Dipper thought he was dead for three days. The blood dried rich in the corners of his mouth, and there was a cold, clammy numbness peeling across his tongue that only dead bodies had, and that he had. He felt laid to rest in the tight confinement of a coffin the shape of himself. Never eating. Never breathing. Merely existing as a third-person-view; the 'him' that was him, wandering around as an extension of self while he remained trapped in his own body.

He watched it (the parts he'd denounced: The body as a whole, and everything else that had been touched) from a distant point. Across the room, or sometimes farther. For three days, he was nothing but a soul, refusing claim to a form he no longer owned; the 'him' that was him, but not him.

Despite being dead, he was afraid, and his body still ached in certain places. There was no hunger, but hollowness- that was already too much sensation. Ghosts crossed in and out of sight like shadows passing through the sun to be incinerated by light. Sometimes, they spoke to him, but never by name. Only ever "boy," "kid," and "you." If the shadows touched him, he didn't feel it, or he didn't feel it the way he remembered it feeling; It had been a long time since someone had touched him on the shoulder, and left without touching anyplace else.

Being dead was like being under water. It was quiet and compressed and suspending him above an abyss of outstretched arms. There was light filtering over him, tunneled in the cornea of his eye. If he needed air, all he had to do was reach, but his chest didn't burn like it should have and his legs only sank; not calm, but too afraid to move. When he finally floated to the bottom, the sand billowed up, and he felt it like a soft blanket wrapping around him. He was a tiny speck in the deepest part of the ocean.

Death- ironically- was short lived. A pull from the outside yanked him up like a fish by its hook, bringing him to by the grip of his sternum. His gaze broke on a flash of pink and the illusion cracked from his vision. Dipper gasped. He was risen from the waters, sitting up-right in a bed the size of a small apartment, made of the finest, softest sheets. It was like slotting back into place. Being snapped into a vessel exactly his size (the figure underneath could feel the walls pressing against its own body, skin-tight).

There was a blanket under his palms like silk. He wasn't across the room. He was in the flesh, feeling the hard draw of his own breath and the immediate slam of sensation across every nerve. Swallowing carved a tunnel from the front of his mouth to the base of his feet. Blinking was difficult. His mind whirled, heart drumming as he stared blankly at the spot he thought he'd been standing at, watching his body from a safe distance.

There was a pause. A stutter in the disconnect between reality and the dissociation floating his brain. Tight muscles made his movements slow, but he managed to drop his head to inspect his hands, turning them around with renewed foreignness. They trembled incessantly. His eyebrows pinched up.

There was still blood under his nails.

The static rubbing at the back of his skull bled away as his senses slowly returned to him. Clean sheets. Crystal-white, like the light fixture hanging over his cage. His hands and forearms were newly-washed. There wasn't the taste of blood in his mouth like he'd imagined; his tongue didn't taste like anything. The stench of bodies had suddenly been replaced with the gentle smell of cotton, and what looked to be some sort of balm rubbed across his arms.

What happened? Where was he? Dipper took a shallow breath, terrified of looking up from the twin lines of his hands. He saw that same flash of pink out of the corner of his eye and felt it move around the room. Its footsteps were light and fluttery, like it meant to tip-toe around him. A hum circled his bed, pulling and tugging at his blankets and smoothing along the surface.

He didn't dare move, but he couldn't stop from shaking, either. His breathing was too harsh, too erratic. The quiver of his spine vibrated the bed. In the end, it was the chatter of his own teeth that gave him away. Dipper kept his head down, eyes glued to his knuckles when the outline of a shadow cast over him; a hand brushed the hair from his forehead.

"Morning." The voice was gentle. The hand was soft.

Dipper's blood ran cold, sweat prickling the back of his neck from the lingering of her finger tips; Pyronica did it without thought, but in his mind- in that moment- it rang the same as any other dirty man's touch. When her hand drew back, he shivered. His own hands wouldn't stop shaking, so he balled them into fists, clenching his eyes and gritting his teeth. He didn't want to see the face; the face of another dirty man.

Dipper tried to steady the nerve-endings of his fingertips, but they wouldn't stop jamming and jabbing with electric shocks through the body. Prolonging a look only tied painful knots in his stomach, rubbing him all the way up his back. It was the long, uninterrupted silence that finally had him lifting his head, lower lip pressed between his teeth to keep from trembling further.

The room was luxurious. Enormous. So much larger than he'd seen in half a year, and so much brighter than what felt like forever. Poppy-yellow wallpaper slashed through his vision. The sunshine filtering in through a tall window illuminated Pyronica's silhouette, turning her hot-pink hair flaming-red. It was a beautiful room, but several months in near-constant darkness made excessive light painful to endure. He could hardly open his eyes without a sharp burn piercing his retina, and in the same breath couldn't close them at the shock raging from the balls of his feet, all the way to the top of his head. A stammer caught in his throat.

Terror. He was terrified.

Dipper sat frozen in place. When Pyronica cocked her head, giving him a slow grin, he jumped, clambering back in his bed. His chest heaved, fingers dragging nails across the headboard pressed into his shoulder blades. His first instinct was to run, but he hardly managed to scoot himself away without tangling himself up.

Pyronica jumped herself, putting her hands out in a haste. "Whoa, easy! You're gonna knock your food over."

Dipper's eyes stayed on her, his face contorting in lines of confusion. He pulled his knees up, shoulders buried in his ears.

"What?" His voice came out rushed and shaken, dry like paper, but he was used to being thirsty.

"On the side-table." She pointed over his lap. Dipper's head snapped to his right, nearly knocking over the silver drawer at his bed's side with the curve of his knee. He curled away from it instinctively, prepared for something to jump out at him, before realizing what she'd pointed at. He lowered his arms an inch. The glass on his side-table was sweet-smelling- like oranges and apricots- and had a silly, stupid tooth-pick umbrella tilted on the rim. Dipper stared at it, then at her.

Pyronica sighed, tightening the strings of her apron with some ferocity. "I would've served chocolate croissants, but those are apparently 'too rich'. You're malnourished enough for candies to kill you, so you'll be on a strict liquid-based diet until cleared for solid foods. Anywhere between a week and sixteen days."

She wafted a hand at him. He didn't move. His memory fed lengths of film through the mouth of his mind like the thread of a spindle, deconstructing the past six months in a flashing montage. His memory was far better than the first time he'd been abducted, but the point just before Teeth's death and Dipper's current predicament still muddled in the middle. What was happening? His breathing only grew more jagged, body flinching away when Pyronica was too quick about picking a hair from her mouth. His reaction made her pause.

She lowered her hand, and Dipper watched it ease against her side slowly, eyes flicking up at her as she took a more gracious step away from him, keeping her hands in view. Her expression held strong. He stopped trembling as much.

Dipper took a shaky breath. "Am I... at a hospital?" he asked, unclenching himself.

The room was immaculate, but it lacked a sterileness- a kind of lifelessness. There wasn't any machinery, or that untraceable, sick-bitter smell hospitals tended to have. The floors were rugs instead of vinyl, with intricate, symbolic embroidery, and a craftsmanship that could have only meant it was hand-woven. He wasn't even in a hospital gown, but an oversized button up and a pair of shorts.

A doubtful, worried groove creased his expression. He'd only asked because she fed him, and she seemed to know what his body needed to recover. Otherwise, it was more like a castle room.

Pyronica fended off a hard frown. Instead of answering right away, she busied herself with the curtains. She cleared her throat awkwardly, speaking with her back turned towards him.

"No." The curtains shut with a 'shh.' When she turned back around, her grin was hesitant. "Better."

Dipper's dimenor hardly shifted. He looked at his hands again, observing the bits of blood chipped under his nails, then the ostentatious room engulfing him. His features hardened, but his eyes maintained a level of despair. He spoke in a whisper.

"Did he kill me?"

She angled her head high. "Take a wild guess."

Pyronica straightened the straps on her apron, expecting a follow-up question, but Dipper only sat back, holding his gaze a moment longer before turning away and staring blankly into the space of his lap. He hunched over himself, peeling off the end of one of his fragile, red-crusted nails. A hopeless acceptance billowing around him made her uneasy. She straightened.

"The guess isn't that wild," Pyronica scolded finally. She gestured towards him. "Eat your food."

Dipper turned, thumb rubbing nervous circles over the skin of his pinkie-finger. The glasses' figure duplicated in the reflection of the silver side-table, bleeding a wet ring around the base where it perspired. It looked cold. It probably was. He felt its skin- yes, it was in fact cold, and it left lines where the heat of his skin drew across the surface, rubbing away the fog of the glass. When he pulled it into his lap, his own face swam around the borders of his cup. Half a year had been added to his features.

He didn't drink it. Dipper ran a thumb around the rim, mulling over the change of his face. He was thinner. Paler- no surprise there. He hadn't expected to re-emerge a phoenix. He certainly hadn't expected to escape intact; that was good, at least. No broken nose, nor teeth. His fingers were all still accounted for, and though his back ached, it maintained the integrity of his spine.

The curiosity had been crushed, though. He saw it in the dullness of his expression. There was something suddenly uninspired by his world. Something afraid.

Though he felt the slow starvation of his body, he wasn't all that famished. His face dipped an inch towards the glass, but he couldn't bring himself to lift it to his mouth. It didn't feel real. There wasn't a scrap of hunger in him. Quietly, Dipper raised his head again. He met Pyronica's eyes, unflinching.

"I'm dreaming," he murmured suddenly. When the words filtered back to him, he startled, clutching the glass in his hands as though hearing it from an outside source. Something clicked in his mind. "Oh, shit." He sat up. The drink spilled in his lap, but he didn't notice. Dipper patted his face all around, like the heat of his cheeks across his cold hands could be torn away. His thumb and index fingers gripped either side of him, pinching and twisting his skin a bright-red, forcing a burn that sizzled all the way down his neck.

It hurt, and he felt it, but he'd felt a lot of things the past few months, and none of the past three days had even been real. Just a dissociative fever dream. He dug his nails in, baring his teeth against the sting, only to drop his hands in frustration.

"Damn it, I can't-!" He kicked his legs out from under the blankets, trying desperately to steady himself on his own two feet. His eyes turned up; the blood rushing to his head quickly brought him to his knees, and the silver table by his bed fell on its side. His vision swirled, but he kept conscious, digging his claws into wool carpeting, shaking his head to keep upright.

Dipper took a deep breath, touching his forehead to the floor. "I'm not feeling carpet under my hands. I'm feeling metal. Hard, cold metal. There're 48 bars. Ceiling. Floor. A staircase to the left, and a lock without a key. When I open my eyes, it's dark. I can't see. I can't see." He lifted his head, peaking an eye open, then both, blinking rapidly. The room was unchanged. "Fuck!" Dipper slammed a meager fist down, nausea tilting him in his curled position.

Pyronica flinched forward, then back, biting the thumb of her nail over his bony shoulder-blades showing under the shirt as he tried pulling himself up. His drink stained the sheets a chunky orange color, and the contents of his side-table's drawer fumbled out and around the floor. She watched him rise to his knees before tilting back on his side, head lulling a dizzied pattern. Touching him would've only done more harm. Even so, she ultimately chose to grab his shoulder.

He stopped wobbling, twitching his head up at her. There might've been some kind of gratitude flashing across his face, but she killed it the instant her other hand dropped to his forearm. She was only trying to lift him. Didn't matter. Dipper yanked himself out of her hold suddenly, scampering into the mouth of an open closet before fumbling the door shut behind him and pressing his back against the interior. His head banged the wall with how hard he crashed across it.

"Hey! Don't-!" Pyronica tried, only for the door to shut in her face. She gripped the knob, using her shoulder to press against the blockade of Dipper's body, but he was holding much more steadily now. Her nose wrinkled, that too-wide mouth of her shriveling in the up-press of her lower lip. She couldn't risk scaring him anymore than she already had. The thought had a sour taste racing across her tongue.

"God, damn it! I knew you'd be crazy," she grumbled, thumping her head against the frame of the closet. A hand rubbed the back of her neck. She sucked in a breath through the nostrils, tilting her head at the ceiling. After a moment, she sighed. "You're not crazy. You're fucked up. What am I saying?" Pyronica paced away from the closet, bracing her hands on her hips. Her eyes screwed shut with a mumble as she turned back around, this time unfastening her apron and tossing it aside; the motherly look hadn't done her much good.

Dipper's head swiveled on the pivot-point of his neck. He clutched two fist-fulls of his hair, bringing his ears between his knees to escape the light filtering out from under the closet's door, making himself as tiny as possible. It was a deep, empty space with nothing but racks and a few lone hangers leading further out- he could've laid on his back and kicked his legs all around without ever touching a wall, but it made him uncomfortable, all that space, like too much food on his platter. He pressed his back harder into the door, wishing silently there was some kind of barrier- some kind of cage- surrounding him on all sides.

He buried five hard knuckles into the curve of his skull, pressing pain that could hear his heartbeat through the blood pounding against his eardrums, trying to wrestle himself out of his fantasy. He pulled back before striking himself again, dragging the burn from the back of his head all the way to the front. His hand slipped off with the pressure. He let out a sob, clenching his teeth, clutching his shoulders. The feel of carpet under his feet was convincingly firm, even a little course. Tiny follicles tickled his exposed skin. There was a very real force propping him up, one that didn't feel anything like the bars he'd grown accustomed to.

There was no cage. No lock. He felt completely lost to what he thought was his own illusion. The realization had him rocking, just slightly.

'In the nose, out the mouth,' he thought, but the words didn't sound like anything anymore.

There was a gentle knock at the door. He felt it all the way through his spine.

"Please come out. I lied my ass off about being good with kids; the boss'll eat me alive."

Dipper's ears perked. His rocking stopped. The switching churn of his stomach was suddenly more familiar- more acquainted. He did feel wool under his hands, and every time he shifted around, the door behind him creaked. His chest rose with the slightest of breaths. The natural light filtering in hit the backs of his bare feet in a way he was incapable of imagining, or even remembering, with such vividness. It wasn't a detail he would've thought to include, nor the girl, nor the room. The knuckles rubbing into his skull dropped slowly.

Would his mind have really constructed this if it meant to trick him? It could've been Pacifica's home, but the ambiance was completely off; the color palette didn't have so much as a splash of ocean-green. No, it was all wrong. He'd imagined extravagant homes and beach houses of his own creator, but not even half of the hanging portraits looked familiar in that room.

Another possibility prompted itself. Wherever he was- whoever owned it, could've afforded many things. Cars. Jets. People.

Dipper took hold of his quivering hands, pulling them against his chest. He couldn't even sweat, he was so dehydrated. "Who's the boss?"

His question surprised Pyronica, who fumbled her words on the first try. She picked a patch of dry skin from the corner of her mouth. "A guy," she shrugged, before giving the answer a little more thought. "Well, not just a guy-. But also not a guy you need to worry about. He's, um-. He doesn't want to-. How should I say this?" Pyronica brought a finger to her chin- a curious look. Dipper peeled the door open a crack, observing every infliction that flashed across her features; what she was trying to say, without saying it the way she'd first thought it.

"He doesn't want to insert himself... In you," she said finally. Her reply was immediately followed by an awkward pause. Every word had sounded wrong in her mouth, from the phasing, to the insensitivity, to the awkwardly tacked on ending, so much so that Dipper cracked the door an added inch out of sheer bafflement, of which he quickly regretted. Pyronica's eyes caught on the sliver of space made by Dipper's four fingers, his gaze brooding up at her. She crooked her lips up, showing her teeth behind a sheepish smile.

"That came out gross." She tried for light-hearted, casually creeping her fingers towards the closet door's small opening. That hardly did her any good. Dipper's pupils shrank at the slight movement of her right hand, his body suddenly braced on an inhale. Pyronica recognized the shifting expression just as he did, and scrambled to counter it.

"Wait, wait, wait-!" She rushed to cram her hand into the small space, only to have the door snap shut on her fingertips. The pain was instantaneous, rocketing up the entirety of her right arm and bouncing around her teeth. She yanked her hand out, cursing nonsense.

Dipper slammed his body forward, stammering on a gasp as his shoulder, hand and hip held firm against the give of the closet door. His mouth plummeted a frown, eyes blown with disdain. She'd let on more to the situation than she meant to, and without even realizing it, confirmed his half-baked suspicions.

She knew what had happened to him. He'd woken up in a luxurious bed, surrounded by extravagant furniture and sweet-smelling drinks, but wasn't once offered a phone call. Never a question of where he lived- where he belonged. The woman spoke sweetly, but at its core, they were working towards entirely different goals. Suddenly, Dipper was all too fed up.

His brows ate away the soft corners of his expression. "You really think I'd fall for that shit? If you're not going to-." He bit his tongue, letting out a laugh at the slight quiver in his voice. "If you're not going to touch me, what the hell do you want?"

Pyronica shook her hand around, still nursing the electric pain racing through her fingernails. She clenched her teeth, trying not to shout. "I don't want anything. It's anyone's guess what the boss wants- he's a fucking nutjob- but I can tell you what he doesn't want."

"Liar," Dipper snapped. Pyronica scoffed.

"Why would I lie?"

"Because you are!" He knocked a fist across the wall adjacent to him. "You're trying to- I don't know- fuck with my head. You want me to let my guard down so you can put me somewhere, and do stuff to me. Just like the last guy."

Pyronica swore, rubbing a tired hand over her eye. She checked the hanging clock by the bathroom entrance; Xan was scheduled to take over at around two, but that was a whole four hours away. No good, no good. She buried her face in her hands with a groan. "Sweetheart, if we meant to put you in a cage, you'd be in a cage. Does that make sense? And if we meant to hurt you, I wouldn't waste my time coercing you out of a closet."

"Then let me go!" Dipper barked back. He waited for a rebuttal, but there was only a long, drawn-out sigh. This time, his voice held steady. He balled his fists into the large, white button up hanging off his shoulders, and with pure contempt, leaned away from the door, merely to stare through it, into her. "I can't trust you," he said simply.

"You're safer here than you were there," she countered, running a tongue over her teeth. The words didn't taste quite right. She tried again, softer this time. "The beds are cozier, at least."

That made him scoff. Dipper didn't buy it anymore than he bought the gentle rub of her voice. He'd met enough men with that same tone to ring out the pulp, or at least the seeds. Telling him that he was 'safer-' that they didn't mean to hurt him- didn't tell him much of anything; she was being vague on purpose.

His eyes drew narrow, gaze leveling. "What is this place?"

Pyronica's lips twitched an obtuse shape, massaging the fingers of her injured hand. There were a few ways of explaining it without giving the full picture. Telling the truth wasn't an option, but telling a total lie was out, too- she wasn't all that good at Poker.

"A business." She kept her eyes from the door, feeling his gaze, even then.

"What kind of business?" Dipper pressed. She rolled her eyes, reaching for the gold-threaded bergere to her left with clear surrender; she made herself a seat in front of the closet door, slouching for the first time that evening.

A hand rode down her face, rubbing her cheek. "We're like a law firm. People come to us when they've been screwed over, or feel like screwing someone else over, or already screwed someone over and need a lift to Tijuana. We loan cash. Sometimes we protect people, you know? For the right price, I mean." The stinging tingle in her fingers faded into a subtle throb. She let the hand rest in her lap, using her other to fiddle with a few tufts of hair behind her ear. The other end of the closet door had gone completely silent, save for whatever shuffling Dipper did on his knees. Pyronica sat back in her seat, waiting. After a moment of pause, the closet door cracked open again- just a nudge- those hesitant eyes staring her down. He looked suspicious. Instead of lunging for that small space as she'd done before, she merely sighed, resting her head in her hands.

"No stupid questions," she warned.

His arm leaned out, peeling the door open wide enough for his head to poke through the entrance. At first, he said nothing. He squinted at her. "What does a law firm want with me?"

Pyronica groaned. "I said we're like a law firm. Are you listening? We're like a law firm. Like." She threw her arms up, huffing a frown in her chair, before shifting her features. She looked at the clock again, mumbling. "And I don't know."

Dipper pushed the door out slowly, giving full view of his posture; how he rested on his hand, and how that hand tilted towards her. His brow was still furrowed, but there were more questions than hesitations hidden behind the lenses now- maybe even room to approach if she kept her movements even; she was still a threat, but less-so than whoever pulled the strings. He watched with eyes meaning to soak up every last word she had on the matter, but she was already done talking about it.

The fancy seat she rested in made her rear ache. She stood with a sigh, making like she was only dusting off the pockets of her pants, when in actuality she was working the blood back into her ass. Her eyes made for the door. She was all of a sudden restless.

"Up for a little walk?" she asked, turning her gaze back on the boy. Dipper's eyes flashed surprise before going dark. He curled in on himself, but left the door open.

"No," he spoke with guard.

Pyronica cocked her head. "You'd rather live with muscle atrophy?"

Dipper pushed his lower lip up, giving her a nasty, knowing look. He spoke through his teeth. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't know you."

His response gave her thought; that was a non-problem so long as he didn't shy away. She didn't move immediately, but she angled her foot in his direction, putting a little weight behind her stance. Dipper shifted, but kept his hand closer to himself than the door. When she took a step, he scooted away. Three more steps, and he was double the space back, huddling himself into the edge of the closet again, but still managing to look at her as she put one hand on the knob, and outstretched the other.

"Pyronica J. Arbuckle, and you?" Dipper sat away from her. She gave him time to warm up to the invitation of her hand, before leaning herself further into the room, torso-first, speaking in a low whisper. "Oh, shy now? Don't be; Mason's a lovely name." She grinned. Dipper's features flashed a pounding white. Now he was frozen in place, incapable of a glare, or curling himself any tighter than he already had. Mason. She'd called him Mason.

Pyronica flopped her hand down, stepping out from the doorway's entrance. "Let's walk. I'll give you a look around my work space."

Dipper couldn't move at first. He didn't dare tear his eyes away from her as his hands made for the wall, padding for something solid to grip himself up by. There weren't any fixtures, but there was a metal rack just above his head. It took some effort with the trembling of his legs- both from dehydration and malnourishment- but he eventually rose enough to cling the bar above and pull himself to his feet. From there, he was still unsteady. Standing made him weirdly dizzy, and while he wouldn't fall if he let go of the bar, he wasn't sure he could walk from the closet to Pyronica without buckling. Dipper turned his eyes from her, breathing through the nose as his shivering fingertips uncurled themselves. He shuffled a foot in her direction, concentration overtaking his lingering fear as he focused on making it across the closet floor.

The first step was stiff, but the second was worse somehow. Wobbly. He kept from banging into the wall by using his right hand as a prop against it, like hanging off the edge of the pool back when he didn't know how to swim. Pins and needles dug into his soles; how was it that he could crawl just fine, but walking was so hard?

'Well,' his brain went, 'you can only walk so far in a cage.'

He hadn't felt like he was falling until Pyronica closed the gap between them to grip his forearm, at which point he realized he'd been on the verge of planting flat on his face with each step. Dipper's body seized at her warm, calloused hand pressing into his back, the other propping him by his elbow, but she hardly seemed to notice the change. His reaction only worsened when she led them out of the closet, towards the bedroom door, and he was suddenly faced with a reminder that the world didn't exist purely as a concentrated room, and however far away home was.

At first, he leaned out from her hold- nearly toppled over. When Pyronica steadied him, he looked to the door. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been outside of a room, or a car, or a cage. It made him sick thinking about it. If he could've stepped away, he would've. By the same token, he was willing to chance whatever fate led out that door if it meant he could walk in any direction without hitting a wall. His legs jittered with a need to sprint, just as the rest of him wished he could find a nice, quiet place no larger than a thimble to corner himself into. The wide open space- the gentle touch- was nauseating.

Dipper took an immediate step back once the door opened. Pyronica's hand kept him pushing forward onto marble flooring, his bare feet cold all across; he didn't notice the temperature drop, only the transition of soft to hard, an endless train of skyward windows spilling light down what looked to be an infinite hallway.

The carpets were less elaborate, more uniform, in rich, vibrant reds to complement the gold Victorian wallpaper marching along the trim of the wall. Mirrors were framed in matching gold over lavishly carved console tables, with the same fancy vase of flowers on every single one of them. Chandeliers hung like crystal skies, but that hardly meant anything; there were always chandeliers. Still, they were a nice touch to the environment. It was elegant, all but the paintings.

Where floral paper ended, realistic, horror-ridden portraits began. Tetsuya Ishida, Ken Currie, and any number of Beksinksi's disturbing works, beating down in omen. Disfigurement. Damnation. Nightmares in three dimensions. The figures on-canvas starved bone-thin, paper-white.

A maid hurried down the hallway just ahead of them, scuttling whenever a painting cast over her. She nodded dutifully at Pyronica. She didn't look at Dipper.

Pyronica started them down the hallway at an admittedly slow pace; it took very little time to realize that Dipper could keep up with her so long as she kept it reasonable, and the hand under his elbow guided him. He could walk, just not without stumbling. Being uncoordinated didn't help things, and his racing fear was even more of a buffer.

It had him thinking back to middle school and all those embarrassing years he'd spent tumbling over his own two feet- over the girls and boys who made eye contact with him, or said a few pretty words. Used to be that someone could breathe in his direction and he'd fall to pieces, right up until he and Mabel were shipped off to Gravity Falls and the cosmic horrors kept him on his feet. He thought about the horrors often; they tended to make dents.

Grunkle Stan said something about it once, but Dipper couldn't remember the exact phrasing- just that he was proud to see him becoming a man, and how the scar running down his lower back would make for a great story some day. It'd been a Chimera's bite. That was a good story. Chimeras were rare.

Dipper's shuffling feet caught on the carpet, forcing Pyronica to stumble after him.

"Whoa there, Mason." She laughed as she straightened him back on his feet, brushing off non-existent dust.

Her smile was sweet, all-consuming. Just like-.

Dipper pushed the helping hand away. "That's not my name."

"Hmm?"

"That's not my name," he repeated.

She leaned out from him, tilting her head. "Well, what is it?" she asked. Legally, his name was Mason; his birth certificate said as much. Still, boys his age could be weird about what other people did and didn't call them- he'd sounded almost angry hearing the name. Maybe embarrassed.

Dipper didn't answer, but a thought came to her just as quickly; there was a nickname on-record.

"Ah." she said after a moment of pause, taking his silence as the cheeky little 'Fuck You' that it was- he wasn't giving out information any more freely than she was, and that seemed to make him feel better. She shrugged it off, eyeing a particularly gruesome painting as they continued along.

"The boss'll give you a nickname when he gets a hold of you. Something like Cylin-Derek or Trap-e-Zack. He's got kind of a-. Well, 'eccentric' makes him sound fancy, but he's very eccentric. In a stupid sort of way, I mean. You know my legal name is Princess? Fucking Princess. Christ," she laughed, looking out wistfully. Her gaze dropped onto Dipper, but he kept his focus forward, like he meant to ignore her. Her nose twitched at that.

"You know what I'd call you? I'd call you Cali-boy, since you're from California. I was pretty surprised when I learned they got you from Piedmont. Don't they tan down there? Do you usually have a tan, or are you just fair skinned?" Dipper turned his head from her, looking out the window. It was nice that evening; he could see the garden's sculpted rose bushes, the peonies, the marigolds. There was a grand water fountain of a nude, well-built man striking a thoughtful pose, surrounded by marble benches; the spout that the water came out from was his-. Well.

A white, domed gazebo was frayed in grapevines on the farthest side, and not thirty feet out, a brick wall crusted in barbed wire.

"I guess the name could use some work. It's cute though, yeah? Cali-boy. Sounds good in the mouth. I don't know. Do you surf at all?" She bumped his hip. Dipper wondered how long it might take him to regain his strength. The grass looked fresh and green out front, but the few scarce leaves that blew in from over the wall were orange, red, and brown. It could've been summer, if not for the fog building at the frame of each window.

"South Carolina's a bit different, I'm guessing. I've got a lot of family down south; you wouldn't believe the things they say about California- not that they've ever stepped foot in the state, or talked to anyone who did live there. They think you drink infant blood." She waited for a response, but he pretended not to hear her.

She sniffed to herself, pouting in the silence, when a thought came to her. Her head dipped a few inches. "Do you have family?"

Dipper stopped in his tracks. A dead leaf stuck to the outside surface of one of the windows- it was colder than it'd been the last time he'd seen the sun, despite the grapevine'd gazebo and blooming-red roses. Something crawled up the back of his throat at that- how the garden still thrived, but the leaf had died.

"I know you do," Pyronica poked.

"You don't know anything." His eyes lingered out the window, outlining the contrast in the leaf's prickled, broken limbs, to the fruitful greenery that prospered despite it, and flourished the way its opposite died, until ultimately Pyronica grew tired of standing around and tugged him along.

"I know you have a sister. And a pig," she countered cheekily. "I know what school you went to, and I know how old you are. I know that your best friend is Pacifica H. Northwest, a wealthy descendant of Nathaniel Northwest- I know stuff about him too, but I'm not going to say what. I know what kind of car your parents drive, and I know your favorite color. I even know where you spend most of your summers. I guess you could say I know too much. It's kinda my job to know things, among other stuff."

The sunlight bleeding through lessened at a cluster of english ivy tangling across the windows. It was colder in that part of the home. Drafty, but Dipper hardly felt when it was cold anymore. His hands balled up for an entirely different reason.

"You don't know what this feels like," he muttered under his breath, letting his eyes draw up at her.

Pyronica's smile saddened, face softer.

"I don't," she agreed.

At the end of the hallway was a door unlike the rest of the home; a rusted, metal push bar stamped ridiculously into the finely carved wall curving decorations like a tapestry. Pushing against it let out a teeth-tingling squeak. The smell of motor oil rushed up Dipper's sinuses first, then cut metal, and something burnt.

A workshop- larger than a garage, but smaller than a warehouse. Overhead lights dangled from the metal straps keeping them parallel to the ground; the floor itself was nothing but concrete. There were work-tables, benches, welded scraps of metal. A buzz saw stuck awkwardly at the half-way point in a plank of wood, and the rubber gloves folded just left of it had little nicks that went all around, but never any that went from one end of a finger, all the way to the other. Most tools hung off the ways, in clear tubs, or just off of their own handles. Stray screws and nails scattered the floor.

Dipper really wished he had shoes on.

Pyronica led them down the concrete steps slowly, gripping the bar for support. He would've asked where they were, or why they were where they were, except that she hoisted him up onto one of the wooden stools before he could ask, flopping herself into a seat well-worn in a way that only fit her shape. It was all too obvious when she stretched up and made herself cozy: This was her space. They were there because she wanted to be.

Dipper watched as she wiggled into her chair, letting a sigh of contentment echo through the massive room, before swiveling around towards the brick wall behind her. Her finger drew across each brick, until one in particular pressed in at her touch, and she drew the brick out from the wall. Her hand went into the hole it left behind, coming back out with what Dipper quickly identified as a pack of cigarettes.

She lit one up, simply enjoying the mindless puff between her fingers like it was the first she'd had in over a year, and not just the first she'd been able to sneak that afternoon. When the smoke was mostly gone, she damped the end out against the underside of her desk, remembering the boy just across from her who sat precariously atop the stool.

She coughed, lending the smokes in her hand over to him.

"Cigarette?" she offered. Dipper merely blinked at them. Pyronica pulled them away, placing another tab between her lips and lighting it fast. "Figures. See, this? This is why I lied about being good with kids. I was just thinking, 'You know? Maybe kids don't smoke,' but who's to say, really? They didn't smoke when I was your age, but I haven't been your age in-. Jesus. Sixteen years. I'm thirty-one, but I don't look a day over twenty. Go on and agree if you'd like. I don't mind. People tend to agree."

She took a long drag, nearly pulling the ash all the way to her lips, letting it leak out her nostrils in a hard sigh. Something was on her mind, but she didn't say what. "You know, the boss is closer to your age. Well, closer to yours than mine. He's what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two, maybe? Who's to say? He's a handsome son of a bitch, but don't let that convince you. He's crazier than I am."

The mention of this man caught Dipper's attention, but hardly more than a second. Even now she had a hard time giving out details. This wasn't some flippancy on her end; she had to be tight-lipped, for any number of reasons Dipper didn't have the time to care about.

Maybe if he asked the right questions he'd get a little extra out of her, what with the way she liked to talk, and seemed desperate for any topic of conversation at that moment, but he wasn't all that interested in sticking around long enough to need specifics; he was far more intrigued by the Emergency Fire Exit placed at the far corner of the room.

"You know, I think he hid some of his liquor around here..." Pyronica started leaning out of her seat, before halting halfway. She smacked her forehead with a laugh, flopping back in her chair. Dipper snapped his eyes from the door.

"See that? I was just about to offer you a drink. Right after a smoke, too."

"I drink," he shrugged.

Pyronica snorted, but her features scrunched in distaste. She gave him a squinted look. "Uh, no, you don't. You're a child."

"So?"

She pinched her lips, giving him a quick up-and-down. He hadn't said it nicely, but he also hadn't said it naively. The question wasn't asking why he couldn't have a glass of scotch. He meant to ask what being a child had to do with anything, and why that anything suddenly kept him from doing the things adults did, all considering-.

She crossed her arms. "I don't like that; what you just insinuated."

Dipper frowned. "I didn't 'insinuate' anything," he huffed, scrunching his nose at her. There was a moment where he almost didn't say his next words at all, but they pried through his tight lips in the form of a hiss, turning away from her. "It's just stupid."

"What's stupid?" Pyronica asked. Dipper glared up at her, mirroring her crossed arms. Again, he almost didn't say anything. He grit his teeth, and through the burning pulse rubbing up his tongue, spoke with such resentment; such bewilderment.

Like she didn't know.

"That you're treating me like a kid."

Pyronica unfolded her arms, head tilting high so he couldn't see how her brows suddenly knitted up. "You are a kid," she replied.

He shifted in his seat, looking away from her. "That's not what they thought."

"Yes, they did." Pyronica countered. Her voice softened. "Those are the worst people."

Dipper went still. His glare melted off at the drop in her tone- the slight sympathy and beaten gaze marked in his direction. At first, his features only flinched. It was like the sudden ache in his chest was searing down his middle, burning holes through his stomach.

She'd only said what he already knew, and yet he could've cried at her simple observation- his face twisted in all sorts of anguished expressions, waiting to tear up against the mounting pressure behind his gaze, but all that sprang up was a headache; not even his tongue was wet.

Pyronica stood from her seat, giving him a long stare. She clenched her teeth, sucking in a breath before turning in the direction of a mini fridge placed to her right. "I can pour you a drink."

Just as she did, Dipper's head shot towards her, flinching a hand out. "No, I-," he stammered, bringing his palm back towards his chest. He lowered his voice, averting his eyes. "I'll have water."

The hand she'd had on a large bottle of Baileys dropped. She cast another look over her shoulder- a bit surprised this time- before grabbing a bottle of water out of the side door, twisting the cap off and handing it over. Dipper's eyes followed it the entire time.

"This isn't such a bad place to be held prisoner. I've seen worse." Pyronica propped herself against the work-table closest to Dipper, sweeping aside bits of sawdust with the back of her hand.

Water was possibly the most delicious thing he'd ever had. Already, he could swallow without claws dragging down his throat, and blink without sanding his pupils down. It took him a second to remember that Pyronica was talking to him at all.

"Hm? Yeah," Dipper said; the water was already gone. He shifted in his seat, fidgeting with the flattened body of plastic in his grip and a cap that didn't go anywhere, unsure of what to do with himself. His drink had drained so quickly- the satisfaction was immediate, cathartic, but it didn't lead anywhere after that.

Dipper swung around hesitantly, not quite meeting her eyes. "What do you do?" he asked.

Pyronica jumped in place. "Me?" She pointed at herself, but who else could he have been talking to? She stumbled, rubbing the sawdust prickling her hands onto her pant legs as her head tilted side-to-side in thought.

"Oh- uh. Let's see. I'm a mechanic. Well, I was a mechanic. Now-a-days, I do whatever the boss asks me to do; he tends to ask for a lot. I'm a mechanic. I'm a secretary. I'm a computer-wizz. I'm a seamstress. I'm a maid. I'm a doctor. I'm a cook. I'm a children's daycare center. I'm whatever he trusts me to be."

Dipper nodded his head slowly- a bit indifferently- before knocking his head to the right of him. "Did you build that?"

Pyronica turned around, beaming at the half-scrap car sitting in the farthest corner, bleeding oil like guts, but catching a decent enough light to make it almost shiny; there wasn't a model on the market quite like it, in-part because it was possibly the ugliest design known to man. But damn, was it efficient.

"I did." She preened, saundering over to it. Pyronica grabbed a rag to rub her hands off before slapping a palm across its roof, giving it a slow, nearly intimate rub.

"It's inspired by an older model of car I saw in a catalog once, but the design's completely my own. I won't bore you with the technical terms, but imagine an engine that runs the equivalent of a Mikoyan MiG-31; that's a jet. She's no more legal than she is beautiful, but I'm betting on flying cars to free up the roads so that I can drive her wherever I please; she's kind of a horrible accident waiting to happen." The last part was tacked on with a sheepish grin, almost like she'd already tested it out, and received less than favorable feedback.

She rode her hand across the top a few more times before noticing the way Dipper just sort of sat there and watched. Her fingers slid down the front window. "Wanna look under the hood?"

'Not really,' Dipper thought to himself; he'd watched grunkle Ford fiddle with macherary and that kept him reasonably fascinated, but even that'd been alien tech- infinitely more exciting, but still boring as long as he didn't know what was going on. Even so, Pyronica smiled over at him; her hand was already on the hood, cracking it open for a peak inside.

He slid off of the stool with a sigh, keeping his hands curled close to the underside of his seat until his feet touched the floor. It must've slipped Pyronica's mind that he was still unsteady, but before she could make her way over to him, he was inching towards her. Dipper took a deep breath, trying hard to focus on the balance of his ankles and soles, keeping a hand planted on a work table as he went along. It hurt to bend his knees, and even worse, if he did bend them, his legs could've given out entirely. Otherwise, he made fair progress in her direction.

His legs shivered when he finally came up beside her; he nearly face-planted into the engine when Pyronica gave him a firm pat on the back.

"Beautiful, isn't she? Do you know anything about cars?" She asked. Dipper shook his head. Pyronica hummed a laugh. "Alright. I'll spare you the details. Just look at her." She threw a palm out towards the opened hood- all the valves and pipes and pieces- looking proud as a mother. It was-. Nice? Dipper didn't want to seem uninterested (even though he was), so he glanced around it, trying to find it all at least somewhat interesting, when his head cocked to the side. He hummed, reaching in at what looked like a-.

Pyronica snatched his wrist. "'Just look' means don't touch," she chuckled, straining a smile; her grip was a bit tight.

"That bolt's loose," Dipper jumped. Pyronica let go of his hand, peering where his finger pointed. She pulled her head back with a huff.

"I thought you didn't know about cars."

"I know what a bolt is."

"You know what an open-end wrench is, too?" Without further instruction, she pointed to the near wall of tools hanging to Dipper's right. They weren't much of a reach, but they were a shuffling distance away; Pyronica trusted him to make it back without cracking his head open on the edge of a table, whether or not he could actually do it. Having a task was nice, though. He felt a bit more confident walking over.

There was a toolbox, but then there was also what could hang on the rack. An open-end wrench; he'd handled one a time or two, back when grunkle Stan needed an amateur plumber, and then a real plumber after Dipper's failed attempt flooded the shack. The memory made him smile, then frown. He stared longer than he should have, twining and untwining his fingers at the tools.

What were they doing without him?

He looked back at Pyronica to see if she was watching, but both of her hands were busy digging through the guts of her car. A tongue drew across his lips, no longer dry. There was an open-end wrench in the toolbox. He grabbed the item hanging over it. When he came back, Pyronica let out a deep sigh, elbow-deep in grease. She bowed her head, suppressing a laugh.

"Sweetheart, that's a hammer."

No sooner than she said it, Dipper found himself using the full force of his left hand to guide, and his right hand to provide the force, rocking the whole of his weapon's face into the back of her head. It happened so quickly, she didn't even flinch at the raise of his curled fingers. Merely fell sideways against the open engine of her car, flopping unconscious with both arms still wedged between its sides.

Dipper, in a similar fashion, had swung hard enough to knock himself off of his feet, onto his hip bone. He clutched his side, baring his teeth across cold concrete, before discarding the hammer entirely- reaching for the edge of the car for support, then stopping himself from touching it at all. Instead, he got on his hands and knees, groaning at the pain as he brought himself to his feet with the leverage of the nearest work-table.

Pyronica hardly stirred as he limped to a stand. There was a bit of oil smearing her cheek, the start of a massive knot forming at the back of her skull that made Dipper grimace. He nearly reached out, before pulling his hand away; checking on her- caring- would've been a mistake. He was too far from home to risk her waking up.

His eyes drew onto the Emergency Fire Exit. Dipper steadied himself, trembling at each step while fighting to maintain his ground. Mabel's face flashed through his mind, that distant, enthralled voice encouraging him on, even as he nearly collapsed; if he could only make it outside, someone would see him. That was more than enough motivation to push against the wobbling burn of his calves.

His hand landed on the pushbar of the door, disbelief shaking a nervous laugh from his frame when he felt it, then the way his fingers trembled desperately. One last fearful glance over his shoulder assured Pyronica wasn't rushing after him- that she wasn't spitting up blood, or frothing at the mouth- before he leaned all of his weight against the door and tumbled out the other end.

God, was the fresh air so crisp, and the grass so sweet-smelling. Feeling dirt wasn't something he thought a person could miss, but he missed it, and clutched a fistful as his shoulder slammed into the side of his jaw from the collapse. When he rolled onto his back, the sky was blue, the sun was shining- two of the world's greatest natural cliques, and he couldn't help but marvel and shake out a laugh stuck in his chest, locked in disbelief.

It all happened so fast, he almost didn't register the fire alarm sounding out through the house, or the sudden drop of tools as several gardeners rushed towards a single door built at the opposite side of the yard- supposedly because there was a fire, even though there really wasn't one.

That was when Dipper realized- in a bit of dark humor- that the brick wall he'd seen out the window earlier, crowned in barbed wire, caged the area he was located in, and that, in his exhaustion- his exhilaration- dark spots were already rushing across his vision.

'Huh. Yeah, that tracks.'

There were sirens. The loud bustling of servants. In that, he heard the distant buzz of an intercom on Pyronica's desk, and a man's voice calling for her on the other end. The grass was so soft. The sun was warm across his skin. Dipper hardly fought it as his eyes slid shut, and he passed out merely two feet from the door.