Chapter Text
Stanford felt strangely comforted waking up to that view and the scent of the sea every morning.
The creaking wood of the ship, the distant call of gulls, and the salty breeze felt like constants in a world that had once been filled with chaos and instability.
Alongside his brother, they searched for adventure and tried to make up for lost time, together, aboard the Stan O’ War II.
During the trip, he had started writing Journal 4 again. Not out of necessity, but from habit… and perhaps a need for reflection. Now, he sat quietly, lost in thought as he scribbled in its pages, sketching new observations, half-formed ideas, and the occasional memory.
“Sixer! The kids just texted me. It says, ‘This summer we’re going back to the Mystery Shack. ;)’ I think I’m finally getting the hang of this phone…”
Stan mumbled, squinting at the tiny screen and poking it like it might bite. He still wasn’t great with technology, and the phone had been a gift from Soos , who insisted it was “super user-friendly, even for cryptid-chasing grandpas.”
Ford closed the journal and set the pen down, a rare, genuine smile softening his features. “That’s wonderful news. I’ll finally get to do more research with Dipper this summer. Feels like those three years just flew by.”
Stan rolled his eyes dramatically, flopping back into the nearest chair like he’d just been mortally wounded by sentimentality.
“You always gotta get sentimental, huh? Mabel and I will let you two handle the nerd stuff. Just don’t drag us into another paranormal mess, alright?”
Ford stroked his chin thoughtfully, his brow furrowing with a seriousness that contrasted his brother’s casual tone.
"I intend to continue my fieldwork with Dipper, strictly controlled, of course. There’s no reason to expect another catastrophe. Things have been relatively stable since the events of Weirdmageddon… but I’ll stay vigilant, just the same."
Stan muttered under his breath.
"You said that the last time, and we ended up with a time rift in the kitchen. Not exactly a confidence boost, Sixer."
Ford allowed himself a sheepish chuckle, but there was a glint of something else in his eyes, hope, perhaps. Or a cautious optimism he hadn’t felt in years.
"Still," he said quietly, "It’ll be good to be back. With the kids. With… family."
Stan didn’t reply right away, but he grunted in agreement and tossed him a cold soda from the mini fridge.
"Just no aliens this time. Or sentient toasters. I’m getting too old for that kind of crap."
Ford smirked and raised the can in a small toast. "To a quiet summer," he said.
Stan snorted. "Yeah. That’ll happen."
∆
Everything was so lovely and family-like. But where is our favorite triangle?
Meanwhile, in a place outside of time and space.
Dimension #5150 neutral zone, Theraprism.
Bill was completely isolated in the “Solitary Wellness Void.” Although it was by his own decision.
At first, it was a whirlwind of chaos. He screamed, hurled insults, and lashed out at anyone who dared approach. He could not tolerate the farce that had trapped him; not with smiles, not with promises of redemption wrapped in sparkles and sweet words. He was desperate, enraged, because he had accepted something in a moment of pure vulnerability… and had been deceived. “The Axolotl is a liar and a manipulator,” he repeated, each syllable burning like fire within him. It wasn’t just about following rules: it was his essence, his chaos, that was chained, made prisoner to a plan he had never chosen. His power, his dominion over all, his immortality… reduced to dust, mocked with an invisible grin. And that drove him insane.
And guess what? In a moment of pure desperation, Bill made a deal, with the Axolotl himself. Yeah, that glowing amphibian of cosmic wisdom. He thought he could outsmart the big guy. Spoiler alert: he couldn’t. Oh, the irony. The being who used to rewrite the laws of reality, begging for a second chance like some ordinary speck of matter.
He thought the Axolotl was just a jerk with a savior complex, someone who still believed in cosmic justice and happy endings. But no. He wasn’t a savior. He was a strategist. And Bill… Bill was the one who didn’t read the damn fine print.
Drum roll… Who’s the fool in all this? Exactly. This triangle right here. Well played, Axolotl. Well played. And what was his big punishment? Eternal imprisonment? Erasure from every memory in the cosmos? Nope. Worse.
Therapy. Mandatory. Like a misbehaving child being told to 'think about what you’ve done.' 'To become a better triangle,' they said. Better. Better? What does that even mean? Less terrifying? More likable? A version with softer edges?
They threw him into the Dimensional Tyrant Ward. The multiverse’s special little corner for those who went too far, even by chaos standards. Apparently, that includes him now.
Me. The all-seeing, all-knowing, ex-god of paradoxes. In cosmic time-out.
And the worst part? It’s not being trapped.It’s not the endless therapy sessions or being told I’ve got “control issues,” or that “omniscience doesn’t replace empathy.”
Like maybe I should feel bad. Like I’m supposed to regret something that still doesn’t feel wrong. Everything I did, every deal, every betrayal had a purpose. It was justified. A means to an end.
And that is what really gets under my skin. That guilt is creeping in when I didn’t invite it. The worst part is that… some of it is starting to make sense.
That doubt is whispering through the cracks.That something inside me… is shifting.
And I hate it.
I hate that it’s working.
I hate that I care.
And that... that makes him angrier than anything else.
But don’t tell anyone. Emotions? Ha. That’s for sentimental meatbags and sitcom characters. Not me.I’m fine.I’m just… recalibrating. Taking notes. Playing along until the script falls apart.
That’s all. Really.
“Not spiraling. Not questioning everything. Nope. Just adapting. Totally under control.”
Bill didn’t know if he was stating a fact or just repeating it loud enough to make it feel true. His voice was too casual. Too forced. Like if he said it with the right rhythm, the panic would stay buried under the sarcasm.
And let me tell you, getting out of this place? It’s harder than teaching a Pine Tree quantum physics. My usual tricks? Useless. Null. Like trying to light a match underwater.The rules here don’t just resist me, they shift around me, like the whole place is designed to smother whatever I am.
And yeah, guess who I have to thank for this lovely prison? Stanley Pines.
Not Ford , the six-fingered genius I once respected. The one who looked into the abyss and smiled back. The one who mapped the mind like it was just another blueprint to conquer. No, he didn’t beat me.
It was Stanley. Stan, the idiot with no degree, no vision, and a punchable face. The man whose greatest intellectual achievement was a tourist trap and whose moral compass spun like a broken roulette wheel. He wasn’t supposed to matter. He was never supposed to matter. But he did. Somehow. That glorified conman outplayed me—with brute force, sheer accident, and a brain powered by corn dogs and bad decisions.
And now look at me.
Trapped. Powerless. Sentenced to "therapy" because a god-shaped tadpole thought it would be character development.
...Still. Ford. I wonder.
Does he still bury himself in theories to avoid feeling anything? Still lose hours to thought, like it’s a fever he can’t shake? I always hated how much I admired that. His hunger to know, to dissect, to understand. It was intoxicating. Stupidly noble. And absolutely infuriating.
And is he still… you know. Wearing those awful sweaters and somehow pulling it off?
Ugh. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m just gathering intel.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Right?
Then why did it sting when he didn’t stop his brother?
He let it happen. All that brilliance, all that conviction, and in the end, he stood still and watched while his idiotic twin threw everything into chaos. I kept waiting for him to intervene. To choose logic. To choose me. But he didn’t.
He chose loyalty. Chose blood over brilliance. Family over reason. Over truth. Over us, whatever we were. Whatever we could’ve been. Pathetic.
And yet, there was something almost beautiful in that failure. That stupid, tragic devotion. He looked at the world, saw all its madness, and still chose to hold on to the one person who made the least sense. The one who ruined everything.
And he did it with those maddeningly thoughtful eyes. With that damn mind of his that never stops racing.
I hate him.
I hate that he let me fall.
I hate that he never looked back.
I hate that some part of me still wants to know if he ever regretted it.
He was the only mind that ever truly challenged mine. The closest I ever came to an equal. And when it mattered most, when the world cracked open, he stood there and let his brother finish what they both started.
He could’ve stopped him.
He could’ve chosen me.
Chosen truth.
Chosen understanding.
But he didn’t.
I know it wasn’t right—taking over his body like that. At the time, it felt clever. Necessary, even. But looking back… maybe it wasn’t just a joke to him. Maybe it really hurt and when he stopped talking to me—when he started wearing that ridiculous metal plate—I told myself it was petty. Dramatic. That he was just being Ford.
But deep down? I think I knew. I crossed a line. One he didn’t think I’d ever cross.
And now… now he won’t even look at me.
So now I’m here, stuck in some padded, colorless dimension, being told to “explore my feelings” while the universe keeps spinning without me.
And I can’t do anything. Not yet.
But I remember. Every second. Every word. Every look on their stupid human faces.
Time moves differently here. I’ve spent centuries thinking in circles.
And yeah, maybe Ford hates me. I did start an interdimensional apocalypse, tried to unmake reality, threatened his family a little, and, oh right.. probably derailed his social life and research by whispering chaos into his ear for thirty years. Minor things.
He has some reasons to be mad, I guess.
Still… I wonder what he’s doing now…
∆
Therapist’s Report – Subject number #323322
"Subject: William Theodore Cipher. Alias: Bill Cipher.
Current behavioral status: Non-compliant. The patient continues to refuse all group therapy sessions. During the latest attempt, he remarked, ‘Is this a new form of torture? Because it’s working.’
He maintains a hostile attitude toward both staff and fellow patients, frequently employing manipulation to disrupt the progress of others."
This therapist seems to have had a difficult relationship with Bill as well, but she had been dealing with him the longest.
”Despite years in this facility, there has been no significant breakthrough. As the attending clinician, I am beginning to consider this case beyond recovery."
The Axolotl floated quietly above the glowing floor of his mental landscape, his long frilled tail drifting slowly in the air, glowing eyes unreadable. He processed the words without judgment, his expression serene, timeless.
Bill Cipher had long since stopped lashing out physically or psychically, but the silence he kept now was just as heavy as his rage once was.
“What is your current diagnosis for Bill Cipher?”
The Axolotl’s voice was soft but echoed with the wisdom of countless ages.
The therapist sighed and answered calmly.
”Clinical diagnosis remains unchanged: Narcissistic personality disorder, severe manipulative behavior, lack of empathy, and probable trauma-related amnesia.
There has been a subtle shift — he now references Stanford Pines during one-on-one sessions. Though indirect, these references hint at feelings of guilt, regret, or loss.
Whenever the subject of his origins or early existence is raised, he dissociates or redirects through sarcasm and aggression. His mind retreats into what he describes as 'darkness.' This likely suggests trauma rooted in early psychological development.”
The Axolotl closed his eyes briefly, as if listening to a memory carried by the currents of time.
“So he wears mockery like armor. Hides pain behind control. He will not admit sorrow, but it exists... buried. How has Bill responded to his medication?"
"The patient has shown a generally positive response. Some of the medications have a mild sedative effect, but we’ve since reduced the dosage."
Axolotl sighed, calmly considering his options.
“There remains a single thread tethering him to something real. The one presence that stirred change in him...whether for better or worse. The only being in whom he’s ever placed hope... Stanford Pines.”
∆
Bill was in the void when the well-known guards of the theraprism came to open his cell and put his handcuffs on him.
“What the hell is going on? Let me make one thing clear, no more art therapy. Last time they made me paint my 'inner child.' Ridiculous! But hey, who can blame them? I’m irresistible. You all missed me, didn’t you?"
None of them responded, so they led him down long corridors. As he looked at those long white walls, he felt like he was in a cage.
"Hey folks, where's the party at? Still holding a grudge about that little nightmare incident? C'mon, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas... or whatever dimension we're in!"
He said in a mocking tone with his characteristic squeaky voice, blinking in an almost comical manner. They led him into a large office, and upon opening the door, he was taken to what appeared to be the salamander's private mental landscape.
Great, the salamander. He was frustrated to see the entity that had him here. At least it was better than being in that stupid art therapy.
"What, here to watch the freak show again? I'm not your personal entertainment, y'know. I'm not some sideshow you can just observe and judge.”
The Axolotl ignored the sarcasm. Still, he maintained his peaceful aura; he had no desire for conflict. He sighed softly and said:“I sent you here, Bill, in order to enhance your condition. So you could repent for your dimensional crimes. There's no progress with you. Subsequently, I have exhausted my alternatives. You've had more therapists than any other patient. I have made a conscious decision to do so. You’ll be sent to Earth. You’ll stay with the Pines family.”
Bill blinked. Once. Then again. Slowly.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," he said dryly. "That’s your grand plan? Exile? Mortality? Humanity? I used to unravel universes for fun, and now I’m supposed to do this?"
The Axolotl remained silent, patient as time itself.
“No way. Not Earth. Not him. Not Ford and his walking sitcom of a family. Do they still hug like it’s a sport and solve problems with feelings?”
"You will have no powers. No illusions to hide behind. Only time, people… and the burden of mortality. Perhaps, by living among them, you will come to understand not just what it means to exist… but what it means to matter." Its voice rumbled through Bill’s chest, not just in sound but in meaning, touching something he’d long buried. Something fragile. Forgotten.
"You will fall. You will fail. You will bleed," the Axolotl added, almost gently. "But you will live. And that is where all true knowing begins."
Bill’s breath caught.
He had never felt small before.
But now?
Now he wasn’t sure if he was being punished… or saved.
“Ugh. So I’m starring in some tragic little human redemption arc now? Fine. But if I snap and microwave a gnome, that’s on you.” he said, still thinking, a flicker of vulnerability behind the sarcasm.
Would Ford greet him with suspicion? Would he shut him away again or maybe, Ford would leave him to fend for himself, vulnerable and powerless in a world he no longer understood.
The unknown gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the exile — it was the waiting, the wondering. Could Ford still see past everything? Could there be something left between them beyond years of silence and conflict?
Deep down , annoyingly deep , there it was: curiosity.
How was the old man doing these days? Still playing mad scientist in the woods? Still thinking he’s smarter than everyone?
Bill scowled. He really didn’t want to care. But something about it still got under his skin.
Bill swallowed, almost reluctant to admit it. But maybe, just maybe, that was part of why this mattered.
∆
Although Bill didn’t know the Axolotl’s full plan, one thing was painfully obvious, this wasn’t going to be a walk in the multidimensional park. Not after what happened.
Thanks to that walking pile of flannel and spite, Stanley Pines, Bill had been ripped straight out of the old man’s brain like a bad tattoo during a midlife crisis. And let me tell you, being violently ejected from someone's mind? Not a great experience. It wasn't some dramatic blaze of glory. Oh no..he’d gone out kicking, screaming, and flailing like a cosmic pigeon in a hurricane.
The aftermath? Pathetic. He’d been reduced to something like a roadkill geometry problem, just a shriveled triangle twitching in the void, metaphorically swaddled in cosmic bruises and existential humiliation.
He had once commanded nightmares, warped time, and turned gravity into a party trick, and now? Now he was a burned-out spark floating in cosmic limbo, getting lectured by a glowing amphibian with a voice like inner peace and disappointment blended into herbal tea.
And yet… underneath all the sarcasm, some small, infuriating part of him felt. Something. Bitterness? Regret? A tiny flicker of… embarrassment? The horror.
He hated it…..