repeat after me

It's time to get up. Pacifica knows that. She knew that hours ago, when the light from the window grew intense enough against her eyelids to wake her. But she's really comfortable, cozy and warm beneath her blanket and sheets, the air of the room cold enough against her nose to deter her from wanting to expose the rest of her body to its chill. Besides, what's even happening today? Dipper and Mabel want to go exploring, big surprise. They probably won't go out until after lunch anyway.

She rarely sleeps in, punctuality drilled into her along with all the other manners required of a Northwest. Well, maybe today she'll let herself be a slug and sleep. Why not? No one is here to disapprove.

She's just about to drift off again when an unwelcome noise begins grating against the ear not pressed to her pillow.

It's a song. She's pretty sure she's heard it before; it's a super old one about the days of the week or something like that. It's not terrible or anything, but she doesn't want music right now, she wants the soft sound of the wind against her window. Instead, the song persists until at last she is forced to toss her covers aside, stomping over to her door.

She throws it open, ready to lay into Mabel for blasting one of her playlists, only to find the hallway empty. Instead, Soos' custodial cart, laden with cleaning supplies and, for some reason, a pile of assorted taxidermied fish, is sitting just outside her door. On top is Soos' ancient boombox. It's on its radio setting, still playing the same dumb song.

She hits the power button, bringing the noise to an end.

She could just go back to bed… but she's already up now, and the sudden cold outside her blanket cocoon has erased some of her sleepiness. With a sigh, she returns to her room and begins to get ready for the day. If she gets to the kitchen at the right time, maybe she can get Dipper to make her another omelet.

Passing by the attic stairs and entering the small foyer, she pauses at the door to the living room, looking on as Mabel tries to wrestle the TV remote from Stan's implacable grip.

"You let me watch Pooch Patrol before!" Mabel complains. "Shouldn't you be running the tours?!"

"Soos is running the tours, and Baby Fights is rerunning the season finale, which I missed! It's Skylar versus Phoebe, and if you think I'm missin' that title match for lousy Pooch Patrol—"

Mabel groans in defeat as the remote is pulled from her grasp. "You don't do this when I watch Duck-tective!"

"I watch Duck-tective!"

Pacifica just shakes her head and proceeds to the kitchen, not interested in either show or watching Stan and Mabel argue. She has the kitchen to herself, everyone else having already eaten. Outside the window, it's not snowing, but it doesn't look like any of it has melted, which means it's still really cold out. All the more reason to stay inside.

In fact… what if she just went back to bed? Who would care? Her whole life she's been told to be punctual, to be proper, to be refined, all tenets that don't involve lazing around in bed. Even during her darkest days at the Malibu house, when she couldn't bring herself to go to school or even leave her room, she still got up in the morning and made her bed, regardless of the fact she was probably going to lie on top of the covers anyway.

Dipper and Mabel never make their beds. They don't worry about getting up at any particular time during summer or winter break. Heck, half the time their parents have to motivate them to get out to the bus stop before it's too late. Dipper is always up reading until two in the morning, and Mabel sure loves to sleep for someone so high energy.

Why shouldn't Pacifica go back to bed? Why does she have to justify this to herself?

Feeling indignant at no one in particular, Pacifica goes straight back to her room. She sheds her socks, flips the lights off, and climbs into bed with the rest of her clothes on, figuring if she's going to be lazy she might as well go full slug and not even change first. Mother would be appalled, and knowing that makes Pacifica enjoy it all the more.

She drifts off for a while, snug and warm. Her eyes flutter open when she hears a knock on her door.

"Pacifica?" It's Dipper. "Are you in there?" he asks.

"Yes," she calls back. "You can come in."

Dipper enters, reaching for the light switch before hesitating and leaving them off. He probably thinks something is wrong, given she's never done this before.

Sure enough, he says, "Are you sick?"

"No."

"Are you… mad about something?"

She rolls her eyes. "No."

He approaches the edge of the bed. With the lights off and the window behind him, she can't see his face very well. "Oh. So you're really tired, or…?"

"I just wanted to sleep in."

Despite her lack of further explanation, he seems to understand. "Yeah, that's cool. I was talking to Mabel about doing something today, but if you want to stay here that's fine."

A thought comes to her, immediate and strong and impossible to shake even though she knows she should just forget it. He's so close right now, and she's so comfortable, and wouldn't she be even more comfortable if he was here, in the bed, with her?

It's wrong, of course. She shouldn't. It would be very forward to ask… but he is her boyfriend, and they're together, and she still has her clothes on, right, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. She could pull the covers over their heads and they would be face to face in the most intimate of spaces, close enough to touch, to do… anything. Whatever they want. They could just talk and stuff. That's not out of line, right?

She wants him to be closer to her, as close as he can be.

Her heart rate increases. She shouldn't ask; this is so forbidden. She can just imagine the phone call with the Pines parents that's sure to follow if they get caught. Yet the consequences seem so distant, and Dipper is right here, and it would be so good, she knows it would…

The moment of insanity passes, smothered beneath the weight of expectations and propriety and common sense. She lets it go, feeling a pang of regret that she tries to ignore.

She sighs and pulls the covers aside, deciding to just face the day already.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

Dipper shrugs, unaware of the moment that just passed. "We don't have a plan. Great-Uncle Ford got distracted by the whole Waddles thing so he's not ready to move forward with the Weirdness sensors yet. I don't know, is there anything you wanted to do today?"

Actually, there is. "I want to go into town."

"Oh. Just for shopping again?"

"For my memories."

It takes Dipper a moment to figure out what she means, and his eyes light up. "That's right! Good call, I keep forgetting about that… which is ironic."

Somewhere beneath the Gravity Falls History Museum are pieces of Pacifica's past that were taken from her. It's daunting to think about, for more than one reason, but especially because over the past year she's become so acutely aware of who she is and what that means, all the aspects of her self and how they came to be, through experience and natural proclivity. She is defined by her memories, but she is also defined by what she doesn't remember, in ways that can't be known. To recover the moments stolen from her will be to change herself every bit as deliberately as she's fought so hard to since that fateful summer. Maybe she'll even regret getting the memories back—and that will become part of her, too.

Dipper goes to tell Mabel the new plan and Pacifica hurries downstairs to eat a very late breakfast (it's basically brunch at this point). On her way out of the kitchen, she runs into Stan, who is exiting the living room.

"Hey, Northwest—you seen my boots around?" Stan asks.

Like she would know even if she had. "No."

Stan doesn't look surprised. "Yeah, I figured. Wait, are you just getting up? You sick or somethin'?"

She's slightly perturbed that Stan is aware she's usually punctual about rising in the morning, if only because she didn't know he ever paid any attention to her at all and isn't sure how to feel about that. In return to her earlier thoughts, she bristles at the idea of having to justify her morning snooze.

"I slept in," she says shortly.

"Then you had the right idea," Stan says. "Who wants to be out there freezing their giblets off?"

Pacifica's brow creases in puzzlement. "But you're looking for your boots…"

"Reluctantly," Stan retorts, and brushes past her, heading towards his office.

Pacifica returns to her room and prepares for the outdoors. Going into town used to mean dressing lightly for the snow, just a coat and a hat, but that was when she had a limousine to take her from place to place. Having to walk to and from town means gearing up for long-term cold exposure.

Suitably prepared, she steps outside to gauge the weather. The air is crisp and biting, the sky a hazy gray that seems to promise more snow at some point, though for now things are clear. She's about to go back inside to wait when, in the act of turning, she sees the barrel of Soos' pumpkin cannon pointed right at her, with Soos standing just behind the controls.

She quickly ducks to the side. "Hey!" she yells in protest.

Mabel appears from behind the cannon and gestures. "Over here! Come look!"

Making sure to stay out of the line of fire, Pacifica approaches. Mabel and Soos have taken the weather covering off the cannon and reconnected it to the air hose that runs to the huge air compressor that Ford has in the basement, the hose snaking away through the snow and disappearing beneath the posts of the porch, where it presumably runs down through the foundation.

"You're just in time!" Mabel says with evident glee.

"You're going to shoot this thing?" Pacifica asks. Honestly, she would like to see it go off. It's been sitting out here since her arrival and watching a pumpkin explode against a tree would be fun.

"We packed it with snow and we're totally going to cream Grunkle Stan when he comes out," Mabel says with a diabolical chuckle.

"Sure, but, uh, I better turn it down a skosh," Soos says. "We almost got in trouble after what happened with that kid's balls."

Pacifica blinks. "What?"

"Yeah, knocked them right out of the little dude's hands. We were picking up bouncy balls in the parking lot for like, an hour." Soos turns the dial of the cannon down to a lower point, a little less than midway.

Mabel is giddy with excitement. "We're gonna get Grunkle Stan so good! Pacifica, get your phone ready to take pictures for the scrapbook!"

None of this looks very safe to Pacifica, but she also doesn't really know anything about pumpkin cannons. With a mental shrug, she pulls out her phone and prepares to play the photographer.

The door opens and Stan steps out on the porch, turning back to yell over his shoulder. "Yeah, I found them, no thanks to you! They were in my office!" He pauses to listen to a reply, presumably from Ford, that Pacifica can't hear. "…I don't know why you keep your shoes there and I don't wanna know."

He shuts the door and moves towards the lawn, oblivious to his impending doom.

At the last second, doubt crosses Soos' face. "Wait—is this a good idea?"

"It's the best idea!" Mabel declares and yanks the air release with both hands.

The huge snowball rockets out of the barrel with a bang of escaping compressed air. It hurtles in an almost straight trajectory, and as Stan takes the final step off the porch, it misses him by inches.

This is technically a failure, but also the best possible outcome.

The snowball hits a plywood Santa and cracks it clean in half, sending splinters in every direction. The tip of the Santa's giant candy cane flips lazily through the air as it descends like an oversized piece of confetti, landing neatly on the roof of the Shack.

"Great Caesar's ghost!" Stan yelps. He stares at the decimated lawn decoration with wild eyes. He turns towards Mabel, who is frozen with her mouth wide open. "If this is about the remote, you can have it!"

Several apologies later, the kids are assembled in the parking lot and ready to go, save for Wendy, who for once is stuck actually doing her job (at least until Stan stops paying attention). They are just about to head off when Ford comes out of the gift shop, a printout in one hand and his brow furrowed.

Dipper is immediately distracted. "What is it, Great-Uncle Ford?"

"I'm not sure," Ford says slowly. His eyes leave the paper and scan the horizon. "I'm getting some very odd readings today. Odder than usual, that is. I'm tracking some minor temporal perturbations."

"Does that mean we need to go look for some temporals?" Mabel asks gamely.

"Without better information we won't know what to look for, and that's assuming these readings aren't just another of the valley's many fluctuations." Ford looks around again and then folds the paper, putting it into his trench coat. "I thought I'd step out and see if there was an obvious nearby source, but I didn't expect it would be that easy. I'll let you know if I come up with any actionable data. Where are you three off to today?"

"We're going to the Museum of History to look for any confiscated memories," Dipper tells him.

"A worthy endeavor. Some of the townsfolk may want their memories returned as well, though the 'Never Mind All That' initiative makes it tricky to ask."

Dipper frowns. "Really? I thought with the whole hawks thing they wouldn't still be doing that. I mean, it's not like they've enforced it very well anyway…"

"It's a futile effort on the part of local government, but the wheels of legislation turn slowly, and the wheels of people refusing to accept the obvious turn even slower. I think that act will be quietly retired at some point, but until then, it's best to play along."

Once again, they proceed along Gopher Road to town, their previous footprints long since erased by snowfall. It's just as cold as Pacifica expected, if not a little colder, and the air burns her nostrils and makes her throat feel dry. The clouds that hang overhead show no signs of clearing and appear to hold the promise of even more snow.

The town is shrouded in snow, slanted roofs and chimneys peeking out from beneath their heavy winter blankets. The square remains busy as the festival takes shape, booths and tents—the enclosed kind with fabric walls and weird plastic windows—being erected on wide, shoveled squares of brown grass. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, which means the Snow Festival starts this evening. It doesn't look like they will be ready in time, but maybe they are further along than it seems.

It looks so cozy here, with window panes covered with frosted stars, front walks lined with neat mounds of snow. Pacifica remembers what it was like to look down on this place, to sneer at the chipped bricks, the rusted siding, the uneven roof shingles, to feel like royalty deigning to mingle with the impoverished. What a load of nonsense her parents passed to her. Gravity Falls isn't rich, but it isn't a penniless wasteland; it's not even a bad neighborhood (is the town big enough to have a bad side?).

It's nice here. It's not perfect, it's not trying to look perfect. It's lived in.

Mother needs her huge house, with the expensive kitchen she'll never touch, and the widescreen television she'll never watch, and the neat lawn she'll rarely see. Not just for the ease of it, for the comfort, but for the symbol, which is just as important and provides a comfort of its own.

Pacifica likes expensive things, creature comforts, big houses and fancy kitchens and new TVs. She likes them and probably always will. But in the past year and a half, she's learned that she doesn't need them. The things she really needs cannot be bought.

(and that thought is not a reassurance, because the things she needs are irreplaceable.)

The museum is just ahead across the square, its columns stretching upward at the overcast sky. Pacifica feels a pinch of apprehension, uncertain, once again, if she really wants to see this, to experience a moment she can't remember. She could have pushed for this in the summer, but she wasn't ready then, still in the process of coming to terms with all the weirdness of this place and her own place in it. Now, she thought she was ready, but on the cusp of revelation she finds herself uncertain again. It seems like a monumental thing, for a missing part of herself to be made physical, hidden in a basement instead of her own mind.

A temporary distraction arrives in the form of Candy and Grenda, the pair sprinting across the square towards them with arms waving wildly.

"GUYS!" Grenda bellows, causing a nearby flock of birds to spring out of a snow-cloaked hedge with a loud frenzy of flapping.

The two girls crash into Mabel without slowing, sending all three of them sprawling into a nearby snowbank. Mabel, unfazed by the dynamic reunion, laughs joyfully and hugs them back.

When they separate, Candy and Grenda give a slightly more reserved (by their standards) welcome to Dipper. Pacifica is just about to open her mouth for some manner of mild greeting when she is surprised by a sudden hug from Grenda.

"Welcome back!" Grenda says.

"Thanks," Pacifica wheezes as her ribs groan under the strain. Something in her back pops loudly (it actually feels kind of good).

With the reunion out of the way, everyone's attention returns to the museum.

"Maybe we have memories in there too," Grenda tells them.

Candy presses her palms to her temples. "We were mind-jacked!"

"We're gonna get those memories, girls, and stuff them back into our brains," Mabel vows.

Dipper looks at her with a slight frown. "Do you think the Blind Eye ever got to us?"

"Maybe," Mabel allows. "But we were just too weird for them."

Pacifica reflects on the truth of that. Even if the Blind Eye did interfere with the twins, the sheer volume of weirdness the Pines encountered (and attracted, as it turns out) would have been impossible to keep up with, especially because they handled it so well. After all, how did the Blind Eye know who had seen something they weren't supposed to, if that person wasn't totally freaking out?

Pacifica has been coming here since she was very young. She has a feeling she was caught freaking out a time or two.

Dipper notices her hesitation. As the other girls race to the museum, he steps closer to her.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

The white columns of the museum's frontal pillars rear towards the clouds like great ridged bones. There are things buried here that Pacifica has forgotten, and while that forgetting was not by choice, she wonders if those things should stay forgotten, discarded pieces of a Pacifica who no longer exists—because that shift of self, that unmaking and rebuilding, was by choice. Surely anything she finds here can only be a reminder of who she was, and she's had enough of those already. And yet, still, she wants to know.

Just maybe not with an audience.

She lets out a slow breath, the frosty cloud of her exhalation momentarily obscuring the steps before her. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just don't want it to be embarrassing or something."

"You can watch it by yourself. It's your memory, we don't need to see it," he says.

She takes his hand, the grip and warmth of it giving her resolve. "Come on, let's catch up."

Smiling, he opens his mouth to reply, and then suddenly stops. He tilts his head to one side, frowning. "Hey, do you hear that?"

She's about to say that she doesn't when she realizes that she does. There's a low rumbling, so low that she can feel it through the concrete of the sidewalk, buzzing in the soles of her boots. A sudden burst of air cuts across her cheek like a slap from a frigid hand. She turns to look towards the west end of town, facing into the wind.

What she sees leaves her awestruck. Where the cliffs should have stood above the buildings and the thick forest behind them there is only a wall of pure white that blots out the horizon, billowing forth like the pyroclastic expulsion of a frozen volcano, a churning, rapidly expanding cloud that is moving so quickly she barely has time to process that it is there and real before it swallows the far edge of town, then the structures across the square, then her.

She has just enough time to wrap her arms around Dipper before everything goes white.

And then black.

And then—