A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, I'd sincerely hoped to finish this chapter sooner, but real life got in the way - real life and preparation for hospital visits. Technically, said hospital visit is still getting in the way, given that I'm posting this a lot later in the day (or earlier, depending on the time zone) than I intended, but we'll leave it at that. Thank you to everyone who viewed, reviewed, favourited and followed!
Anyway, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Gravity Falls is not mine, and neither are any of the texts that Ford references.
Also, this is another chapter without opening or ending riddles: we've got more than enough codes and riddles in the main body of the chapter, easily recognized by the bold text. See how many of them you can translate!
How many times had they wished?
How many powers had they acquired? Ford recognized clairvoyance, levitation, teleportation, gravity inversion, superhuman strength, telekinesis, molecular manipulation, and a host of others, but he'd never actually counted.
Just how much Weirdness had they absorbed?
By now, it was impossible to tell: they'd both made so many requests for so many frivolous things they'd just about lost count, most of them fairly equal in Weirdness value (apart from the time that Stan had decided to wish for a portable toilet and some soft toilet paper). For good measure, neither of them were in any condition to look back on the events of the last few days with anything other than a headache. As if all the bewildering mutations and frankly disturbing mental maladies weren't bad enough, the sheer quantity of Weirdness they'd absorbed had left them effectively poleaxed with exhaustion.
In the wake of the last two wishes, Stan and Ford were left so worn-out that the only thing they could do was collapse. By that time, they had an improvised bedroom arranged in the southeast chamber, complete with proper beds wished for at great expense, but neither of them had the energy to travel that far; all they could do was flop backwards onto the marble and lie there, too weary to budge another inch. And there they stayed for the next five hours, slumped on the floor just out of wishing range, too bushed to do anything other than stare up at the mural of Icarus and wonder what the hell they were going to do next.
Stan was the first to break the silence.
"Ford?"
"Yes, Stanley?"
"Do you think it would have worked?"
"Do I think what would have worked? Listen to the cadenza of dreams, the broiling aria of Somnus. The coda heralds the end of all things."
Stan eyed Ford strangely, but by now he was almost used to the unearthly, deep-voiced mutterings and random explosions of gibberish.
"The Stan-O-War," he explained. "Our big plan to go sailing around the world for treasure and babes, everything we'd planned to do before… before that visit to the principal's office. Would any of it have worked? I mean, everything sounds like it'll all work out when you're a teenager – you know, before you've had time to grow up and get run over by the real world, but… you think we ever had a chance to make the plan work? Would we have even gotten that old boat seaworthy, taken it on the voyage of a lifetime, or would we have made a mess of it and have been forced to give up, face reality and get day jobs? Was it even worth the effort, or was it all just a waste of time?"
Ford thought carefully. For the moment, he still had a firm enough grasp of his own memories to know what Stan was talking about, but it still took a while to recognize that he'd ever had a place in them… and god only knew it was only going to get even trickier as the game carried on.
"Infinite worlds offer infinite possibilities," he said at last. "Seramthgin od os tub ...nwo rieht fo sdlrow ot htrib evig smaerd dna sepoh."
"Yeah, I didn't understand any of that."
"I CAN TASTE DREAMS. Oh, I beg your pardon. Ahem, I saw many parallel universes during my time on the other side of the portal… places where the sun set forever on a world of vampires, worlds where dinosaurs ruled instead of humans, iterations of the 20th century where magic and not science won the Second World War, zklxzobkgrx svoohxzkvh dsviv gsv dszov-nloofhx-tlwh ziv uivv uiln gsv Wivznrmt Kirhlm zmw zoo gsv ortsgh rm gsv hprvh szev yvvm wvelfivw… sorry. Anyway, with all the worlds I've witnessed, it's possible that there's one world out there where our mad scheme paid off, where we could have made the Stan-O-War work and gone travelling together."
"In other words, your guess is as good as mine."
"Anything's possible. Perhaps, in a happier world, things really could have been different."
"I'd have thought you'd have been able to see some of those other worlds for yourself with that new sight of yours."
Ford winced. "There's limits to what I can clearly see," he lied. "The other dimensions are still beyond my sight. The mists part only at the sacrifice of innocence and humanity. Ls tlw, Hgzmovb, sld xzm R gvoo blf gsv gsrmth R'ev hvvm drgslfg yivzprmt blfi svzig?"
"Right, I'm sure…"
Goddammit, Stanley, you can always tell when I'm lying. Even when I'm halfway transformed into a Henchmaniac and talking nonsense, there's no keeping secrets from you.
"Speaking of mad schemes," Stanley continued, somewhat hesitantly, "Do you think… given a bit of time and a lot of luck, I'd have been able to make up for ruining your chances of getting into West Coast Tech?"
"…you already have, Stanley."
Despite having almost eight feet of space between them, Ford had the distinct impression that Stan was trying valiantly not to smile.
"I meant to dad. Do you ever think I'd have been able to make up for wrecking his big chance of getting out of Glass Shard Beach? I know the odds were against me, but do you think that if I'd ever been able to strike it rich… well, would mom and dad have taken me back? Would they have forgiven me, or would they have still been angry with me and turned me down?"
"Mom was never angry with you to begin with, Stanley."
"…she wasn't?"
"Of course not! All she would talk about for every day you were gone was how much she missed you, her little "free spirit." She loved you, Stanley, and I don't think even your biggest screw-ups could have possibly changed that."
"Well, she said that at the funeral… but I thought that was just the kind of thing estranged family members would say after enough time spent apart. Plus, she was a pathological liar," he added. "I mean, she didn't even say anything when dad threw me out of the house!"
"Dad had that effect on people," said Ford sadly. "I think in the end, all three of us were too scared to say no to him. And to be honest, I don't think he was ever expecting to see you again: demanding that you make him a fortune was just dad's way of getting rid of you without having to get the police involved. Even if you had managed to bring him a million dollars in a briefcase the next day, I doubt he'd have taken a cent of it, least of all after he'd gone to all the trouble of writing you off as a failure."
Stan sighed. "I hate to say it, but I guess I knew the answer already. Self-Loathing was talking about that back in the museum. But… do you think he… do you think there was ever a chance dad might have been proud of me? At any point?"
Ford bit his lip. "I don't know," he admitted.
"Well, he was proudest of you, so…"
"Double nothing is still nothing."
"...I'm sorry, what?"
"Truth be told, I don't think dad was proud of anyone or anything, Stanley. He admired things that might one day benefit him; that was the only thing he was really impressed with."
"When did you figure this out?"
"Around the time he started asking for money, and refused to accept anything I could legally lend him. Apparently the prospect of stealing grant money – highly traceable grant money – and getting raked over the coals by the IRS was better than accepting a handout from his own son." Ford sighed, remembering how he'd screamed down the phone in rage and disillusionment. "We were never sons to him, Stanley. We were just… meal tickets. Investments that never paid off."
For a moment or seventeen, there was silence except for the faint echoes rippling up and down the distant passageways of the Labyrinth. Then, as the minutes ticked by, Ford found himself realizing that he too had questions that needed answering before the night dragged on any longer.
After all, he thought, this might be the last chance to ask them before we're too incoherent to understand one another…
"And what about my mad scheme?"
Stan looked blank.
"…you're gonna have to be more specific than that, Ford."
"West Coast Tech. Do you think, if…" Ford took a deep breath, and did his best to keep his voice from running away with itself. "If things had been different, would it have worked out for me there? Do you think I'd have really have been happy there, or was it all doomed to failure right from the start?"
To Ford's immense relief, Stan didn't appear angry or even mildly upset despite the sensitive subject matter. Perhaps, after everything they'd endured in the last few weeks of torture and imprisonment, the childhood feud had finally lost its power to hurt them. Or maybe, just maybe the Weirdness of this place was starting to take a toll on him, warping his emotions and eroding his sense of self just like it had with Ford. He could only pray that it wasn't the latter, but right now, he didn't hold out much hope.
"That depends," Stan muttered at last. "What did you really want out of West Coast Tech? Because I'm bettin' that it wasn't just the chance to science it up with the best and brightest of the nerd pack, was it?"
"No. I suppose what I really wanted was a chance to prove myself, to find a place where I wouldn't be seen as a freak. You know as well as I do how people used to stare at me, how they used to whisper about me behind my back… and you know what the kids like Crampelter used to do to me. I thought that West Coast Tech was the place where I could show everyone that I was more than just a curiosity. Yfg R zn qfhg z xfirlhrgb, zivm'g R? Like you said, the best and the brightest were at work there at all the most experimental fields: I thought that if I could just find a place among them, I'd be accepted at last, and that for the first time in my life I'd be among people who didn't think of me as a freak."
"I didn't think of you as a freak," said Stan quietly – and here, Ford heard the reproachfulness in his voice.
"I know. And once upon a time, I thought that was all I ever needed: just one person in my life who accepted me. But…"
"Things change."
"All too quickly. Once I heard that my dream college had taken an interest in me and not the other way around for a change, I thought 'this is it, this is my chance to prove myself to everyone. I won't have to be the kid everyone laughs at. I'll be respected. I'll be admired. I'll be celebrated.' And from then on… that was what I wanted out of life."
For a long time, Stan was silent. From where he was currently slumped, Ford couldn't see his face, but he had the distinct impression he was wiping away tears.
"And do you think you'd have been accepted there? Do you think they'd have made you happy?"
Ford took a deep breath. This was going to be the hardest confession he'd made since he'd admitted to his partnership with Bill.
"Denigami I esidarap eht t'nsi hceT tsaoC tseW tub, ti ezilaer ot sraey ytriht em koot tI," he began, but once again his new vocal cords betrayed him.
Sighing, he tried again. "Gsviv ziv dliowh lfg gsviv dsviv R nzwv rg gl Dvhg Xlzhg Gvxs, dliowh dsviv R mvevi nvg Yroo... yfg gsviv ziv dliowh dsviv R dzh kivb gl z nlmhgvi mlmvgsvovhh."
"Ford?"
By now sweating profusely, Ford tried a third time. "Hungry eyes and empty promises. 'This is how genius happens, my boy – with a little help from a friend.' A shark's smile. There is an exchange. Lessons that should not be learned. Tears and bruises. Talons that won't let go. A chalice of black bile. The student does not wake. A shallow grave – no, no, no, that's not what I meant to say!"
"Ford, you don't have to talk about this if you don't want to-"
"Please, just give me a minute!" Ford all but screamed. "I want to say this, I want to say this!"
He took an even deeper breath, and tried to say something that his runaway self couldn't distort into prophetic Weirdspeak.
"No," he said at last. "I don't think I'd have been happy."
"What, even after everything you just said about infinite realities?"
"Even so. Even if I'd somehow beaten the odds and hadn't run into anyone who was willing to bully or mock or exploit me in some way, even if literally everyone had accepted me… well, I'll be honest, I never knew when to stop working and let things stand… or how, for that matter."
In spite of himself, Stan laughed. "That makes two of us: 'just one more score, and I'll be rich. Just one more scam, and I'll go legit.' But it never works out that way, does it?"
"I think we both found that out the hard way. After a few years in Gravity Falls, I could have gone public with my discoveries, made a fortune, etched my name in the history books and retired… but it wasn't enough, especially once Bill started calling the shots: I wanted to be the man who changed the world. I thought that was the only way anyone would ever accept me, the only way anyone would look past who I was. I remember…" He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice from spiralling off into incoherency. "Just before the first test, Fiddleford gave me a chance to stop: I could publish my findings and abandon my work on the portal; I'd be rich, famous, and remembered as a scientific pioneer. But I didn't want to listen to him. I didn't want to listen to anyone but Bill."
He sighed deeply. "And you know what the saddest thing of all is? By my earlier standards, I already had just about everything I wanted: I was working in a groundbreaking field of research, I had friends, I had a promising future; I was living and working in a place where I was genuinely accepted – Gravity Falls, the one place I felt like I truly belonged. And by the end, I couldn't even notice. It was all just… a springboard to the next big thing Bill was offering. And because of that-"
"Hey!" Stan interrupted. "No blaming yourself anymore, remember? We both agreed to stay positive about all this – god knows how, but we did – so let's just dial back the depression and find something better to do with our time."
"But-"
"We both made mistakes, okay? We both screwed up our lives, we both hurt people close to us without even meaning to, and we're both doing our best to fix things. Don't forget, I did just as much to start this whole Oddpocalypse business as you did. This isn't just your problem anymore, Sixer: we have to set things right together. Besides, I think after everything we've said and done trying to break out of our prisons, it's not as if all this feuding business really matters anymore, does it?"
In spite of himself, Ford smiled. "I suppose it doesn't," he said at last.
"Good. Now, if we're going to talk about mistakes made in life, you really need to hear about the stuff I got up to before I came to Gravity Falls. You might think you made an idiot out of yourself on a mission that was all for nothing, but believe me, it's still not a patch on the time I ended up in the middle of the Mojave, naked and covered in fridge magnets with a dozen cop cars on my tail."
"…I hate to admit it, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit curious as to how you managed to chew your way out of the trunk of a car."
Stan laughed. "You remember me telling you about that one, huh?"
"Uoy ta meht slley tellum a htiw nam a nehw tegrof t'nod tsuj uoy sgniht emoS," Ford chuckled.
"That's the spirit! Now, where should we…" There was a pause, and then Stan suddenly winced in pain.
"What's wrong?"
"I think there's something wrong with my eyes; they keep watering. Full-on onion attack over here. God, I haven't gotten this teary-eyed since I saw The Duchess Approves."
There was a pause, as Ford levitated himself across the room until at last he was peering down at Stan's tired, black-ringed eyes.
"You're not crying, Stanley," he said at last. "You're bleeding."
Thanks to Ford's unique vision, it took less than a minute to ascertain what was wrong.
On the plus side, Stanley wasn't in any danger of bleeding to death. In fact, he'd likely never be in any danger of bleeding to death ever again: his body had mutated under his last exposure to Weirdness, leaving most of his circulatory system effectively redundant – including his blood, which his body was now actively rejecting through any orifice within reach. His heart still beat and his lungs still worked, but on a purely ornamental basis.
Nonetheless, Stanley was deeply shaken by the incident, especially considering it took almost an hour for his blood to be completely evacuated from his body. Thankfully, with their newfound powers, it didn't take much effort to clean up the mess and launder Stanley's clothes, but it still left him both figuratively and literally climbing the walls with anxiety – to say nothing of how his shadow was reacting.
"Jesus," he'd muttered. "First my eyes start changing colour and now this! It's like this place is just trying to give me nightmares; how am I supposed to know if something's wrong with my body now that my blood's gone and my heart's stopped working?"
"I doubt that matters anymore, Stanley: as long as we're under Bill's thumb, he'll never let us die. There is no life; there is no death; there is only the next move in the endless game. Plus, thanks to all the wishes we've been making, there'll never be any shortage of 'problems.' It's just that they won't kill us."
"And that's another thing: these mutations have been getting worse lately – you can actually see them by now – so does that mean we're getting close to the end of the game?"
"I'm not sure. Weirdness enflames my brain. Ls wvzi tlw, rg sfigh. For all I know, this is exactly the point that things go horribly wrong."
"How could things possibly go any more horribly wrong than usual? Do we start growing fingers from our earlobes or something? Do we end up with teeth instead of eyelashes? Are we going to sprout extra heads?"
Ford thought for a moment. "I'd be more worried about the mental side effects, Stanley. How have your headaches been in the last few hours?"
"Much better since we wished for aspirin. Even better once we got hold of a working hangover cure."
"And what about those… intrusive thoughts you've been experiencing? Those voices?"
"Still breaking into my head at odd hours of the day. Most of them are still stuck in the same routine: "Ooh, you've got powers now, Stanley. You deserved them all along, Stanley. You could take on the world if you wanted to, Stanley." Pretty repetitive stuff, if you ask me. It's just like having Self-Loathing around again, except this time they're trying to build me up instead of trying to break me down."
"And that's all they've been saying?"
Stanley looked uncertain. Behind him, his shadow oozed and shifted, and for a moment it almost looked as though it was peering around the column at them. Was it Ford's imagination, or was it grinning?
"Well, some of them… well, they've been saying weirder stuff than usual. 'Take up the scythe, Stanley. Claim your title as the Fourth. Bring hell with you.' Does any of that make sense to you?"
"Not in the slightest," Ford lied. "Everything is a cipher."
"Also, the dreams have been getting weirder, too. You'd think with everything that's been happening out there, I'd have nightmares about Dipper and Mabel in danger, getting ripped apart by Bill, being tortured, or even my run-in with Self-Loathing. But ever since my eighth wish…" He shook his head. "Ah, nevermind, it's not important-"
"Go on, please. It might help."
"Well, they're just dreams… but for the last few weeks, I've been having these nightmares of dead bodies: bones scattered in the desert, corpses piled in mass graves, criminals hanging at the gallows, cemeteries that go on forever…"
You too?
"And how does that make you feel?" Ford asked quietly.
Once again, Stan hesitated, and for the first time since they'd set out to complete the game together, something not unlike fear crossed his face.
"Happy," he said at last.
Ford did his best to keep the fear from showing on his face: in the last few days, he'd done his best to keep Stanley from suffering any of the nastier mental symptoms of exposure to Weirdness; he couldn't stop him from playing altogether, but he could do his best to take a little more of the burden than Stan, usually by wishing for something slightly grander than him. He'd even gotten into the distinctly superstitious habit of muttering a mantra of "mental symptoms" under his breath just before making the wish, hoping against hope that he'd end up claiming as much of the madness as possible, hoping that Stanley would be spared the worst of the insanity that'd be their due sooner or later.
And for a time, he'd thought it had worked: Ford had gotten the nightmarish insight into reality, the uncontrollable linguistic shifts, the oracular babble, the sense of disassociation from his own memories, and of course the terrifying nightmares of endless graves and dead worlds; meanwhile, Stan had only had to suffer from the occasional headache and intrusive megalomaniacal thoughts, and that had been it. That had been the way things should have worked. Stan should have been safe.
Now, though…
But what if this wasn't new? What if Stanley had been hiding the full extent of his symptoms? What if things were even worse than he was letting on?
More importantly, why would he do such a thing?
Well, the answer was obvious, now that Ford thought of it: Stanley hadn't wanted him to worry. He'd wanted the game to remain balanced; just as he'd said so long ago, he'd wanted to take the burden off Ford's shoulders. He'd known that as soon as it became apparent that the Weirdness of each wish was driving him crazy, Ford would start protesting and try to take the lion's share of the burden again. So, Stanley had lied: drawing on all his years of experience as a con artist, he'd hid his symptoms and made himself seem a thousand times more optimistic than he actually was, all so Ford wouldn't worry about him.
And Ford, idiot that he was, had taken Stanley at his word. And it wasn't just because he'd been too preoccupied with his own growing list of symptoms: it was because, even after thirty years, he was still making the same mistake. Time and time again, he'd overlooked the feelings of just about everyone else in the situation at hand: first it had been Fiddleford, then Stanley, then Dipper, then Mabel, then Stanley again, and on every single occasion, there'd been a price to pay for his thoughtlessness – whether it had been the incidents surrounding the portal, Project Mentem, or the Wheel – and now, after all the lessons he learned in captivity, he'd only gone and repeated the same mistake all over again.
...llew sa kaepsdrieW ni gnikniht m'I won ,parC ?neddus a fo lla ylsuoicsnocbus egdelwonk noisnemidretni gnitiutni I mA ?lebaM pu gnirb tsuj I did yhw ,no gnaH
He shook his head furiously. He needed to get control of the situation, slow the degeneration of Stanley's mind before it was too late, but for that, he'd need to know the full extent of his brother's symptoms.
"And that's all?" he asked. "You haven't been experiencing anything else?"
"Ford, I'm fine."
"The fact that you're having the same dreams as me suggests otherwise."
"Ford…"
"Uli zoo R pmld, blf xlfow yv dvoo lm blfi dzb gl yvxlnrmt z ufoo-uovwtvw Svmxsnzmrzx rm nrmw, ru mlg ylwb. Now, I need to know your symptoms. Just to set my mind at ease, that's all."
Stanley's face gave a sudden twitch, a muscle spasm pulling corner of his mouth into a mirthless grin. "I don't have any other symptoms," he said tersely.
"Look, this isn't me prying for the sake of prying; I'm not doing this so I can feel superior to you or anything like that: all I want to know is whether or not you've developed any other mental side-effects as a result of your wishes. No judgements, no personal attacks, no editorials. I just want to know if you're okay."
"Well, I am. Apart from the headaches and the nightmares and all the other stuff, I'm perfectly fine!" Once again, Stan's face twitched; again, that involuntary rictus. "Satisfied?"
"I'm trying to help you, Stanley."
"I don't need help!" Stan snapped. His eyes were starting to glow, now, an incandescent blue light beginning to shine in the very centre of each pupil. "You're the one who needs help!"
"Excuse me?!"
"What, you didn't notice the crazytalk that keeps pouring out of your mouth every other sentence? Those weird prophecies? The obsessions? The paranoia? You're the one who's in danger of going crazy here, Ford, not me! You need my help, and frankly, you always have!"
"That's not the point! We're supposed to be helping each other, and we can't do that if we keep secrets from each other!"
"Oh cute. Real cute, Ford, especially considering you've spent most of your adult life keeping secrets from just about everyone on the planet. The only reason I ended up in Gravity Falls was because you wanted my help keeping your secrets, and even then you wouldn't explain everything to me! And you're still keeping secrets from me now!"
"I am not!"
"Are too! I bet all that Weirdspeak you're putting out is just your way of disguising the things you don't feel like sharing with me!"
Ford took a deep breath, and hastily bit back an unpleasant reply. "This is the Weirdness talking, Stanley," he said through gritted teeth. "This isn't you. And that's why we both need to settle down and think-"
"About how much time you're wasting?"
The glow in Stanley's eyes was starting to eclipse the rest of his face.
"Look, I just need to know how long you've been lying to me, if you've been making extra wishes behind my back, and how long you've been hiding symptoms!"
"For the last time, I DON'T HAVE ANY OTHER SYMPTOMS!" Stanley bellowed, his eyes ablaze with light.
And with that, Stanley's fist shot out at impossible speed, hammering into the column standing next to him and leaving a crater about eight feet deep in the polished marble. There was a shocked pause, as Stanley withdrew his hand and a spiderweb of cracks raced up the length of the column… and then across most of the surrounding wall. A moment later, both the column and a fifty-foot-long stretch of stone wall came crashing down in a massive cloud of dust, accompanied by a hailstorm of flying masonry – most of which only bounced harmlessly off Ford's instinctive forcefield.
For several seconds, there was silence, as Ford absently gathered up the shattered chunks of marble and, with a wave of his hand and more than a little bit of matter manipulation, forced the wall back into shape.
And to think, when you threw that punch, you were only using a fraction of the power you've unlocked, he mused.
Meanwhile, Stanley was staring down at his hand, a look of horror stamped on his face as the light slowly receded from his eyes. Then, he spoke – but most of it wasn't in any human language, but in a warped, ethereal dialect only spoken aloud by those touched by Weirdness:
"I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean to say any of that… R... R wrwm'g nvzm gl wl gszg! R-R'n hliib, R..."
Stanley stopped in mid-sentence, a hand involuntary rising to cover his own mouth. "What the hell did I just say?" he whispered. "I didn't do that on purpose! How did I qfhg hzb gszg?! R'n horkkrmt rmgl Dvriwhkvzp!"
But Ford was already taking count of the new symptoms: aggression, irrational rage, violent outbursts, mild paranoia, Weirdspeak – all signs that Stanley was indeed suffering more than he'd been letting on. Add to that all those nightmares he'd mentioned, and suddenly, Ford could only look at his brother with a mixture of horror and guilt.
Stanley was already changing in ways that he couldn't have foreseen, and not just in terms of mental side-effects either: his eyes were paler, the pupils sometimes glowing a vivid electric blue in moments of rage or fear; random tendrils of Weirdness crackled across his fingers when he found himself lost in thought. Occasionally, unnatural shapes would shift and warp beneath his flesh before vanishing just as quickly, and his veins would radiate a pale glow, almost as if his body was struggling to determine how it should manage the powers it had been imbued with. Most noticeably of all, his shadow was now a living thing, a writhing mass of living void oozing across the room independent of Stanley, casting its own monstrous puppet show upon the walls around them. So far, the shadow didn't appear to be able to affect the physical world, but that wasn't much of a blessing considering that Stanley was only intermittently in control of it.
And then there were all those weird biological quirks that were only visible to Ford's enhanced vision, including the body that somehow worked despite not having a single drop of blood remaining in it. Not that Ford was any better. With a little use of his increasingly all-encompassing vision, he could tell that the two of them were almost neck and neck in terms of symptoms, almost half-transformed into Henchmaniacs. And the more he thought about it, the more nightmarish the thought can become.
How long can we keep doing this? He wondered. How long can we keep disassembling ourselves before we no longer count as human beings? How much longer before we can't even remember who we once were? How long before we forget we were anything other than Bill Cipher's pet gods?
Come to think of it, how much Weirdness is left in that reservoir? And when will we be…
Oh my god, no.
Stanley was still apologising, still trying to explain that it had just been just a one-off mistake, trying to convince him to continue his game: "It's my turn next, Ford," he was saying. "I know the symptoms look bad, but you're still a lot further gone than me. It has to be my turn next."
But Ford wasn't listening.
All he could focus on was the hidden trap now visible to his enhanced eyesight.
"...yrros os m'I ,yelnatS ,dog hO .namuh llits erew ew elihw tuo teg ot elba neeb evah dluohs eW .siht fo tuo yaw a dah eW .riaf t'nsi siht ,on ,on ,oN," he muttered pathetically.
"Ford? Are you paying attention?"
"Hmm?"
"I just said it should still be my turn at wishing next: the game stands, no matter what's happened to us so far. It's the only way we'll both be able to escape without being completely made into monsters. Remember?"
Shaken, Ford could only nod. "Yes," he mumbled. "Yes, of course. But not now. We've both had a very big day, and far too many mutations for our own good. We should get some sleep first, try again when we're both fresh and ready for the task at hand."
Stan eyed Ford strangely. "Are you alright, Ford?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Just a little surprised at how quickly you mastered superhuman strength… well, not that much, I suppose – you are the master of punching things after all! Now, uh, let's be off. We went to a lot of trouble to wish for some decent mattresses and blankets, and it'd be a terrible shame to waste them…"
Before long, Stan acquiesced, if only because the strain of wishing and rejecting every last drop of blood in his veins had proved a lot more exhausting than he was willing to admit, to put things mildly. But as soon as Stanley had started snoring, Ford had levitated out of bed as quietly as he could and returned to the dome for a closer examination of the reservoir above it.
By now, Ford knew there was little point in double-checking his findings: after all, with his vision, it was literally impossible to misdiagnose what he'd found. But nonetheless he found himself shambling back to the centre of the rotunda to look at this new and terrible finding up close – if only in the mad and desperate hope that what he'd seen up there would vanish if he looked at it a second time. Perhaps this was a sign of madness, or perhaps it was a sign of just how dire the situation had become; after all, he'd heard stories of terminal patients asking for a second opinion, hoping that the inoperable cancer diagnosis would be different if they took it up with another doctor. Whatever the case, he had to take a second look.
But sure enough, the trap was still in place, and the game was still rigged.
His sight was improving every day now, not just in terms of noticing the wild and unpredictable powers that governed Bill's dominion, but also in noticing the subtleties inherent in it; now, looking up at the reservoir that they'd been trying to drain for the last few weeks (or months or however long it had been), he took the impossibly intricate mechanisms that had been hiding in its shadow up until today. And now, there no mistaking the trap that had been assembled there – or the reasons for its construction.
Bill had wanted to surprise him, back when he'd first built this prison: obviously, he hadn't known that Stanley would end up here, but he'd clearly had the foresight to predict that Ford would eventually be powerful enough to start making serious escape attempts… and knowing Bill, the prospect of waiting for Ford to reach the very end of the game would have probably sounded stultifyingly boring, no matter how much psychological torture he could crowbar into the game. So, just before the game had begun, he'd added an automated release mechanism to the Weirdness reservoir just above the dome, designed specifically to activate only under very specific circumstances:
As soon as enough Weirdness had been extracted from the reservoir, the mechanism would activate and empty the remaining contents into whoever had made the most recent wish, effectively transforming them into a Henchmaniac ahead of schedule.
Here and now, the reservoir was just about ready to trigger the release mechanism; all it would take was one final wish to set it off. Now, Bill hadn't been able to predict that Stan would ever join Ford in the prison, but it hadn't meant much in the long run, because the end result was still the same:
The game was rigged.
One way or the other, whoever made the next wish was going to be a Henchmaniac. Maybe not a fully-fledged one, given that they'd split almost 3/4s of the Weirdness between the two of them, but being only half a psychopath honestly wasn't much of an improvement. The last bit of juice in the reservoir was among the most concentrated and refined of the entire supply, and it'd be more than enough to make either one of them into an insane demigod; with that kind of power at the winner's fingertips, the fallout of the transformation could only guessed at.
So, all that was left was to calculate the variables.
If Stan made that last wish, he'd be driven into the murkiest depths of insanity: best-case scenario, he'd lose just about everything that made him who he was, and would probably gain a new personality more to Bill's liking; even with all the rationing the two of them had done in the last few weeks, there'd be no escaping at least some loss of identity. But in the worst-case scenario, Stan would be transformed into a psychopathic killer totally subservient to Bill's orders, and would most likely be used to kill anyone who got on the bad side of the new regime… and knowing that Bill was still harbouring a grudge against the Pines family, Stan might just be used to torture Dipper and Mabel as well.
Of course, given that this game hadn't been meant for Stan, there was a distinct chance that Bill wouldn't be happy about seeing his newest Henchmaniac replaced by a substitute – especially given that Stan had clearly been sentenced to a punishment reserved for only the most hated and despised of all of Bill's captives. So, either Stan would be sent back to the Museum for a fresh round of torture… or Bill would kill him on the spot.
But if Ford made the last wish… well, he'd receive the same treatment, obviously. He'd either be a gibbering lunatic with godlike powers, or he'd be a Henchmaniac subservient to the will of Earth's new lord and master. And knowing Bill's sick sense of humour, he'd probably follow up this little game by ordering Ford to murder Stan... but knowing the insanity that he'd be imbued with upon making that final wish, it might very well happen anyway, even if they were somehow able to evade Bill entirely. After all, the Henchmaniacs were the kind of beings who'd happily detonate a white phosphorous bomb under a maternity ward just to hear the screams: upon becoming one of them, the newly-transformed Ford probably wouldn't think twice about murdering Stanley for his own twisted amusement.
There was no third option, no way of escaping the dilemma: either Stan would become a mad demigod (and probably die), or Ford would become a mad demigod (and probably kill Stan).
Either way, everything they'd done – Stan saving Ford in the dream, Ford saving Stan in the Museum, their mutual rationing of Weirdness, and the burden that Stan had helped to shoulder – it had all been for nothing.
No matter what they did, Bill would win.
Again.
Letting out a tortured groan of exhaustion and despair, Ford clenched his eyes shut so tightly that bright lights flashed behind his closed eyelids, hoping, praying that when he finally opened them again, everything would somehow be alright.
This can't be happening, he thought feverishly. I only just got him back: for the longest time, I thought he was dead, and now that I've finally gotten him back I'm going to have to say goodbye to him again… And the moment he hears about this, Stan is going to take the fall. I'm going to have to watch him destroy himself… and then I'm going to have to watch him die at Bill's hands.
Again.
And it's all going to be my fault.
AGAIN.
He took a deep breath, and wracked his brain for ideas, frantically scanning the surrounding ether with his unique vision for anything that might help them. Twelve long minutes went by in silence, and still Ford was no closer to a definitive answer. In the end, he fell back on the only option he had left:
Begging.
By now, Ford's enhanced vision encompassed entire worlds, give or take a little effort. He couldn't explain it – after all, he doubted that Bill himself would have given him this power, so perhaps it was just a quirk of Weirdness beyond even the crazy corn chip's control; one way or the other, Ford could see through all the hidden walls dividing the playground. He could even see past the boundaries of Bill's dominion by now, see the colossal presences gathering beyond the interdimensional wall; if he was willing to endure the pain that followed, he could even learn their Names. But most importantly of all, he could see the infinite worlds and what lay behind their facades: parallel universes based on improbably remote possibilities, alien environments and biomes that would have beggared the imagination, hellish kingdoms where only the most depraved of all beings held court, conceptual realities grounded in abstracts too ephemeral for the human brain to truly define… and somewhere out there, a lone mountaintop stood alone, its sole occupant staring out upon the span of infinity in patient expectation.
Somewhere out there, an old friend was watching.
Reaching out with all the power he'd been imbued with, Ford began to whisper across the divide between realities, hoping against hope that his voice could be heard.
Jheselbraum, he whispered. Can you hear me?
I missed you.
I need your help. I can See the trap. This game can only end in suffering – for me, for Stan, for everyone the "winner" will hurt when they fall under Bill's control.
You know the future, Jheselbraum. You knew how the battle would end: you said you recognized the face of the man who would defeat Bill – only I was too proud and too desperate to salvage my sense of self-worth to realize what that meant. I now know that Stanley's plan should have worked, and your prediction would have come to pass… but something went wrong. And now that the future's changed, you have to know how it could end this time; you must know a way out of this.
Hasn't Stanley suffered enough in this world, in all possible worlds?
I saw how it could have ended, how many times I lost him forever. I know what might happen to him when this game is over, and I can bear to see it happen again. There has to be another option. There has to be a way to save him: I can't keep letting him sacrifice himself for me. I can't keep letting people take the fall for my mistakes.
I know Mr A's letter told me to share the burden, but he obviously didn't see the trap Bill had set: if I carry on sharing the burden, Stanley is going to end up dead or worse. And I know Mr A told me not to play hero, but the option I'm facing isn't me playing the hero: it's not even sacrificing myself. It's only another chance for Bill to get revenge on the Pines family.
I'm not a hero, I know that now. I'm not even a scientist anymore. I'm just a freak, a lunatic, a sad old man who hurt everyone close to him and brought about the apocalypse through recklessness and senseless pride. But I can't let Stanley sacrifice himself, not again. Please: there has to be a way that I can spare him from the transformation or save him from the endgame. Tell me what I can do.
Do you want me to beg? Because I'll do it, if that's what it takes.
Please, Jheselbraum, say something. Anything. I don't care if you call me a fool for doubting your abilities, I don't care if you condemn me for bringing about the apocalypse; in point of fact, I don't even care if you decide to fry a synapse or two just to let me know how many lives I've destroyed. Just let me hear your voice; let me know that someone out there is listening. Let me know that there's a way to save Stanley.
Hello?
…
Either you can't reply… or you won't. Well, that's okay. I can live with the silence.
I guess I deserve it, after all.
Sighing, Ford cut the link and retreated back into his own mind.
But as disheartening as it had been to hear only dead air, it at least had given him some time to consider his approach: perhaps there was some way of getting the situation under control, or at the very least ensuring that nobody ended up getting killed. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to save Stanley's life.
True, he'd have to be quick and quiet, if only so that this last, desperate gambit wasn't discovered when Stanley awoke. After all, Stanley was an early riser and a light sleeper – habits picked up from his time in prison, as he'd explained scant days ago – and he wouldn't tolerate any of Ford's tinkering, no matter how well-intentioned it was.
Yes, this was the longest of all longshots so far, but…
It was all he had.
No, more than that: it was all they had.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Ford set to work, hoping against hope that Stanley could one day find it in his hard to forgive him for what he was about to do.
Stan yawned loudly and turned over in bed, blinking as he gradually slid back into full conscious. As expected, he was back in his makeshift bedroom just outside the labyrinth, and a quick glance in the general direction of his wristwatch confirmed that he hadn't been asleep for much more than three hours. On the upside, the sense of crawling lethargy that had all but consumed him after the last wish was finally gone, and at last he could move without feeling as though his kneecaps had turned to lead. Granted, he wasn't completely refreshed, but it was better than nothing.
Sitting up in bed, he found himself briefly wondering what could have woken him up. After all, with all the wishes they'd made in the last few days, the room should have been deathly quiet. Unless Self-Loathing had somehow achieved physical form again and was doing his best to ruin Stan's beauty sleep, there didn't seem to be anything around that could have jolted him awake.
But then he heard it: the sound of footsteps hurriedly receding into the distance. Once upon a time, it had been the sound of footsteps approaching that had sent him hurtling out of bed, back in the days when the debt collectors had always been hot on his trail. Now, though, it seemed as though he had more to worry about people absconding rather than attacking.
Given that they were alone in the area, it could only have been Ford leaving the room; there was no mistaking the sound of those worn-out adventurer's boots, least of all after all the time he'd heard them pacing up and down these stone passageways. Question was, why had he been in such a hurry to leave?
Perhaps he was still nervous around Stan. And after all, why wouldn't he be? Stan had gotten dangerously close to attacking Ford, and only the fact that the column had been closer had spared him from ending up on the business end of a superpowered fist. Yes, that last argument they'd shared had clearly freaked him out, and what with all the holes that the Weirdness had been digging in his sanity over the last few weeks, Ford didn't need any more scares.
Wow, who'd have thought? Guess you should've thought about that before you started tearing down walls and screaming abuse at your brother, shouldn't you? But then, you're almost as crazy as he is. He knows about the wishes you've been stealing on the sly. You should have played fair, Stanley.
Stan shook his head wearily. He couldn't afford to think like this now: the longer he focussed on his screw-ups, the more chances they'd get to trip him up in the long run. He'd find a way to apologise to Ford, and then they'd get that next wish over and done with. So, stretching luxuriantly, he launched himself out from under the covers with an athleticism he only possessed thanks to his newfound powers, and somersaulted out onto the cold ground, ready for anything in the world.
And then he saw he envelope sitting on Ford's bed, addressed "to my brother Stanley" in an elegant script too precise and too refined to be anything other than Ford's handwriting. Curious, he opened the envelope, unfolded the letter inside, and began reading.
Dear Stanley,
You were right when you said I was still keeping secrets. Frankly, this might be the very last of them. Please bear with me; this might be the most painful thing I ever have to commit to paper. It's no small irony that I could magically conjure up the paper and paper I needed in the space of a second, and yet couldn't think of anything to write for almost three hours. Nonetheless, I hope I can still be understood… in spite of myself.
I can't do this anymore.
I'm sorry.
Bill Cipher rigged the game in his favour long ago: the next wish in line is a trap, his way of ending the game early. Then again, even if it wasn't, our only guaranteed escape from this prison is if one of us claims the madness and power of a Henchmaniac.
I know you're already volunteering yourself for the final wish even as you read these words, but for once, it's not going to be on your shoulders.
I can't let you sacrifice yourself again, not when I know the price you'd pay: even if the transformation didn't wipe away everything about you that made you yourself, Bill would probably kill you anyway out of spite for spoiling his game. And I can't allow that to happen again.
Thanks to my enhanced perception, I've seen so many other realities – much more than I ever visited back when I was still roaming the multiverse, expanses of time and space beyond mortal comprehension. There are iterations of the multiverse itself repeating endlessly across infinity in thousands upon thousands of possible variations, most of them inaccessible even to Bill Cipher's power (and that of his parallel counterparts). There are universes where we never parted ways, where I forgave you for the science fair debacle much earlier, where we set out to stop Bill together from the moment you arrived in Gravity Falls.
And there are worlds where your plan to stop Bill worked: he took the bait, he entered your mind, and memory gun erased him from it. But I've seen the aftermath as well: in some worlds, you memories were wiped away, and you only just managed to recover from it with help from us. And in others, your memories didn't return and we had to start again from scratch.
And in some worlds, you never awoke from the memory-wipe. Bill took you with him.
Over and over again, I've watched you sacrifice yourself for all of us. And that hadn't been the first time, either: you've always been there for me, even when I didn't want it to be so, even when I'd have insisted on leaving me to my fate. I can't tell you how grateful I am for that…
…but I can't keep doing this.
I can't let you sacrifice yourself again.
This is my game… and this round, the burden is mine to bear, as it should have been all along. It's time I paid for my mistakes in full. I know this will hurt you more than anything else in the world, and for that, I'm sorry, but I can't let it happen to you: you still have a family out there. You still have a life. So, it has to be me.
I can't predict what will happen after I transform, but I'll do my best to keep you safe. As long as you stay out of sight and don't get my attention, I should be too busy departing to do anything homicidal. Once I'm gone, you should be able to take the same exit I took. Pack all the provisions you can carry, and keep on moving until you're absolutely certain that nobody's following you. Find the others, gather them together, and stop Bill… and me, if necessary. With any luck, I won't even be recognizable as a human being, by then, so it'll be easier.
Please, don't tell Dipper and Mabel what happened. Tell them I died – no heroic sacrifice, no glorious last stand, just a simple death that nobody saw coming.
But whatever happens next, I want you to know that you were the best brother I could have possibly hoped for. Thank you for everything – for the good times, for the sacrifices, for the advice I should have listened to – and remember: this is not your fault.
Goodbye,
Ford
It took less than a minute for Stan to finish reading; by the time he'd reached the end, he was already in motion.
"Ford? FORD?!"
Heart hammering, he sprinted out of the room and down the corridor as fast as his feet could carry him; by now, he was already a thousand times stronger and faster than any ordinary human being, and he could see the walls blurring past him as he ran, but he could already tell that he still wasn't moving fast enough. Ford was already several hundred yards ahead of him, and now that he'd heard the shouting behind him, he was beginning to pick up speed.
"FORD, STOP!"
But Ford was clearly beyond listening: he just went on walk down the corridor towards the rotunda. He hadn't broken into a run yet, but he was certainly moving at a very brisk pace.
Okay, I can work with that, Stan thought, mind racing. I'll be able to catch up with him before he reaches the dome, we can talk things over, and nobody will get hurt. All have to do is actually catch up with him. Fine. Easy. Doable… just as long as he doesn't do anything stupid. Dear god, why would anyone make the corridors this long?
Ford loomed ahead of him, just reaching the end of his relentless, unflinching march towards the rotunda. He hadn't even bothered to look over his shoulder: his eyes were locked on the road ahead, on the distant spot just under the dome where the final wish was to be made.
Muttering expletives, Stan gave up on running and launched himself upwards; now airborne, he rocketed down the corridor at eyewatering speed, easily clearing the last hundred feet between the two brothers. Steeling himself for a collision, Stan reached out, ready to grab Ford and tackle him to the ground…
Only for his hands to close on empty air.
Ford had teleported himself away, leaving Stan to crash sidelong into the wall so violently that he tore a hundred bricks free from the fortifications as he tumbled to the floor. For several seconds, he could only lie there, covered in dust and broken, unharmed but dazed by the impact. Then, hauling himself out from under the heap of shattered masonry, he struggled upright and tried to work out where Ford had ended up. He didn't have to look far: by now, Ford was already at the centre of the rotunda, looking up at the dome.
Ready to make a wish.
"WAIT!" Stan hollered. "WAIT! WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS, FORD! JUST SLOW DOWN AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING! PLEASE!"
Some distance away, Ford looked back at Stan for the first time since the chase had begun, his expression almost unreadable. For a moment, it looked as though he might relent. But then he sighed, and Stan heard him say something that made his heart all but stop.
"I'm sorry," Ford whispered.
And then, before Stan could stop him, before he could take to the air once more, Ford waved a hand – and suddenly the gateway to the rotunda was blocked by a solid barrier of crystalline glass; spanning the length and breadth of the passage ahead, it was clearly well over six feet thick. Immediately, Stan tore into it with his fists, pounding and pummelling the newly-grown wall in a desperate attempt to break through it, but only succeeded in chipping a few flakes of the glass away. Whatever this wall was made of, it was clearly harder than diamond, because even with the superhuman strength he'd gained from the dome, he was barely cracking it.
"No!" Stan howled. "NO!"
He tried everything he could to break the wall, calling upon all the powers he'd learned so far: he belched up a plume of fire that would have melted solid steel; he hammered the glass with blasts of kinetic force powerful enough to pulverise granite; he bombarded the wall with lightning bolts, white-hot trails of electricity coursing from his fingers; he even did his best to crush the wall beneath a field of enhanced gravity – but none of it worked. Desperate, he tried teleporting – but unlike Ford, Stan hadn't had time to master the finer points of it, and only succeeded in briefly fading in and out of existence before landing flat on his ass.
In the end, Stan could only peer through the glass as he pounded against it, looking on helplessly as his brother left him behind.
Again.
Ford took a deep breath and wiped away a few stray tears as he took his place under dome.
He'd wanted Stan to stop him. He'd wanted to let him catch up, to talk him out of what he was about to do – before Ford had finally brow-beaten himself into teleporting away. And he'd almost given up entirely when he'd heard Stan pleading with him. Of course, he no idea what he'd do next, or if he'd be fast enough to stop him from making the sacrifice instead, but he considered it.
Because he didn't want this to be the last Stan saw of him. He'd wanted to vanish, to disappear into the ether and leave behind only the letter. That way, there'd be nobody to witness his descent into madness, or his mutation into Bill's creature; that way, Stan wouldn't have to see what happened next. No nightmares, no terror, no grief – just a disappearance in the night.
For a moment, Ford had almost considered letting Stan talk him down and lead him away from the edge, for the letter hadn't really been enough for him. He wanted to say goodbye properly. He wanted to say everything he hadn't thought of when he'd still been writing the letter: he wanted to let him know that Stan could succeed where Ford had failed, to tell Dipper that he was sorry that they hadn't had time for more adventures together, to tell Mabel how sorry he was, to tell Fiddleford how much he missed him…
But he knew that he couldn't. He had a duty to finish the game alone – for the sake of Stan's life and sanity, for the sake of everyone Ford had doomed through his foolishness.
So he'd shut the door and did his best to deafen his ears to Stanley's screams.
Alright then, smart guy, he thought. You've got one wish left. What are you going to spend it on?
For five daunting seconds, he pondered the thought. He knew he couldn't wish for Bill to die; the game didn't work like that. Nor could he wish for Stan to escape, or for Weirdmageddon to be over, or for the Pines family to be united as one. So, what could he wish for? What could do the least amount of harm – or the most amount of good, come to think of it?
But ultimately, there was only one thing he could possibly say.
".stflmv wvivuufh h'vS. bvomzgH lg vnlx nizs lm gvO."
As the echoes died away, Ford cast one final look in Stan's direction: he was still trying to pound his way through the glass, still begging for Ford to change his mind. And though he knew that Stanley probably couldn't hear him at this distance, he found himself opening his mouth to say something – if only to say goodbye….
And then the Weirdness struck, a multi-coloured kaleidoscopic cascade of chaotic energy rain down on him from above like a bolt of lightning, permeating his being from all angles and flooding every cell in his body with a wild torrent of mutating, distorting, corrupting power. At once, he knew that he was becoming something different, that the Weirdness would sculpt him into a new being as Bill had intended, but first, it would destroy him in every sense of the world.
Ford's blood boiled.
His veins burned, his heart exploded inside his chest, his bones shattered a thousand times in a million different places, his skin ruptured and spilled the bubbling froth that his blood had become across the ground. His eyeballs burst inside their sockets, his lungs shrivelled away, his bowels melted, his flesh slid off the pulverized remains of his bones… and then, just as quickly as it had happened, his injuries vanished and he was whole again – just in time for the next onslaught.
Now he was changing, his body warping and twisting and reshaping itself; and his brain was changing too, the inside of his skull ablaze with distorting energies. Ford opened his mouth to scream in pain, but what emerged was a blood-curdling, metallic roar that couldn't have ever been produced by human vocal cords.
At last, he thought deliriously. Daedalus knows the sun's embrace.
Somewhere on the periphery of his senses, he thought he heard Jheselbraum's voice, trying to comfort him in his agonies.
Then another bolt of pain ripped through his psyche, and all he knew was the void.
At long last, the last foot of glass crumbled away beneath his fists, and Stan tore his way into the rotunda. By now, he'd seen the lightshow under the dome and heard those terrifying sounds, and he knew he was too late, but he hurried nonetheless: he had to help somehow or he'd never forgive himself.
But for the longest time, he couldn't see Ford at all: the blinding lightshow of Weirdness covered everything, obscuring the centre of the rotunda and warding off Stanley's attempts at getting closer. For almost a minute, he called Ford's name, raising his voice over the cacophony of erupting energies and growing steadily more frantic for every second that passed without a reply.
And then, without warning, the storm passed just as quickly as it had arrived, and room was dark and silent once more.
"Ford?" Stanley whispered.
No response.
Trembling, he conjured a light in the palm of his hand and cast it anxiously about the rotunda.
Then, he saw him.
Ford was kneeling on the floor at the heart of the chamber, eyes closed as if asleep. For the moment, he appeared unharmed, but as Stan crept closer, he realized that several things were quiet clearly amiss.
For one thing, every last inch of his clothes had turned black; his gloves were gone, and the trenchcoat he'd treasured ever since he'd returned from the portal had been replaced by a heavy outer garment that looked more like a cloak than anything else – it even had a hood, of all things.
For another, he seemed… thinner, somehow. In fact, as Stan drew closer and saw the arms within the sleeves of the cloak, he realized that Ford was little more than skin and bones. Any human being this emaciated could only be dead or dying; by contrast, Ford was very much alive… or so it appeared.
Most unusually of all, the skin on his hands and arms didn't seem like skin at all anymore, but more like bone. His flesh was now coated in a layer of hard, rigid carapace, as if his skeleton was now on the outside of his body. Only his face, deathly-pale as it was, remained unaffected.
Stan reached out to touch him – hoping that he could wake him from whatever trance he was in – he realized that Ford's skin was freezing cold to the touch, as if he'd been plunged into icy water.
He doesn't have a pulse, he realized with a thrill of horror. He doesn't have a heartbeat anymore.
"Ford?" he whispered, giving him a shake. "Can you hear me?"
By way of an answer, Ford's eyelids snapped open, and Stan almost recoiled in horror at the sight.
The glow in his eyes was gone.
Now his eyes were pitch-black hollows, vacant and expressionless… and as Stan looked closer, he realized that he could see stars in the blackness, an entire galaxy of stars slowly creeping through the infinite night contained within Ford's eyes. But the sight didn't inspire wonder or amazement: there was no majesty to the starscape unfolding there, no bright shining suns and multi-coloured nebula, no undiscovered planets, nothing that would have ended up in the science magazines that Ford had once read. No, the stars in Ford's eyes were bloated crimson lumps or shrivelled white dots floating helplessly in the void, all of them withering even as Stan watched; he wasn't any expert on the subject, but something told him that these stars were in their death throes.
There was a heart-freezing pause.
A black hole oozed through a cluster of red giants, devouring all in its path, and Ford smiled, his pallid face erupting into a delighted grin.
Very slowly, he rose to his feet, levitating about four inches off the ground in the process.
Then, with a voice deeper than the grinding of tectonic plates, he proclaimed, "AND NOW I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS."
"…Ford?"
If Ford had heard him at all, he gave no indication. He merely looked around him, seemingly unable to stop smiling. After about a minute, he spoke again: his voice sounded a little closer to normal, apart from the faint echoing reverb, but the language was utterly incomprehensible.
".nepo yllanif si silasyrhc eht ,tnemnosirpmi fo ytinifni na retfA .tsal ta eerf ma I."
"I-"
"Gsviv ziv hl nzmb hszwldh rm nb nvnlib. Wrw R zodzbh szev z uzxv, li wrw lmob tzrm lmv qfhg mld. Sld nzmb ornyh wrw R klhhvhh fmgro mld? R xzm'g ivnvnyvi gsv hlfmw lu nb ldm elrxv. Hl nfxs eztfvmvhh. Hl nfxs olhh. Zmw bvg R hnrov."
The smile broadened.
"Zmw gl gsrmp... R svhrgzgvw. "
"Ford! Can you understand me?"
The man with stars for eyes looked down at him with interest. Then, without warning, he began to laugh.
"?uoy t'ndluow ,em rof gnihtyreve decifircas evah dluow uoy ,hA .niap rehtruf em eraps ot tsuj sehsiw gnilaets erew uoy taht ees neve nac I .won hcum os ees nac I !yelnatS ,uoy dnatsrednu nac I esruoc fO."
"Could… you repeat that in English?"
"And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him," said Ford, grinning like a skull. ".neeserof evah t'ndluoc eh syaw ni egnahc eW ?ti si ,depoh lliB sa elpmis sa ton s'ti tuB."
Stan couldn't speak another word; he couldn't work out whether he should run for his life or not. Frankly, he felt like he was going to cry: already, the dreadful words Have I lost him forever? were floating across Stan's mind, and with every second that passed, it was a little harder to look at those monstrous eyes.
"Mld gsv trug szh yvvm wrerwvw zonlhg vjfzoob. Mld mlgsrmt ivzoob hvkzizgvh fh, Hgzmovb. Mld dv hsziv gsv kldvi lu z tlw. Mld dv ziv ylgs z gslfhzmw grnvh nliv kldviufo gszm Yroo rmgvmwvw. Mld..."
Ford grabbed Stan by the shoulders, and Stan almost lashed out in terror as he felt those bony hands clamping down on him. But at the last second, he froze in fear – and then Ford drew him into an ice-cold hug.
"WE ARE DEATH," said Ford, jubilantly. "DEIMOS AND PHOBOS MARCH TO THE END OF THE WORLD AS ONE."
"Really? That's nice," Stan mumbled.
There was an awkward pause as Ford finally released him from the hug.
"Uh… what do we do now?"
".dednetni lliB taht dlrow eht eb t'now tsuj tI .yelnatS ,yortsed ot dlrow a evah eW."
"I… don't suppose you could translate that?"
"Dv nfhg urmw gsv lgsvih. Gsv Qfwtv szh tzgsvivw gsvn gsilfts gsv nzxsrmzgrlmh lu gsv Svizow. Mld, dv nfhg qlrm gsvn."
"Oh."
".yrt ll'I tub ...hcum yas t'nac I .yleritne tegrof I .sdnuos dna sdrow namuh htiw kaeps ot ekil saw ti tahw rebmemer ot tluciffid s'ti ,won ssendriew si em fo hcum oS .ylbisneherpmoc kaeps ot tluciffid s'tI."
Ford hesitated, and when next he spoke, it seemed to be only with great difficulty. "I have… gifts to give," he said haltingly. "There are others like us. I owe them presents. We must find them, Stanley. They need our help."
"Um… who are these people we're meant to be finding, exactly?"
"Mabel is one. We missed her birthday. She is frightened and lost. Not even Famine can still her fears. She needs her crown to make her whole."
"Wait a minute – crown? Why a crown? Don't get me wrong, it sounds like a nifty gift idea, but… where did you get the idea from?"
"Zmw hsv dvmg uligs xlmjfvirmt, zmw gl xlmjfvi."
"Oh."
"And… I have a gift for you as well…"
And before Stan could even ask what the gift was, Ford raised his right hand high in the air, and a beam of pure shadow poured forth from it, opening a gigantic portal just below the domed roof. And from the portal leaped a horse of all things, a magnificent muscular greathorse with a coat so pale it seemed to drain the colour from the room around it and a glossy black saddle that stood out like spilled ink against the stark white coat.
The enormous horse cantered to a halt in front of them, bowing its head as it approached. As Stan watched in confusion, Ford waved a hand – and suddenly the pale horse had become four horses, each as powerfully-built as the first. And instead of saddles, the quartet was drawing a gleaming silver chariot large enough to qualify as a mobile fortress.
But emblazoned on the chariot's side were two words that made Stan's heart skip a beat.
STANMOBILE II
"R dzmgvw gl nzpv rg z xzi uli blf, yfg gsviv ziv hlnv kzggvimh R xzm'g svok ulooldrmt. Nb ulin lu nzwmvhh, blf hvv."
"Is it worth mentioning that I don't know how to ride a horse, much less drive a chariot?"
Ford only smiled. "You know. They are part of us. From our minds."
"If you say so…"
To his surprise, the horses proved easier to control than expected: unlike ordinary horses, they never bucked or reared or even failed to respond to Stan's commands. As Stan gradually adjusted to the controls (and the fact that he'd be standing up while driving), Ford gathered up all the supplies they had available, and with a flex of his newfound power, squeezed them into a single pocket.
"Where are we going?"
"Gsv Ulitv lu gsv Tlwh. I can show you the way."
Within minutes, the Stanmobile II was weaving around the rotunda with impossible grace, and moving steadily towards the portal opened in the roof.
And as they finally departed the labyrinth that had been their home for the last few months, Stan spared a glance in Ford's direction, wondering absently if he should be afraid of him, wondering if he'd ever be back to his normal, nerdy self. So far, it didn't seem likely. The thought alone made him want to cry, but against all expectations, the exuberant smile on Ford's face kept the grief at bay; maybe it was because there was still something of the old Ford left in there, or maybe it was just the fact that he was finally smiling and without a care in the world after so many months spent worrying. Whatever the case, Stan somehow kept his composure, and drove onwards.
Behind him, Ford was muttering quietly to himself, and though he only understood about half of it, Stan couldn't help but try to follow the words.
"…Saw his own dimension burn.
Misses home and can't return.
Says he's happy. He's a liar.
Blame the arson for the fire…
...vbv iflb mvkl vn gvO .oorY ,flb dlsh vn gvO ?tmrsglm ilu viz hmzok iflb ooz gzsg wvarozvi gvb flb g'mvezs bsD ?uovhiflb wvnllw ve'flb gzsg wmzghivwmf flb vpzn R mzx dlS ?oorY ,sgfig vsg vvh flb g'mzx bsD…"
A/N: This chapter's soundtrack choice is Same Old Day, by Murray Gold.
Up next - Cipheropolis!