"You can –"

Bill was cut off by the creak of a door. Mabel entered the hall with a certain bundle of joy, one with a wisenheimer look that convinced him the universe was playing a very cruel trick. Nestled against the folds of her sweater was Cat, jagged whiskers poking through the fabric and eyes looking through Bill with a hurtful vacancy.

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel sing-songed, brisk walk morphing into a skip against the floorboards, "Look what was at the window!"

It was like the past few seconds hadn't happened. Stanley would've walked straight through him if he hadn't angled to the side, and shouting unsavoury words did nothing to grab his attention. But he'd seen him, he was sure! He never missed something, not when it involved him!

Cat, snooty as ever, fluttered its eyes as Mabel combed her fingers through the straight fur of its neck. It wasn't often that he saw it interact with humans, not unless it was him at the steering wheel. Though, it had an affinity for Mabel – something he had picked up the first time it approached her, going as far as to ignore his behest to look at her. That hadn't been a problem he thought much about until now.

"You're a real Disney princess, kid," Stanley said, taking another sip of coffee and meeting eyes with Cat.

Cat's demeanour switched faster than a light. Needle-thin claws poked through the holes of Mabel's sweater. Mabel yelped in response, though her grip remained firm.

Rather understatedly, Stanley said, "Woah. What's your problem?"

Cat had a problem. A serious problem, in fact; so serious that the pampered lifestyle couldn't tie it to the one spot. It leapt out of Mabel's arms with a strenuous push and scampered down the hall. Bill called to it, proving a fruitless task when its path didn't show any signs of ceasing.

Mabel squealed. "You scared him!"

Stanley shrugged. "I just looked at it."

"Well, maybe you should've looked more friendly!"

"Kid, I'm in a bathrobe. How threatening can I be?"

Downstairs, someone screamed – high pitched with a hitch at the end.

"Now I gotta go save Dipper," Mabel grumbled, taking off to meet the source.

Figures it'd be the girly one, Bill thought. It left him alone with the bag of bones and too-old flesh that was Stanley Pines. They met eyes – he knew he hadn't been imagining it – and Stanley's hideous face moulded into the faintest essence of a shit-eating grin.

"Finally decided to say hello?" Bill asked.

Stanley cocked his head to one side. Paused. Then said, "Nah."

Bill was helpless to do anything but watch him walk down the stairs, seeming unmindful of his own attire. Each step was as ungraceful as the last and coffee spilt over the rim of his cup onto the floors.

"Hey! Get back here!" Bill demanded, tailing him, but to no avail; his voice went unheard and, to his credit, Stanley was adept at seeing through him like glass. "You can't just ignore me!"

The scene in the living room was a mess. It looked to be Cat's doing, but context clues implied Dipper had disturbed the order when the furry beast had clambered right into his legs; the scratches on his shins proved the tale. In Mabel's arms once more, Cat cast a glance in Bill's direction when he reentered the room with Stanley, flashing a bright array of colours and circling the man, trying to garner his attention. When it didn't work, he settled over his shoulder.

"Please can we keep him?" Mabel asked, bouncing on her heels in front of Stanford, who was nursing his hand. He squinted at the feline in question. Bill waited for a suspicion that never came, as instead Stanford's gaze moved intertwine with Stanley's, conveying a sentiment he couldn't decipher. The only tell on Stanley's face was a quirked brow.

"You've checked the eyes?" Stanford asked. Mabel held Cat up, closer to his face, and tussled its cheek fur.

Bill's lower eyelid twitched and he balled his fists. Cat was his property. His body. From the day they'd met first met, Cat hadn't strayed from his side, and he wasn't about to hand over the papers to two children. He parted from Stanley to cloud around Cat. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" he said.

Cat's unawares look did nothing to argue with him. It was a sparing glance, directed back to Mabel when she looked down. Across the room, Bill caught Stanley in a smile. It was the kind of smile that dressed his bricks in red and smouldered the palms of his hands. Stanley stuck out a single finger from behind him, pointing to the stairs, then expunged Bill from his vision again and sauntered over to Dipper, who was sitting in the corner of the room and sulking over his legs.

"Just a scratch," Stanley said, taking a knee and patting him on the shoulder. "I'm no doc, but I think you'll live."

"You're not actually gonna let Mabel keep that cat, are you?" asked Dipper, worry evident in his brows.

Another look shared with Stanford, then Stanley gave that grotesque smile again. "I think she needs him. 'Sides, things are boring without a little friend." He left Dipper with a gentle bap against his hat, casting it sideways. Bill followed him back up the staircase, away from the droning lecture Stanford had begun about the responsibilities that came with owning an animal.

Stanley made irritatingly idle chat when they entered the hall, crossing back into the bathroom where a pile of clothes were messily folded on the counter. "Y'know, I never took you for a cat guy. More of a… snake, maybe? Or a scorpion. Yeah, a scorpion seems more your type. Small and likes to hide in shoes."

What? He'd never hidden in a shoe! "Shut the trap and listen." Bill drifted to the front of the mirror, hoping he was blocking the view. Saving Stanley from having to see his own grisly reflection. On that thought, he moved aside. "How can you see me?"

Stanley unfurled the belt of his bathroom unceremoniously. Bill averted his eye as he stepped into some pants. "LSD is one hell of a drug these days."

Bill growled. There was something he wasn't getting, and the only thing more infuriating than that was Stanley himself. "We're not playing games here, pal, either you're going to tell me or –" Towards the final half of his sentence, he had moved closer to the man's face, and on a nearer perspective into his eyes, his words fell short. His movements faltered, and he backed up.

Stanley heeded his actions, taking a step back in turn. "I ain't joking around. Well, at least with this." He plucked a tank top from its position on the counter and pulled it over his head, muffled voice coming through. "I think the question you should be asking is why you're sitting here watching me get dressed."

Bill switched tones. "Big chess player, huh?"

Stanley fitted the tank top comfortably around his shoulders and made room for his gut. "Nah, that'd be my brother. But I know you are, which is why I was expecting something a little more… impressive."

Bill frowned. "Come again?"

"Conman to conman; everything you do can't be guessed. It's kinda like playing one of those dumb kids games, trying to figure out which smart word to use so they won't know what you're really saying." Stanley tapped a finger against his temple and exited the bathroom, continuing his rambling into the hall. "It got me thinking: if I didn't want to be found out, why on earth would I go to Mabel? Love the kid, really, but she's as good at keeping a secret as Dipper is talking to girls."

"So what? It's a minor discrepancy! It's not like I've got a lotta options with you boneheads!" Bill hoped the insult would stop him on his way to the staircase, but Stanley's stride remained unbroken. Dropping his arms, suspended in the air, Bill sighed. A long, drawn-out sigh, longer than anyone without a diaphragm had any right to make.

Stanley halted at the top of the stairs. His head didn't turn as he spoke. "Let me know when the circus is closed. Then we'll talk."

Bill popped a metaphorical vein watching him walk down the stairs again. Whatever. He had bigger things to focus on than the oaf's insolence.

For the two years that he had spent sailing with his brother, Ford had felt happy. Everything he had wanted in his life – journals, anomalies, his brother at his side – came to fall into his palms and it was a time of pure tranquility. Never had he imagined that the past he thought he had erased straight from Stanley's head would come back like an otherworldly cockroach.

Falling back into his seat, he plucked one of his many journals from his desk and flicked through the notes with his unwrapped hand. Nothing indicated Cipher's return. Everything they had encountered were harmless in the prospect of multi-dimensional downfall; more like exotic animals at a zoo, there to be photographed and documented before they headed home. He rested the tip of his finger on the page of the Kraken. The Krakens, Stanley had insisted.

Something scuffled by the floor. He slammed the book shut and held his breath. Echoing from the basement stairs, there was someone lightly banging on the vending machine. He groaned. The last thing he wanted was to be disturbed. He spun the chair and glanced around the room, finding the source of the initial scuffle. It was the cat that Mabel had picked up the day before, the one that sent shivers down his spine. Of all the forms his nemesis would take, an innocent feline would be it.

He squinted at it, fixed his glasses and straightened his back. It was in a hunched sit, watching him with a mutual amount of caution. Green eyes; no yellow. Ford forced his shoulders down though his boot tapped against the floor. He hadn't noticed it slip in after him, having been cooped up in Mabel's arms from the moment she'd found it. It was unsettling how silent cats could be.

"What do you want?" he said.

It blinked at him.

He rubbed his forehead. He was talking to a cat. That was where his life was at. Deciding he would take it out once he was done perusing his journals, he spun back to face his desk and continued flipping pages. A minute passed of eerie silence before a weight shuddered the shaky balance of his desk. The cat made itself far too comfortable besides his pile of books.

"Hey, I don't need cat fur on my equipment." He bumped his knuckles against its side. It rolled over, brought a paw to its mouth, and began to groom. The sound of its wet tongue combing through its fur was far beyond grating on the ears. Ford tucked a hand under its back and flipped it over, keeping a firm hold as he placed it on the floor. As soon as he turned back to his books, the cat was back on the desk.

He stared. It stared back, unblinking, then turned to the journal he had opened and poked the page corners with its nose. Almost too swiftly they began to turn. Its head bowed over to look at the pages. Ford pushed it away by its nose, holding the book up in the air and squinting up against the light.

Mermaids, sirens, mermaids pretending to be sirens, anglerfish that had gotten lost. The first year of their findings hadn't been the most exciting, though there some amusement to be had at the page focusing on the water kelpie they had found that wouldn't stop barking. No, no time to focus on that – Bill Cipher. There had to be a clue.

He stopped on illustrations of black tendrils in the sea, bobbing gently above the surface. His notes read; 'I was unable to find an explanation for this anomaly. It seems to be the dead remains of something bigger. Unresponsive to the touch.'

His mind skipped back to Dipper's own sighting.

Suddenly, the words on the page blurred into doubles, shaking against the stained pages. Ford brought a hand up to adjust his glasses, only to find that there were none. He pushed the spine of the book back against the desk, shooting up, eyes darting around. His glasses were tucked in the jaw of the cat, dangling at an awkward angle, as it looked at him with a fuzzy expectancy in his eyes. When he reached forward to grab them, it stepped back.

"This isn't the time for games," he said after another failed retrieval. "Come on! I need those!"

Its playful antics weren't the worst in the world, but he couldn't risk the distraction and the glint its eye was unnervingly similar to the subject of his paranoia.

The cat shuffled to the side of the desk, dangling the glasses over the edge.

"Hey. No." Ford warned.

It lowered its head.

"Don't you dare."

Dare it did, only in a different way than he anticipated. The cat leapt down and dashed across the floor, leaving Ford with no choice but to scramble after it. Papers flew through the air, knocked back by the force he exerted pushing himself from the desk. He covered a small distance before his foot hooked on a strategically placed bag and he tumbled onto the dark tiles. The cat met him at the tips of his fingers, looming over him and swinging the glasses with a consistent lilt.

He sighed.

Smack. The glasses dropped onto his knuckles and the cat clicked with its mouth. He cautiously placed them back over his nose, eyes never straying from the animal. As the world came back to focus, its eyes remained the same green colour, and no maniacal laughter or secret knife tricks had been pulled from thin air. He pulled himself up and, after waiting a moment to see if its thespian play had finally ended, tilted his head. The cat mimicked him.

The air chilled against his lips; he could see his breath ahead of him. The ticking of his watch hit a pause and the cat's eyes morphed out to a sensation not unlike a warm palm, searching for his, intending to shake. To establish a connection. Not malicious in nature, not intending to comfort. Grasping out to him; wanting to understand. Heat flowed back through the room after a single blink.

Behind him, papers resumed a neat folded position. The cat trilled once and turned on its pawpads, slinking up the stairs. Ford lingered on the spot, watching it cloak itself within the shadows. The lights dimly flickered and a bead of sweat formed above his brow. He returned his desk with a hunch in his shoulders.

He frowned when picking up his journal a second time. It felt lighter.

Upstairs, Mabel cooed to her cat.

For all the disdain Bill had for the Pines family, he relished in the chaos they brought. A consistency to occupy his mind, whether it be with thoughts of revenge or disgust with their skin puppet ways. Floating out on the back porch, surrounded by night, the silence was overwhelming. A thick blanket of unsaid words whispered to him. He fiddled with his hat to still his mind.

Cat refused to give him the time of day since pairing with Mabel. Being left in the dirt by a teenager in a sweater wasn't exactly how he'd imagined his plans being foiled, but he was capable of finding his way alone. He was sure of that much.

Rain trickled down from the porch overhang, seeping into the soil of the grey grass below. Thunder crackled lightly in the distance and the scene would've been perfectly sullen if not for the humid temperature in the air. There was nothing more chaotic than a summer storm, a naturally occurring juxtaposition. It brought him some comfort knowing the shack's residents would be tossing about in their beds.

He had been ignoring Stanley since their first encounter. A retaliation, he supposed – if the man was so adamant that he would sulk to him like a deprived puppy, the only one inside the circus was him. Though, It was curious that he hadn't been confronted. He expected the word to get out the moment Stanley had descended down the stairs, but he bit his tongue, and he saw through him.

He was thinking too much. He tapped his bracelet.

A twist of a knob caused Bill to spin around. Stanley plonked along the wood boards, dressed in the same too-small tank top, coming up beside him with a fresh brew of coffee in his hand. After checking the fingers, Bill debated a comment, deciding against it only with the assumption that he would be ignored. They stood side by side for what felt like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes. Bill was twitching.

Stanley broke the interim with a drawn out sip, then said, "You ready to talk now?"

Bill hadn't been aware there was a moratorium, or that there had been a planned 'talk' to put on hold in the first place. He wished he had been able to spit in Stanley's coffee. His saliva was toxic; it would taste just as bitter as he felt.

Stanley tapped a stumpy finger against the ceramic. "I'll start us off then," he said, turning to look at Bill. There wasn't any particular emotion in his eyes; the lack of it felt unsettling. "What's the jewellery for? I mean, I know you're vain, but you're like a… floating piece of jewellery."

Bill raised his brow, then waved around the ensnared arm. "In the afterlife – the place you sent me packing – they hand these out as souvenirs right before they send you to your unending hellscape. Or, in my case, here."

"Who knew the Devil was such a generous guy," Stanley said with a snort. "Never paid me any favors."

Bill's patience was dwindling quick. He desired to leave, but there wasn't anywhere he could go that Stanley wouldn't find him. The bubble rendered him helpless, and it didn't show any signs of releasing him in the coming day.

"Is there a point to this?" he snapped. "Not going to wonder how I'm alive? Ask what evil plans I'm up to? You're just gonna go on some nonsense ramble about the Devil?"

Stanley shrugged with a cheeky smile. "It's what you do."

"I make perfect sense," Bill said, waving him off. "Not my fault you're too stupid to understand it."

"At least I know how to count," Stanley retorted, ghosting a smirk, then staring ahead as a deeper bellow of thunder rolled over the woods.

The meaning of the phrase didn't hit Bill immediately. When it did, it was with the force of a truck that hadn't touched its brakes in the last hundred kilometers of its trip. It had been a lapse in judgement at worst, a time where his giddiness had overwhelmed him. All it insinuated was that he had be more careful in the long run; tip-toe his way around Stanley. His eye ran down to the man's hand a second time. Five fingers.

"You wanted to be here," said Stanley, his eyes flitting between Bill's bracelet and the lines of his bricks. "Why?"

"To take in the sights," Bill replied. "You know how people watch birds? Whales? Like spectacles? That's what I see you as: little exhibits at the freak museum! No less boring, either! I mean, WOW, you think you'd get up off the couch sometime, huh?" Eager to move, he swept a steady circle around Stanley. "I haven't had anyone with less than eighteen lifespans one-up me in a long time, let alone someone with as much wit about them as those raccoons with too-long arms."

"Hold on." Stanley's lips pulled tight, his forehead drooped with a frown and he held a finger in the air. "You mean a sloth? You know what a raccoon is but you don't know what a sloth is?" Bill had no time for a rebuttal, as he was interrupted by Stanley's barely-suppressed fit of laughter. He looked up to the shack's windows, but no lights flickered on. The rain's pour was a better muffler than he thought.

"All hairballs are the same. Anyway! You haven't told Sir Brainiac," Bill said once he'd quieted down. "Why?"

Stanley wiped a tear from his eye. "Why would I? If he could see you, you'd be in a cage right now… Probably. I'm not really sure how this whole 'Mindscape' thing works." His eyes lit up. "Hey, can I –" His free arm snaked over to Bill. Bill propelled himself back, further than was necessary, and when the silence hung long enough to be awkward, he clicked his fingers and poofed back to Stanley's side.

"Tch!" He wagged a finger in the air. "Didn't your parents teach you not to touch gold? It leaves a mark, lessens the value." His hand smoothed against his side for a relaxed composure. "Listen, old man, I've got plans to put together and as entertaining as it is to try and thread a needle through that mess of a brain you have, I don't have the time right now." He held both palms out flat, one containing a small portal wracked with screams, the other a light –

The illusions chastened as a jolt of energy zipped up his arm. His gold exterior flickered like a broken monitor and he could only let out a garbled scream. The episode lasted for a full minute before calming, and Bill was greeted with Stanley's unperturbed face, excepting a raised eyebrow.

"I know people," Stanley said. "You're not exactly people, but you act as bratty as they do." A bolt of lightning struck a distance away, illuminating the curves of his face. "You're not here by choice. You want to get out? Then maybe we can help eachother."

Know him? No one knew him. The hubris of humans never failed to amuse him. Bill scoffed, "Right. I'm going to believe the guy who…" He trailed off.

"Or I could just go back to ignoring you," Stanley said. "Works pretty well for me."

Bill frowned.

"If you want some answers from me, you'll have to earn them like everyone else." Stanley winked at him. "Verbal agreements are a little more trustworthy than shaking hands. Never know when someone's strapped a buzzer to their palm."

"Earn them?"

"Yeah." Another roll of thunder. "Call it community service."

Deep within the pits of a dark void, molten stone fell. With no bottom, no top, no side nor corner, there would never be a time where the stone plate wouldn't fall.

In the center, a crater, filled with thousands of strands of black ooze, writhing and roiling and curling around eachother in irregular uniform.

A small hole opened. From where, none could tell. A light peeked in.

The eye opened.