the steady continental seventy — x

(the lights weren't that bright, but our eyes were so tired)

"Pacifica. Hey, Pacifica."

Pacifica yawns and sits up, stretching her arms out. Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, she sees that she is in the back of the RV, having fallen asleep against Dipper's side at some point during the long evening drive to Portland. Mabel's glitzy grin is poking through a gap in the privacy curtain, the rest of her face obscured by the lack of light. It must be very late in the evening; Pacifica can see the horizon glowing low like the last coals of a campfire, the hidden sun leaving strips of orange and blue to fade away and reveal the stars.

"We're almost there!" Mabel says. "Wanna see?"

Pacifica sort of does, but on the other hand, Dipper makes for a very warm and comfortable pillow. The decision is made for her when he stirs and straightens his hat, turning his head to look out the side window.

"Are we there?" he asks.

"Almost!" Mabel beckons them towards the front of the RV and lets the curtain fall back into place.

Pacifica stands and pushes past the curtain. Soos is in the driver seat, Stan having given the reins over at some point during the drive. Wendy is seated at the table, and the way she blinks and rubs at her eyes makes it apparent she had also succumbed to the urge to nap.

Looking through the window opposite the table, Pacifica sees a pretty standard slice of suburbia, not all that different from Piedmont. Strip malls, dealerships, and restaurants flit by. There's quite a bit of traffic headed the same way as them, cars and trucks and the occasional van or bus.

The RV crosses an overpass, the lights of oncoming traffic glaring below, and then suddenly the scenery disappears as if it were wiped away in a film transition, fleeing past the right of frame. They are suspended over water, speeding across Ross Island Bridge with the Willamette River glittering underneath them like glass, reflecting the lights of downtown and the scattered boats that glide along its surface. To the north, Pacifica can see another bridge, still under construction, and past that the glowing outlines of other bridges and the bright, looming shapes of KOIN Center and Wells Fargo, the tallest two sentinels at the head of the thick cluster of downtown structures, at the fore like parents leading children across the star-strewn heart of the city.

"Portlaaaaaand…" Mabel breathes, her eyes wide and starstruck.

Pacifica is far more used to the lights of Portland, but she's just so glad to finally be in the city that she shares at least some of Mabel's eagerness.

They cross the Willamette and cruise past townhomes and apartment complexes, the glow of the streetlights rolling over the RV steady as a metronome. Soos leaves the highway and takes them into the suburbs, the streets lined by one- and two-story houses with hedges on the front lawn and creeping ivy climbing up power lines and telephone poles. Pacifica is struck by all the trees there are, dotting lawns and crowding along the street side. Melody's family lives south-west of Healy Heights; her house is a blue one-story home that looks a little older, crouched on a square of neatly trimmed grass behind the trees at the curb. When the RV pulls into the driveway, Melody is standing out front with the porchlight a halo behind her, reducing her to a dark outline with one hand raised in a wave.

Soos hurries out of the RV to hug Melody as she comes down the driveway to the RV's door. Stan takes the wheel and Dipper and Mabel greet Melody, the twins vying for the limited space near the door.

"It's so good to see you!" Melody says. "I wish you could all stay, but there's just the one couch."

"No worries, we'll see you tomorrow," Dipper says.

"Yeah, we're gonna be fancy hotel people!" Mabel says, which is very optimistic considering Stan paid for the rooms.

A few goodbyes later, the RV is back on the streets, headed north. There are more suburbs to traverse, but soon enough the lights of downtown can be seen ahead. They pass over another highway and drive through Portland State University, the buildings growing taller with every passing block. Pacifica blinks in surprise when Stan pulls up alongside a very nice hotel in the heart of the city, the Portland Horton, a valet waiting beneath the blue awnings.

"Wait, is this a Horton?" Wendy exclaims, leaning down to look up through the window.

"Wow. I was expecting an Awesome 8," Dipper says.

"I was expecting a parking lot," Wendy snickers.

Stan puts the RV in park. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You kids forget: I'm a high roller! They put out the red carpet for me in Vegas."

"What color carpet do they put out in Portland?" Mabel asks eagerly.

"It's, I don't know, blue or something. Maybe kind of a beige. Quit askin' questions."

Pacifica can feel the first needles of panic begin to prick at her. The Horton isn't an absolutely top-of-the-line, exclusive hotel available only to the very wealthy, but it has enough class to make her keenly aware that she's bruised and dirty and her hair looks like a frayed rope. She can't be seen like this. She thought they'd be staying somewhere with stained carpet and a lukewarm pool full of cigarette butts. Somewhere it wouldn't matter that they had fought through an alien death-based gameshow before demolishing a building and sitting in the RV for hours.

But this is happening, whether she likes it or not, because Stan is leaving the RV with the keys in hand and everyone else is following. Pacifica steps out into the muggy air of the evening and feels exposed. She snatches Dipper's hat from his head and puts it on her own, trying to stuff her lumpy braid up under its brim.

"Hey!" Dipper protests.

"I need it more," Pacifica snaps. Her plan isn't working; despite her shorn hair, there's still too much to fit beneath the hat.

"Dude, relax," Wendy tells her. "Nobody here cares if we're a little sweaty."

"It's not the staff I'm worried about," Pacifica retorts.

"You really think anyone would recognize you right now?" Wendy says skeptically.

She has a point. Pacifica keeps the hat on but abandons her efforts to hide her braid. She keeps her eyes on the floor as they move through the sumptuous lobby, filled with the kind of columns and fine furniture that had once been a steady presence in her life. Something twists deep in her gut at that realization. Is she afraid she'll start missing this sort of thing? She had at first, back when she started living in Piedmont, but it's been months since she felt any real longing for the luxuries she once took for granted.

She doesn't want to want those things. She wants to be who she is becoming.

"Pssst, Pacifica," Mabel whispers (which is still pretty loud, because it's Mabel). "I got you covered, bestie!"

Mabel hands Pacifica a pair of bright yellow sunglasses. They aren't exactly high fashion, but Pacifica is desperate enough to put them on. Not that it matters: All her worries come to nothing, which a part of her knew would be the case (why does that never help?). The staff member behind the main desk hands over three keycards without taking a second glance at the group's state of disarray.

"Three rooms?" Dipper says. "Who's staying where?"

"The suite is mine," Stan says, swiping one of the cards off the desk and starting to walk away. "The other two are for I don't care, you work it out. Now if you'll excuse me, there's a jacuzzi with my butt's name on it."

"What'd you name your butt?" Wendy calls after him, though Stan doesn't bother to answer.

Dipper suddenly does a double take, his head swiveling around. "Did… Did we leave Great-Uncle Ford in the trailer?"

Mabel puts her hands on her hips, nodding. "I thought it seemed less grunkly around here."

The woman behind the front desk gets their attention by leaning over it, one of the hotel's phones in her hand. "Excuse me, are you Dipper Pines?"

"Uh, yeah, that's me," Dipper says, clearly confused.

"I have a call from Stanford."

"Oh! I'll take it." Dipper takes the phone and Mabel crowds in near the earpiece. "Hello?"

The voice coming through is just loud enough that Pacifica can make it out. "Dipper! It's Ford."

"Yeah, hi," Dipper says. "Sorry about leaving you in the trailer… Also, why didn't you just call me?"

Ford clears his throat, a distinctly sheepish sound. "I'm sure we're all grateful my EMP was as thorough as it was, but it did have some side effects. I'm afraid our phones and walkie talkies are inoperable."

Startled, Pacifica takes her phone from her pocket. Sure enough, it's completely fried, her fingers pressing uselessly at its buttons and screen. She would have noticed far sooner had she not fallen asleep for most of the trip.

"Dude," Wendy says, staring down at her dead phone, "my dad's going to kill me."

"I can attempt repairs once we return to the valley, provided Fiddleford is willing to lend me a hand; I'll need his flair for microelectronics."

"Should we come get you? Grunkle Stan gave us the room keys," Mabel says.

"No need. I'd rather stay here and keep an eye on the equipment—now that we're in a major city, I expect the readings to be noteworthy. I plan on walking a grid pattern to take precision measurements for comparison."

Dipper's expression turns conflicted. He opens his mouth to answer but Mabel wrenches the phone receiver in her direction before he can say anything. "Sounds great, Grunkle Ford. Tell us if you need mini-shampoo or mini-soap!"

"Oh, I plan to drop in on Stan and take advantage of the facilities. Good night, kids!"

"Night!" Mabel hands the phone back to the receptionist and shrugs in response to Dipper's glare. "There's no time for science walking, we're living it up in Portland! And Gideon-hunting. Don't forget about that."

Dipper sighs in assent. "Right. Gideon."

"I can't wait to get another shot at that little turd," Wendy says, cracking her knuckles ominously.

Pacifica has no opinion on Gideon beyond the vestiges of a general dislike, and nothing the others have said about him has improved her perception of the boy. She'll get a chance to judge for herself soon enough, though she hopes the focus of the trip remains more on the 'enjoying Portland' side of things than the 'confronting an annoying child' side of things. And she isn't confronting anyone or anything before she has her hair attended to.

They take the elevator to the upper floors, the door opening to reveal a carpeted hallway lined with entryways. The two additional rooms Stan rented are side by side, sharing an internal door between them and a nearly identical view of the Portland skyline. Pacifica walks into the room on the right and passes by the two queen-sized beds with their perfect, crisp white sheets and the dark-stained furniture complete with mini-fridge and widescreen TV. She stands at the window and looks out at a city sparkling beneath the gloaming, a million windows winking back at hers. A flicker of lightning on the far horizon, too distant to be heard, illuminates the heavy banks of clouds hanging over the cityscape.

Dipper comes over to stand beside her, equally taken with the view. "Have you been here before?" he asks.

"Not at this hotel," she says. She doesn't know what the red-roofed building directly across from them is, but she points to another building to the right, across the street; it's a vast construction that from their view looks like a mirrored rectangle, reflecting the city from a multitude of angles. "That's Congress Center. Behind that is Standard Insurance."

Dipper gives her a curious look. "Why do you know that?"

"Because of Father," Pacifica says shortly.

Dipper, perhaps mindful of their standing deal, does not pursue the question any further.

Wendy spreads her arms and falls backwards onto one of the beds; Mabel whoops and jumps on the other one, bouncing upwards with a loud squeak of bedsprings.

"So it's two to a room, right?" Wendy says with her eyes closed as she basks in the clean sheets. One green eye opens, lit with a mischievous glint. "Looks like me and Mabel already got this one."

"Yeah, get out of our room, nerds!" Mabel chortles into the mattress.

"What? No! We can't. Not that I don't want— I mean, I do, but I don't because— I… I mean—" Dipper babbles.

Pacifica's reaction to the possibility is complicated enough that she's honestly just too tired to analyze it. Besides, it's not going to happen. Even Stan and Ford aren't that permissive.

"Ha! But seriously, I'll stay with Dipper and Pacifica can take this bed," Mabel says, pushing herself back to her feet. "Mystery Twins sleepover! I'll get the ice!"

"What is it with her and getting ice?" Pacifica mutters as Mabel zooms out the door.

Stan eventually wanders over from his room dressed in a complimentary bathrobe, looking very relaxed and smelling faintly of jasmine. They order pizza and eat in Mabel and Wendy's room, crowded around the small table or ottoman, sharing their meal in a tired silence that's comfortable, not awkward. Afterwards, Pacifica drags a suitcase into the bathroom and prepares for bed, glad to be clean. As she stands beneath the shower spray, she sinks her fingers into her wet hair, still unused to the absence of the rest of it. Her head feels too light, her neck straining against a weight that isn't there.

When she told Dipper that she thought about cutting her hair before, she was telling the truth, but the thought had been far more hypothetical than she made it seem. It was a very vague 'what if,' one of many possible ways to express her newfound individuality. At war with the idea was her attachment to her hairstyle, which she had worn, relatively unchanged, for most of her life. Her hair was the one thing about herself which wasn't subject to the ever-shifting whims of fashion. Her hair was fashionable because it was hers, and others would do well to emulate.

Now she's holding onto the ragged ends of her butchered hair, hoping she will quickly become accustomed to the change. It feels silly to be so upset about her hair when she's lost so many more important things, but she can't help it.

She dresses for bed and exits the bathroom. Wendy is propped up on some pillows, flipping idly through TV channels while the sound of a shower emanates from the open door to the other room. Pacifica pokes her head in and sees Dipper looking out his window at the lights of the city; he's wearing his sleeping shorts and shirt and his hair is still drying.

He turns when she approaches. His eyes flicker over her face before focusing on her hair. "It's going to look great once you get it fixed," he says.

As much as she appreciates his determination to make her feel better about it, she doesn't really want to hear it anymore. She's not going to get over it until it's actually cut and styled and she has a chance to become accustomed to her new look.

She changes the subject. "When are you going after Gleeful?"

Dipper's attention returns to the Portland cityscape. The lights seem to go on forever, sparkling like earthbound stars scattered to the horizon, a night sky reversed. "Tomorrow, I think. I don't know. We're supposed to meet up with Melody and Soos for dinner, and I guess we're meeting Mabel's new love interest?"

She frowns slightly. "Love interest?"

"I don't know what to call him! He's not actually her boyfriend yet. Mabel taking things slow is really throwing me off."

Pacifica just shrugs. She hadn't been involved with Mabel's flings or whatever they were last summer, so this version of Mabel is the only one she knows.

"I don't even know if that's tomorrow or the next day. Mabel's been texting him like crazy but she's not being super helpful with the details… which is also weird." Dipper sighs. "Is this even a good idea?"

"What, Gideon? He's a gross little troll."

"Yeah, but what am I supposed to do about it? We're not in Gravity Falls. It's just like after last summer, we can't do anything."

"So punch him or something."

Dipper laughs and shakes his head. "Wendy's been rubbing off on you."

Pacifica isn't sure how to feel about that. "Whatever. Tell Wendy to punch him if you don't want to do it."

But Dipper doesn't laugh. "I don't know what I'm going to do," he murmurs.

Pacifica doesn't know either, but she's positive they aren't going to figure it out now. "I'm not doing anything before I go to a salon."

"Not even breakfast?"

"Well… Maybe breakfast," she allows.

Not long after, it's finally time to pull the curtain closed over the shining city and crawl between the cool sheets of the bed. Pacifica stares up into the darkness, one of her hands seeking the ends of her hair, still preoccupied by the lack of length. She wonders if the desire to grow it back will fade in time. Or will it only grow stronger? She just doesn't know.

At least they finally made it to Portland.

She closes her eyes and lets exhaustion lead her towards sleep.

across the star-strewn heart of the city

industries of the blind — the lights weren't that bright, but our eyes were so tired