Volume 1 Act 1 – Chapter 11 Missing Pieces

Flawed Mangoes The Unwavering Hand– Missing Pieces

She had decided for herself. Sitting at that booth while the evening light crawled through the afternoon sky. She was going to have to find something more. Clues, something more than just names on a piece of paper. Something tucked away in dark corners, hidden from plain sight.

Pacifica was in her room, staring at the time on her phone. Sitting on her bed, she was waiting for midnight to reach. She knew around that time her parents would either be asleep, or too absorbed in each other to notice her slipping around the mansion. She watched the time slip by, nervously waiting.

Am I really about to do this?

It wouldn't be the first time she had gone against her parents' word. They always bickered her, molded her into someone she thought she was meant to be. Their ideals, so cemented into the Northwest lifestyle. She thought it was so natural, thinking that's how it should be, that's how she should act. When she was younger, it all seemed so simple, like it all made sense. She would hold herself to a high standard, looking down on those who were lower than herself because she was a Northwest, and that's what they do. Afterall, that's what her mother and father taught her, that's all she had ever known. But it wasn't until somewhat recently that she realized it was all a broken system. All lies, deception built upon years of betrayal and dark deeds.

She could remember her hand gripping the lever, the bell's ringing shooting around in her head, somehow managing to pull it down with unshakable resolve. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to fix her family's name. To shove her parents back into that panic room and force them to see how wrong they were. That day at the mansion opened her eyes. The paintings, a curse her parents knew how to break but refused to do so out of spite and pettiness, how they treated Dipper, it all shattered her illusions of the Northwest legacy.

Dipper…

She rolled her eyes as she fell backwards on her bed, fully laying down. Her sheets were soft, cradling her with an odd sense of foreign comfort. She looked around her room, its white walls reflecting the moonlight from her window. She closed her eyes, trying to get his dorky smile out of her head. She couldn't help but admire him. He was the one that took the offer to exercise the ghost, putting himself in harm's way just to get rid of it. But what had she done? For most of that night, she had just run around, arguing with him about getting a carpet dirty out of fear of her parents' finding out, or when she would just make fun of him and his journal while he was trying to help. All because that was what she was expected to do. She was a Northwest and to her family, he was nothing.

The guilt was palpable. She wanted to sink down into her bed and wither away. To suffocate in those silky and hollow sheets. She could hear the words that left his mouth that night, echoing in her mind. Something so painful, but so true.

You really are just another link in the world's worst chain….

That night, those words made her realize that he was partially right. She could've done the right thing; she could've told him. But she didn't. She did what her parents wanted her to do. To live in lies, to live in the silence of broken promises and shattered alliances. And by doing that, she really was just another link in the world's worst chain. She should've told him, but that bell stopped her. It was a trigger, its sound rooted deep in her mind, a reminder of how her parents controlled her.

But she fought back against it. She had to. Those paintings, their imagery, those sinister smirks and crossed fingers behind each other's backs, they showed her the truth. A truth that was slowly making its way to the surface at the time, breaking down everything she had ever known. A truth she didn't want to believe at first, one she refused to acknowledge while she kept playing the part of that snobby, entitled Northwest daughter. But before she knew it, she had no choice but to accept that truth, even though it hurt like hell.

There were moments throughout her life, even when she was younger, where she had doubts. One that came to her mind was the book about the ugly duckling. Such a brittle story, one that conditioned her painfully. Part of her adolescent mind couldn't understand what was happening to the duckling, doubtful of the stories message. But her mother's narration was just so realistic. So effective that it was still relevant to this day, making her care about that Northwest image like it was something she desperately needed, like it was something she couldn't live without.

Pacifica breathed out. What scared her the most was that she could think about every choice, every decision she had made in her life that led up to this moment. It was like she was standing at a crossroad. So many branching paths, leading to different realities. She could hear the voices in her head, swirling around, filled with anxiety and fear.

What if I didn't pull that lever? What if I didn't help build that robot?

What if….

She shook her head, sighing at herself. It's so hard to change, she thought. She could imagine that one more ring of the bell could be the glue that her mask needed to stay together. She could imagine that Northwest front coming back to the surface, full of its lies and defense mechanisms. She didn't want that. She didn't want to change back, even though she knew it would be so easy to just ignore everything that had happened and listen to her parents again.

She opened her eyes and brought her phone to her face. It was midnight. She let her arm fall to her side and stared at the ceiling. She didn't want to move, but that stubborn, naïve part of her was full of determination to push herself, to break those glass walls that would be so easy to keep up.

Suddenly she found her arms pushing herself off her bed, carried by the resolve to shatter those glass walls she was surrounded by, to break free out of the chains her family had set. If she really wanted to uncover the truth behind what she had found, it was time to go snoop around her father's study.

I have to do this. No turning back….

She cracked open her door, the faint creak louder than it should've been in the oppressive silence. The hallway stretched out before her, bathed in the faint glow of moonlight and the dim flicker of the golden light fixtures. The shadows seemed to breathe, stretching and recoiling as if alive. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to step forward, blaming the chill creeping down her spine on her nerves.

Reaching the stairwell, she placed her hands on the railing and looked down at the first floor. The hallway leading toward her father's study loomed in the distance. Something was wrong with it. Its shadows slithered along the walls and floor, moving in ways that defied the faint light, as though they had a will of their own. They weren't just still—they were waiting, inviting her to step closer.

The hair on her neck stood up. It wasn't just her curiosity pulling her forward—it was something else, a force that gripped her from within, impossible to resist. It wasn't violent, but it was unyielding, like the slow tug of an undertow.

She descended the steps, each footfall deliberate and careful, the sound swallowed by the thick, heavy air. Behind her, the faint hum of her parents' raised voices echoed through the mansion, growing dimmer and dimmer as she went.

At the edge of the hallway, she froze. Her breath hitched as goosebumps prickled across her skin. The air here was colder, heavier. The polished floor seemed to shimmer faintly, but when she glanced at her reflection, something flickered—a shadow where none should have been, gone in an instant.

She didn't move. She didn't blink. But the feeling of being watched, scrutinized, only grew stronger, pressing down on her like a suffocating weight.

Something was here. Lurking. Waiting.

The weight of unseen eyes pressed against her, heavy and suffocating, as though the darkness itself was judging her every move.

Reluctantly, she walked forward into the darkness. The walls pressed closer, their silence alive with scrutiny. She approached the study door and stopped, setting her hand on the handle. The anticipation was killing her as she studied the doors exterior. Its wooden grain was deep, a sunken canyon full of mystery. She only had been able to get quick peaks inside whenever her father was close by and would slip inside. He would always open the door to the exact width needed for just his body to fit through, no more, no less. Her hand was shaking, jiggling the door handle slightly. She didn't realize that part of her feared what she was about to do. Her father always mentioned never going into his study without his supervision, and for the first time, she was about to break that rule.

She breathed in through her nose and out her mouth, conjuring any resolve she could find within herself as she slowly opened the door.

The study was dark, dimly lit with a fireplace on the right side of the room. It felt abandoned, dust floating in the moonlit air as the fireplace flickered below. There were two huge bookshelves on the opposite side of the study, a desk in between with a sculpture of Nathaniel Northwest's face on top. The floorboards were dark oak wood rich with detail. She could smell the burning logs as they cackled on the other side of the room, being the only ambient noise. She slowly closed the door behind her, shutting it quietly.

She walked into the center of the room, looking up at the walls, staring at the various animal heads on display. It reminded her of their last mansion. She turned towards the fireplace, remembering the burning skeleton emerging from the fire, coming to life. That night was a day she would never forget. Breathing out to calm herself, she did a small twirl around the study, looking around to see if anything stood out to her. The air around her felt almost suffocating, like it was closing her in. Her eyes darting between the corners of the room, watching the shadows created by the moonlight and fireplace, almost expecting them to jump out at her.

Immediately, she was drawn to the big desk at the end of the room. It sat in front of the window, the moonlight illuminating it, almost as if it was the next piece to a puzzle that need solving. She slowly walked towards the desk. There were some ink pens by a lamp on the top of the desk. Papers laid all over the surface, askew and out of order. She knew her father was somewhat unorganized but this? It was unexpected.

She picked up the papers. just documents about deals and budgeting for the mudflap factory. But near the edge of the desk, rested a few crumbled pages, almost as if they had been discarded out of frustration. She grabbed them and unfolded them.

Oh…taxes.

No wonder father has seemed so stressed lately.

She wrinkled them and set them back on the table, immediately squatting down and going through the drawers. She opened one after another, sorting through the various papers and envelopes, looking for something, anything that could lead her in the right direction. Drawer after drawer revealed only mundane business documents—budgets, expenses, reports—all exactly what she'd expected and dreaded from her father.

She sucked in the air between her teeth, massaging the bridge of her nose. This was going almost nowhere. Her father would be more cautious about this. He wouldn't just have such dark secrets this easy to find. She sighed as she closed the middle drawer of the desk.

She started doubting herself, second-guessing her own decisions.

It was a mistake to come here….

She pushed that thought back, looking at the bottom drawer. A part of her hoped this would be it—that this drawer would finally hold something meaningful—a small part of her also expected to find some more reports again. But there was another part of her that dreaded it, that feared what she might find. She wiped her brow and stood up looking at the doorway, listening for any footsteps coming her way.

She watched the light under the door, the air around her growing colder. Shadows stretched across the floor, their movements subtle but deliberate, as though retreating from the moonlight filtering through the window. Then a shadow darted across the room. Her breath hitched, her head snapping up. She spun toward the window, heart hammering in her chest, but saw only the swaying trees outside. Yet something was wrong. The moonlight seemed too bright, its glow too harsh, like it carried something alien and hostile.

She turned around, breathing heavily. Why am I freaking out? It was probably just some dumb bird or owl.

She crouched back down and reached for the handle, only to jerk her hand back as a biting cold burned her skin.

"Ow! What the heck!" She whispered as she waved her hand around. The handle looked different now—paler, as though frost had crept over it, but there was no sign of ice. She looked at it as a sinking feeling coiled in her stomach. It wasn't natural—it felt alive, as though the handle itself had rejected her touch.

The study seemed to exhale a low, invisible chill. Shadows stretched longer, pooling in corners like ink, inching closer as if drawn by her presence. The air grew colder, sharp and biting, and her breath puffed out in small, visible clouds. Her teeth chattered as she looked around, the sense of being watched pressing down on her like unseen weights. A silent audience, one that watched her every move, projecting shadows to close her in.

This was no ordinary study. Something was here, and it wanted her to know it.

She felt terrified of what she had just uncovered, like she had just triggered something. But she looked at the handle again. Its pale, lifeless glow drew her gaze like a thorn pressing into her mind. Everything—Weirdmageddon, what she found in Greasy's—had led up to this moment. A road paved with countless lies, cracks filled with blackmail, and its surface littered by the sins of her family.

I have to do this, she thought.

In her mind—as scared as she was—she was determined to see this through and uncover the truth. Her fear battled with her resolve as she focused on her hand. It was trembling, the air a frigid chill, biting her skin. She looked at the desk gritting her teeth. She grabbed the crumpled papers that were on top, wrapping them around the handle. Her palm pressed down on the cold metal. It still stung, but the sharp bite had dulled. Taking a deep breath, she yanked on the handle, but it didn't budge. It was locked

She groaned, exhaling through her nose. "Ugh, seriously?"

This has to be it. I am so close!

She felt like she was right there, standing on the edge of a cliff, able to peer just far enough to catch a glimpse at the truth, only for the path to vanish from beneath her feet. Once again, there was another thing in her way. Her frustration churned into something heavier, a nagging thought in the back of her mind. It was like the world was warning her, telling her to stop. To go back now before it was too late. And that made her feel sick. Forever doomed to stay on the path her family carved out for her, forced to make those same mistakes for the rest of her life. But no. She refused to live like this. She knew it would be so easy to regress, and man changing was hard, but she wanted, needed to push forward.

Rising to her feet, she scanned around the study, searching for something —anything—that might unlock the drawer. All the while, the room seemed to breathe around her, the cold air tightening its grip as the shadows danced at the edge of her vision. She desperately ignored shadows, trying to focus.

The search seemed futile as she just found more documents and hollow decorations that filled empty spaces. She ended up standing in front of one of the bookshelves, looking at her father's collection of encyclopedias and biographies. As she was scanning the countless rows of books, one caught her eye. She stared at it breathlessly. It was a book from her childhood, one she would read all the time. She slowly walked towards the shelf, reaching for the book and gently running her fingers over the spine. She could feel the comfort it gave her when she was a little kid, reading it in her bed whenever she was upset. The story of a fox's bravery, one she had read so many times to where she had practically memorized its words and pages. It all seemed like a forgotten memory. She looked at the book fondly, the words on the spine calling her like a sweet hymn, a familiar melody.

She tugged, but the book resisted, as if the shelf itself refused to let go. With one final pull, a metallic clinking echoed through the walls. The sound sent a shiver through her. She froze, listening, and then—click. She spun towards the source of the noise, her heart pounding. It was the desk. She hurried towards it, crouching down and quickly opening the drawer, ignoring the cold stinging sensation the metal imprinted on her hands

Inside the drawer was a folder, laying on top of some kind of velvet ledger. Pacifica was still, staring at its contents. She grabbed the folder, standing up and breathing out, her breath visible in the study's air. Her stomach churned as her fingers brushed over the folder. She opened it slowly, her heart hammering. One page stood out immediately—a receipt she recognized. It stared back at her like a ghost from Greasy's, its words no longer smudged or distorted but sharp and undeniable. It felt like her family was mocking her, forcing her to confront a truth she wasn't ready to face. She scowled, her fingers trembling as she skimmed the contents. The signature at the bottom caught her eye, written in elegant but cryptic cursive: "The Benefactor." A chill crept down her spine as she read the rest, fragmented phrases sinking into her mind.

Obedience of Silence.

Obligations under section 3.

Eternal Legacy.

She stared into the distance, the paper slipping slightly from her grasp. Fear tightened its grip on her, eclipsing every other emotion. This wasn't just a family secret—it was something darker, something far beyond what she had ever imagined. Her body began to tremble, but she clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay rooted.

"What is this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the frigid air. She clenched her fists.

"What did they do?"

She brought the paper closer to her face, but the words twisted, rippling like they were submerged in water. She blinked, rubbing her eyes, it's just the cold, but it only grew worse. The text blurred and streaked, shifting into dark, illegible smears. Her breath caught as the cold tightened around her arms, sharp and biting. She looked around the room, her vision was fine, clear as day until she would look at the words on the paper. They stared back at her, hazy and mirky. The air felt heavier now, pressing against her chest, and she shivered as a new, chilling thought crept into her mind.

It wasn't just the room anymore. Something was here. And it didn't want her to see the truth.

But Pacifica knew she had to push past the fear crawling under her skin, lurking at the edges of her mind. Most people would stop here, but that stubborn part of her refused to let go. She kept moving forward—because she wanted, no, needed to uncover this secret and figure out what was going on.

Besides, I survived the damn apocalypse!

She set the folder and papers on the desk, reaching back into the drawer and pulling out the ledger. Its velvet cover shimmered faintly in the moonlight behind her. Her palm glided over its surface, feeling the small imperfections like scars under her fingertips. Her nerves prickled at her resolve, warning her to stop. But she swallowed hard and opened the cover. The ink on the first page was thick, like the shadows pooled in the study's corners. At the top, in fragile script, a single word stood out:

Offerings

What…..

Her stomach immediately dropped. The panic was immediate and unrelenting

Offerings?

For Who? For what?

The ledger contained a list, partitioned in multiple sections. She turned the page, hands trembling, and scanned the sections. The first was labeled "Transactions." Her eyes widened at the numbers—absurd sums of money, hundreds of thousands, millions, floating around like pocket change. She was used to wealth, she'd grown up around it. But this was different. The dates leapt out at her. Days apart. Not even a week between some of them.

Her feet were glued to the floor, like the shadows had turned to anchors, dragging her down into an ocean she couldn't swim in. Still, she flipped to the next section.

Customers.

She swallowed, her throat cold and dry. The names on the page looked familiar —business associates, family friends, people who'd shaken her father's hand at charity events. But here, scrawled on the ledger, they seemed wrong, twisted somehow. Like their names were tied to something more than business. Like they were more than just customers.

There was one more section, indicated that it began on the next page. She put her finger on the corner and hesitated, absolutely terrified of what she was about to read. She squeezed her eyes shut as she turned the page, opening them once she had finished the motion.

Quarry

She went pale as she looked at the page. It was filled with names of not only business associates, but of people from Gravity Falls. She leaned in closer to the page when she heard a faint whisper behind her.

a

She spun her head around, her body jolting at the sound. No one was there, just the window and the moonlight that was shining through it, casting the shadows of the trees outside the mansion. She turned around with a chill, she swore that it sounded like her father. Gripping the desk to try and find something to ground herself, she kept reading the list. The farther she got down the list, the more familiar the names became. Until she saw one that made her entire body freeze.

Susan Wentworth.

Her eyes stared into the ink, full of disbelief, filled with confusion. But the ink stared back at her, actual proof of something underhanded, a reminder of her family's wrong doings. Susan's name was on there. Why is her name on here? Panic took over as she gripped the page, unable to take her hand off the paper.

Suddenly, she heard a hiss behind her, feeling the movement of someone, or somethings breath graze her neck. The study began to warp around her. Shapes and dimly lit colors all blending together, like colors of paint mixing with each other in a cup of water. Her breathing grew faster as her left hand immediately clasped itself over her nape. She turned her head around, seeing nothing but an empty void, an infinite space that was filled with darkness. She turned back around, only to then see the desk still in front of her. Whispers filled the void around her, all from familiar voices.

She was panicking. What is happening to me?! She felt like she was slipping. Her hands immediately fell towards the desk, her brain trying to determine what was real and what was not. She didn't know where she was. It was dark and the temperature seemed to get colder by the second, biting at her skin. The whispers clawed their way into her ears, making her grasp her head and crouch down behind the desk. Her breathing was erratic, small breath clouds rapidly leaving her mouth as her eyes watered. She wanted to scream, to run away, but where was there to run? She didn't even know what was happening.

Then, in one single moment, everything stopped, and she could just hear the faint sound of footsteps. She opened her eyes and looked over the desk. In the void that loomed around her, there was something there. It was a wooden floor which stretched forward like a path, disappearing into the black nothingness. The chair sat in the middle—impossibly distant, yet close enough to reach. She slowly got up, placing a hand on her chest, trying to slow down and control her breathing.

She slowly walked past the desk, taking the gentlest steps, while extremely cautious.

She managed to speak, her voice shaky with fear and uncertainty.

"He —Hello?"

No one answered. The void was empty beside the chair in the distance in front of her. Then she saw a figure make its way onto the scene before her. It was Susan. She looked terrified as she backed up onto the floorboards towards the chair. Her breathing was heavy, and she was staring at something Pacifica couldn't see, while her hands were up in a defensive position.

"Susan!" Pacifica started to speed up.

Susan's voice cracked into the void around Pacifica.

"No, wait what are you going to do to me, I didn't mean to rea—"

Susan's foot caught the edge of the chair. Her body hit it with a thud, the sound slicing through the void like a knife. Pacifica gasped, her legs moving on instinct, stumbling forward—too slow. Dark tendrils shot out, mist curling like snakes, yanking Susan into place. Susan's body convulsed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. She didn't know if this was even real, but in the off chance it was, she couldn't let this happen to Susan, whatever this was.

As she was running towards Susan, the whispers turned sharp, like nails scraping across glass. Her father's voice rose above them—low, distorted, dripping with anger, a sinister chorus.

"You shouldn't have done that…"

Pacifica immediately froze, almost on instinct alone. It felt like the shadows that resided in the black void around her were staring at her, making sure she didn't move a single muscle. She watched on in horror as Susan was in the chair, shaking as these shadowy tendrils seemed to be messing attached to her head. Pacifica wanted to move, screaming at herself internally to use her legs. But she was instilled with fear, the fear and control she was raised with. It locked her down like heavy shackles, thick chains at her arms and feet.

As Susan's body was convulsing, she noticed a piece pf paper slip from her pants pocket, one she immediately recognized. It was the receipt. Her heart stopped beating as her stomach dropped. Her blood ran ice cold, sweat running down her head and neck.

No….

No… Please

Susan had found something. The receipt. Pacifica's mind reeled.

This is my fault.

Her chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, painful bursts. Susan had gotten hurt because of her family. Because of her. She wanted to scream, to tear at the shadows and demand answers. Instead, her legs twitched beneath her, begging to move. The air in the abyss stiffened around her, the whispers and voices grew in volume, booming with authority.

"Pacifica Elise Northwest, what did I tell you! Stop. This. Instant."

And then there it was. The bell rattled—a sound both familiar and foreign, like it had been pulled from a nightmare she couldn't quite remember. It pierced through her skull, vibrating through her teeth. Pacifica screamed, hands clamping over her ears, but the sound wouldn't stop.

A new voice emerged from the chorus of her father's whispers. One that sounded so familiar, one she didn't want to hear.

"I was right about you all along…" the voice sneered. It was Dipper's voice. But not his.

"You really are just another link in the world's worst chain…"

His voice was twisted, too sharp at the edges, soaked with venom that didn't belong to him. Still, the words landed just the same.

Pacifica could feel herself shatter into a million pieces. She dropped to her knees, head bowed toward her chest in defeat. The shadows loomed over her, caressing her shoulders like invisible hands, smothering her in their cold embrace.

It's my fault…

The crackling of the fireplace jolted her back to reality. She gasped, eyes wide as she looked around the familiar study. The air was stuffy now, no longer frigid, but her body still trembled. She staggered to her feet, her legs shaky, like they were learning to walk again.

Her instincts screamed: Run. Leave this place and never look back. And she almost did. Step by step, she moved toward the door, hands trembling.

But then Susan's scream echoed in her mind—her convulsing body, those black tendrils slithering and pulling her down. Pacifica stopped. Her teeth clenched, fists curling tight by her sides.

She spun to face the ledger on the desk, her eyes burning with hot, furious anger. Another terrible thing. Another stain on their name. She marched toward the desk, snatching the ledger in both hands. The leather creaked under her grip as she carried it toward the fireplace. The flames danced hungrily, catching the edges of the velvet cover. She gritted her teeth, ready to let go.

Then she heard it.

It's not too late…

The voice stopped her cold. It was Dipper's voice. Not twisted this time, not cruel. It was soft. Steady. Real. Pacifica froze, staring at the ledger. The flames kissed its edges, but she didn't let go. Her breath slowed. She realized what she was about to do. Destroy the only evidence she'd found—proof of everything she'd been trying to uncover. Something that was a physical reminder that what had happened the past few days was real.

With a shaky sigh, she pulled the ledger back, the firelight dancing across its cover. She carried it back to the desk and set it down. Her parents would notice if it was missing. She had to be smart about this. Her fingers shook as she pulled out her phone, opening the camera app. She turned to the first page, thumb hovering over the screen, turning on her flash to make sure she would get a good and clear picture. The study was too quiet. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

A low, screaming hiss split the silence. It clawed through the air, drowning out the crackle of the fire and rattling through Pacifica's skull. She froze, the shadows in the corners of the room began stretching unnaturally, spilling into places they didn't belong.

The ledger snapped shut with a loud thud, its pages flapping like a trapped bird. Pacifica stumbled back, her hands trembling at her sides. The shadows twisted and danced along the walls, their edges unnaturally sharp as they crept toward her. She backed up, step by step, the glass panes of the window suddenly cold against her back. Her breath caught in her throat, coming in ragged, visible puffs. She jolted, realizing she was cornered. Trapped. Just like the shadows wanted.

The air dropped to a frigid stillness.

" ' . . ."

The whisper oozed into her ear, so close she swore she could feel it crawl along her skin. She gasped, jerking her head to the side—nothing. Just empty air. Her breaths hitched, mist dissipating in the stuffy room. The shadows spiraled like black ink bleeding into water. Slowly, they pooled from every corner of the room, twisting together at its center. A thick, misty cloud hung stagnant, hovering above the desk.

Pacifica couldn't move. Her body felt as though it had been locked in place, limbs heavy as stone. The shadows bled into one another, swirling and folding in on themselves, until they became…

A figure.

It loomed above her, formless and shifting, yet suffocating in its presence. The moonlight from the window bent around it, swallowed by its darkness, unable to escape. The whisper returned louder this time, vibrating through her bones.

" ' . . ."

Shadowy tendrils emerged from its back, slicing through the air toward her. Pacifica gasped, ducking just in time as they slammed into the window behind her, dissipating into mist. She hit the floor hard, crawling on her hands and knees as the tendrils lashed out again, stabbing at the desk. Papers and pens flew into the air, scattering like leaves as she scrambled to her feet, slipping on the polished wood.

The shadow figure floated in the center of the room, tracking her every move.

Pacifica sprinted toward the door, her heart pounding in her ears. The tendrils whipped back, shrouded in swirling mist, and shot toward her. She turned her head just in time to see them streaking forward before they collided, slamming into her side and throwing her across the room. She hit the bookshelf with a sickening thud. Books tumbled down, striking her back as she crumpled to the floor. Groaning, she swiped her hair out of her face, her hands shaking as she tried to push herself up.

But it was already in front of her.

The tendrils wrapped around her arms, jerking her off the ground. She thrashed, kicking at the air as they squeezed tight, locking her limbs in place.

"Ugh, let me go!" she yelled, her voice hoarse with panic.

She bit back a scream, panic swelling in her chest as the tendrils tightened around her arms. Fear fought against the anger rising in her gut—she wouldn't let this thing win. But the figure didn't answer. Its face—or what passed for one—tilted closer, yellow dots of light glaring from where eyes should have been. They weren't eyes, though. They were hollow, endless, and crawling with something unspeakable. The tendrils tightened, pinching her skin as they pulled her closer. The hair on her neck stood on end, her whole body chilled to the bone. She turned her face away, refusing to meet those empty, pale-yellow eyes.

A single tendril rose behind the figure's head, writhing like a serpent. It latched onto her neck, cold and pulsing like a heartbeat. Pacifica cried out as a strange, hollow tugging sensation spread through her. It wasn't just draining her energy—it was pulling at something deeper, something essential. Like it was tugging at pieces of herself she couldn't name.

Her vision blurred. The room swayed around her; thoughts scattered. Everything felt hazy, like fleeting feelings and distant memories. Part of her couldn't tell where she was anymore, or even remember what she was doing several minutes ago. Her eye lids felt heavy, and she wanted to fall asleep. Her mind began running around with questions.

Why am I here? What is going on?

Her grip tightened on the phone in her left hand, her only anchor to keep her conscious. But as the world dimmed, her fingers loosened. The phone slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.

The screen flared to life.

A beam of light cut through the darkness, slicing across the swirling mist. Her thumb had managed to turn on the flashlight.

The shadow hissed, the light piercing through the mist and shadows with a sizzle. It immediately dropped Pacifica, her body slamming on the wooden floor. She looked up at the figure, its mists and shadows were frantic, moving around like they were trying to escape from the inside of the figure itself. It screamed, piercing the air like nails on a chalk board. Pacifica covered her ears as she steadied herself. Finding what little strength she had left; she stood up on her shaky legs. The shadows and mist busted from within the figure, firing out in all directions and retreating to the corners of the room.

She stared at the spot in the air the figure had filled. There was a small cloud of mist still there, floating in its wake. The mist clung to the corners, shivering, shrinking—but it didn't vanish. It lingered, waiting. Her mind was reeling in confusion. Completely hazed, discombobulated. She had no idea as to what was going on, but her instincts told her to run away. She grabbed her phone off the floor, backing away with her arm stretched behind her, feeling for the door's handle. Once she felt the cold metal across her palm, she immediately pulled down on the handle and opened the door. She slipped through, letting her feet run, carrying her body back through the hall.

The walls around her seemed to follow her, shadows slithering across their white finish giving chase. She didn't know how loud she was, but she didn't care. In that moment she felt like she had to get away. Reaching the staircase, her feet slipped on the steps. Shadows loomed—twisting, chasing. She scrambled up, hands slamming on the wooden steps. Pain shot through her palms. She didn't care. She couldn't stop. Not now.

Once she reached the top of the steps, she rushed down the hallway. The lights on the wall blurred past her in golden and yellow hues. Her footsteps echoed in the silence, reverberating off the walls until she finally found her room, slipping inside.

She locked the door behind her, setting her back against it and sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. The adrenaline going through her body had ceased, a wave of fatigue washed over her. She panted, seemingly out of breath.

She gripped her head as a sudden aching pain shot through it. It was like her mind was reeling, and she had lost something. She couldn't remember much; it was all hazy like the mirky waters she would wash down the drains at Greasy's. All she could piece together were swirling memories, stretching by the minute. Going to the study, hearing the screams of a familiar voice, the quiet whispers of her father, and then being attacked by…. something. Her thoughts became twisted, fragments of reality slipping through her fingers. It wasn't just fatigue—it was like something had stolen pieces of her mind.

The details escaped her as she tried to focus on the memories that were running away from her mind. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to remember what she saw. But all she could see were those pale, yellow eyes. So hollow, so sinister. It made her shudder as she brought her knees to her chest, grasping her arms around them. She desperately latched on to any comfort she could find within herself.

What do I do?

She stared around her room, scared of the shadows within it. They seemed to shift when she wasn't looking, flickering at the edges of her vision. It was as if they were alive, breathing, waiting. It was those unseen eyes again, but now they carried something else, the fear that she had experienced from them.

She was out of options, out of ideas. Her hands were trembling, quick and ragged breaths escaped her mouth. She was panicking and she needed something, somebody, anybody, to help her.

Without much thought, she got up and took her chair from her desk and propped it up against the door. It wouldn't do much against shadows, but she placed it there more for her comfort than anything. Her legs were still shaking, suddenly buckling underneath her as she slipped onto the floor by her bed. She looked at her phone, immediately running through speed dial. Before she could call any number, she navigated to her contacts and scrolled until she found one, one she couldn't take her eyes off.

Dipper...

Her breathing slowed as she remembered his words.

I'll be there….

She thought of his steady voice, his certainty in the face of danger. He had always been some sort of anchor for her, even when she didn't want to admit it.

Please…. please be there…

She opened his contact, her fingers hovering over the screen, trembling. She typed the words before she could overthink them.

Dipper sat cross-legged on the floor of the attic, flipping absently through his journal. Mabel was downstairs, no doubt humming to herself as she worked on her latest macaroni "masterpiece," destined to become a new attraction for the shack. The muffled clutter of her project barely reached him, leaving the attic steeped in a quiet that felt heavy, almost stifling. He stared at his journal; it bore the weight of his expectations. The pages were full of everything he had experienced since he left Gravity Falls. Its early ones were worn and familiar, covered in doodles and his scrawls. But most of the pages were blank, begging to be filled, stretching out like a challenge he couldn't quite meet. His pencil hovered above the margin, desperate to add something, anything new. But the words wouldn't come. They hadn't for a while.

He sighed, letting his pencil roll off the page, its soft thud breaking the stillness. He wanted to write in it, to continue his story, to prove to himself that it hadn't ended when they threw the journals down the bottomless pit. But he couldn't. It was like his body wouldn't let him; the words dissolved before they could take shape.

His eyes wandered to the attic window. The stars painted the night sky, their bright glow casting shadows onto the pine trees below. The sight should have comforted him. Instead, it left him feeling untethered, like the Dipper Pines who had solved mysteries under those same stars was light-years away. As he stared out the window, his thoughts inevitably drifted (as they often did lately) to Pacifica.

Her voice had carried a hint of something earlier that day—something more than the snark and bravado she always wore like armor. Her walls were cracking, just enough to let something real slip through. Something that lingered in the corners of his thoughts, uninvited and impossible to ignore.

What he was also desperately trying to ignore was the striking image she left in his mind when he left the diner. The way her hair glimmered in the morning light, her smile, and those blue eyes —eyes that reflected such a deep ocean, that he felt like he could dive into them and never reach the bottom. His face slightly flushed at the thought, and he rubbed the back of his neck as if it would somehow shake the feeling away.

His mind wandered back to the night he met the true Pacifica Northwest. The girl behind the name, behind the wealth and the mansion. He remembered how her voice trembled when she apologized, the way she looked at him before her father rang the bell. Despite her snobby and harsh attitude, she cared—more than he'd ever expected. And after that night, they had understood each other in a way that caught him completely off guard.

Wait. Maybe there is some sort of vibe going on?

He froze up at the thought, his face heating up even more.

Nope. Nope, nope, no.

He shook his head violently, muttering under his breath, "There is no vibe going on because that would be ridiculous. It's Pacifica Northwest! She is everything in Gravity Falls, and I'm… well, I'm nothing." He hesitated. "Well, okay, maybe not nothing? I did save the town. Twice."

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Dude. Don't get ahead of yourself. Not again."

His journal slipped from his hands. He leaned back, the creak of the floorboards beneath him a quiet protest. He couldn't sit still any longer. He needed to do something to get all of this off his mind. Rising to his feet, his eyes lingered on his journal. The pine tree logo on the cover seemed to beckon him, stirring a rush of old memories. Memories of eagerly scribbling in Journal Three after every strange encounter filled his mind. He smiled faintly as he wandered down a hall of memories. Looking through countless doors, full of endless beginnings. Behind each door were simpler times —when he'd thrived on the thrill of uncovering the mysteries of Gravity Falls, never feeling more alive. But besides these nostalgic memories, the cover gave him a pang of longing. Back then, it symbolized a world full of mysteries waiting to be uncovered. Now, it felt like a relic of a time when things made sense, when solving a mystery had been enough to make everything feel right.

His gaze shifted towards his bed, where his pine tree hat sat on the edge. It was calling him silently, begging for another adventure. He couldn't spend the night cooped up in the attic, staring at blank pages and overthinking. He wanted —no, he needed—to go outside. Walking towards the window, he slid it open. The crisp air swirled through, sharp and bracing, washing over his face. The woods were calling, the same woods that had terrified and thrilled him when he was twelve. The same woods that now seemed to promise a fleeting reprieve from the weight in his chest. He looked into their faint glow powered by the moonlight. They whispered of something waiting, something he couldn't ignore.

He could feel the small rush of adventure fill his body. It gave him the energy that he used to have. The energy that made him run straight into the woods, never turning back in hopes of capturing whatever weird oddity he would find that day. He walked to his bed, picking his hat up off the edge. He walked down the stairs, peeking into the living room. Mabel's face was focused, her tongue sticking out while she was covered in glitter and a variety of glues. She was carefully placing Marconi noodles together while Soos stood beside the bigger sculpture, breaking off pieces and eating them.

He chuckled to himself as he turned around. Rushing out of the door, the cool night air flushed along his skin. He froze on the porch, soaking in the familiar sight of the night sky as a backdrop behind the woods of Gravity Falls. It was a sight part of him thought he would never see again, at least not for a while. He stepped off the porch, letting his feet carry him into the woods that whispered.

He was breathless. It felt like he used Blendin's time machine again, stepping back into a simpler era. The woods stretched around him, every rock, every bush, even the fireflies buzzing softly in the trees, so vividly familiar it was as if he never left. As he made his way through the shrubbery, he could see the water flowing through the creeks, splashing on the rocks and running in between the sticks and stones. He could hear the woodpeckers clattering away in the distance, as well as the crickets chirping underneath the layers of grass.

He couldn't shake the feeling that the woods had been waiting for him. They offered him more than the nostalgia and feelings that he left behind in Gravity Falls all those years ago. They brought him back to the boy he used to be, the one who believed every mystery could be solved and every shadow held an adventure. Yet, beneath the comforting familiarity, a faint ache lingered. As he looked around him, he realized that the woods hadn't changed.

He had.

For the first time in a while, it felt like he was piecing himself back together.

As he wandered around the forest, a small pack of squirrels ran beside his feet in a hurry. He looked down in confusion when a few pinecones came flying out of one of the bushes beside him. He turned his head, only to see a blur of red and blue come flying out of the bushes.

Dipper was caught off guard, screaming as he shielded himself from nothing. The blurred shape stopped in front of him, screaming as well. After several seconds they both stopped, staring at each other. Dipper was finally able to get a good look at what was in front of him. His brain caught up to what his eyes were seeing. Red pointy hat, long beard...

No way.

"Jeff?"

The Gnome looked up at Dipper, surprised.

"Dipper Pines!" Jeff squeaked, throwing his hat into the air like a cheerleader.

"You're back! Hey, did you bring any snacks, ya know, help a guy out?" He nudged Dipper's shin with his elbow.

Suddenly, a group of gnomes emerged from the bush in a chaotic line, their tiny boots crunching over leaves. One carried a slingshot made from a popsicle stick; the rubber band stretched to the limit. Another brandished a stack overflowing with pinecones like an arsenal. They grouped up behind jeff, staring at Dipper.

"Uh, no. Sorry," Dipper replied, crouching to their level. The gnomes huddled together, whispering conspiratorially. He couldn't help but grin. Some things never changed.

"You look… taller," one gnome observed, narrowing his beady eyes. Jeff then piped up.

"And sadder. Hey, did life crush your soul yet?"

Dipper blinked. "Wow. Straight to the point, huh?" He forced a laugh, but Jeff's words hit closer to home than he'd admit. Life hadn't been too kind lately.

He ignored Jeff's words, pointing at him.

"Hey, what's up with that Shmebulock guy coming into the shack and raiding our kitchen every morning?"

Jeff laughed nervously. "Well, uh, Shmeb's a bit… cuckoo." Jeff twirled a finger by his head.

Another gnome piped up, "We kicked him out 'cause he tried to eat the squirrels!" The group of gnomes yelled in acknowledgement.

Dipper's brow raised. "Wait, so why do you guys even like, chase them?"

The group muttered in acknowledgement, and Jeff added smugly, "Squirrel baths. Also, Jerry's wife." He pointed behind him with his thumb as a gnome in the back of the group grunted, waving at Dipper.

Dipper deadpanned, remembering his first encounter with Jeff and his squirrel bath. "Yep, didn't want to remember that." He waved his hand in front of him.

Jeff rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like you guys would understand." He turned around, addressing the group of his fellow gnomes behind him.

"Can't a guy take a squirrel bath in peace? I mean come on?" The gnomes nodded in agreement.

He turned back around, snapping his fingers, "Hey, if you're back that means your sister is too!"

Dipper immediately shot back. "Yeah, and she still doesn't want to be your queen. Ever."

Jeff clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. "Worth a shot."

The gears in Dipper's brain started turning. Wait. He remembered just how far the gnomes would go to crown someone as their queen—even resorting to kidnapping or worse. His eyes widened as the realization hit. Slowly, he stood up and began to back away from the group. "You guys… aren't gonna kidnap me, right?"

Jeff laughed. "Of course we are!"

There was a moment of silence between Dipper and the gnomes.

Jeff coughed seeing that his joke landed flat, "Nah, were past that kind of stuff. At least for you. Right guys?" He turned around as the gnomes behind him all nodded, muttering in agreement.

Dipper placed his hand on his chest. "Man, you made my heart drop for a second there. I felt like I was 12 again." He chuckled.

Jeff turned to him, looking at Dipper. But he wasn't just looking at him. It was like Jeff was looking inward, truly analyzing him.

"Yeah. Hey you haven't felt that in a while huh?"

Dipper froze, caught off guard. It wasn't just the words—it was the weight of them, like Jeff had pulled something out of him he wasn't ready to admit. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious.

"Eh... Ho —how did you know?"

Jeff shrugged. "Hey, just cause I'm a gnome doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot." He twirled with his hand in the air towards the group behind him.

"Come on guys, the annual Squirrel Games of Honor must continue!" They all screamed in unison, holding their fists and pinecones in the air.

As the gnomes scampered off into the brush, Dipper stood still, the faint rustle of leaves filling the quiet. Rays of moonlight pierced through the branches of the pine trees. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let the forest wash over him. It felt like he was twelve again, back when the world was simpler. He thought about the first time he held journal 3, the weight of it in his hands and the way it felt like holding the key to a world only he could unlock. Back then, he'd thought he could solve anything with enough notes and flashlight batteries.

But the world wasn't simple anymore. The mysteries had grown bigger, darker, more terrifying than they had ever been. Somewhere along the way, he had started questioning if he was still the same person who could solve them. Jeff's words lingered in his mind, and he realized the truth that lingered behind them: it had been a long time since he'd felt twelve again.

He let the stillness of the forest around him consume his body. He could feel those dark corners of his mind stirring, the creeping self-doubt and fears he'd tried to bury clawing their way back into focus. The forest was the same, but he wasn't. Will Gravity Falls still feel like home to me? He didn't know the answer, overwhelmed by the unsettling feeling of being a stranger in what was once a place that was his sanctuary.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the stillness. He pulled it out, his heart skipping a beat at the name on the screen.

Pacifica.

Her message was simple, but it carried the weight of something heavy, something more.

I need your help.

Dipper stared at the words, the forest suddenly feeling colder around him. A cold that bit through the comfort of his hoodie. Without thinking, he was already moving, frantically trying to type back. His problems and emotions from moments ago faded into the dirt behind him.