A crowd had gathered in town, watching the strange events atop the Wentworth Bridge. The sun was just beginning to set, which made it damned difficult to get a decent view. It was only thanks to Toby Determined's advanced eye infections that he was able to gaze up without burning his retinas.
"It seems that the traaaaain has hit a caaaaaaar! Perhaps it's run out of fuuuuueeeeel!"
"Well now, I don't know much about these lokeys, but I doubt they could've run out already." Bud said, rubbing his chin. "That bunker oughtta be enough to cover six or so trips."
"What would a car be doin' up there?" Tyler asked firmly - as firmly, at least, as he could - his hands on his hips. "That ain't a highway, Toby, you silly!"
"I believe that the car belongs to Soos!" Toby warbled. "It appeaaaars to be damaged!"
The town murmured in a complete lack of surprise. It figured that the events would be, somehow, linked to the Pines. Tyler's moustache twitched as he ruminated on the matter, peering up through his mayoral binoculars at the trouble. "Those kids are looking rough."
"Now surely there ain't gonna be no kids on that train, Mr Mayor." Bud scoffed.
"There surely is," Tyler said, handing the larger man the mayoral binoculars - somewhat obliviously mimicking Bud's pronounced accent.
Bud twisted his lip as he took hold of the binoculars. It seemed unthinkable that any kids - even the Pines and Pacifica Northwest - would find themselves up there.
He was under no illusions; he was no great friend of theirs. But he was pretty sure they were well aware of the truth - he was no megalomaniac like his son. He wasn't even a bad person.
Not really.
No more than Stan Pines, at least.
So it was only natural that he became concerned to see the kids on board.
"Dang. I never thought I'd go see a Northwest in that kind of state." Gleeful replied. "Perhaps we need to get up there to help 'em?"
The crowd murmured in agreement - pricking the ears of a stuffed shirt in a dark blue blazer, just outside of the group.
"The volunteer fire truck's ladder won't reach up there…" Tyler said, rubbing his perfectly smooth chin. "Can't think of how we'd get up so high."
"Well now. Ah think Portland has a crane, one of those office block building things."
"Bud, you know as well as I do that Portland won't talk to us. Not since the incident."
The townspeople all mumbled dead-end theories and suggestions to eachother, trying to pitch random concepts to rectify the matter. It turned out that none of the population was particularly sure what to do in the case of a stranded train.
Truth be told, the town didn't really know what to do about most things, without some kind of guiding hand.
They didn't even have the cops around.
"Sometimes I can spread the excess skin on my back like a flying squirrel!" Toby piped up. "Perhaps I can gliiide up to the kiiiiiids!"
The oddly shaped reporter was ignored by his peers. Nobody seemed to notice the skulking, perfectly postured shape of Preston Northwest sliding into the crowd, either.
"I don't know what we can do, Tyler, but it seems awfully bad guardianship to jus'leave Pacifica an' the Pines up there. Ah think she's got burns."
It was only natural that Preston and Priscilla Northwest were on the scene - after all, they had a personal, if rather unpleasant, link to the railroad and were more than eager to see if any business could be suitable for their… 'interests.'
Their 'interests', naturally, being hostile takeovers.
It was only natural, too, that the Northwest Patriarch would hear Bud's exclamation and immediately be outraged. He stormed into the crowd with all of the tact, grace and decorum of a Manotaur catburglar. "Pacifica? Hand me those binoculars, Gleeful!"
"Now, see here, Preston, I know fer a fact that you ain't so involved in-"
"That wasn't a request, 'Bud'!" The Ivy League scoundrel replied, snatching them from the Gleeful patriarch's hands. "I was assured that my daughter would be kept safe by those- those-"
"Crooks, darling?"
"Exactly, Priscilla, dear. Crooks! That's exactly what they are!" Preston sneered as he gazed through the antique ceremonial eyeglasses, his shoulders rolling in his luxury blue velvet blazer. "T-that jacket of hers is worth more than that locomotive's oil budget for a year! And it's ruined!"
Priscilla twisted her botox-injected lip as she admired herself in a compact mirror, clearly disinterested in her husband's outrage. "Now, Preston, we both know she isn't our responsibility anymore. You've made sure of that."
"She's beaten black and blue! I don't know what's happened on that train but my daughter is not becoming some- some kind of blue-collar footplate woman! She doesn't belong there! It - it's dangerous!"
It was fairly clear that Preston was more interested in the vanity aspect than that of safety. While most of the Pines' little adventures had been steeped in relative mystery - a secretive little side-event to the life of the town that had more the less gone unknown. This was different. This was public. Preston may have agreed to allow the Pines to gallivant off on their paranormal nonsense, but something about this - a visceral, tangible, fiery thing such as a runaway train?
It felt strangely humiliating to have his daughter up there in the public eye. The town knew nothing of their gentleman's agreement, but knew the look of an oblivious father's face all too well. He knew they were judging him. Talking about him. Not respecting him.
She was up there without his knowledge. Without his approval. And she was hurt.
Look after her, Stanley. Those were his words to the old crook. Somehow, he had trusted him. He had trusted the ex-con (and technically still-con in several territories) to keep his word. And now, his daughter - his admittedly very confused but precious daughter - was several hundred feet up on a broken-down locomotive that had crashed into a pick-up truck, covered in soot and bruises.
His moustache bristled as he peered through the eyeglasses.
"Preston, you said yourself we shouldn't get involved." Priscilla said. "Let her make her own mistakes-"
"My daughter. He promised to look after my daughter." He chuntered. "Look at her, Priscilla! Does she look like she's being looked after to you?!"
"Preston, come now, you're making a scene, darling-"
"No, Priscilla. This is serious. Follow me." He snarled in return. The Northwest Patriarch grabbed Priscilla's hand, and, shoulders forward, back straight, slightly hunched, he stormed towards the base of the cliffs.
"What on Earth do you plan to do?!" Priscilla argued."Climb the cliffs?!"
"When the Cold War hit, the family was sure of one thing, and one thing alone. The Northwest Family survives. Be it by hiding underground, in the cliffs, or raiding railroad stores."
"You don't mean-"
"We even put some money towards a mechanical Speeder. Nifty little thing it was, built from one of my father's old Rolling Royston motors. Could probably survive a nuclear blast itself. Of course, that was forty years ago…"
"Preston, sometimes your family really is all too much."
Preston beamed and held his trophy wife proudly around the hips. It would be fair to say that people doubted the genuine nature of their marriage - that just because somebody was contractually obliged to marry according to the regulations of their yachting club, it meant there was no love involved.
But there was still a glint in their eyes towards eachother. Still a pride, an almost shared… antagonism for the rest of the world. The sort of love only two awful people could really share. A bristling belief that they, and only they, could lead the charge for the betterment of people. The shared belief in their own excellence. An unshakable feeling that, when determination hit, simply couldn't be controlled.
The belief that they, and solely they, knew what was best for people. And their daughter.
"That's why we're so great, Priscilla. It's why we'll be standing long after these idiots." He smiled confidently, holding her chin, while gesturing towards the townspeople. "Wouldn't you like Pacifica back into our picture? We are Northwests. And isn't that a marvellous thing?"
"Preston, I'd like nothing more. But she seemed happy in-"
He forced the binoculars into her hands, Apparently still having yet to return them to the mayor he had just snatched them from. Priscilla winced, look at the eyeglasses, then back at her husband before peering into the lenses, as if she was far more willing to accept blissful ignorance than confront the matter.
It took her a moment to line up her sight with the locomotive's static cab. There was Pacifica - scorched, bruised, sweaty and looking impeccably uncomfortable, stuck on a forty-ton lump of industrial machinery that was dented and broken, coughing up little clouds of soot and leaning on Dipper for support, her eyebrows veering downwards in a brave, but clearly pained smile.
Hundreds of feet up, with nowhere to go.
It was a damning indictment of Pacifica's idea of happiness. A very persuasive argument presented from a vantage point far, far away.
It would be fair to say that Priscilla was never a fantastic mother, nor one who had shown very much interest in her daughter's activities, hobbies, ideas or aspirations. But to see her flesh and blood up there, looking so helpless… it sparked off a rather hefty maternal feeling within her.
She frowned and followed her husband with a new sense of resolve as he took her towards an entrance, covered in trees, leaves and bramble bushes. It was an impressive edifice - a deftly carved entrance headed by a Northwest Monogram, surrounded by laurel wreaths and crude imitations of imitation Romanic pillars.
It was, naturally, horrendously showboating, over the top and tacky - elements that were clear despite the weathered facade and outsized vegetation.
"This," he said proudly, "Is the work of over two years of Northwest genius."
"Preston-"
"A fine piece of architecture, really. Entirely unique. Carved out of rock using sheer will, strength and a hundred men-"
"Preston, there's another tunnel just here that isn't overgrown."
He raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense, dear. It'd take only the brightest minds-"
It was a sentence he didn't finish, as she ripped open the poorly obscured entrance and peered within its narrow corridor, lit by gentle yellow lamplight, curling and twisting upwards into the heart of the floating cliff.
Preston knew exactly where it led - and was beginning to simmer over the matter furiously.
"It was covered in brown paper, dear. I don't think it was the brightest minds." Priscilla replied, peering through. "It seems quite safe, though. Certainly cleaner ."
"I'll go first, darling," Preston replied, now feeling somewhat irritant thanks to his wife's deduction work. "Can't have you getting hurt, now, can we?"
"I can look after myself. You know I have pepper spray."
Priscilla's mace was made of the finest quality Kampot peppercorns, luxuriously brewed to ensure that your attacker knows that you are truly experiencing the finest of ocular agonies. It cost around $20 a spray. Even Preston wasn't too keen on the idea of his wife using up the entire bottle on an attacker.
As little as the two realised it, they had uncovered the very same tunnel that Quentin Trembley had carved with a league of rock beavers. To their surprise, the Northwest Bunker had been occupied by the secretive figure, too.
Preston felt like howling in dismay when he ascended the rocky, narrow staircase and was greeted by the state of his family's secret Chambers. They were in a decidedly Un-Northwest situation.
The Northwest Speeder was long gone from the secret length of rail that it had sat inside. Filing cabinets and railroad detritus were scattered in the place of their bullion, iodine and Earl Grey supply. An American flag hung on the wall with too few states, and a portrait of a woodpecker was hanging over the proud, beautifully painted original of Nathaniel Northwest.
A faint smell of peanut brittle and goose down seemed to coat the walls. The refrigerator unit was full of canned bacon fat. There were at least two pieces of Anti-Irish graffiti, and the toilet paper all had a Union Jack motif.
"This bunker was built as a retreat, a safe house, a guarantee for our name, and some - some buffoon has sullied it with this nonsense!" Preston snorted. "It's pure insanity!"
"Preston, please, eyes on the prize!"
The middle-aged man in the ivy league blazer exhaled deeply, rolled his shoulders and nodded. "You're right. You're right, of course, Priscilla. Come."
The Northwest parents made their move onto the railbed and began walking through the tunnel, out towards the bridge - led by determination, genuine maternal concern and, perhaps most of all, Preston's need for control.