#maxwell 02

Even as panic took the people, he sat, watching it all, a cup of coffee in hand. Catching someone in his peripheral vision, he addressed them.

"It's you, Great Maxwell." He drawled, sounding bored.

"What do you make of it? The staged people, the candy magic?"

He sips.

"I was contemplating whether to do as they ask. On the one hand, I don't tend towards doing things for others with such little information given.

On the other hand, everything is awful and I wouldn't mind pounding these disgusting, sticky, oozy, melty monsters to crumbling bits... and perhaps learn something of our captors further inside the castle."

There was no mistaking that tall figure, even as he rode far above Micaiah’s own head, on top of a majestic yet ominous throne. She could not identify what material it might be made from, but whatever it was also seemed to be what fueled the figures that were holding the throne.

A small shiver traveled down her spine in response to the eerie presence that the entire display gave off. Certainly, she had seen dark magics in her own world, but what was before her now... It was something that shouldn’t even be touched, much less used for play. At least, that was the impression she was under.

It went without saying that he was not here to help the efforts to protect the town from mass slaughter. They had only met once before, but that was more than enough to tell he wouldn’t get involved unless he felt there was something to gain from it. And with how he was using his powers, she quickly guessed that this was just a game or show to him.

    It was like waking from a dream, at first. Waking up from a dream that had lasted far too long, but waking up in another dream. Except, it was real. Hive City had taken him, seemingly, to other worlds before, but this was different. It was real. Here he was, mere hours before his capture to the city, before the portal, before any of that. The rain-soaked ground of the hillside that made up the Northwest’s property seeped even more dampness into already-mud-caked slacks. A few candles surround him, a sliver mirror perched on a stump before him, a deep voice echoing from inside. 

                   “...𝓜ay these tired lumber eyes gaze upon the trees one final time?”

    The answer is much more clear to Dipper now; he has a choice, and he can change it, prevent an entire string of horrific events from ever happening. 

    “What? I’m– I know what you’re going to do. I’m not falling for it, man. I’m not–”