When they had last seen The Crawlspace's smelting chamber, it was an enormous wreck of spilled crucibles and broken furnaces, peppered with cracked pipes and rubble; a place of rather traumatic events, partial heatstroke and a lot of beaten up Clurichauns.
It was far from the happiest set of memories that they shared - but, then, they couldn't honestly say they had that many positive memories underground, anyway. Pacifica was convinced the world was desperate for them to become some sort of bizarre mole people. The sort that Soos kind of looked like.
In any sense, the entire place had lain dormant ever since. Admittedly, that had only been a week, maybe a week and a bit, but it had been completely silent and motionless - a disaster, frozen in time - the fall of a criminal organisation in one single spill.
Now the small room was a hive of activity once again - this time, for entirely different reasons. Rather than smelting gold, it was being commandeered for boiling sugar and peanuts to create the ultimate anti-beaver compound. A startling prospect - another hidden secret that the town could have probably benefited from immensely a long time ago. After all, how much of Gravity Falls had been subject to beaver infestations and destruction over its lifetime? And the answer all this time had been something you could buy a kilo of for a few bucks?
At least it explained why the old-timey-candy-store had never been gnawed at.
Pacifica sat down as she tried to process the utterly dizzying mess. Vengeful spirit beavers, shipwrecks, peanut brittle and organised workforces built of geese. She wasn't sure if she was feeling nausea coming on from the idea of a two ton vat of peanut brittle or the sheer confusion and tumult rattling around in her head.
Dipper sat next to her wordlessly - understandingly - and trailed his hand slowly up and down her back as they watched.
The display was an awkward one for the Pines. It took several hours and eight loaves of bread for the repairs to complete, and it was far from the most efficient - or effective - manner of repair that they had seen.
They had never seen geese attempt hot riveting, and had never known the things had so much… dexterity in their necks. Or wings. Or flappy orange flipper feet with those really sinister toe-claws.
When the geese weren't a considerably threatening army being led by a godzilla goose, they were a dedicated, fixated workforce. Though slightly inept and constantly angry, underpaid and being commanded by an old white dude who seemed to have no idea what he was doing, either. Frankly, it was as if they were long necked fast food workers with wings.
One would be forgiven for mistaking it all as sheer, unadulterated chaos. Feathers flew into the air as the hundreds of birds laboured, honking at eachother in vague approximations of communication, argument and what seemed to be the avian equivalent of swearing.
It was bizarre. All so utterly bizarre, loud and unpleasant to watch. If they tried to help, they'd just get honked and glared at. No, this was a scene they had to simply watch. The thought briefly travelled through Dipper's mind that the geese were trying to prove something.
What the hell did geese have to prove?! It didn't help that Quentin watched over them like a proud father with bird excreta on his shoulder.
The time crawled on like molasses travelling uphill in January.
With crutches.
There was a brief scare when one of them brought in the acetylene torch and nearly set fire to their comrades, which Mabel and Stan both found utterly hilarious, but - besides the typical misfortune that fowled (get it?) a workforce without thumbs - the entire thing was one of perturbing speed and productivity.
The vats were soon standing. Their looming, metallic, somewhat shoddy form was once again teetering over the family fiercely in a gigantic, cast iron edifice. It was far from a sleek piece of work. Truth be told, Pacifica was almost certain the giant hunks of metal would be, far from watertight - though they were geese. Y'know, credit where it's due. If anything, they did better than beavers restoring a boat.
She never thought that was a comparison she'd have to make.
"Now all we have to do is make some peanut brittle!" Quentin beamed, hands on his hips. Still with bird excreta on his shoulder. "I'm sure someone down here has a half ton of butter."
"This is ridiculous." Dipper finally said, firmly. Pacifica was quietly impressed to see him stand up so strictly to the President. Y'know, even if it was this president. "Quentin, I know you're trying to help, but this isn't going to work. It's already nearly night time. They'll already be out there."
"Then by God, Dipper, we had better make that confectionery quickly ."
"Mr. President! We're out of time!" Mabel butted in, clearly proud of how action-y and badass that sentence had sounded.
"I'm sure that ship is no blue riband holder, but they'll have reached the town side of the lake by now." Ford agreed. "We'll never have a big enough batch before they get up Northwest Hill."
Quentin tented his fingers. "Perhaps if we rebuilt the second vat-"
"I swear, I'm going to punch him." Pacifica whispered to her boyfriend. "Is that treason? He's still technically president right?"
"If you can go without punching him, we can watch a rom-com."
"Screw that, Dip. We're only halfway through the Reggie Conman series." She replied, sharply, as the Grunkles considered the chronological stalemate they had stumbled into.
Ford was not too much further away from getting aggressive with the long-lost government leader. "We need another solution, Trembley. This isn't practical. Please, for once in your life, be practical!"
Stan rubbed his chin. "Ya think your geese could fight 'em off?"
Stanford blinked and glared. That was Stan's idea of practical?!
"My geese are mechanics, not warriors." Trembley replied, hautilly. "Save for my warrior geese."
"And they are…?"
"In the goose barracks, obviously." He said matter of factly, as if it was the stupidest question he had ever heard. "But if you want me to call them, I suppose I could-"
The gangly, mutton chopped man trailed off as he realised everybody was glaring at him. Even Pascoe. He rolled his eyes as one of his geese handed him a tin army helmet, and placed it reluctantly on his head, moistening his lips for another tune on Mabel's goose call. "I hope you realise this is going to put the peaceful goose movement back by at least sixty days."