You’d heard that Stanford had been held captive in the Fearamid, and despite his twin’s protests, you had to go see him. Weirdmageddon started only a few days ago, and yet the terrain looked as if it had been burning down for a century straight as you stomped past. The eyebats started a short chase before realizing that you were traveling to Bill’s quarters, and, well. They left you alone. It was a thick effort to climb up the hundreds of stairs- no handrails or anything- that rip themselves from the asphalt of the road to initiate in front of your feet. Some wobble, not by the force of the steepness, but rather by the fact that Bill seemingly didn’t care if you fell. If any human fell. It would be rather funny, he presumed, if someone went toppling into strawberry jam to be squashed by remaining civilization and the new order. And yet, you trekked, as if your body were on autopilot, as if it had to get up there, to see Stanford, it wouldn’t falter even as the steps shifted to throw you off. You’re stopped at the very top of the winding stairs, which begin to slowly crumble behind you, by two Bill-clone Guards. One red, One blue. The blue has an ear for his eye, and the red, a mouth. “Woah, woah, woah, hold it right there, big guy!” The redder Bill sputters, holding out a hand to stop you in your tracks. “No entry, and i mean none, without a motive and a payment!” The blue stands in silence, passively, yet its agitated angles bend and expand. “Heyyy, you’re that guy Ford’s been thinkin’ about. In the dreamscape.” Spit leaks from the red’s mouth as it changes its full hand to a much more targeted point, digging into your sternum. “Isn’t that quaint. You came for him, didn’t you? I can see it on your face.” It’s lying, quite clearly, by the fact it can’t see at all. Neither of them can, it would appear. The blue pats its foot, an odd sort of mix between morse code and panicked do-overs. Its partner ignores it, or maybe it couldn’t hear it at all. “Well, without an offer, looks like you’re stuck out on this— wait. I’ve an idea.” The Bill seems to color-shift, ever so slightly, orange. “Let’s say, two- no, five- let’s go with ten hours, yes, of me-“ it claps a hand onto the spot roughly where Bill perches his bowtie, “-me being Bill, having free possession-reign over your body. You can come in, and, I’ll think on letting Ford come with you when you leave. How’s that sound, champ?” The dust creeps up wobbly steps, inching closer and closer, no way to back out as it threatens to rip away the steps faster, crawling one, two, three at a time all of a sudden. The bluer Bill flattens itself against the wall of the Fearamid, tugging the arm of its companion. The crimson cipher holds out his free palm to you as it’s yanked backwards. “Sounds good, amigo?” And, without any other choice, you mumble a response, shake its hand, and shove your way inside. The guards attempt to follow, but the blue grapples onto the red as it’s yanked downwards, not by the pull of gravity, but by something else. The door actively rejects the two, the red one bouncing off the open doorframe before being dragged into a plummet. They both shatter like stained glass on the wrecked pavement 50 stories down. If you waited to see, they bled yellow. You trudge through the strangely desolate landscape of the inner Fearamid walls, undecorated and lame apart from small sections of graffiti and blueprints likely stolen- what would Bill need a Memory Gun for, anyways? It’s empty and gray, as if Bill didn’t care for the inside of his home, but rather the outward appearance. Not too far from the entrance, however, the sound of a liquid pouring is heard. Muffled gags along with it. Fire crackling, a record playing. A warm orange or yellow light beams through the crack of a poorly-closed door, which creaks noisily as you open it. There he was. Just where he said he’d be, but chained to the ceiling like a captured angel, just above the pulsating sofa where Bill sits; as if he were expecting your entry. He clutches a martini, a drink mixer floating vaguely above Ford’s head. You shut your eyes and brace, before suddenly, you’re weightless. Your eyes snap open to see Bill Cipher crawling into the corpse you’ve left behind, fleeing his own, which quickly shifts into a shiny white marble. Greedy four-fingered noodle hands tear at your body and burst from the sides of your ribs to grope however which way they’d go. It feels filthy. As both yours and Bill’s attention turns towards the awaiting Ford, wrapped in bondage and suspended above human flesh, he bears his teeth in a pained grimace and whispers “I told you not to come looking,” in a rather sharp, yet sad tone. His eyes don’t follow your body, they follow you. As if he could see ghosts. Your body twists and cracks and rolls, Bill likely forcing the bones apart to make space for his newly-formed soul. Almost akin to your body trying to force him out, being shattered and twisted in turn. You’re forced to witness, just as Ford is, your clavicle cracking in half and leaning back. Bill pretends that you aren’t there, favoring to stare at Ford’s crimson-smeared, burnt and ashen face instead. You find your soul sinking into the marble body of Bill, the husk almost pulling you in as you’re forced to watch from the standpoint of Bill’s eye. Everything is blindingly white, and your vision is ebbing and waning and everything looks almost metallic. “Alright, brainiac.” Bill sneers, your lips curling unnaturally. “It’s about time I finally got what I deserve.”