Chapter 24 | Clash of Certainties

d4vd | Petals to Thorns – Backstreet Girl

Dipper sank into the cushions of the recliner, the worn fabric pressing into his back. He clicked the remote, aimlessly flipping through channels. The glow of the TV flickered across the dim shack, but he wasn't paying attention. His thoughts were still caught in the forest, still tangled around everything that happened with Steve.

His eyes drifted over the scrolling channel names, unfocused. The same moment kept replaying in his head.

Steve's hand, stopping inches from Pacifica. His mind ran forward, stumbling over a burning question.

Why?

He exhaled slowly.

Why did he hesitate? It was like something stopped him—something else.

It didn't make sense. Steve tore through the woods in a blind rage, attacking everything in his path. He didn't hold back against the lumberjacks. He didn't hesitate with them. But in that moment, when Pacifica was trapped and defenseless, something changed.

Dipper leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. The image of Pacifica shielding herself, eyes wide with panic, twisted in his mind. His grip on the remote tightened, plastic creaking under his fingers.

Ford had insisted that Steve was just a recluse, that he avoided people, but that wasn't what they saw last night. He didn't hesitate to attack them. He was deliberate. Angry.

Dipper forced himself to relax, his hand dropping to the recliner's armrest. His thoughts were pulling him toward a conclusion he didn't want to admit.

Maybe… Great Uncle Ford was wrong.

The thought unsettled him. He trusted Ford. Ford was the expert. But nothing about Steve's attack matched what he said. And if Ford was wrong about Steve… what else could he be wrong about?

His gaze drifted toward the window, taking in the early morning light filtering through the trees. Gravity Falls looked the same. The same towering pines. The same rustling leaves. But ever since he got here, something felt… off.

Different.

He settled on that word for a moment, letting it sink in. His stomach twisted. A lot of things were different now, and it wasn't just Gravity Falls.

His parents. His home.

He had watched his family change in real time—watched something once familiar twist into something unrecognizable.

His house wasn't home anymore.

People change. Places change.

So what's to say that Steve hasn't changed too?

He ran his tongue over his teeth, the taste of the thought settling heavy in his mouth. Maybe it wasn't just about the trees being cut down. Maybe Steve wasn't just lashing out because his home was being destroyed. Maybe…

Maybe he was changing too.

Dipper's stomach sank. If Gravity Falls was changing, then…

Do I still have a place here?

A voice suddenly broke through his thoughts.

"What are you doin', dog?"

Dipper nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Soos, what the heck, man?!"

Soos chuckled, completely unbothered. "Sorry, dude. You just looked all lost in thought—like some kinda movie protagonist right before a big twist."

Dipper rubbed his eyes, shaking off the last remnants of his spiraling thoughts. "Right…"

Soos waved a hand, grinning. "Anyway, bro, check this out!"

A newspaper smacked into Dipper's face. He flinched, yanking it away just as Soos jabbed a finger at a specific section.

His eyes followed Soos' finger, reading aloud.

"After constant legal debates, it is now deemed 'immoral' to… marry a woodpecker?'"

Dipper furrowed his brows. "Soos, what is this!?"

"Huh?"

Soos blinked, then yanked the newspaper back and gave it a double take. "Oh, whoops—wrong article, dude." He laughed nervously and pointed again.

Dipper shifted his gaze.

"Duck-Tective Finale Marathon of all Marathons this weekend?"

His eyes widened. "Woah."

Soos grinned. "That's right. Me and Mabel are already planning on watching it. Get ready for the craziest snack haul in the history of mankind, dude!"

Dipper raised a brow. Since when did that show get this popular again?

He shook the thought away, his mind drifting back to the newspaper itself. Something about it felt… empty.

Or maybe it's the fact that there isn't really anything worth writing about…

He grabbed the paper from Soos, skimming through the articles. As he flipped the page, a familiar shape caught his eye from the other side of the paper.

His hands stilled.

He turned it over, reading the headline.

Pacifica Northwest Sweeps Once Again

There she was—striking a perfect pose on stage, confidence practically radiating from the page. Camera flashes lit up the backdrop behind her, casting crisp shadows that made her stand out even more.

The dress hugged her figure, elegant yet precise, like everything about her had been carefully sculpted to perfection. Her hair, sleek and shining, cascaded effortlessly, like it was made of silk.

Dipper stared.

There was something about the picture—something that held him there. He wasn't sure what it was, only that he couldn't look away.

Heat pricked at his face. He swallowed.

And then, just as quickly as the admiration settled in, another thought sank deeper.

She looked untouchable. Unreal. Like she existed in a different world entirely—one of flashing lights, fame, and expectation.

Meanwhile, he was just… here.

Just a kid sitting in a dusty recliner, flipping through a small-town newspaper, trying to make sense of a town that had changed while he wasn't looking.

Dipper's grip on the newspaper tightened slightly, not even noticing that Soos had wandered off to the kitchen in search of a snack.

Over the past week, he had seen different sides of Pacifica. Ones that most people never got to see. A side that was quieter, more vulnerable.

It clashed against the version of her that the world expected—the sharp-tongued, confident girl who always seemed untouchable. And yet, somehow, both sides felt like her.

The image of her in the woods flickered through his mind. The way she had curled into herself, hands raised in a feeble shield, trapped and defenseless.

His jaw tightened. He didn't want her to get hurt. The frustration from that day still lingered, the anger at how reckless it all was, how she had nearly gotten hurt. But beneath all of that, something else had settled. Something quiet, something he didn't quite recognize.

It was a feeling he didn't know what to do with.

Like he wanted to… protect her. Hold her.

…

WHAT?!

His entire body tensed, heat exploding across his face.

DUDE, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?

He fumbled with the newspaper, gripping it like a lifeline before hastily yanking it up to shield his face, as if that would somehow make the feeling go away.

He sighed into the paper. "Don't…don't get your hopes up. Not again."

A voice cut through his thoughts, loud and enthusiastic.

"Hey bro-bro!"

Dipper jolted, nearly crumpling the newspaper in his hands. Peeking over the edge, he found Mabel standing in the doorway, grinning.

"…Hey."

She squinted at him. "Woah, what's got you all coiled up like that?"

He cleared his throat, quickly setting the newspaper down like it wasn't just his emergency face shield. "Nothing. Uh… nothing."

Mabel gave him a look but didn't press. Instead, she practically bounced in place.

"Anyways, guess what? Guess what?!"

Before he could answer, she latched onto his arm, tapping it repeatedly.

He groaned, gently pushing her away. "What now?"

She dramatically stepped into the middle of the room, holding up a deck of cards like it was a sacred artifact.

"The vibes have been low, so I've taken it upon myself to organize the ultimate game night for the fam! Games, prizes, bragging rights—it's gonna be legendary!"

Soos strolled in from the kitchen, holding a bag of nachos. "Game night sounds sick, dude!"

Dipper exhaled, running a hand through his hair. After everything that had happened over the past week, he hadn't really had a chance to stop and let it all sink in.

Maybe he did need a break.

"…Yeah. Some games don't sound too bad."

Stan stared at his cards, face unreadable. His eyes flickered around the table, studying everyone's expressions.

Mabel was biting her hair, her nerves getting the better of her. Soos sat beside her, absentmindedly fiddling with his hat. Wendy lounged across from them, calm and collected. Ford sat beside Stan, one hand on the table, fingers tapping in thought.

Slowly, deliberately, Stan drew two cards from his deck—then slammed them onto the table with a triumphant grin.

"Ha! How about these apples, Sixer?"

Dipper glanced at the cards, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Stan was cheating…again. Ford sighed.

"Stanley, you do understand the rules of Uno, correct?"

Stan crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. "C'mon, they're the same color, that has to count for something."

Mabel giggled. "Gotta draw, Grunkle Stan."

He groaned but smiled a little as he reached for the deck. "You're lucky I don't have a great hand."

Wendy rolled her eyes, tossing down a Wild card.

"Yeah, because that would totally help you win…"

Stan shot her an offended look. "Hey! I'll have you know these hands were banned from multiple Vegas casinos."

Wendy raised a brow. "How does that help now?"

He hesitated, scratching his nose. "…Uh. 'Cause they're good?"

The whole table burst into laughter.

Everyone except Dipper.

He sat stiffly, staring at his cards, waiting for his turn. But his mind was somewhere else. It hadn't left that moment from the day before.

That gnawing feeling hadn't faded. That pull—that restless need to understand why.

His fingers skimmed over his cards, as if the texture might somehow help him make sense of it.

Why was he so angry? Why'd he stop?

The questions echoed, unanswered. It didn't make sense. That last thought stumped him. Why would Steve just stop like that?

He absentmindedly shuffled his cards in his hands, reorganizing them with no real thought. His mind was running too fast.

Something had to have been there. Or… was it her?

The sight of her—was that what made him hesitate?

He bit his lip, unsatisfied with the thought. There was no proof. No solid answer that led him in the right direction. Just that same, nagging question circling in his head.

Stan tapped Ford, nodding toward Dipper. His face was tense, eyes locked on his cards, completely detached from the game.

Ford studied him for a moment before speaking.

"Something on your mind, Dipper?"

Dipper blinked, exhaling sharply. "It's just… Steve."

Ford frowned, and the mood at the table shifted. Mabel and Wendy immediately turned to look at him.

Dipper hesitated, then leaned forward, pressing his hands against the table. "I don't get it. Why did he attack us? And why did he just… stop?"

Ford tilted his head, listening.

Dipper ran a hand through his hair. "He was furious. Like, ready-to-squash-us-with-logs furious. And then, when he had Pacifica right there—when he could've crushed her—he just… stopped."

The table went quiet. Even Soos, who had been casually shuffling his cards, paused.

Ford scratched his chin and looked off to the side for a moment.

Dipper's frustration bubbled up. "It doesn't make sense. He wasn't holding back before. He had to be angry about the forest—trees being cut down, the land changing, all of it. That has to be the reason. So why would he just freeze?"

Ford considered this, tapping his fingers against the table. "I don't think Steve's attack was as simple as anger over deforestation."

Dipper narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Ford set down his cards, leaning back in his chair. "While I was analyzing that moss sample you gave me, I started thinking. You're right that something made him hesitate. But if it was just about his territory, he wouldn't have stopped mid-attack. There has to be another factor—something you're missing."

Dipper's stomach twisted. "Like what?"

Ford sighed. "I don't have enough data yet. But I wouldn't be so quick to assume his aggression was just lashing out."

Something about Ford's tone—calm but distant, like he was distracted by something, completely distracted—like Dipper was missing something obvious. It made heat rise in his chest.

He huffed, voice tight. "Right. Because obviously, I couldn't have figured this out. My conclusion must be wrong."

Ford frowned. "That's not what I meant—"

Dipper shoved his chair back, his voice rising. "No! You act like I'm just guessing, like I don't actually know what I'm talking about! But I was there! I saw how Steve reacted, how furious he was—how that changed when he saw her. And I—I know it's because of the forest. That's the only explanation!"

Ford opened his mouth, but Dipper was already standing, grabbing his hoodie off the back of his chair.

"Whatever. Forget it."

Without another word, he stormed out, heading up the stairs.

A thin veil of silence settled over the table.

Stan let out a low whistle. "Welp. That was a meltdown…"

Ford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean to upset him."

Mabel set down her cards, the spark from earlier gone. She stared at the staircase, thoughtful.

"I think he just… feels like no one's listening. There's a lot going on."

Wendy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "You want me to check on him?"

Mabel shook her head, already pushing back her chair. Her gaze stayed fixed on the stairs.

"Nah, I got it."

She flicked the page, letting the ink pull her in, away from the weight of it all. But no matter how deep she tried to sink into the story, the tightness in her chest remained—a dull, aching pressure that left her body in disarray.

With a quiet breath, she slid her bookmark into place and closed the book.

The fluorescent light from the school bathroom still clung to her skin, the ghost of it humming in the back of her mind. That sensation in her throat—that tight, unbearable feeling she couldn't swallow.

The truth.

She hadn't seen her parents at all today. Her father was buried in work, occupied with factory associates. And her mother? Who knew. Gone, as always, with an excuse Pacifica stopped believing a long time ago.

She rested the book on her lap and turned toward the window, watching the morning sky shift.

Are they really 'business' associates?

A sigh slipped from her lips. She let herself drift into the clouds, searching for something—anything—to take her mind off the sick feeling in her stomach.

She tapped her fingers against the windowpane.

Maybe I could play some Overdeath…

The thought barely lingered before she shook her head. She didn't have the energy for it.

Her gaze traced the shapes of the clouds, their soft texture and muted color stirring something deep in her memory. Something familiar. Something comforting.

Sunset…

She thought of his fur, the way he would nuzzle against her arms—the warmth, steady and reassuring, like stepping into a hot shower after a cold day.

But even as she clung to the memory, the emptiness didn't fade. She needed something more.

Someone more.

Slowly, she pulled out her phone, scrolling through her contacts.

Her thumb hovered over two names.

Dipper.

Mabel.

She stared at them, hesitating.

Should she talk to them? Tell them what happened? How she felt?

The thought made her stomach twist. What would she even say? What could she say?

The duality of it all—wanting to trust them, to rely on them, yet feeling like something was missing—made her grip the phone tighter.

She swallowed, the realization settling heavy in her chest.

I don't know how…

From across the hall, she heard a muffled voice rising. Sharp, edged with frustration.

She recognized it immediately.

Her father.

Pacifica flinched as his volume spiked. He was furious—clearly, something wasn't going his way. But beneath the anger, there was something else.

Something off.

She leaned forward, listening.

Was that… desperation?

Slowly, carefully, she got up, her body moving before she could second-guess herself. She crept toward the noise, her breath tight in her chest.

His voice sharpened as she drew closer.

Urgent. Rattled. The hairs on her neck stood on end.

This is bad.

Now, she was standing just outside his study. The door trembled with the force of his voice.

She pressed an ear against the wood, barely breathing.

Inside, drawers scraped open and slammed shut. He was rummaging, frantic.

"Someone… someone was here. They saw it. They looked inside!"

The air left Pacifica's lungs.

It?

Her mind raced, trying to piece together what he meant.

Then, a sharp ring cut through the room. A phone. She felt the vibrations of his footsteps as he paced toward it, shuffling in a way that made her stomach twist.

He cleared his throat before answering, his voice forced into careful composure.

"Ahh, yes?"

She could barely make out the voice on the other end. But her father—normally so smug, so dismissive—was silent.

Listening.

Then, after a beat, he spoke again. His tone lower, more measured.

"Yes, I am… aware that he has been displeased as of recently."

Pacifica's eyes widened.

He?

Her father continued, his words stiff.

"Yes. I know that it's gone. Someone or something got rid of it."

The voice on the other line responded, sharper this time. Her father stuttered.

"Yes… I… of course. I have a few… ideas of who did it. I'll figure it out and fix it right away."

A click. The line went dead.

She heard him shuffle back toward his desk. A loud slam.

Then, under his breath—barely audible through the door—

"Who… who got rid of that damn apparition?"

Pacifica's stomach lurched.

Apparition.

Wait.

The Echo Collector?

The walls felt like they were closing in.

He was going to figure it out.

Dipper was the only one who could've done it—the only one in town who would. It was only a matter of time before her father connected the dots.

She stepped back, her pulse hammering—

Thump.

Her heel clipped the leg of a small table by the door.

She froze.

A picture frame wobbled on the surface, teetering—slipping—

But it caught.

From the other side of the door, her father's murmuring stopped.

The silence was suffocating.

Pacifica clamped a hand over her mouth.

Seconds dragged.

Then—shuffling. Footsteps.

Moving closer.

Panic shot through her veins. She stepped back, then turned—moving quickly, as quietly as she could, speed-walking down the hall before it was too late.

She passed the chair where she'd been sitting earlier, snatching her book in one swift motion. Her pace quickened as she made a beeline for the stairs.

Her breath came shallow. The walls felt smaller, pressing in.

What do I do?

Her throat ran dry at the thought of her father finding out. The very idea of it made her pulse spike, her skin feel too tight. She stopped for a moment, a terrible thought creeping in.

Do I… leave?

Just for a little while. Just to get away from all of this.

Before she could let the thought settle, she reached her room, turned the handle, and slipped inside.

The moment the door clicked shut, frustration surged through her.

That ghost. That stupid ghost.

It had stolen her memories. It had messed with her mind. And her father? He had let it happen. Let it roam free. Let it silence anyone who got too close to the truth.

A growl built in her throat. She hurled her book at the bed.

She wanted to scream at him. To demand answers. To ask how he could be so selfish, so cold.

But what could she do?

She wasn't dumb. She knew the power imbalance.

She was fifteen.

Her parents still controlled everything—her assets, her life. Even if she tried to fight back, what leverage did she have?

Her fists clenched, the anger bubbling up, sharp and helpless. With a heavy breath, she flopped onto the bed in defeat.

I'm just a kid. What can I even do?

Her chest ached at the thought. She was one person. One person standing at the edge of something far too big, far too deep.

Her grip tightened around her phone.

She looked at the two names again, her eyes sinking into the screen.

Dipper.

Mabel.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

I can't fix this.

I need to tell them.

Before it's too late.