Chapter Text

the steady continental seventy — iv

(drift)

Dipper loses track of the time, but he figures there’s probably at least another twenty minutes to go before they reach Neon Ville. The window to his right reveals a dense forest of pines, the tops of which have just started to take on the golden hue of evening. Of course, he shouldn’t be looking outside at all if he can help it; his propensity for car sickness is, for whatever reason, abated by being in a larger vehicle like the RV, but watching the scenery scroll the wrong way from his backwards seat is a sure way to trigger his nausea.

Wendy pulls a deck of cards out of a pocket and begins shuffling. “Who’s in?”

“Cribbage?” Pacifica asks.

“Poker!” Wendy fans the cards out on the table. “You guys got any cash?”

Up front, Grunkle Stan inhales loudly, as if he can smell incipient gambling. “Hey, deal me in! Soos, take over.”

“Kids only, boss,” Wendy says immediately, shutting him down.

“We can play for buttons!” Mabel says, dumping an entire handful of loose buttons onto the table.

Pacifica frowns at Mabel. “Why do you even have those?”

“They’re my emergency buttons, duh!”

“That is not a thing.”

It turns out poker is a decent way to pass the trip, if only because by the time they’ve taught Pacifica how to play, they’ve arrived. Dipper steps out of the RV to find himself in a decently sized clearing off the edge of the highway; the sun has dropped behind the tree line but it’s still plenty bright out, the lower edges of the horizon banded tangerine. A long strip of gravel marks the parking lot, which is empty save for the RV. Everyone takes a moment to stretch and examine the scenery. No one’s been here before, so it’s all new.

The boundary of the parking lot is surrounded by dense forest, though it looks like there might be some paths and clearings further in; the end of the lot connects to a gravel path that splits in three and winds around a few trees and all kinds of wooden structures. There’s a tiny house, a few arrow signs, an arch or two, and a water wheel turning lazily in a nearby stream. There are wires and unlit neon tubes everywhere, crawling up and down the sides and along the tops of pretty much everything, with more conventional bulbs hanging heavy from all the trees along the forest edge; fat extension cords crisscross the matted grass like discarded rope. The overall effect is unkempt and weirdly pathetic, like seeing someone’s Christmas decorations in July.

Pacifica looks unimpressed. “Is it supposed to be this sad?”

“Probably not?” Dipper guesses.

A tall man comes shuffling down one of the paths, a thick coil of extension cords draped over his shoulders like ropey epaulets. He has a beaky, pockmarked face beneath a nearly bald head and looks a bit like a vulture in shabby overalls. But his crooked smile is friendly, and he waves to them as he approaches the parking lot.

“Hey there!” he says, stopping at the point where the gravel path becomes the lot. “You folks are early! I don’t turn the lights on until about seven-thirty, if you don’t mind waitin’.”

This makes a lot of sense; it’s still evening, after all, and it’s plenty bright out. Though nobody looks all that happy at having to kill the time, Dipper feels that he’s on the same page with the rest of the crew when he figures they didn’t come this far just to skip Neon Ville. Soos climbs to the top of the RV and starts handing down lawn chairs, and soon enough they are all seated in a rough half-circle. The sun is out of sight behind the tree line and the sky above slowly turns to purple and deep navy blue, the blooming moon a ghostly thumbprint just above the pines.

“Long day, man,” Wendy yawns. She leans in her chair, her red hair draped over its back. “Ugh, how am I tired? I must be getting soft.”

“You’ll wake right up when these lights dazzle the crazzle out of us!” Mabel assures her.

Wendy shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. Kind of seems like it’s just some dude with a bunch of bulbs.”

Pacifica is on the same page. “I bet they can’t afford lasers. Real lightshows have lots of lasers, like the ones that can spell my name.”

That sounds exactly like the kind of hollow gesture the Northwests would have made for their daughter at one event or the other. Remembering the deal in place, Dipper avoids Pacifica’s revealing comment.

“Look, we’re already here,” he says. “Even if it’s terrible, at least we’ll know.”

“These lights will be dazzling as heck, you’ll see,” Mabel says, budging not one inch from her anticipation. “You’ll be so dazzled you’ll want to tear your eyes out!”

The shadows lengthen, stretching across the gravel like ink slowly running down a wall. Stars begin to poke through the sun’s gradated remnants. Everyone lines up for a hefty dose of bug spray, the tacky liquid stinging fiercely in the various scrapes and minor lacerations Dipper always seems to have on his arms and legs, earned from his many sojourns into the woods. Soos pulls a camping stove out from somewhere in the piles packed into the trailer and hands out chocolate bars and graham crackers, a hefty bag of marshmallows making its way around the chairs.

“Now rotate it, but not too fast,” Dipper instructs Pacifica. She has a marshmallow speared on the end of a stick and is learning the art of toasting them. “Hold it up a little higher. You want it to be just the right kind of brown all over.”

“Like a rotisserie chicken,” Wendy helpfully adds.

“Oh!” Pacifica leans back slightly in her seat as Mabel’s marshmallow goes up in an impressive fireball of burnt sugar. “Okay, Mabel’s blew up.”

“Yeah, Mabel is a fan of the comet method,” Dipper says, watching as Mabel waves her stick around until the fire is quenched; the rapid motion blurs the miniature conflagration and leaves fiery trails through the dim air, creating luminous curls and swoops.

Stan and Ford are talking at their end of the half-circle, a bit further away from the fire. “Still feels like home,” Ford muses. “Strange, in a way. It was quite the adjustment when I first arrived. Dad never took us camping, at least not that I remember.”

“Nah,” Grunkle Stan says. “Closest thing to fresh air we got was the beach and the boardwalk.”

“How long did it take you to settle in?”

“Years. Nothin’ ever felt like home after I left Jersey. ‘Course, I was always runnin’ from something.”

“I know what that’s like,” Ford says quietly. “You know, I used to think I was special because I belonged here. But we all belong here, even if it’s not always in the same way.”

Soos is twirling two sticks over the fire; both are forked, for a total of four marshmallows. “Dude, Wendy—you see my masterpiece coming together over here, right?”

“No way. Three, maybe, but not four. Not in one bite,” Wendy states.

“My honor is at stake.” Soos pulls the marshmallows away from the fire and stacks the melting treats one on top of the other over the chocolate, placing the second piece of graham cracker precariously on top. It seems impossible, but he somehow shoves the entire thing into his mouth all at once.

Wendy stares at him in appreciative awe. “You’re an animal!”

The heat of the day has dissipated steadily in the absence of the sun and the incipient night air is cool against Dipper’s skin. It’s a comfortable temperature, just short of balmy and still far from cold, and between that and the heat of the camp stove on his legs he must fight the phantom tug of sleep. The day isn’t over yet. He notes that no one else has arrived during the wait; the RV sits alone in the lot. This isn’t all that surprising, given it’s a weekday.

Finally, the proprietor comes loping back to the parking lot. Though the sky closest to the treetops is still purpled with the last light of evening, little illumination remains in the forest’s shade. It is nearly dark as night, and the attraction’s owner (presumably—Dipper hasn’t seen a single other employee) emerges from the gloom.

“It’s all set, folks,” he tells them. “It’s twenty-five dollars per head, and you can stay as long as you like.”

Stan forks his share of the payment over with a great show of incredulity, even though a tourist would be exceptionally lucky to leave the Shack only twenty-five bucks poorer. Everyone lines up at the end of the lot, awaiting the lights as the proprietor disappears into the darkness again.

“Moment of truth,” Wendy says.

A minute passes. It stretches into two, then three; glances are exchanged, and fidgeting commences. Dipper hopes they didn’t wait only for technical difficulties to interfere. Mabel bounces on her heels and Pacifica makes an impatient sound.

The light bursts forth without warning.

It’s blinding. Dipper squints against the deluge of photons, unable to see anything but a general impression of multicolored mayhem. Slowly, his eyes adjust. When he is able to focus, what he sees is breathtaking.

Dipper has never been to Las Vegas; but if his mental image of the city were compressed into a couple square acres, the result would be pretty much what’s in front of him. It’s a riot of color, every possible shade of neon glaring from the trees, the little structures, even the paths. It’s a million rainbows overlaid and acid etched into the texture of night, blinking and strobing, running across his retinas in flickers and long, blown out blooms. There’s a man running in four stages, a winking flower, a cowboy with a rotating lasso, about fifteen different ads for ten different soft drinks, and some kind of dancing mascot that could be for pretty much anything. It’s a megadose of brilliance, a glaring sensory overload.

“I’ve had dreams like this,” Mabel breathes, enraptured.

“It’s just as the radio prophesied!” Soos exclaims.

Wendy is equally impressed. “Dude, if anything, that commercial sold it short.”

“Are you turncoats kiddin’ me? It’s just a lousy bunch of lights! Anybody could do this,” Stan says, outraged. Then he leans closer to Ford and mutters, “Ford, tell me you can do this.”

“I can manufacture the cathodes, but I don’t think you’ll appreciate the cost,” Ford warns.

Dipper nudges Pacifica. “This is actually pretty cool, right?”

“It’s very… garish,” she says, though her expression is more amazed than her words imply.

Dipper looks back at the grounds, noticing the pockets of darkness between bright displays. Pacifica made it clear earlier that she desires some alone time, and it seems like this is the perfect place for it, lost together in the lights.

He can’t see a thing when he looks away from the light show, and it takes him three tries to find Pacifica’s hand against the dark ground. He takes it and she glances at him in question.

“So me and Pacifica are… Uh, don’t wait up,” he says to the rest of the group as he leads Pacifica towards the right path, which seems slightly more isolated.

“Uh-ohhhhh, someone found lover’s lane!” Mabel sings.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Wendy laughs.

“I should probably say something about this,” Stan says vaguely, as if the idea of parenting is a theoretical concept too lofty to be practically applied.

Ford isn’t even paying attention, his eyes glued to a photometer. “What’s that, Stanley?”

As they leave the others behind, Pacifica looks pleased as punch. “About time,” she says as she wraps her arm around his. “I thought I was going to have to give you a written order. And have it notarized.”

“So I’ve been kind of busy on the trip so far,” he admits. “But it was—”

“Science, I know,” she interrupts, and even though his eyes are still adjusting he can feel her eyeroll. “I should wrap myself in spreadsheets, then you’d want to make out with me.”

This puts a very interesting image in his mind, which he quickly decides is not what he should be thinking about. “Uh, hey, how about this?” He points at one of the illuminated signs; it’s in the shape of an arrow and in bright rainbow font beams ‘NEON TUNNEL.’ This is, he hopes, a romantic destination so far as Neon Ville goes, operating under the line of reasoning that romantic attractions tend to be tunnels, even if this one is sans corndogs.

The trail leads into the woods, the trunks of the closest trees lined with blue neon tubes all pulsing slowly in unison. Around the next bend is another, larger sign that displays its message of NEON TUNNEL with a dappled luster, this one set over an archway built of spray painted two by fours with two heavy tarps serving as a curtain. Whatever's behind the tarp is bright enough that its glow is visible against the treetops, shining around the blockade.

Dipper pushes half of the barrier aside, gesturing for Pacifica to go first. “My pocket-sized princess,” he says with a badly suppressed grin.

Pacifica isn’t amused. “If that sticks, I’m going to kill Mabel.”

Dipper follows her and lets the flap shut behind him. Not two steps in, he is stopped in his tracks by genuine awe.

The tunnel is maybe eight by eight feet in circumference; the nature of its construction is not discernable behind the brilliance of its light. There’s no walkway or railing; Dipper and Pacifica step directly onto transparent plastic, moving into the tunnel. It’s like hitting warp speed or walking into a wormhole: The strobing spectrum ripples in a steady wave, creating a convincing illusion of motion.

They proceed one cautious step at a time, depth perception nearly eliminated, the sensation one of disembodiment, of vertigo. The tunnel bends slightly in the middle, enough that at the halfway point the entrance and exit are obscured. At this bend, the tunnel seems to be a piece of infinity, endlessly cycling through its own coruscating space, a multihued ouroboros.

“Wow…” Dipper holds out one hand, the outline of his fingers pure shadow against the lights.

“I bet this is what it’s like in Mabel’s brain,” Pacifica says.

Dipper supposes Mabeland wasn’t all that far off from this kind of thing, but the tunnel doesn’t have annoying music or the ever-present threat contained in Bill’s illusions, so that moves it far above the dream bubble in Dipper’s estimation. For a second, he wonders what it would have been like if Pacifica was to him then what she is now—or even something approaching that. Instead of a fake Wendy, would it have been a fake Pacifica offering him her hand?

Eh, maybe not. He never had a chance with Wendy; Pacifica took his hand in the real world for real reasons.

He looks down at Pacifica. Her golden hair becomes green, then orange, then red—in her wide eyes he can see the lights reflected, shimmering and beautiful. She’s beautiful. He faces her and takes her hands, connecting as their technicolor hideaway gleams around them.

“Uh… You look beautiful tonight,” he says awkwardly.

“I know,” she says, tilting her head upwards. “How about you kiss me?”

Their lips meet. The colors of the tunnel beat against Dipper’s closed eyelids and it’s like synesthesia, a kaleidoscopic mirror of his pounding heart and how she makes him feel. She tastes like marshmallows, and the way she curves against him is at once the best and hardest thing; he wants to lose himself in her but doesn’t know how, always self-aware to some extent, always wary of pushing things further—but she makes him start to drift away. She hums against his mouth, warm and satisfied, and he doesn’t think he can ever let her go.

This proves easier than expected a second later, when the sound of another voice makes them jump apart.

“Whoa!” It’s Wendy, standing just at the start of the tunnel’s bend. Her expression is mostly hidden by the strange lighting, but she’s definitely grinning. “My bad! I didn’t see anything,” she says, quickly backing around the corner.

Pacifica huffs irritably and tugs at Dipper’s hands. “Come on, let’s go before Mabel decides this is a scrapbook-ortunity.”

They step out into the cool air of the night, its chill and aroma a stark contrast to the muggy, plastic-scented tunnel. Dipper can’t see a thing, facing away from the tunnel and waiting until his eyes adjust. The path continues past a few more assorted signs, including an animated one that looks like a spouting fountain. Dipper and Pacifica follow the path until they find themselves in a circular clearing surrounded by trees.

“I guess this is the end,” Dipper says.

“Wait, I think something’s starting.” Pacifica points just ahead, where the undergrowth surrounds the mown grass.

It begins as a single point of light, hovering halfway between the earth and the treetops. It breaks and it spreads, growing like the first light of dawn, suffusing the forest and the clearing with a pure white illumination. It’s like a newly risen sun fractured in a mirror, disseminating itself and yet each piece is no lesser than its previous sum. A sound, high and clear, echoes through the meadow; it is a sound that is not music but is still musical, beautiful and melodious. At first, it strikes Dipper as strange that the lights are untied from any obvious display, but when the dance begins it takes his breath away and all thought flees before its brilliance. It is as if he is drifting, tetherless, through the clearing that has become as vast as the void, a star-speckled deep space.

A hundred million dancing lights whirl in all directions, a performance with purpose and form, each downward curve and upward shot a letter in an unspoken alphabet. If he were given a hundred years, Dipper could not have put into words what is said, and yet the message sinks into his heart with unerring communication, couched in notes that have no language yet say you are safe and she is safe and everything will be okay.

The crescendo builds until the light washes over them and blots out the world, the song reaching its most perfect pitch. The lights gather again and with a great shudder, launch into the starry night towards some unknown apogee, becoming one more point of light in the dark heavens. Silence falls: then, crickets begin to chirr once more, and the night is still.

Dipper finds himself on his knees in the grass, Pacifica’s hand held tightly in his own. His face feels strange; he touches his cheeks to find them wet with tears.

“What… What?” Pacifica gasps, her face also streaked with tears. “Dipper…”

Dipper releases her hand and wipes at his eyes, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Uh, I don’t… That was nuts! Holy cow!”

“But the song, what was the— what were they saying?”

“Something about… it was…” But he finds it impossible to recollect. Already the experience seems faded, like an old dream of which he can only remember the recounting, and not the dream itself.

“Oh my gosh, we have to show everyone.” Pacifica stands and quickly blots her eyes with a tissue.

They hurry back the way they came, darting through the narrow paths amongst the flashing signs. The rest of the group is exiting the neon tunnel.

“Guys! Guys!” Dipper says breathlessly. “You have to check out this light exhibit! It’s… you’ll see!”

Wendy gives him a thumbs up. “Lead on, man.”

Only Stan is reluctant. “What is it, more colors? Since when are you all so awed by lightbulbs?”

“Don’t get jealous, Grunkle Stan, this is an un-revenge trip,” Mabel reminds him.

“Hey, I haven’t sabotaged a single one of these displays on purpose!”

Everyone heads back to the clearing. It’s as tranquil as when Dipper and Pacifica had first entered it, with no sign of the lights. Dipper figures the display must not be on a timer; he waves his hands around, jumping in place.

“How did we start it up?” he asks Pacifica.

“We just stood here.” Pacifica takes a few experimental steps forward. “What the heck, where are they?”

Ford is at the edge of the clearing, curiously poking around the foliage. “I don’t see any hidden mechanisms.”

Frustrated, Dipper turns around and spots the proprietor in the distance replacing a few bulbs on one of the displays. “Hey! Excuse me, uh—I don’t actually know your name—sir! Owner guy!”

The proprietor sets down his box of bulbs and shuffles over to the clearing’s entrance. “How can I help you?” he says genially.

“How do we start the show?” Dipper asks, indicating the clearing.

“Show?” The proprietor glances past Dipper and shakes his head. “I don’t have anything set up there yet, I’m afraid. That’s just some space for later.”

Dipper gapes at him. “But…”

The proprietor turns away with a friendly shrug. “Come back next year, and maybe I’ll have something new!”

“Haaaaa, you got us,” Mabel laughs, slapping Dipper on the back. “You can’t stop this guy!”

“No, I—”

But the others are already leaving, walking back towards the parking lot. Dipper turns to Pacifica and finds her expression one of identical bewilderment.

“Seriously, that did happen though,” Pacifica states.

“I know! I… I think?” Dipper looks back at the clearing; it appears completely normal.

Pacifica crosses her arms. “God, we left the valley and weird stuff is still happening.”

Dipper tries to remember the experience more precisely, but it really is just… gone. “Maybe the rate of falloff doesn’t correspond to anomalies as closely as we thought?”

His train of thought is derailed when Pacifica loops her arm through his and begins striding after the others. “I didn’t mean you should start thinking about dork stuff. Save it for later.”

He thinks about the neon tunnel—as well as the fact there’s still a night of camping ahead—and decides that’s not such a bad idea.

***---~**~---***

a hundred million dancing lights