NB: This work is part of an interconnected series/multichapter of one-shots. Context isn't required and these chapters can be read as standalone works but if you're curious, you can check out the end chapter which explains the premise and the A/Ns. If you're not interested, please enjoy the story freely and don't let me stop you!


Chapter Summary:

A shaken and isolated Stanford Pines uncovers how turbulent relying on one's own moral compass can be when they're in the dark. Aliens come along the way to set off the fireworks and demonstrate.

Disclaimer: Very minor alien violence and coarse language. Gravity Falls belongs to Alex Hirsch.


A/N:

EnneaQuote: "Ones are people of practical action—they wish to be useful in the best sense of the word. On some level of consciousness, they feel that they 'have a mission' to fulfil in life, if only to try their best to reduce the disorder they see in their environment."—Don Richard Riso

Author Commentary: Type One is the first type from the Enneagram we're going to be dissecting. Ones are, at their most basic, the moral paragons of the Enneagram. They believe in upholding imperative values and are expectant of others to abide by their determined notion of what is correct.

Ones can be heroic and principled in their search for righteousness, yet also blind themselves to pragmatism; they can become arrogant, in a sense, sidelined by wanting things to be done 'their way and only their way'—crusaders, of sorts. Many Ones can be stereotyped in a rather unhealthy manner as a 'benign, kingly figure bent on keeping others around them of moral sanctity'. This is, of course, a dense characterisation which only a select few truly subscribe to.

People who identify with this type are also introspective in the sense that they rely on ascertaining personal perfection in order not to appear as a hypocrite in their own eyes. Grace, for them, is a reward only granted after reaching a point in which they can see themselves as rightfully deserving of it. Their greatest fears are not attaining the personal harmony and order they strive for in their lives.

This is why many Ones tend to hyperfixate on others' ways. They want not to miss any opportunity they get to achieve their desired homeostasis, but the true realisation is that their yearned self-perfection can be achieved by simply being who they are and carrying the banner of righteousness in all their endeavours towards betterment.


Type One

Z-95-T-65 was definitely not the dimension Ford had imagined it to be.

Mainly because he hadn't imagined it existing at all.

This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in an all-too-predictable position like that. Of course, the elaborate labyrinth he had accidentally trapped himself in had to be utterly void of description. Of course, the travel directions for the dimension lanes had to be outdated and mixed up with the ones towards the Zeta Interdimensional Refuge. It's not like that made navigating through treacherous hellscapes while being chased by a swathe of Zorglong police units any easier, though. His resentment towards such incompetence was only furthered by this escapade.

He chided himself. Regrets could come later. Now, he had to focus—get out of this mess. He was Stanford Pines! Brilliant mind of humanity! Intrepid interdimensional explorer of his kind for Axolotl's sake! If anyone could have made a daring (and technically criminal) escape while stuck between the fabric of two polar opposite dimensions, it had to be him!

Well, he was also the one who got tricked by what was best described in layman's terms as a floating yellow triangle and had failed in attending his coveted educational institution.

He allowed the sensation of weightlessness to carry him under a cyan-coloured cloud. Ford hoped it wouldn't prove corrosive to his armour or inflict any other lasting impact on him; such was the dice he rolled when he had no idea what he was traversing through. He rose above whatever it was, all the while wading through various dimensional funnels (colloquially known as 'trapdoors') and reminding himself of the fragility of human life when placed in such precarious circumstances.

"Crap," Ford muttered, fiddling with his G-gun's loading mechanism as he realised the cloud had unfortunately left his prospecting Zorglong friends unscathed as well. He was going to be encircled or vaporised soon enough, no doubt. If only the gateway was in close proximity, he'd have made a beeline for it without hesitation.

For now, stalling appeared to be the single sensible course of action. He stood still.

"Traveller from dimension designation 2E of dimensional cluster A," one of the officers on the far right spouted out as Ford's earpiece translator—a device connected to the interdimensional language database PhonetiNet—quickly recalibrated to make sense of the garbled telepathic disturbance. The comically overdressed half-humanoid, half-avian specimen emerged from the cockpit of its R-shaped patrol vessel. "You are being hailed by the—"

"Yes, yes, I've heard of you, typical hegemonic fantasy dominion number 4628," Stanford said through the comfort of his implanted rebreather, "or as I've heard some of my associates call you, 'The Zorglong Dominion'. Ah, truly creative."

The officer paused before uttering a response.

"I-Indeed, that is our name," it said. "Uh..."

Ford raised an eyebrow. He discerned the slightly muffled telepathic activity picked up as the alien venting its frustration at a subordinate named Bob for asking how a simple-minded human had knowledge of their organisation. Most likely the poor CO had no idea either, Stanford thought. They weren't the most intelligent of the dimensional bunch.

"Anyhow," the officer continued as if nothing had occurred, "you, outlander, have been suspected of dimension-hopping and an official decree has been put out for your capture! Moreover, you have been found in possession of illegal weaponry and a proprietary filtration device for Carbon-based lifeforms without an explicit warrant, and have had several charges of cosmic vandalism lifted against you! This is your first and only warning: submit to the ZDPF or face pulverization!"

Ford had been keen on bouncing between either of his premeditated extremes, not being encircled and potentially obliterated at the same time.

Cipher be damned, he'd have to make do with the tawdry setting.

"And this is your first and only warning," Ford proclaimed with bravado sprinkled by a touch of a sincerely imposing demeanour. "I simply want to go through your gateway. I do not want violence. Let me pass to where I want or I will have to blast you and your entire dominion to the Negative Dimensions!"

He hoped they would take to his threat and shirk away had the odds not been in their favour. The officer narrowed its six eyes at Ford as it scuffled inside the cockpit. He didn't pick up on any disturbance over their communications until the main vessel powered up again; it was one tactic he'd heard mentioned by many: 'Zone and Diffuse'. So they were executing a standardised protocol to deal with him, Ford realised. That definitely left no room for any more stalling.

The ships' cannons reared towards him. Ford aimed the G-gun. He was nimble; he just had to dodge the blasts from four vessels. Easy enough. Yup, he'd totally done that in his human college and his paranormal research on planet Earth, homeworld of the human species.

A startling silence enveloped the cold reaches of space (both telepathic and physical) the conflicting sides had found themselves in.

Four stun rays went around him, missing and dissipating in the vastness beyond. He fired, aiming for the CO's ship.

For a moment, neither party engaged further—one was still hinging on the possibility of a peaceful resolution while the other was covertly reloading its weapon and circling around. Ford witnessed his own predictable miss, the laser flying an inch from the hull of the ship on the far left.

He seethed. He definitely needed more practice.

Before he could use another round, Stanford heard a spontaneous detonation go off behind him. A tremendous blast followed it. He immediately turned to catch the blazing-fast ripple that went through the vicinity; something had blown apart the mineral-laden asteroid behind him and undoubtedly set off a chain reaction with the topaz-like crystals, releasing a massive sonic shockwave. All sensors in the area fizzled up as the blast passed over, though Stanford was spared the rupturing of his eardrums by virtue of his earpiece's failsafe.

What he didn't expect was to simultaneously experience a shock in his chest—a very typical stun ray shock, which was startling given he hadn't seen any additional fire coming from the police forces. Stanford braced himself, his stomach turning as he tried to absorb the blasts. Only the metal plate in his head prevented full surrender to unconsciousness, and he was grateful at least one contingency appeared to have been properly set in place. Ford nearly began counting stars before he stabilised his vitals and a sigh of relief escaped his mouth, the heap of disabled ships which littered the weird dimension drawing his attention.

Black fumes spawned from one of the engines of the officer's ship. A lifeform of deplorable nature escaped from the dark, toxic mist. Ford zoomed in using the bionic lenses in his eyes, a morbid curiosity overtaking his rational side. Grey, six-legged, the size of a baby Beartilope or a beaver, and a precarious insignia imbued over its reptilian hide: a white letter 'I' crossed out by two wide orange lines. Why, it'd almost looked like...

"Huh?!" Ford shouted as the creature teleported next to him and clambered onto his head. It sank two canal-like tongues through his nose. "No, get off me you wrinkly—"

Where was it—the Animo plant extract? He kept on rummaging through his trenchcoat, through the armour, feeling the nerve parasite getting closer to his brain with each gruelling second that passed. This was bad. Really bad. Once had Stanford the displeasure of witnessing an Intoxozeebo being used for torture, and that interrogation didn't end well at all.

His hand slipped over the syringe; those finicky phalanges could never just surround what was needed in life-threatening situations, Ford cursed. Something was already feeling awry for him, for distinguishing the actual desire to save himself with the echoes in his head turned into a troublingly grating process. Not even an erudite with twelve PhDs could have predicted what would happen when a creature that was specifically bred to feed on organic centres of electrical activity latched on to its prey and that prey just so happened to be said erudite.

Ford experienced a jolt of pain in his temples.

Images. His travels, the portal, and the incomprehensibly wide universe held Ford's thoughts in a firm grasp, the sequence moulded to harrowingly harmonious perfection. Then, it zoomed in; the pawnshop, Stanley, Glass Shard Beach High, Fiddleford, Bill—they were pouring into the facetious grandeur in one inescapable flurry. On and on about how he'd slipped up, how he'd lost his chance, and how he was somehow slated to be the progenitor of a new era in spite of that. On and on, they went and came with the signature sting only regrets could instil.

Ford felt the tide turn against him and a premonition that he'd be left adrift in the wild reaches of a forgotten dimension irked; a legacy with such potential lost so fast—was that Stanford Pines' destiny today?

No, it wasn't.

"Argh!" Ford shouted, everything resetting as he plunged the syringe containing the lethal substance into the Intoxozeebo with the last stretch of will he could muster. "Die, you goddamn space rat!"

He twisted and shook his body with spiteful fervour, at last flinging the gnarly excuse for a lifeform away and restoring his vision back to the present.

That was a close one. But he made it out nonetheless. Ford scanned over the still panorama.

One lone datapad floating around the site nearby earnt his attention. A chronicler, it seemed, of a bygone era. He dove over to snag it. That'd have the information needed, Ford yearned. He yanked it out of the small compartment it was tucked away in and sifted through its contents, deciphering the standard letters of the standard dimensional alphabet. So it wasn't that old, he concluded.

"Ah, bingo!" Ford said. "There's a voice message attached!"

He played the recording.

"Entry number seventeen: Loop. Looper. Yet... loopier?"

Okay, weird start, Ford mused. At least his translator picked up on the language spoken by the non-Zorglong (thankfully) alien whose voice was soft yet high-pitched.

"Anomalies keep appearing as I test the OGI dimensional binding theorem over this dimension," it continued, "I sent out ship parts into this wretched void some time ago and received them back again on the other side in a matter of one standard cycle."

Stanford's eyes widened.

"Nevertheless, this is a substantial increase in recollection speed from prior attempts. I would therefore conclude that this dimension can indeed be used to create a moving junkyard or a possible energy generator through the exploitation of its continuously volatile mirroring properties. End of entry number seventeen."

"So someone researching this must have thrown such a dossier out into the wild and never picked it up, leaving it to endlessly float about!" Ford said to himself. He chuckled when he realised the Zorglong ships' scanners wouldn't have picked up on something so small, which was why he was the first one to find it after so long. The new insight gave leeway for the scientist to finally put two and two together. "And that must've been what stunned me and blew up the asteroid behind me before that." He ran a hand over his rebreather. "My own damn blast..."

However much he was laughing at himself per the spontaneous lecture he'd indulged in, Ford was well aware he had to escape before the shockwave's effect had worn off on his attackers. He reorganised the inner parts of his coat with the new addition of the datapad; everything was neat and tight just the way he knew it had to be.

Well, almost everything. If only the large journal-sized pocket could've been something apart from an outlier for Ford. Adding fuel to the fire, remedying that issue with a new book would have proven difficult—normal ink and paper were luxuries and not even the black markets of Zorglong worlds had such commodities.

Stanford brushed off those unfortunate distractions and followed the route towards the coordinates he'd memorised. He soon came upon the sizeable and particularly ominous structure separated into two metallic arc claws enveloping a miniature wormhole. Sparks fizzled around the central gravitational field.

Breathing an anxious sigh of pent-up trepidation, Ford braced himself and plunged through the active gateway as fast as he could. Light enveloped his vision, yet he soon came upon the new (albeit relatively expected) sight; a construct utilising a weak spot in the dimension, much like a more compact version of his own portal, built on a lush exoplanet with an evident atmosphere. The refuge was bound to be hidden somewhere here.

He eyed the surrounding perimeter, searching for any potential hazards or traps that might have been set up for explorers like him. There didn't appear to be much apart from sprawling groves of white trees and the occasional misshapen teal hill, which in itself was plenty enough to warrant the remote factor of the locale.

Stanford descended from the green florasteel platform in small coordinated jumps between the ruins below, his boots soon clamping down hard over the mushy ground of the clearing. The amiable conditions were reason enough for him to remove his rebreather. Oh, how he had missed the vitality of an oxygen-rich atmosphere, not one poisoned by high levels of emissions or one created via artificial means.

Ford caught on. He was getting distracted again; how he hated that.

First things first: cover his tracks. Stanford ambled over to the control pad at the front of the gateway, thankful and surprised to see it operational. These sites always had a lot of backup generators and hearkened to a magnanimous foresight which fascinated the researcher; unfortunately, much to Ford's chagrin, the gateways' current despotic owners weren't too popular for their sense of caution. Nevertheless, he tunnelled through the old security system with relative ease and swiftly calibrated the reactivation sequence to trigger at a point between the next five planetary cycles.

"That should be enough," he muttered to himself. He noticed the backup timer on the screen clicking with its typical annoying sound. "Perfect."

As Stanford keyed in on the calmed silence of the forest, a pang of exhaustion began to set in. Though procrastination was his second mortal enemy (after Bill Cipher), he felt a small pause in his proceedings was needed in order to formulate a precise plan of action.

Ford spotted a vast, sprawling tree on the right and went over to sit under it, eyes shot towards the magenta sky veiled by a huge crown of violet leaves.

He had no clue why this surreal place, so fantastical and exotic with its picturesque image of an unspoken emptiness laid bare—why it had found a way to remind him of home.

Only one simple twelve-month year had passed since the dreaded disaster, Ford reminisced. Having his mind intact was a surprising feat of resilience, especially after Bill's machinations and the run-in with the parasite. Though where the former at least pretended to be Ford's friend and spared him the wretched and ugly, the latter didn't, showing him all those memories in their raw, unfiltered form. In truth, a relapse akin to that could have only made a man in his position pose one strikingly humbling question.

How had he turned from Earth's brightest mind to an active criminal who did anything in his power just to survive?

He liked to tell himself it was fine—that he had yet abided under human morality. The Zorglong specifically did not believe in the concept of familial bonds or interpersonal connections, instead employing more of a meritocratic format wherever they could for such matters in the impossible attempt to maximise efficiency. However, that didn't feel like due justification for Ford, who was beginning to wonder if his travels weren't beginning to change him after all.

If he did ever get back to his own dimension, he had no idea what chaos would have awaited his return. And whether anything or anyone would have awaited his return, no less. By Ford's account prior to his supposed disappearance, humanity had not aged out of the notion of obliterating itself with giant nuclear toys (compared to what he had seen, they really were toys).

Ford bit his lip, trying to stop his hand from reaching for his trouser pocket. He was well aware of where instinct was guiding him, and that it was too early to look back at the one he'd trusted with his research; his work; his life. After all, it was another's fault he was here, another's fault he was ostracised and denied the opportunity of a billion lifetimes. And it was Stanford's own foolishness to have entrusted that person—his own brother—with doing something so simple and… so hard at the same time.

He swallowed his pride, if for a moment, and gazed upon the ruined photograph of the old Stan'O-War—this fallacious mirror of what he knew as happiness—with a lost childlike eagerness meshed amidst righteous bitterness.

For just one second in tender clarity which only a little mirage in a multidimensional universe could impart, he heard the piercing ring of the old landline in the pawnshop and sensed the damp gales of Glass Shard beach touch his skin once more. One small, insignificant second. 'His' was truly a paragon of repentance brought about by the longing for what once was and what would never be again.

Which was why the perfect Stanford Pines buried the one thing he could never erase—a mistake-laden past—back where it belonged.

He set out to find the Zeta Interdimensional Refuge.


A/N (04/08/2022): Salutations one and all, for I have returned from the depths of writing! I have come to share my latest big endeavour. This is a project I've been extremely hard at work on, as you may have surmised by the first chapter explaining the idea. I will make mention that as of the time of this first story's publication, over two-thirds of the whole multichapter (series) has been completed, which is a decent chunk of reading material! These are some of my best works yet and I can't wait to share them all with you—whether we learn something about the Enneagram along the way or just want some Gravity Falls character studies!

Now, for another dramatic reveal: the first six stories will be posted each Saturday following this release! Complete and no buts! So that's great (you'll have to wait on the others, though. I promise it'll be worth it!).

Anyway, other than that, thank you to anyone who read this far. Comments and follows/favs are very appreciated!

Or wait... I do believe I promised something in the first chapter of this series? Something, something "cipher", I believe? EnneaCiphers!

Knock yourselves out.


EnneaCipher

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