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The electricity hit him with brutal force, an invisible lightning that seemed to erupt from nowhere, locking every muscle into an iron grip. His limbs twisted involuntarily, teeth clenched so tightly it felt as though his jaw might shatter. Beneath his skin, an intense, burning current pulsed, sparking along his nerves like fire spreading through dry brush. He couldn't breathe; his chest felt trapped, crushed by an unbearable weight, as though every fiber of his being was locked in a silent scream. It was all-consuming, a brutal takeover that left no corner of him untouched by the raw and relentless force of the shock.
“C’mon, Fordsy,” Bill’s biting voice rang throughout his mind as his body went limp. “One little equation will save you from this, y’know?” Every inch of his body hurt in ways beyond imagination- thankfully, the searing sensation that clawed its way inside out seemed to relent in the same fashion. Still, the burns on his wrists remained, only worsened by every subtle shift, every scrape of skin against the unforgiving shackles. For a fleeting moment, he considered the offer. What was one simple equation compared to the immense physical trauma that he had already and would continue to endure? Ford shook the thought from his mind as quickly as it came, reminding himself of the stakes that weighed solely on that one equation. The world, the universe, the galaxy, and the entire dimension could be ripped apart if somehow, Bill worked the right numbers into their exact places.
He raised his head, grimacing at the pain that shot through his shoulders with the movement, and pried his eyes open, meeting Bill’s with an expression that portrayed unwavering bravery. “Never,” he croaked, voice betraying the impression his look had given. Whether or not he’d admit it, Ford was on the edge of breaking. It was just a matter of what would be the first to give: his body or mind?
Then he decided. “Not until the day I die.”
Body it was.
Bill’s laughter echoed through Ford’s mind, a twisted, taunting sound that rippled like broken glass across his frayed nerves.
“Oh, Fordsy, you’re adorable,” he sneered, floating closer until his voice felt like a whisper wrapped around Ford’s own thoughts. “You really think you can keep this up? That little resolve of yours is as flimsy as a wet tissue. You’re not built for this.”
He drifted around the Fearamid, turning to face his audience, then back at his victim, eye glinting with a disturbing glee. “But, hey, keep playing hero if you want. I can do this all day. Every minute you hold out, you’re just giving me more time to savor your pain. This is fun for me. Can you say the same?”
Ford only sneered in response. Any more than that and he’d certainly be sick. Even at that, Ford had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, even his method of distraction wearing his body to its limit.
Suddenly, there was a shift in his attitude. Logically, Bill was aware of just how close he’s pushed his captive to the brink of death, even having contorted his power to make sure he didn’t overdo himself. Now, though, Bill knew . “I’ll give you one more chance to end this,” Bill purred, “just say the word. It’s not that hard. Just one equation, Sixer.”
He knew, as much as Bill did, that the fight wasn’t just physical. Bill was tearing at his mind, prying apart each mental shield he’d built to protect himself. Regardless, this was his last chance. It would end one way or another: if he lived, his universe died.
“Suit yourself,” Bill finally sighed, feigning disappointment. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
A guttural scream tore from Ford’s throat as another wave of searing electricity ripped through him, a savage torrent of agony that felt like it was unraveling him from the inside out. His vision blurred, his pulse thundered in his ears, and for a terrifying moment, he was certain this was the end—that this time, Bill’s relentless torture would be the thing to leave him as a lifeless shell.
Suddenly, it all stopped.
No more pain, no more grating laughter.
Ford’s chest heaved as he struggled to draw breath. Each gasp came in shallow bursts, quick and desperate, matching the thunderous echo of his heartbeat in his ears. For a moment, those were the only two things that existed- his breathing and heartbeat, both working in harmony to remind him that he did it. He survived .
But there was always more, this time being no different. Sheets had tangled around his legs, the mattress dipped under where he lay, and some foreign pressure pushed on his shoulder. As he calmed, Ford noticed a sound. At first, it was just a muffled noise, almost drowned out by the frantic drum of his pulse. But as he took a shuddering breath, his senses sharpened, and he realized what it was—a voice, rough and familiar, calling his name over and over.
“Ford! Stanford, wake up!”
He jolted upright, eyes flying open as the world came crashing into place around him. Stan dropped his hands from his brother's arm, relieved he didn’t need to spend any more time trying to shake him awake. The loss of contact seemed to startle the older twin further, his breathing quickening again.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Stan tried to reassure, returning his hand to where it’d unknowingly been grounding the other.
Ford nodded, frantically, and it became obvious that he was trying to convince himself that Stan’s words were true. “It…” he held his hands in front of himself, examining the skin around his wrists. Scars mirrored the cuffs that once held him captive, but they were healing, fading slowly—a reminder that it was all in the past.
“It still feels so real,” he murmured, fingers tracing the marks. A strange, tingling sensation pulsed beneath his skin, different from the older scars on his chest and back, which had long since numbed. But this—this was real.
“Hey, Poindexter,” Stan tried softly, successfully drawing his brother’s attention away from his thoughts. As Ford faced him, he continued, “It’s okay. It was just a dream. Look around–” Stanley gestured to the small room around them, just large enough to fit a desk and chair at the foot of the bed.
Ford took in his surroundings, eyes quickly sweeping the books on the shelf above the desk, the papers from his journals that littered the few surfaces they could, and the quilted blanket that was draped over him. His heartbeat gradually steadied, the familiar objects grounding him more than he’d expected. The gentle sway of the boat beneath him, the faint scent of old wood and sea salt—all of it reminded him of where he truly was, and more importantly, who he was with. Each item was a piece of the life they’d built, of the second chance they’d somehow managed to carve out. This was real, not some fleeting illusion conjured by his mind or a nightmare waiting to collapse. For the first time in a long time, he felt safe. He was on a boat– their boat. The boat of their dreams, even.
He let out a sigh of relief, then let himself fall against Stanley, his head resting on the other’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right,” he muttered.
Despite it all– forty years apart, fights in between, and the near-end of the world– they did it. They were here, together at last, sharing a peace they’d fought their whole lives to find.