start cooking before Wild showed up (since he's beside the counter with food supplies). At the very least he had the basket of fruit out for everyone -but he was literally standing with food behind him- he thought of everything

And he did housekeeping!

Wars payed for the inn, so Four took care of the inn

Realistically these boys were probably not too concerned with tidyness. Four got all of Twi's things on one table, and took care of the room they stayed in

Organizing tables and Twi's things, having food supplies ready, and opening the curtains- overall he was the one tidying up the inn

Four helped in a huge way! He took care of Twi's horse (Epona is so important), his equipment and shield and bag, as well as the other rooms in the inn

Four filled in all the little tasks that others didn't think of. He helped in ways that were needed, but not obvious

There's a lot of problems with the shadow crystal and with Wild, and I don't know what's gonna happen in the future

But don't forget this- don't forget that Four was one who stepped up in an almost unnoticeable way

Don't forget that when everyone was barely holding it together, Four visited Twilight's horse and took care of his things

No matter what develops in the future- this amount of care shown is important ya know?

.

Art and comic from Jojo @linkeduniverse au :)))

[cosmicdreamgrl]

you know that i got that heat for @rjshope 🧡 [ cr: namuspromised ]

[tswwwit]

Cipher's Personal Portable Portal

'How they meet' won the poll!

So just to make things fully contextualized, as far as they're gonna be - here's the full first chunk of this stupidly long fic I'm writing.

I hope you enjoy!

Standing in the wreckage of the burnt-out building, Dipper wishes he didn’t know who did it.

Anyone else would have left some trace sign. A scrape of blood, a hint of burnt hair. A friggin’ decent eyewitness report, even.

But here, like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that - there's absolutely zero traces. No video footage, nobody around at the time of the crime. Not even footprints.

Dipper kicks one of the remaining supports, sending a puff of charcoal up from the impact. 

If he knew the bastard’s name, he’d curse it all to hell.

With a sigh of exhaustion, Dipper sits on a chunk of scorched foundation. He pulls his shoe off to tip the ashes out of it; there’s enough that the resulting cloud leaves him coughing. 

Around him, the scoured west wing of the museum is silent, still, and empty. A grey-black skeleton of its former self, filled with dust and charcoal.

This arson is yet another one in a very, very long line of crimes. They’re not just ‘unrelated incidents’, or ‘bizarre coincidences’. Dipper’s not ‘being paranoid’ or ‘coming up with some pretty weird conspiracy theories’. 

There’s only one person who could manage this. The same guy who turned a bank upside down - literally -  and the same one who impaled a mob boss on an oversized silly straw and gave tails to half of a household last week.

It’s all connected.

Each crime is marked with the same style, mostly by how remarkably weird they are. Along with a thread of magic, distinct in its composition. One so distinctive that it's almost a flavor. Though admittedly, without certain magical analysis, it’s pretty hard to detect. 

And if other freelance magicians would take the time and look at Dipper’s notes, maybe one of them would help find this asshole.

Dipper stalks through the burned building, fists balled in his pockets. He stumbles over a fallen support column, and nearly trips before he makes a hopping retreat back. 

Though the culprit has been at his game - whatever ‘game’ that is - for a good half a year now, this is the most destructive ‘incident’ so far. Nobody was hurt, since it happened in the middle of the night. The one relief from a terrible crime, that only objects were obliterated in the process - 

But the ashes speak for themselves.

Here, there’s nothing left.

He breathes in slowly. Then regrets the attempt at calming himself as he coughs again.

Whatever the culprit’s initial motive was, it hasn’t lasted. He’s grown not only in ambition, but also in his abilities. Things are escalating at a rate Dipper doesn’t like to think about.

Someone has to get to the bottom of this. Before it’s too late. Dipper’s got his number, metaphorically speaking, so. Well, might as well be him. 

And when he proves that all of this chaos was created by the same person - 

Well. A little boost to his meager reputation couldn’t hurt. Maybe a few medals and accolades. There isn’t a trophy for best monster hunter, but he can imagine standing on a podium and -

Dipper waves that thought off, swearing under his breath. Stupid. He has better things to focus on.

He’s the only freelancer on the case. Definitely the only one taking this seriously, the only one who thinks it’s the same person to begin with -  and even he’s starting to have some doubts about ever finding the bastard. 

Six months of tracking this guy down, and what does he have to show for it? A ramshackle compilation of incidents, a vague feeling of magic, and a description that could fit any bottle-blond actor with bad fashion sense. Scraps. He might as well pin them up and connect them with red string for all the good it does him.

Another kick sends Dipper hopping back, clutching his foot with a swear. He winces at the hole in the tip, he nearly punctured his foot on a nail.

Just his luck. Wrong place, wrong time, always just barely avoiding disaster. Dipper shows up whenever there’s an event, he’s got the means to follow the guy - but he’s always just a little too late.

Even worse, lately the guy’s been picking places… not at random, exactly. More like he causes trouble wherever it’d be the most annoying to follow.

The culprit must know someone is on his trail. But he’s not making it impossible to keep up, or even majorly difficult for a determined pursuer. Just really, really irritating, like making moves at three in the morning, or pausing just long enough for someone to catch up, then heading right back where he came from. At one point Dipper had to trudge through a literal swamp, only to find that bastard had sauntered in by baking himself a neat little trail right through the damn thing. There wasn’t even footprints to follow.

It’s a repeated point in Dipper’s notes. Whoever this is, they’re a total, absolute dick.

With a sigh, Dipper runs his fingers through the ash on the museum’s floor. Not a single thing is left beyond the shattered glass of some display cases, and the charred remains of the building. Even the enchanted metal tools have been melted into slag. 

The day before yesterday, he could tell something was up. Building energy, something that felt like it was made by the culprit. Something with the twinge of a powerful curse, coiled and being wound up like a spring. 

Dipper spent that evening convincing - okay, maybe also bribing, thank you Stan for the idea - the museum to let him borrow materials. The day after that, he spent all night, morning, and most of the afternoon running around slapping up anti-curse emblems. The entire south of the city warded, in a fine careful net of spellcraft. The work was exhausting. Both in running around, and in the amount of magic he’d needed to use.

But it was worth it. That evening, in the quiet and very uncursed city, all the emblems activated. Dipper would have sworn he sensed someone in the distance, cursing his own name. That night he went to bed with a smug sense of satisfaction, floating on a cloud of triumph.

Which is probably why the bastard burned down the museum next.

With another sigh, Dipper tucks his notebook back into his knapsack. He’s gleaned all he’s going to for today; in the fading evening light, searching more is pointless.

So much for all the magical artifacts. Most of those had come in really useful in messing with the guy. 

…How the hell did the culprit know where they came from, though? He’d need a near encyclopedic knowledge of artifacts to know which ones Dipper used, then track them back to their origin. 

Or maybe he just searched on the internet. It’s hard to tell.

Dipper just wishes there were more clues. But just like every other incident, the guy up and freakin’ vanished.

No human can disappear like that without some very irresponsible use of power. That hope is one Dipper’s hanging his hat on. After six months? He has to be reaching his limits. He’ll burn himself out before he can manage too many more incidents. Maybe Dipper will find him by stumbling on his withered, dissolving corpse.

Whoever this is is pretty strong, but no power is infinite. He can’t hide forever.

It can’t be too much longer. Won’t be. Dipper has a plan, he’s gotten really close, and - He’s good at his job, damn it. He knows he is. 

Taking a deep, slow breath, Dipper lets it out. Patience is the name of the game here. He’s just gotta keep moving.

One day, he’s going to catch up with that bastard. He’ll see the guy in the flesh. Then he’ll grab that stupid dick before he can escape, again, and wipe that presumably smug look off his probably ugly face.

Turning around one last time, Dipper surveys the destruction, stuffs his hands in his pockets - and pauses. 

A speck of light glints in the pile of ash. The last bit of evening sun, shining off a metallic surface.

Alert with surprise, Dipper scrambles over to the pile. Kneeling down, he brushes the dust carefully aside, careful not to disturb anything fragile that might shatter if handled wrong. 

One thing did survive. Thank fuck, it’s not an absolute total loss. Just, uh… Ninety-nine percent of it.

He scuffles through the still-warm ashes, cupping his palms underneath the lump and lifting it from its bed. The motion sends white puff rising up as ash slips away from the artifact.

A small black, squarish thing rests on the pile, a bit larger than both his palms put together. The material is faintly warm from residual heat, insulated by the ash it laid in - and there’s not a mark on it. Not even a scratch. 

Dipper turns the artifact over in his hands with a frown. The shining black surface reveals no obvious buttons or secrets. Just a kind of phone-ish shape, though more square and squat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say a guest dropped it on the rush to escape. 

The fact that it’s still intact though. Nearly glowing with magic, a tremulous feeling under his palms - this is not dropped by some clumsy tourist. Not even Ford could put this together.

 Wiping at the object with his sleeve, Dipper manages to clean off most of the smooth surface. On one of the sides, dust clings to the thinnest of engravings. The very faint outline of an equilateral triangle. No runes or other magical scribing, just… a shape.

Dipper thinks back but - no, he doesn’t remember seeing this in the collection. A quick check online reveals…

Basically nothing. There are - were - a bunch of stone and metal slabs in the archives, all described so poorly as to be useless. Some are even bunched up in groups. ‘Magical slab 1-24’ and ‘Metal artifact 1-78’, no description involved.

Not surprising. Probably dug up in some mass excavation site, transported here, then never really looked at again. The bulk nature of the shipment means it was overlooked, its magical properties never discovered.

After today, he’s just glad that even one item escaped this onslaught. 

The other artifacts must not have had much to them. But some magical property in this artifact’s making must have saved it from the blaze. Fireproofing, perhaps? Against weird fire? That’s unusual. Maybe even unique.

As the only survivor, it really needs investigating. 

Dipper glances over his shoulder, then around. With everyone evacuated, it’s quiet in the rubble. Nobody here would notice if, say… a clue wandered off.

The artifact slips easily into his pocket. The shape conveniently looks just like a phone, even if the shape’s a bit off. Not something that would attract any attention.

Whistling nonchalantly, ducking out of the way of local law enforcement and any onlookers - Dipper makes his escape. 

Another day of pursuit. Another scene of disaster, the culprit there and gone in the blink of an eye. 

He’ll be up to something new, next. Never the same thing twice, never in the same place. 

Dipper will follow in his evil tracks, of course. But for tonight - his fate is another crappy hotel room. 

He ditches his backpack by the door, slumping against the wall and its chipped paint. He could start going through his notes, and the pictures of the arson. Put in more work, find further connections - 

But it’s been a long day, and he’s tired. He might be magical, but he’s only got so much to work with. A reasonable night’s sleep, if he can manage, will make the task loom less horribly over his tired brain.

With a sigh, he drops back on the mattress. There’s some bounce to it, springs squeaking like they’re full of mice. Hell, maybe they are. The type of room he can afford isn’t exactly decadent.

That, though, should be temporary. Dipper’s career is only just starting; freelancers in the ‘solving magical problems’ scene don’t get great rates. Especially as a beginner. Definitely without a partner; it makes him look super young. Like he’s just starting out, fresh-faced and not having any inroads.

Because this field is really stupid, and doesn’t pay attention to results. Dipper’s been fine on his own for years, and he’s done really cool things without that ‘networking’ crap. 

All by himself. Totally cool with that, because Dipper’s a cool guy, sometimes. If Mabel hypes him up enough on one of their phone calls, he almost believes it too.

Though it would be nice to have some backup, it’s hard to find someone who really gets the job. Or does it in the way that Dipper goes about it. The number of people who are willing to take long treks in hyper-magical territory to search for an obscure clue, or set up really complicated traps for  dangerous monsters, or talk over high-level magical theory while sitting in the rain all night just to get one body-snatcher are…

Well, besides Ford, who recently retired, there aren’t any. Only Dipper himself.

One day, things are going to change for him. All his effort will pay off. If he keeps solving mysteries, and fighting monsters, he’ll forge a reputation as someone who always gets the job done. No matter how hard it is, he can handle it. The work is picking up, too. The last six months have shown the biggest series of magical incidents in decades. 

And he’s gonna be the one to get to the bottom of it.

Dipper Pines, the guy who proved it’s all connected. He’ll have it laid out in facts and math, all the evidence. They’re all gonna see that he was totally right.

Once he finally gets this guy, everything’s going to start looking up. 

The sheets rustle as Dipper settles back, holding the artifact up over himself. He stares into the black surface, and a slightly distorted reflection narrows its eyes back at him. 

A good mystery always intrigues him. This one should take his mind off the other, irritating one for a while.

The only remaining object from the fire is clean and smooth. A mysterious creation, of unknown purpose. Clearly riddled with magic, too; Dipper feels it running just under the surface like a rapid current. It gives the artifact a weight that has nothing to do with mass. 

Power.

Did the criminal see this artifact, still intact after all the other magical objects were gone? Did he try to destroy it too, and fail? Or simply not notice he’d missed one out of thousands?

Whatever it is, it’s got a lot more going on than meets the eye.

Dipper casts a quick identifier, which comes back with nothing. He’s not surprised. That’s the first thing anyone would try. If it was that simple, he’d already have the full description off the site. 

With a shrug, he traces another set of runes, his own version, adding a little more oomph behind it - 

And the magic leaps back instantly, with the bizarre sensation of a bouncy ball hitting concrete.

“Huh,” Dipper says, thoughtfully. He sits up, hunching over the slab in his hands. “Now that’s new.”

A more subtle approach, then. Tracing the lines of energy with the barest brush of magic upon magic reveals something deeply complex. Thin layers twist together deep under the surface, building an entire circulatory system. Dipper has to put it down for a moment, suddenly worried that it is organic. 

When a cautious prod doesn’t get a response, he relaxes. Not fleshy, just complicated. Which also proves he was right earlier - the artifact’s just as powerful as he’d thought. The spellcraft is unlike anything he’s ever seen. 

Dipper rubs his hands together, starting to smile. 

Even if he doesn’t find the guy he’s after, figuring this out could be a heck of a win.

Several attempts later, he’s beginning to get why this bastard brick got tossed in with all the other junk. 

Nothing here is working. It simply deflects. Standard spells poing off of it like rubber, while giving his magical senses an odd, back-of-the brain afterimage of a circle with a slash through it; a firm ‘nah’. 

Dipper nearly chucks the thing across the room in frustration, before shutting his eyes and taking several, calming breaths. 

Okay, weird thing, weird enchantment. The ordinary stuff won’t work. The magical logic is… twisted in a way that leaves it incompatible with most everything. He’ll have to find a different approach. 

“What are you?” Dipper says, low and frustrated. He gives the artifact a shake, as if he can knock the secrets out like a rock from a shoe. “What secrets are you hiding in there?” 

No response, not that he expected one. With a wry smile, he taps the sleek surface with a finger, twice. “C’mon, man. Talk to me.” 

Huge yellow letters flash onto the black surface. 

HEY

Dipper throws the artifact, a bit awkwardly since he’s lying on his back. It sails in the air in a high thin arc, landing with a thump between his legs. He scoots rapidly backward, sheets pulling up behind him. 

The artifact lies where it landed, an unmoving brick.  There’s magic in the air now, but no sense of any spell building, ready to unleash power to blow his face off. The latent spellcraft of the artifact has just been activated.

More text displays on the surface, bare except for the glowing letters. 

To the jerk that’s swiped my private stuff: You got some nerve! I expect this back by interdimensional mail in a week, or trust me - there will be consequences.

Dipper waits a full minute before he lets go of the headboard. Tentatively, he kneels near the…

 Is this a phone? 

Clearly it’s a communication device of some sort, with the freaking text messages. A phone is the obvious equivalent, only - he thought it looked far older than that, something way before mobile phones. Possible ancient. Is that a coincidence, maybe, or is it secretly modern?

Dipper taps the ‘screen’, just below the glowing words. To his surprise, there’s actually a keyboard, what the hell. This thing keeps getting weirder.

Since it hasn’t already thrown a horrible curse at him, or burst into flames - it’s reasonably safe to assume that it’s simply ‘on’. Not ‘explosive’. 

With hands that are definitely not shaking, he picks it up, and types,

Who is this? 

His own text pops up in blue. A strange contrast to the yellow, but he’s guessing it’s for convenience - there’s no bubbles to tell who’s said what otherwise.

A few seconds of nervous waiting later, there’s a response. 

Oh hey, you answered! Well, human - You’re talking to the one and only Bill Cipher, Dream Demon, all-powerful master of the Mindscape! I’d say it’s nice to meet ya but you’re not supposed to have a direct line to me!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. 

Now that’s one hell of an introduction. It might even have been interesting, if it didn’t smell of complete bullshit. 

Complicated spellwork, sure. Incomprehensible architecture? Maybe. Dipper can admit it; he’s never seen anything with a web of spells on it this complex, in such small of a package.

But the idea that Dipper just stumbled onto a demonic artifact of all things. One that wasn’t instantly detected, recorded, then ritually destroyed is…

Someone’s fucking with him. 

Dipper rolls his eyes as he types back,

Really? Demon? You can’t expect me to believe that. 

What, you calling me a liar? ‘Cause I am, but not about this! I got better things to mislead mortals about. This is my property, not something for your grubby mortal mitts.

Dipper snorts. Guess this person’s sticking with the bit. Obviously whoever created this would want it back - but too bad. Whether they’re delusional, stupid, or just a flat-out liar, they’re really good at enchanting. It’d be a waste not to study their work. 

He lies back on the bed as he replies.

Sure, have fun roleplaying, or whatever, it doesn’t make a difference. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

ARE YOU CALLING ME A LOSER. MORTAL.

Hmm, I’m detecting a certain amount of ‘crying about it’, so. Yeah. Suck it, loser.

Smirking, Dipper settles back - then his half-smile drops, as he holds the ‘phone’ a little further away from himself. 

Though the blue fire building up in the screen looks like a bad sticker effect, the artifact’s also getting a alarmingly warm. It vibrates in his hands - then suddenly stops, cooling down. 

Ha! Alright, alright, I admit - you got some balls.

Maybe you’ll change your tune once you REALLY know what you’re dealing with! Might wanna check the connection, if you’re even capable of it! Mortal magic doesn’t reach across dimensions!

With a grimace, Dipper taps his fingers on the phone. It’s slightly cooler now, but still worryingly reactive to… whatever happened on the other end. 

Damn. Whoever this is, they’re not only really really good at enchanting, they’re also pretty confident that tracking them down won’t spoil their game. The confidence exuding from this ‘Bill’s’ words feels genuine.

Honestly, though, the suggestion is a good one. Dipper should have tried to trace the call the second he knew someone else was on the line. 

Maybe ‘Bill’ thinks he won’t manage to find him. Joke’s on him, though; Dipper’s amazing at finding stuff. He’s the best tracker of magical anything in years. Maybe decades. With a solid, stable connection right in front of him? Hell, he could do this one in his sleep. 

Time to call the bluff.

He casts the tracing spell, though it takes longer than usual. A few gestures and muttered ritual aren’t gonna cut it; he has to improvise around the strange construction of the enchantment. Even trailing along the magic seems harder than usual, like it resists mixing with his own, and it takes him a few attempts to match the signal. 

Once he finds the right way to tune it… the lead snaps along the already-existing connection, and zips away to find its source.

The line extends out from the shabby hotel room, a plucked string in Dipper’s senses. It twists around the phone, rising slowly. Invisibly passing through the walls and the - 

Ceiling? Dipper looks up on instinct, even though nothing is visible.

From there it swirls around in the air like a silly straw on steroids, and then - out, very far, in a way that isn’t up or down or left or right, just  

Away.

Dipper has to cut off the tracing spell before vertigo has him reeling. The swirling sense of standing on top of a skyscraper is followed by a flip in his stomach. That he’s using a device he barely understands that reaches out into something even more incomprehensible.

He drops the phone-artifact, trying to clear his head by shaking it rapidly. 

That’s not nearby. Not on this planet. Possibly, genuinely, not even in this dimension. 

Shit. Bill wasn’t bluffing.

Dipper wipes sweating palms on the sheets. To pick up the phone again takes an effort, willing himself to grasp it in unsteady hands.

A demon. 

All the monsters he’s fought, curses he’s broken, years of work tucked into his belt, and he’s never seen one of those. 

Demons are dangerous, evil, and very, very powerful. Consorting with them is by all accounts a terrible idea. He should never have picked this up. He should hang up, and throw the damn artifact out the window, hoping that nobody else makes as dumb a mistake as he just did. 

On the screen, there’s a long long scroll of yellow letters, filling the entire surface. ‘HA HA HA HA’ over and over and over again. 

Before he can think better of it, Dipper starts a response. He’s halfway through a sentence - what the fuck, that’s not funny- before he pauses.

Terrible evil monster. Stupid powerful. Probably Bill sensed the tracing of the connection, like he did with Dipper’s other testing. Bill wanted the result startle him. Because he thinks it’s funny.

Dipper grits his teeth, and glares at the screen. 

Actually, screw this guy. Dipper’s keeping the stupid phone. If for no other reason than spite. This ‘Bill’ guy seems pretty full of himself, like he’s totally above some human. He’s in for a bad time, then, because Dipper’s not going to let one little surprise scare him off.

Besides.  The average guy would get into horrible, even deadly trouble, whereas Dipper… sort of knows what he’s doing.  No, he is good at his job. Finding secrets, solving mysteries, thwarting evil jerks who think they’re oh-so-hilarious, the whole shebang. He does it all.

Taking another breath, hissing through clenched teeth - Dipper lets it out. Losing his temper isn’t going to help deal with an extradimensional being. He has to be careful.

He thinks for a long moment before he responds. 

Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Maybe. Then you should know I didn’t steal your… whatever this is. I found it lying around, and I just. Got kind of curious. 

HA HA HA! Of course you were! Careful with that impulse, kid, it kills more than just cats!

A jerk who definitely thinks he’s hilarious. Dipper rolls his eyes, then, rather pettily, decides to ignore that statement. 

More pressing questions take the lead. Like what the fuck he’s holding right now, and if there are any other nasty tricks in store. A little bit of him, bubbling under the surface, wonders what being a demon is like. What they get up to, common habits. Ways they could be tracked down and, y’know, defeated, maybe. 

Theoretically, he’s got a line to a bunch of innocent, totally not-thwarting-related information that could be super useful to someone trying to, maybe, be a super cool monster-fighter.

Dipper backspaces a bunch over some poorly thought out questions. First things first. Like what the hell he’s holding right now.

So. What is this?

Good question! The gadget you’re poking at with your sweaty meat-paws is paired to the one I have here at my place. A little one-on-one communication assistant, if you will. Once you started groping around with your magic, it wasn’t hard to tell someone had picked it up!

Dipper raises an eyebrow. Though he already has an idea… a little confirmation never hurts. 

Like, you got a notification? Or literally felt?

The latter! Kinda like smell, but by touching things with your eyeballs. And with all your prodding around you might as well have been stinking up the place! Your spells aren’t real subtle!

Hey, they’re subtle! Having weird extra senses is just cheating.

Sucks to be human, then! In that you suck at everything! What’s a LOSER like you gonna do about it?

Dipper nearly throws the stupid artifact again - but he holds back, gripping it tight. Instead he sits up, leaning down and hauling his backpack up from the side of the bed. 

Maybe Bill thinks he can’t do anything. That he’s some ignorant nobody, who doesn’t have any real skills or talent or doesn’t have any friends - but he’s got that wrong. Dipper’s not a loser. Bill’s not getting away with that bullshit.

One quick unzip and a bit of rifling around later, he finds what he was looking for. Carefully, Dipper bounces the heft of a flashlight battery in his hand. Shutting his eyes, he focuses on crafting a quick working.

Magic is all about energy, and its direction. Focusing power, conveying it from one place to another. Pushing anything across dimensions would take impossible amounts of energy, stuff Dipper doesn’t have. If it weren’t for a very convenient connection, already in his hand.

Dipper has nothing on hand to actually exorcise the guy - he’s not sure that’s even possible when Bill’s where he should be - but retribution is in order.

More text lines appear on the artifact. He ignores them. Changing this up to work with the demon device is a challenge, but after figuring out how to alter the tracking spell changing this one up isn’t hard. He adjusts the flow of magic this way, into the tangle of not-veins in the device that way, finishes the chant-

Then touches his tongue to the battery.

The jolt passes through him painlessly, following the spell. It zips along his nerves, down into his hand and from there - into the artifact itself. 

Where it should, theoretically end up right at that bastard.

Dipper tosses the battery back into his backpack. Picking up the ‘phone’, hunching over to stare at the screen. 

That worked. He felt the energy move… unless he got the math wrong. Or a detail of his spell. Or maybe demons are immune to electricity, and he just did something totally pointless. 

God. It might even prove Bill right, and wouldn’t that be the worst - 

The next line of text comes in. 

What the hell? A joy buzzer? That’s some real petty prank stuff! You seriously pulled that bullshit? And across dimensions?

A tense pause. Dipper taps the phone, checking for it heating up again - but another line pops up after a few seconds.

Y’know what, kid? I think I might actually like you! You’re FEISTY.

Dipper nearly does a double-take. 

But no, that - what? Aren’t demons supposed to be vengeful? He was half-sure he’d have to chuck the phone out the window before it exploded in his hands. 

In fact, you’re in luck! ‘Cause I’m pretty bored, and I can totally show you how to improve that jinx of yours! If you can keep up with a little theory, that is.

Because that’s not suspicious or anything. Conversation with a demon can only lead to ruin and disaster. He should absolutely, definitely stop this right in its tracks.

Still, Dipper shrugs, and types, 

Try me.

[novuit]

I drew a lil' drawing of a wee Saxon Arthur whilst panicking for my dreaded Anglo-Saxon/Norman England mock exam tomorrow. Wish me luck :')

[amanitacurses]

Icarus and the Sun