Cat's ears were sensitive – sensitive to each minor tick of the clock hand, and each fat thump of an oaf's feet. Despite the irritation, it made avoiding the open floors easy, aided with the work of the small feline's nose. The Mystery Shack had junk in abundance, enough that an animal eight times bigger than Cat would have a hard time being spotted. Pretend severed hands and crimes to taxidermy were his best bet, odd enough that they would catch eyes quicker than his bland fur would.
To have living quarters coincide with a store was unfathomable to him; not that he'd understood human tendencies initially. The gift shop was one of the smaller parts of the structure, and if he were running the store he wouldn't trust customers not to wander where they shouldn't. He was lucky enough that it'd been closed up, meaning no clumsy feet would tread on his tail.
The vending machine was to the left of the room, cuddled up to the back wall, unsuspecting to those who didn't know. The closer Bill came, the larger and more formidable it seemed. The world was different from something no taller than a stunted chicken. Looking up and around, it became clear he wasn't going to be entering any secret rooms with a lack of a couple inches and opposable thumbs. Cat's ghost attempted to tap the glass, then phased through to roll around with the machine's contents. Part of him wished it'd stayed in the woods while he went to work.
He neared a doorway and poked his head through. Scents like dry wood, musty rug and body odour weren't difficult to identify, but there were stranger ones he couldn't put a finger on – how cats could pick a person out of a crowd was unbeknown to him; how any individual could stand out when they were all so dreadfully uniform. He looked to the side, seeking out Cat's floating form, only to find it'd wandered off for an adventure of its own. He'd have rolled his eyes if he'd been comfortable coordinating two at a time.
Within the living room, a chair creaked and feet fell on the carpet. Bill darted to the far corner, tucked up behind a ladder, while a hulking figure passed through the doorway and turned to the vending machine. It was Stanley – wearing his appropriate zodiac symbol, Bill noted with a hint of amusement. He'd have rathered one of the smaller idiots, even the fat one, had operated the door, but he had little room for pickiness and followed the conman through once he'd entered the code. The end of his tail barely missed the closing door as they descended the dark stairway.
He kept a respectable gap between them. Stanley walked along with a purpose, something he didn't often do, and it increased Bill's intrigue when he tensed upon seeing Stanford. As usual, the six-fingered freak was busying himself with his work, and while Bill had expected him to be dwelling in the dark, his presence still caused his feline lip to twitch.
Stanley announced his presence with little hesitation. "You're hiding something," he said, leaning against the wall's corner, crinkling a dollar against his palm. Bill lingered a couple steps behind him, thankful for the padding of Cat's paws and the unmemorable shade of its fur.
"Always seem to be," Stanford replied, turning and pushing up his glasses. He'd been fiddling with his console buttons like they were somewhat of a game. His voice was as grating on the ears, doubly so with Cat's enhanced hearing. Before a protest could be made, he held up a finger. Bill's eyes traced them, counted them, made sure the right amount was on each hand. "Before you say anything, brother, I want you to know that I'm not hiding anything else. I promise."
Stanley grumbled. "So there is something."
"One thing, yes." Stanford drew the words out like a long line – the most annoying habit of his, as if his brain was a tape that could never catch up to his mouth. "Do you recognise the name –"
"Bill."
Hearing his name spoken so plainly, yet with so much force, was enough to prickle the hair along his body's back. Bill shuffled his weight between the four paws and lent himself further to the shadows, focusing solely on the man in front of him. From behind, he couldn't see the whites of his eyes or the dark creases of his face, only another back he could mistake for anyone else.
Stanford's eyebrows twitched up, as if he'd not been expecting the old man to catch on. "Yes… Bill."
"I spent a lotta time feeling like something wasn't right. Not really understanding why, but..." Stanley cut himself off with a bitter breath, continuing in a hoarser voice, "Seems like the Shack doesn't really let people forget things."
"How much do you remember? We removed all the memorabilia so you wouldn't..."
The distance between the two was closing fast. Stanford was a dolt with ambitions bigger than his fingernails, but Bill knew he had a keen eye for things – especially the one eye that had watched him for all the years gone by. Slipping his own tinted eyes closed, his focus flooded into his ears, every low pitch and every high hitch of the men's voices heard and felt.
"Not much. Basic stuff. Bits and bobs. But I guess I'll be figuring out the full story for myself, unless you wanna tell me first."
The heightening anxiety was a delicious taste. He could already tell what Stanford was thinking – that Bill had arisen without the wake of Stanley's memories nor the behest of a rogue explorer, and the lack of knowledge he had on the dimensional world was frightening enough for him to realise how ill-equipped he was. That, this time, Bill would win; and win he would, given a little time.
"He was my friend, at first. Gregarious, intelligent; he seemed like he wanted to help. He seems that way to everyone at first. Friendly at best, unsettling at worst, but never a threat. Not until he lures you in." Each step Stanford took sent another shiver through Bill. He wasn't certain on whether it was Cat's body reacting, or his own mind. "He was the one who caused the apocalypse. Weirdmageddon. We defeated him by erasing your mind. I thought that when it came back, he…"
A friend? What a thought that was. A kindred spirit, perhaps, and maybe even a fun plaything – but never a friend. Bill didn't do friends, not in the sense that the pathetic meatbags of the third dimension did. The freaks of the Nightmare Realm had been all the friends he needed: careless and distant, enthusiastic about his ploys but never caring to delve into anything past his bravado. Though, they lacked the brains to play chess; he could give Stanford credit for that, even if it was mediocre skill at best.
Stanley's voice threaded suspicion, stoic as he was trying to be. "And he did?"
"Well, yes –"
"Because of my mind."
That perked Bill up. Intended or not, Stanford had placed his own brother into the centerpoint of the situation, faced every light onto him. He tended to do that; to spread the light to others until they flashed it back in his face.
He fumbled over his next words with all his usual grace. "We – I, don't know that yet. I still need to figure some things out but I need you to promise me you won't do anything rash."
If he hadn't had his feathers all ruffled already, Stanley was sure to be grouched by then. "Rash?"
Stanford spoke slowly, "If he speaks to you, you have to tell me. Don't listen to anything he says."
Stanley began to back up. Bill's eyes fluttered open and he pressed himself closer to the wall. "You think I didn't already gather that from 'bringer of the apocalypse'? How dumb do you think I am?"
The emotional wit between them had improved, it seemed, as instead of an immediate retaliation, Stanford reached out a hand and said, "I don't mean what you're thinking, okay? This is a stressful situation and I just want to keep us safe."
"We can keep us safe. Why're you trying to play the hero? Was once not enough for you?" Stanley's voice was raising, higher and higher until Bill had to point his ears the other way. "I'm not spending years trying to get you out of some dimensional hoo-ha again because you think you're special."
The hill was building and Stanford kept piling on the dirt. Stop while you're ahead, Bill thought, insincere as it was. Even when their battles were over, they couldn't help but fight.
Stanford's fist balled and he swore a vein was popping out. "You don't understand, Stanley. We barely survived the first time."
"I'm starting to remember why," Stanley scowled. "Why can't you trust me with anything?"
Stanford quieted quick at that. It was satisfying for the loudmouth to be put in his place. "Just…" He pinched his nose and pointed over Stanley's shoulder. "Get out. And don't leave the Shack, not until I say so."
"Fine. But, for the record, I'm leaving of my volition. Not because you told me to."
The tension was as thick as smog in the air. Stanley's breath rose up in a dangerous shudder, then stopped; he had nothing left to say. He turned on his heels and stomped back up the stairs. Bill curled into a small ball, cloaked by the shadows, avoiding the stray gaze – or so he hoped. When the argument had settled and both parties were apart, he stretched himself out and crept deeper into the basement. His limbs were heavier, slowing his movements. The white beam of the lights was irritating his eyes.
Ford had shuffled over and collapsed into the seat preceding the glass; Bill could see the remains of the portal inside. It was unfortunate he had to take more drastic measures for Weirdmageddon – the novelty of the triangular structure still suited him much better. He watched Stanford's movements with the keenness of a hawk. Stanley's absence left the room a little lighter, edging Bill on the test the waters and sidle up to the desk. What had he been doing again?
Right, journals. There weren't any journals… Not the journals. Not that Bill had expected him to dig any up, only being back for barely a day. The decision to make them wise of his presence was one that had lingered on his mind long before they'd returned to the Falls, and with a barrier proactively keeping him out, it left a nice out if he were to get caught slinking around. He –
Oh.
His head – Cat's head? – was swimming. One faltered step and he drew back snappier than a viper, extra thought spent into keeping his footsteps light. He'd been using Cat too much, a longer period each time, and his fascination with their conversation had cost him time. He shook his head as if to steady the world, lethargically circling back to the stairs and up and…
Closed. It was closed. The vending machine had closed. Of course, he'd never intended to follow Stanley back up, but Stanford looked lazier than a corpse and –How long are you going to stay down here? Why didn't you think ahead?
He didn't know what would happen if he was forced out within the barrier. Was it a bubble, or was it a wall? He'd never been through to test – never needed to be, always had other options but now he was all out, Cat's ghost was nowhere to be seen and he was alone with Stanford of all people. He could feel the pain flaring up; a pain he would feel full-force when the body rejected his presence. Sneaking in had been a foolish idea, he was going to suffer for it because he'd failed to think ahead and he always thought ahead so why hadn't he thought ahead just this once and – oh, he didn't feel good at all.
If Cat wasn't around to claim the body, if Stanford…
His train of thought was ripped out along with his core. The painful process of being forcibly removed wasn't any less unpleasant than the first time around, and with grey came a shrill scream, one he knew Stanford would be unable to hear, but one he needed someone to hear, even if were only himself. A wink of translucent fur flew by and the thump of Cat's body didn't maintain the heft of a lifeless corpse. It wasn't the first time it'd come last minute, and it wouldn't be the last.
His recovery stilted his view of the world, Stanford's form being a muddy blur and the movement of Cat appearing in slideshow.
"How did you get in here?" The voice was corroded by a watery mask, though Bill could pinpoint the syllables. "No collar.…"
He was going to take Cat; his only link to the physical world. Yet Bill couldn't find it within himself to care, not when the realisation that he was alive was so apparent. The barrier hadn't destroyed him – he wiggled his fingers, tugged at an eyelash, just to be sure he wasn't splitting apart – and he was oh so alive. The retrieval of Cat would wait. He needed to leave. Pain was still rocking through him in gentle waves.
The relief he felt phasing through the wall, through the shop and to the outside porch was immense. He'd only felt that cornered one other time in his life, alone in a room with a man with peppered hair. The freedom was short-lived when he faced the wall of blue and poked it once. It poked back, pushing him like nothing more than a feather in the wind.
He shifted his eye to the other side of his body; he viewed his new prison, raggedy and tall and grinning at him through its bright coloured signs and thin walls. He was trapped.
He couldn't be – he couldn't afford to be. They'd thrown him into Gravity Falls without care; they would be searching to retrieve him, to make him their hideous little puppet. If he could find a way to break the barrier, remove the bracelet, escape and recoup… Well. Weirdmageddon may rise a second time.
He turned back to his blue confines. He had time. He could make it work.
Just stay confident.