Gravity Rises (S1)

PF: Part Seven

Mabel wanted nothing more than to go save her brother. Currently, however, she was pacing around in a small clearing, muttering to herself.

The Journal was open in her arms; as she circled the clearing, she looked down at it, occasionally flipping pages and chewing on a strand of hair (since she didn't have a pen to gnaw on). She was surrounded by a few trees and logs, but she hardly paid attention to them as her feet paced the snowy, muddy ground. She had attempted to sit earlier on a log that had been slightly tilted and leaning against the base of a tree; but when it had all but collapsed underneath her and gotten the seat of her pants wet and dirty, she had since opted to stand.

She'd been standing for hours.

Random sticks and pine needle bunches stuck out of pages of the Journal. She'd put them there as bookmarks when she'd gotten her hair stuck in some merciless, low-hanging branches and had loosened some pine boughs while detangling herself. (She stayed well away from said branches now.) At first, she'd tried to arrange the "bookmarks" so that their placement on the page marked the level of usefulness or importance; but walking around jostled them, and she'd since given up.

Plan. She had to make a plan.

Currently, she was studying the page on the Crystalline Cavern, the site of one of her adventures (or maybe mishaps was a better word) where a bunch of magical clones of her had been created. Maybe. . . when she had first encountered the clones, they told her the Cavern knew what she wanted. If she returned to the Crystalline Cavern with a specific desire to save her brother, would it create more clones that would help her?

It was a desperate stretch. After all, the clones had almost ruined her life last time. But, after hours of pacing, studying, thinking, and occasionally crying, she was pretty desperate.

Dipper was still in the hands of Pacifica. Mabel was still here, being useless. Unless a Portal Potty appeared right in front of her that would lead her to her brother, she was stuck on ideas. She couldn't use weapons. She didn't have magic. She didn't really even know where she was. All she had was a stolen Journal, a Grunkle who hated her, and a brother who was in trouble.

It seemed she couldn't help him.

No. No, she had to help him. She had to! She just had to keep looking. It was early afternoon, from what she could tell. She still had some daylight; she still had some time left. She could do this.

She swayed on her feet, and the Journal nearly fell out of her arms.

All right, she needed a break. She was getting dizzy from all this standing and pacing and reading. Suddenly a wet seat didn't seem too bad. She stumbled back over to the log, found a relatively dry place near to the ground (where she hoped it wouldn't collapse), and sat. She stored the Journal in her jacket. She could get back to it in a minute. She just. . . needed a moment.

She closed her eyes.

There was a rustling sound, and her eyes flew open. How long had they been shut? How long had she been sitting there? One minute? Ten? What was that sound? It was like. . . footsteps. Near her. Oh, no. It wasn't Ford, was it? Or Pacifica!

The more she listened — trying very hard not to breathe — the more it seemed the footsteps weren't coming towards her or walking away, just walking nearby. Maybe it was a magical creature; or maybe it was Ford, and he just couldn't find her. Or maybe — dared she hope? — maybe it was even Dipper!

But, in case it wasn't, she kept very, very still.

Until her log collapsed beneath her.

Mabel shrieked as she was dumped on the ground, landing among mildew-y wood and snowy mud. Ew! She leapt to her feet, trying to brush off her clothes, which only resulted in her hands getting all filthy — and then she remembered the footsteps.