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"Bill," the therapist spoke, sighing. "It's... strange, you know. You don't seem to be making any progress, and yet-"
"Well, maybe I won't. Maybe I don't want to!" he huffed.
The therapist cleared their throat, "...As I was saying, there is potential."
"Potential, schmotential! When will you learn, I'm not interested?!"
"Bill," they shook their head, "We aren't a boarding house."
"Coulda fooled me!" he cackled, hitting his hand against the desk. "Come on, you know you love me!"
"No, actually. We don't." They straightened their stack of papers, leafing through, "Let's see. In group settings, you start fights with other patients. If you're not starting physical fights, you're shouting obscenities and cruel insults. You've attempted breakouts, multiple times. And it's not just other patients, you assault our staff any chance you get. And that's not to mention--"
Bill's eye narrowed, "Fine, I get it. I get it! Oh, poor widdle Billy, is that right? We think he's soooo hurt, but gee willikers! He won't let us shove him around, he refuses medications that probably won't even do shit on him 'cause no one knows how he works! How sad and pathetic he is, what between- the episodic blindness, the scarring, the so-called 'denial' of any feeling but abject rage! Newsflash--"
"You have to take this more seriously."
"Oh, I'm serious! Seriously serious, deadly serious--"
"Good," they interjected, "Because that's what's on the line."
"I--!" he paused, "What?"
"Beyond death. Non-existence."
He laughed nervously, "N-no, you can't mean that--!"
"Word from Axolotl hirself."
Images of a burning Euclydia shot through his mind - he squeezed his eye shut, clutching his 'head'. "You can't be- You're not! You're lying!"
"We are not, Bill."
"You- You're all fucking spineless! Worthless beings, I- I-"
"Fortunately," they cut through his outburst, "Sie has decided to give you one more chance. It's entirely unprecedented, do you realise?"
"I don't care! I don't give a shit! You-"
"I'm sure you know the name Stanford Filbrick Pines."
Bill stopped in his tracks, momentarily seeming to calm, before shouting louder than ever-- "Get his name out of your filthy fucking mouth! You don't know me, you- you don't know him! You're an absolute fucking monster if you think, if- if you think I- he-"
"Bill Cipher."
"Shut up- shut the fuck up!"
"Then you choose non-existence?"
"Wh- I- I never said that!"
"These are your choices," they answered. "We can send you into Gravity Falls, to be cared for by Stanford Pines. If you disagree with this, then you will cease to be."
He fell quiet, between a horrible cocktail of sadness and rage. Ford... hated him. His Fordsy. He'd fucked everything up - too stubborn to explain the reality of his situation, the urgency. If- if he'd said the Nightmare Realm was crumbling, if he'd just framed it a little less terribly, if he hadn't needed to gloat and lord his power over Fordsy in the hopes it would impress him- in the hopes Ford might want to... be by his side...
Cautiously, he asked, "What happens if I... go there?"
"You will be as you are now, your powers stripped. We will periodically check on your progress; you will be answering to what he asks of you."
Then, a question crossed his mind. There was no way Ford would agree to this... right? "...does he even know about this plan?"
They tapped their fingers against their desk, "No. He's unaware."
"Then- then how can you say any of this?" Bill argued, "How can you be so sure he won't just kill me himself?!"
The only answer they had was a simple, "He won't."
Bill groaned in frustration, "You can't be serious!" Ford had every reason in the world - no, the universe, the entire multiverse - to hate him, to want him dead. This would be akin to torture- and- he... he actually fucking cared about that?! He actually fucking cared about not wanting to hurt Ford! About wanting to say something, anything, wanting to... apologise, to make up for it. As if he wasn't roughly three billion steps beyond that kind of a chance.
...but he was the last of his kind. He didn't... he couldn't bear to go out like the rest of them. The very last atom of what they once were rested with him, and almost no one else knew the significance of it. Of him. If he let himself cease to exist, he... He would never forgive himself, the last smatterings of himself feeling nothing but agony, never to become anything else.
"Should you progress in his care, then on the day of his death, you will go with him, and be allowed rebirth."
29 or so Earthly years, he thought to himself.
"...If you fail, then, again, you will cease to be."
Everything felt too heavy, too thick. It was absolutely overwhelming - no choice. Death faced him regardless, the threat of total non-existence itself looming. The only difference was when: now, or 29 years from now. Maybe if he was lucky, Ford would let him eat from the trash can. He'd get to sleep on a mouldy mattress, let the kids - assuming they come back next year - beat him like a pinata.
And it would still be a better not-non-existence than this.
"Fine," he relented, voice quiet. "I've made my choice. Send me to Gravity Falls."