Mabel Pines and Francouer.
(if you don’t watch Gravity Falls a. Do it and b. this is now a free prompt day)
[AN: I do watch, I’m just not into the decoding stuff because I’m daft. I let everyone else do that.]
“I’ll show you all! I’ll summon a monster from ages past to destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all! Destroy you all!”
“Uh…” said Dipper. “Was it necessary to say it that many times?” And then he threw the onion.
It bounced with the kind of precision he’d learned trying to win that dumb duck thing and Wendy’s heart. It had to be precisely timed to the second, so as to cut off his last word.
The villain du jour did his obligatory scoff while Dipper pretended that it had gone wrong… and proceeded to perform his ritual while the onion continued to careen around the room.
Just as the lights flared from his chalk circle, and he uttered the words, “…a giant—” the onion hit him and knocked him out cold.
It would have been fine if it wasn’t for Mabel.
She swung through the spell circle on that dumb grappling hook of hers and said, “FLEE for your lives from Pirate Captain Mabel, aaaaarrrr…”
There wasn’t a facepalm big enough.
Smoke fountained up. The spell was complete.
And in the middle of the altar was… a nine foot tall… man? In a zoot suit and a mask? Holding a guitar.
"Brrrp?” he said. Then he said, “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” in an amazingly high voice.
Dipper vented a noise of anguish. “Mabel. What did you DO?”
“I was saving the day,” said Mabel, she’d put a bedazzled skull and crossbones on her medical eyepatch. “You’re welcome.”
“…ou est Lucille?” asked the giant.
Mabel came over all giggles. “Ooo, par-lay voo France-says mon sewer…”
Querying chitters. “…c’est n’est pas Français…”
Giggle giggle giggle giggle flirt. “You could talk to me all day… PLEASE DO!”
Dipper rolled his eyes as he got out the black light. “Well, in order to send him back to where he came from, we have to defeat him with his own skill. Uh. Okay. Show us what you got, big guy.”
Coos of glee as the giant picked up an abandoned guitar and doffed his coat.
He had four arms.
Oh. Giant flea. Of course. Mabel had completed the spell.
And damn, but he was good at guitar. And a very good singer. Mabel was practically floating on a cloud of cartoon hearts by the time he was done.
“Great, this is impossible.”
*
His name was Francoeur, and he didn’t talk much, which Grunkle Stan appreciated. He was also becoming a fast draw for the Mystery Shack, which Granule Stan loved.
Every guitarist for miles around would come, take a tour, and then pony up the fifty bucks to try and defeat the insectoid master of the guitar.
Mabel, Candy and Grenda had swooning seats in the front row, but none of them had an impact on Francoeur.
Then the steam-powered stranger came.
Dipper didn’t know who she was fooling with that fake moustache, but everyone else seemed to go with it and call her ‘sir’ and act like ordering hot water and machine oil at the diner was an everyday happenstance. She spoke with a stutter and made machine noises in her absent moments. And, were it not for the verdigris copper of her skin and the red stripes in her outfit, she could have easily passed for one of Gravity Falls elder goths.
She, too, took the tour and paid the fifty bucks to go on the stage against Francoeur. That was when she took off her moustache and announced, “My name is Rabbit, and I was b-b-built back in eighteen ninety six. Y-y-you know, when it was sti-still illegal for women to read, and all the men dressed like Mister Peanut.”
“What’s going on?” wailed Mabel.
“…music history,” whispered Robbie. He immediately started recording on his phone.
Rabbit brought out a Keytar and plugged it in to a speaker. “Sorry, Honeybee. I g-g-gotta defeat ya ‘cause of all them wonderful years in Paris.”
Francoeur merely cooed agreement and tipped his hat.
And then they Played. Not against each other, but together. Tunes and harmony so excellent that there was not a dry eye in the house. And with a spectacular light show and a fizzle of steam, Francoeur was gone.
Rabbit sighed and whispered, “So long, Honeybee…” There was a fresh trail of oily tears down her copper cheeks. “We always did make b-b-b-beautiful music together…”
Robbie spent the rest of that night info-dumping about Colonel Walter’s steam-powered automatons and their incredibly lengthy history as musical machines. But Rabbit left without any trace. Not even an oil spot.
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