Chapter Text
Prologue
Bill found himself drifting in a void. Nothing but a vague starry mass of color surrounding him on every side. Well, almost every side. Before him drifted a pink form, large enough to swallow him whole without a second thought.
It innocently blinked its dark round eyes. “Bill Cipher, in all of our years of knowing one another, I have never once tried to eat you.”
“Hey, I was just trying to give the readers a good frame of reference, Frills,” Bill flinched as he spoke, finding that not only was it difficult to speak, but that his entire area burned. What little he could still feel, at least. His eye widened briefly as he noticed for the first time that parts of his angles were divorced from the rest of his body. The pieces drifted in and out of reach. It invoked the image of a broken glass in the sink. “Anyhow, you could always change your mind. I mean, c’mon. What’s a little snack between a few old pals- huh?” He laughed, eye narrowed in feigned humor. As if he was trying to sell the image of the sly shape he normally was.
It seemed to heave a sigh at that. To The Axolotl, Bill was nothing but another Icarus. Plummeting into the ocean below.
“You really don’t understand, do you, Bill?”
The triangle looked up to him with his one tired eye. “What I understand is that you said I could call you- you gonna help, or not, Frill’s?” Bill then started nervously playing with his hands, pushing them together and then picking under invisible nails. He looked away.” Y’know, if you really meant it.”
Yes, The Axolotl did say this. Many eons ago, while Bill floated in the wreckage of his home. In what would later form the nightmare realm. That was when they had become truly acquainted with the shadow on the wall. He was nothing more than a lost being, then, not unlike how he stood before it now. It was a sight, and so The Axolotl could not help but speak to him. What it was able to get out of him about the destruction of his world was very little, and Bill had even less to say about how he had survived. All he had to say was that his dimension was liberated, eye wide in shock as if he couldn’t believe it for himself.
The young shadow on the wall had seemed so small and quiet to it at the time. A far cry from the boisterous, larger than life, pseudo-god and entity of calamity that it would later become familiar with. It had been hard to ignore the poor thing. The choice was obvious, and so The Axolotl had picked him up without a word and brought him to the closest dimension that could care for a displaced being. The Axolotl did not want to leave him, and so it offered him the chance to invoke its name should he need anything.
Bill had never once invoked its name before this moment, not even when he was banished to his nightmare realm. And not when he found himself alone, time and time again. It was always a disappointment to see, but The Axolotl waited nonetheless.
“I did. I meant every word of it.” And The Axolotl did. However, it was no fool. They knew how Bill had ended up in their tank. Seen what he had done to countless people and worlds. The manipulations, the lies, and the torment inflicted. All cultivating in his final experience in Gravity Falls, Oregon, Earth . His near success at tearing that world asunder in a facsimile of a party. Then, when the right authorities had come to interrupt, Bill had done something not thought possible for an entity of his stature, and killed a god.
Everywhere he went, he brought nothing but destruction. This would have to change. Bill could not be allowed to continue doing this, no matter how fond The Axolotl was of this little shadow.
“All I need is something from you.
A Promise
Spoken true.”
“Anything,” There was a spark of light before a flame billowed out from his outstretched hand.
The Axolotl chuckled, “That will not be necessary, Bill. I will hold you to your word.” It blinked down at him as he dismissed the flame. “Have you ever heard of Theraprism?”
The Theraprism was an interdimensional maximum security prison, located in dimension #5150, the so-called neutral zone. Wedged between two dimensions, and outside of time authority. Few had the clearance to be there, and fewer had even heard of it. Its mission statement, according to Frills, was to rehabilitate even the most hardened criminals. Granting them “the tools they needed to achieve inner peace, and move on from this life to the next,” it was reincarnation. The Axolotl, highest authority in the entire universe, had seen fit to stick Bill Cipher into a criminal psych ward that specialized in recycling criminals into new life, like they were simply scooping out meat for discounted deli sashimi. Uegh.
Bill was no stranger to a good time, but there was a difference between going to get his brains scrambled by a friend with the right equipment, and just permanently removing himself from existence and turning into a moth or something. He had invoked Frill’s name in order to survive, not… whatever this was. (Seriously, who goes through therapy just to die? Wasn't that sorta the opposite of the point of going to therapy?)
No, he just had to go through with this just long enough to get Frills off his case about it, then he could escape. Reach out to his henchmaniacs or one of his loose threads, and get them to bail him out.
Adjusting to the constant monitoring and rigid scheduling of the Theraprism was easier said than done. Bill had spent the majority of his long life in-between dimensions, dodging authorities and wreaking havoc in the feeble minds of whatever poor saps he could get his hands on. Regular meal times and sleep were far from priority, to say the least of it. Nevermind that his species didn't need either of those things with any regularity.
Did the Theraprism listen? No. They instead subjected him to a million tests. Everything from blood draws, to organ samples. They apparently consulted dozens of similar species and from there decided on a “care plan” just for him.
One meal a day, consisting primarily of protein and calcium, along with this weird mineral dust. They slipped it into his water along with his pills, making it a weird, chalky slurry. And then after that he was given two hours under the sun lamp with the other photosynthesizers, the time was spaced between four trips a day. With armed security chaperoning him to his own dedicated corner.
Perfectly understandable, considering the time he'd tried bludgeoning another patient to death. The loose watering pipe adorning the floor of the place made a convenient weapon. He spent a long time in the solitary wellness void for that one. Not that the victim didn't have it coming. Some people were just never taught that staring was rude, were they?
Between meal times, Bill was either taken back to his room, or made to partake in whatever activities were being held. It was at the discretion of whichever doctor was assigned to him that day. So oftentimes he was doing arts and crafts, or was made to read in the library. He used to be forced to sit in at mushy, touchy, feely group therapy sessions, but thankfully they saw reason and quit subjecting him to that the second time he incited a riot. Because one was not enough for these people. They just had to keep pushing it.
At the end of his day he was sent to his room in the maximum security ward. On the outside, it was nothing more than a metal box, with bars set up in front of it, and a secondary door. Both had codes for the locks. Which were entered while Bill was made to turn around, cover his eye, or whatever. Any attempts to take a peak has long since been prevented anyways. Frills had seen fit to remove the majority of Bill's acquired power, including his ability to see through depictions of himself. He'd looked like an IDIOT holding a macaroni encrusted paper he'd snuck out of the art therapy room to his back.
The guard's laughs still echoed in his mind like the vicious and humiliating mockery it was. They had been so amused by his attempt at getting the codes that they'd left the incident unreported. A regular had even said she'd taken it home and still had it at her desk.
In any other circumstance Bill would have had her cough up her internals, all tangled up like scarves. He would have made her pull them out herself, like the clown she was. Really put on a show.
But being underestimated was one of the few things he had left in his pocket, so he let it be. Let them laugh.
They'd come to regret it soon enough.
The inside of Bill's cell was nothing special. Four walls, lined in white padding. There was nothing else save for a bed, bolted to the floor, and adorned with a prison grade pillow and blanket. Both choke proof if the doctors were to be believed, not that Bill cared to test it.
It was in the small space underneath the bed, shoved between two loose pad tiles where Bill had stashed what he needed. A small scrap book from his journaling sessions, along with a pack of colored markers arranged in a rainbow. The scrap book was fully allowed in his room, some shit about how “arts and crafts is a healthy outlet for him” or something to that effect. What was not allowed was the pair of scissors, and neither was the razor head. The scissors had been from the crafts room, while the razor had apparently come from the personal effects of one of the more hairier inmates- this one had been unused. It had taken him several weeks of playing nice with several fellow patients to get his hands on all of this. A few exchanges, and a deal here and there.
Bill grabbed the few empty pieces of paper, his back turned to the security camera. Normally he had the time to make whatever he wanted before it was lights out. The therapists called it the “Therapeutic Journaling” Art and Crafts hour. Bill called it a waste of time- and a concerningly convenient breach of security.
Soon they would see, they would all see.
It was a simple spell, something any invertebrate with half a brain and the right tools could do. Hence how Frills could do little to prevent him from trying it. All it did anyways was allow him to contact his followers and acquaintances through writing. Sometimes a book, and other times the backside of a takeout menu. Whatever he thought and subsequently wrote would appear to them. An imperfect method of communication by far, but a girl would have to make due.
Without much ceremony, he pricked his finger on an empty piece of paper. The bleeding was quickly stifled by the pressure of his finger on the page.
In the past few days, he'd done nothing but try to reach out to a particular… former friend. One human going by “Stanford Pines.” Once a devoted follower and prospective henchmaniac, he'd become nothing but a pain in the vertices for the past few decades ever since Bill's true intentions with his portal had come out. Old Sixer had taken it so personally that he had deemed his world just perfect for a party. You'd think he'd tried killing his family or something! Oops, wait. He SO did. It was almost like Sixer had locked him from his mind and life or something, completely backing out on his promises and obligations like a coward! And then as the icing on the cake he sicced his pathetic little family on him. Oh, how Bill wanted nothing more than to make the Pines pay. He could do anything once he got his hands on them. If Sixer had simply helped him out of here, he might have considered sparing them for maybe a fraction of a second. But Stanford had done nothing but ignore him since he'd oh so graciously reached out.
This time, Bill decided to move on, thinking of no one in particular as he wrote his message. It quickly disappeared, leaving behind a faint trace of ink on the page where he'd previously written. Welp, whoever had gotten the message had wasted no time in reading it.
Bill put the pen back to the paper, but was surprised to see that there was a familiar script already halfway down the page. Cursive neatly penned with an off red ink. Classic Stanford Pines.
Oh this was going to get interesting.
There were several pages that were written, addressed to a reader that Bill was excited to learn were as unknown to Ford as they were to him. Sixer went on about Bill's previous attempts to contact him through the aptly nicknamed “Book of Bill.”
Bill was relieved to eventually see when Ford had signed off his name. Finally! That dweeb could go on for days if there wasn't anyone to stop him.
He left basic instructions of his own. In order to more effectively communicate, he needed some small offerings. Nothing much. Only a name, some blood, and a little light ritual chanting.
It barely took a minute before a name was shakily written into the blank space left on the page. There was also a smudgy thumbprint beside it, thick and bright red.
That immediately narrowed this down to some sort of human follower, likely from one of his cult offshoots. A plan began to form in his mind.
A few pages were dedicated to simply getting the kid up to date with who he was, being sure to litter each page with various visages of himself. They had been all too eager to summon him, and readily took his deal. They had to be insanely gullible, for one. And two, eager to offer their blood for some reason. Seriously, at every opportunity. Bill would be tempted to assume it wasn't theirs. Except for the fact that the writing was as cursed with him as it was, and only offering their real blood could do that. Cult for sure.
Thankfully, this meant that Bill could better see. Stripping him of his power wasn't going to be enough Frills! The next few pages were littered with his face. It gave him a decent peak at what the sad sap he was dealing with. They were a fairly young human. With dark messy hair, brown eyes, and purple eye bags underneath. Their eyes traced the words on the pages several times over, and they occasionally smiled at the contents in between sniffling and wiping their eyes. Oh, ew. Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew. They were crying. At least, they had to have been crying earlier. What did they think this was, therapy?
Nope, time to put his cards on the table. Infinite power, knowledge, the secrets of the universe, etc, etc… Whatever they could possibly ask for.
Their eyes went wide, and Bill could see they did actually have a red pen. Perfect. The test was easy enough to throw together, seeing as it was a dummy anyways.
They seemed to be thinking, looking at that first page. Apparently they were going to take the dummy test seriously.
They assigned the illusion as a “duck,” pointing to the lil guy on the right. That was not one of the answers he’d proposed. Nice, okay. So they could think about the outside of the box while sitting squarely in it. Not the brightest he’s ever worked with. But it would do.
Then the riddle of getting the depressed cube out of the house. Their answer was “Sleep in my car w/ me.” Yeesh, okay.
The procrastinating woodchuck was answered similarly. This time, it was not a complete sentence. They just wrote “adderall,” and nothing else. This answer seemed to satisfy them. Bill couldn’t hear them, but he could see them chuckling and sniffling some more.
The word search puzzle was where they seemed to give up and just drew the S shape. They then proceeded to skip to the number he wanted them to divide in half. What Bill honestly expected them to do was to skip it over. Maybe pull up a calculator. Label it a duck too if they were feeling it.
Their answer surpassed his expectations by a longshot. They took their red pen and drew a horizontal line through it, cutting it cleanly in half. When prompted to come up with an alibi, all they did was write “good luck,” and turn the page. They bailed without giving any of the other questions a second thought! Truly a human after his own heart.
Loyalty didn’t matter a whole lot anyways, not for what Bill needed them for.
The next dozen pages go by with nothing of note happening. More explaining his past, his enemies, and what he needed them to do for him. Hell, he even dropped some of the discarded pages of Ford’s oooh so important journal. Just for the heck of it. Humans liked being beheld to secrets.
Their eyes lit up in surprise, head settled in the crook of their arm as they continued to read. Some of the pages describing Ford’s plans of backing out of their deal did nothing to inspire awe or even terror. Just brows furrowed in determination. He knew he made the right choice when he began to tamper with their mind! Nothing too invasive. It was only a tiny bit of finagling with the parts associated with shame, fear, and he even threw out the pain receptors just to be nice.
That was enough of that. Bill began to outline his own plans. No sooner than after he’d asked if they were with him, they turned the page and- oh would you look at that? Another stupidly, precisely handwritten note from Sixer. Ugh- found his happiness, Bill’s ass. Sixer was so still obsessed with him. It was clear as day! Even with that stupid picture of his family. Sixer was SO not over him.
Bill was just about to start putting together another page when it changed again. This time, it was like a technicolor barf on the page. A staple of Mabel Pines. How…Lovely… His eye twitched as he read what she had to say to him. Apparently she was under the impression that HE was the one obsessed with her uncle. And then she had the gall to leave a skillfully rendered (in stylistic context!) drawing of herself dunking him in a bowl of guac and taking a bite with the force to cleave his eye in half. If Bill wasn’t fuming he might have to hand it to her, she was a freak like the best of them. Really a chip off the old block.
The accompanying page was of course from her twin brother. Charged with unearned confidence, but not enough that he was above letting his sister use his page. Well, well, well. What a time to grow a spine, Pine Tree. Not .
The human seemed to snort, rereading Mabel’s page before turning it.
Oh would you look at that. Stanley Pines. The loser con-man. Unwanted and quite frankly unneeded. He was the lesser twin who had needed to steal his brother’s entire identity and life. All in order to take 30 years to get that portal up and running again. 30 years was no big deal to Bill of course, barely a hiccup in the grand scheme of things, but he knew it was a lot of time for a human. He knew that Ol’ Fordsy could have figured it out no problem. Stanley Pines was really the lesser twin in about every aspect. And he had the AUDACITY, the NERVE, to call his life a joke. Calling Bill a ghost. To say that he was just anyone.
Stanley was the washed up con artist. Stanley was the unwanted family failure. There was nothing he could do to Bill, and he was a fool to think that a punch to the face would be enough to stop him.
Then he felt it. The barest bones of hesitation in the mind of this human.
Bill was losing his connection to the reader on the other side. This was the Pines. This was Stanley and his stupid little family. He grabbed at his pen, dropping it and only coming up with a scribble by the time the pen met paper. The glue stick and subsequent pieces of collage met the paper in a similarly messy way. When he got his hands on the Pines - before he could finish that thought, he heard a click. Heavy footsteps on the concrete floor, followed by the click of the second door. It started to creak open.
No. NO. This could not be happening right now- he needed more time. Just another minute!
Is this really what they wanted to see? That no one had been willing to bail him out? No one was willing to so much as call him?
Fine. Snip, snip. There goes some of their most cherished memories together.
It wasn’t long before a guard and a doctor were both in the room, and Bill was being restrained while the doctor picked up the book and confiscated his supplies. Even the pen was eventually wrestled out of his hand.
Bill did not stop trying to bite as he was dragged out to the wellness solitary void.