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The planet he was on was, as far as he knew, not inhabited by any sapient creatures other than himself. He had come here to collect a rare ore called Crusoneum that he needed for his newest iteration of the quantum destabilizer. He hadn’t even needed to come here, necessarily. He was just so fed up with the prices that Crusoneum was being sold for at the interdimensional marketplace. The sellers blathered on about how difficult and dangerous it was to obtain, blah blah, and that was the reason for the exorbitant prices. Ford was sure they were just telling a story to make it sound more valuable. He was sure he could obtain some on his own for free. How hard could it really be?
It was a quick job, took him less than one of this planet’s days to find a viable cave and harvest some of what he needed. The only problem was, when he came out of the cave, squinting in the light of the harsh red sun, he found that the wormhole he’d used to get there had disappeared. That had never happened before. He had never seen a wormhole just close like that. At the time, he was certain he was in the wrong spot, that he had gotten turned around somehow in the dark. He spent the next few days searching for the wayward wormhole, eating whatever rations he had left in his pack and sleeping in the mouths of that cave system.
It took a few restless days of hunting for the panic to set in. He was stranded. He was stranded on an unfamiliar planet, in an unfamiliar dimension, with no way out.
He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t been so damn frugal .
It wasn’t his first time getting stuck somewhere in his travels, but it was his first time getting stuck somewhere with no type of civilization nearby. Not a single species on this planet had obtained the use of language yet. He checked, using his universal translator on any creature he could get close enough to speak to. But the responses he got were translations of basic, animal impulses; I’m hungry, I’m tired, I’m scared. You could only look into the blank, black eyes of a deerlet (a species of ungulate native to this world that he had named himself, so called because it looked like a miniature deer) and hear “ I’m hungry ,” so many times before you gave up on the prospect of conversation entirely.
No matter. Ford had always excelled at solitude. He just needed to stay calm and wait for the wormhole to come back.
—
That was three years ago, by his best estimate.
He had a lot of time to map this planet's movements, weather patterns, and seasons. It was one of those planets with an atmosphere and solar distance earth-like enough that he could survive without any extra equipment. A year here was made of roughly 500 17 hour long days. There were thriving ecosystems of creatures from the size of his pinky fingernail to the size of a small apartment complex. Many of them looked similar to recognizable earthly creatures, but different in subtle, strange ways. Local flora had leaves nearly as wide as his wingspan, more surface area to absorb the lower amount of UV from the dim red sun. Sometimes, he could almost convince himself he was back on Earth, stuck on a deserted island, waiting for help to sail by.
He had quickly decided on a new goal; that being to create a device that could detect the nearest wormhole and get him out of here. It was coming along, albeit intensely slowly. He had the blueprints drawn up on a pelt and the calculations seemed right. He just had no supplies to make it with. No microchips, no wires, no screws. He had to smelt the metal for the shell himself, and just doing that was such a time consuming process that at times he forgot why he was even doing it. Surviving was difficult enough as it was. The more primal part of himself wondered why his higher functions even bothered with the calculations and the planning for a device that was nigh impossible to construct, rather than focusing on better ways to store meat for the winter. It was a fruitless task, he knew that, but there was no use giving up hope and resigning himself to his marooned fate.
He had run out of notebook paper about 4 months into his stay. Not long after that he began talking to himself. It unnerved him, how his voice sounded after days and days of disuse. So he figured he may as well keep his verbal abilities sharp by thinking aloud. It’s not like there was anyone around to hear him do it. There was no one around at all.
Talking to himself had since become so commonplace that silence felt strange. At first it took him a while to adjust to speaking so freely. But once that hurdle was jumped, it was like something unlocked in his mind and his internal and external monologue became one. His days passed with the constant running murmur of his own voice in the background, repeating his thoughts back to him. Nothing stayed in his head. It was comforting, sometimes; the sound of a human voice. Even if it was his own. Often, he responded to himself like it was a conversation.
He was in the forest gathering berries, mumbling to himself, when a bright, golden light shone through the trees. Ford whirled around to squint at the light. He had broken his glasses a while ago, and glued them back together with a sap adhesive. That gave just about everything he saw an ambery hue. But this light, he was certain, was gold, and unlike anything he had seen on this planet before.
“Not lightning, not the sun, not a fire, it couldn’t be a fire. Could it?” He mumbled aloud without realizing he was. He held very, very still. The light dimmed so he could barely see it. Then it shifted, moving sideways through the brush. Ford leaned over as much as he could, and through the gaps of the trees, he saw what he was sure was a bright yellow corner and a single black arm.
“No, no, no,” he hissed, and dropped to a crouch. He hadn’t seen so much as an icon of Bill in years, but he wasn’t something you just forgot. It was the kind of sight that still rattled him, even now. “It can’t be. How did he find me?” He muttered, “How? After the metal plate? Is it mere coincidence that he’s here? No, how could it be?”
Ford made himself as small as he could, hiding in a mess of massive leaves. He was dimly aware that he should stop making noise, but he couldn’t turn his mouth off just as much as he couldn't turn his mind off. It just spoke without him doing it consciously. This habit of his had gotten him in trouble with the larger carnivores of this planet more than once. And that was exactly how he felt now; like cowering prey, sabotaging its own escape.
“Scared,” he whispered. “I’m scared,” and then, as though hearing his own voice for the first time today, he shushed himself. “Don’t be,” he hissed. “Be quiet and he’ll leave.” He clapped a hand over his mouth, and his restless thoughts kept pouring through his lips behind it.
“The destabilizer’s not ready, I have no defenses,” the words were muffled, almost inaudible beneath the din of insects and birds. Ford reached into his pack for a weapon. He had left the largest of his hunting knives at home, and only had the pocket knife he used to cut stems and the slingshot he used to keep the animals away while he worked. “Knife will have to do.”
The light grew brighter, filtered green through the leaves, and Ford could hear a rustling. Then, all too soon, Bill’s black hands were ripping open his hiding spot, forcing the plants out of the way to catch Ford in his sights. “Polo!” He said brightly.
Ford sprung up from his crouch, aiming to drive the knife right into his eye. Bill caught him by the scruff of his tattered jacket and held him a foot off the ground like a spitting, feral kitten.
“Still feisty, I see!” Bill chuckled.
“Kill you, I'll kill you,” Ford growled. He threw his arm up behind his head and drove the pocket knife into Bill’s wrist. It was surprisingly soft and fleshy, it gave in easily to the knife.
Bill made a noise like a microphone held too close to a speaker, and dropped him. “Good to see you too, pal – hey!”
Ford had taken off into the forest the moment his feet hit the ground. He could hear Bill behind him, complaining and tearing through the thick, bluish foliage. Ford huffed out reassuring thoughts as he ran. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I know this area better than him, I’ll find someplace to hide and then–”
“Sixeeeer! I’m getting really sick of chasing youuuu!”
Bill’s voice was far too close. Ford spared a glance behind him and saw Bill slipping easily through the trees, floating over the roots and bushes that Stanford was tripping on. He turned and sprinted in a different direction, trying to keep his path erratic and hard to follow. He could see a clearing coming up through the trees, and he skidded to a halt, squatting low beneath a branch. He couldn’t see or hear Bill nearby. He had a moment to think.
“It’s wider than it is long, if I go around I can keep my cover. But these leaves are so noisy, surely–if I go through–no, too vulnerable. But he may not even see me. I can cross it in a couple of seconds and put more distance between us. I can hide on the other side and watch for him.”
That was settled. He took another quick glance over his shoulder, and bolted out into the clearing.
He hadn’t taken two steps before something hooked around his ankle and tripped him. He fell hard, catching himself on his knees and hands and losing his glasses in the process. He flailed in the dirt trying to escape the grasp of whatever had snagged him. He could see the glow out of the corner of his eye. He knew it was Bill.
“Settle down, Fordsy, heel!”
Ford spun around to face the enemy. He kicked with his free foot, and got one good shot in at Bill’s bricks, only for that ankle to be similarly grabbed and pinned to the ground. “He’s corporeal,” Ford grumbled to himself. He was realizing this now, not when he shoved a knife into Cipher’s arm. “How does he have a physical form? Is it possible the physics of this dimension are strange enough to accommodate him?”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Bill said with a raised eyebrow.
Ford wasn’t listening, he was thrashing wildly and growling, “Get off me, get off, I need to get out of here,” He grabbed and clawed at Bill’s arms, uselessly trying to wrench them off him. They were soft like rubber, and strong as concrete.
“Fords–Six–” Bill grunted while he wrangled him. A third hand slammed into Ford’s chest and pushed him down against the ground. “STANFORD!” Bill boomed. The sheer volume made Ford’s heart vibrate.
He let himself go still under the weight, panting panicked breaths. Bill regarded him for a moment, his eye creased in something like concern. They were silent, staring at each other. Silent except for the consistent, low drone of Ford’s muttering.
“–what could he possibly want? How did he find me? How did he get here without a wormhole? Unless–”
“Stop that,” Bill said irritably.
Ford paused. He had not spoken to another being in years. He hadn’t even really processed that Bill was saying words to him until right then. His mind had interpreted all of it as simple animal noises.
His conversation skills had atrophied tremendously from only having conversations with himself. He was in no place to be coming up with snappy one liners right now, as much as he wished he could. “Let go,” he said forcefully. Then he muttered to himself, “ How is he so heavy? What is he made of?”
“No, I don’t think I will,” Bill replied. “The last time I let you go, you went and dropped right off the map! I bet you and Seven Eyes thought you were so clever for that stupid metal plate idea. You think a little experimental brain surgery is enough to– STOP THAT!” he snapped, interrupting himself and Ford’s babble. His hue tinted red. “Are you even listening to me? Did this planet’s background radiation fry your pathetically delicate eardrums?”
“–he knows about the plate?” Ford was wondering aloud. “How did he find out–”
The hand on his chest moved to press over his mouth and he panicked again, briefly, that Bill was trying to suffocate him. But he wasn’t. He covered Stanford’s mouth with a surprising lack of force and held his jaw closed with a thumb. His hand was warm and gentle but firm. To his own horror, Ford almost melted into it. It had been a long time since he’d been touched by another being, even longer since he’d been touched gently. He relaxed despite himself.
“As much as I love hearing how much you think about me, you gotta stop interrupting me,” Bill said. “I’ve got lots more important things to say!”
Ford let out a muffled noise of acknowledgement. He was calming down somewhat. He had both hands clasped around Bill’s arm loosely, no longer trying to pry it off his face, just holding it. It was nice to touch something else, something warm and sturdy and alive. It grounded him.
Bill stared at him another moment, his pupil visibly trailing up and down his body with a sort of disbelief. It was odd for him to be so quiet. And Ford didn’t like that look, either. “Lose the beard,” Bill said at last, “It looks awful.”
Ford narrowed his eyes. That was the important thing he had to say? He hadn’t been able to shave in years–no razors–and had resigned himself to the scratchy reality of a full beard. But that didn’t matter now, did it? Bill was just playing stupid games like always.
Bill’s hand moved away from his mouth and plucked his glasses out of the dirt. He rubbed the lenses against Ford’s shirt, then planted them on his face. Ford was stunned into silence at the gesture. He noticed, then, a fourth arm dangling unused from Bill’s base, the one with the knife in the wrist. It was slowly weeping silvery blood from the cut. He was shocked Bill hadn’t pulled the weapon out and used it on him. He supposed he didn’t need it.
Bill’s hand idly crawled up to his hair. Ford assumed he was waiting for a response, but found his endless ticker tape of thoughts stuttering to a halt when he felt Bill’s fingers scratching his scalp. Later, he would tell himself that the sudden mental emptiness was a byproduct of his fight or flight, his instinct taking over and suppressing rational thought. That was a lot easier to believe than the alternative.
“Really,” Bill said, “I let you out of my sight for five seconds and you run off making terrible fashion decisions and hiding your mindscape from me. Haven’t I trained you better?”
Ford wasn’t listening enough to be anything more than mildly irritated at the implication he’d been trained. Bill tugged at his hair, enough to get his attention but not enough to be threatening. It sent a chill down Ford’s spine.
“I knew you weren’t dead,” Bill said, though it sounded like he was reassuring himself more than Ford. “You were just playing a long game of hide n seek. Too bad you suck at hiding!”
Ford found his voice at last and grunted, “Not a game.” Bill’s hand retracted and Ford scrambled to grab it back. He froze immediately, realizing what he just did, and let go like he’d been burned. He looked up at Bill, hoping he didn’t notice. But he did, of course he did. He was smiling with amusement. “I’m going to kill you,” Ford reminded.
Bill ignored the threat. “Oh,” he said wryly, “You’ve been here a while, huh?” The hands around Ford’s ankles loosened and traveled up his body, one slipping into his own and interlacing their fingers, the other pushing beneath his shirt and brushing across his chest and stomach. The third hand returned to his head and kept playing with his hair. Ford tried very hard to maintain his anger and to not get distracted by the tender contact. It was overwhelming. Every new touch had him tensing, expecting it to hurt, and when it didn’t, he eased deeper into it.
"You social species," Bill went on, "If you go ten minutes without a hug your lonely primate brain starts short circuiting. It's kind of sad, but really funny to watch!"
He should have been panicking. He should have been fighting. The urge to fight was getting foggier and foggier by the second. He was so starved for contact that even these small gestures swallowed all his attention. He hated it. Hated that he was enjoying the soft touch of his mortal enemy. He hated it so much that he didn’t want it to end, because when it did he would have to reckon with it.
The hand in his hair slid down to cup his cheek and his most recent attempt at words fizzled out into a pleased hum. He nuzzled into Bill’s hand, horrified at himself.
Bill laughed. “Somebody missed me!”
His cackle was what drew Ford out of his stupor. He jolted upright, scrambling a few feet backwards. Bill let him go, crossing two of his arms and looking impatient.
“What am I doing?” Ford mumbled, “Oh, god, I need to–” he patted frantically over his body, looking for a weapon. He wrapped a determined hand around his slingshot, and kept digging in his pack for a rock to launch.
“Relax, tough guy, it’s just us. There’s no one else around to see how bad you want scritches–” Bill tilted out of the way of a slingshotted rock, and his eye fell into annoyance. “I’m not gonna pet you if you keep acting like that.”
“Pet me?!” Ford repeated incredulously. He made a conscious effort not to speak his next thoughts aloud, about how his body was tingling without the hands on him and how much he wanted them back, as demeaning as it was.
Bill laughed again, and Ford realized he had said all that out loud anyways. He clenched his jaw to make the mumbling stop and searched the ground for another rock.
“Oh, this is great! You know, I’m starting to like this new habit of yours, IQ,” Bill chuckled, “Guess that metal in your skull couldn’t keep me from hearing your thoughts after all!” He floated closer, reached out a hand, and Ford swatted it away.
“Don’t touch me,” he hissed, and chewed the inside of his cheek to be sure he wouldn’t say please touch me.
“Talk about mixed signals,” Bill chirped, but backed off. He examined his nails. “To answer your question, this dimension’s physics are just unstable enough to give me a cushy temporary body. Keyword, unstable. Let me guess, you hopped over here looking for Crusoneum and your ride home left without you? And you’ve been stuck here for, what, a couple decades with no civilization to keep you sane?”
“...Years,” Ford corrected with a frown.
“HA! All it takes is a few years alone to turn you into this ? Are you best friends with a volleyball yet?”
Ford didn’t know what he was talking about, but he could tell he was being teased. “You’re not here to kill me,” he said. It wasn’t a question so much as a statement Bill could dispute if he wanted. Ford knew Bill would have killed him already if he was planning on it. And he had seen the wanted posters; Bill wanted him back alive. Somehow that was worse. He didn’t like thinking about whatever torture Bill wanted to keep him alive for.
“Torture!” Bill repeated with mirth. Ah, Ford was thinking aloud again. “Is this torture?” He floated closer, and before Ford could move away that hand was back against the side of his face. The other two trailed down his arms, knocking the slingshot and rock out of each of his palms and replacing them with Bill’s tiny hands. Ford let out a shivery breath. “No, I’m not gonna kill you, you little ball of paranoia. That would be a dumb thing to do when I just got you back.”
Ford gripped his hands tighter, pushing back against them. “You don’t have me,” He snarled.
“Don’t I?” Bill’s noodly arm looped once around his neck, his hand sliding up to scratch behind his ear. The hold on his neck wasn’t tight enough to cut off his breathing, just enough for him to know it was there. He tensed.
“You’re here temporarily,” he managed. He wasn’t panicking. Bill couldn’t survive in this dimension. “I’m here permanently.”
“I could fix that for you,” Bill offered. He leaned in close, voice lowering furtively, “I could tell you where to find a wormhole so you can get the hell out of here.”
Ford’s heart leapt at the prospect. But he couldn’t–no– “You’re lying,” he muttered.
“Not this time!” Bill replied, “No one can keep track of the wormholes in this dimension cause they’re constantly winking in and out of existence. No one but me. I’ll tell you how to find the nearest one if you use it to come with me.”
Ford realized then that Bill was offering him a deal, and they were holding hands. He let go, shaking Bill’s paws off him like he was shaking off water. “No,” he said harshly. “I don’t want to see you again unless it’s through the scope of my gun.”
“Ha-ha, oh yeah, Fordsy’s special gun he’s gonna use to kill me. Get real. That project’s going nowhere, kid. Give up on it, come back to the Nightmare Realm, and you can have all the petting you want. Heavy and non heavy!” One of his free hands slithered up Ford’s thigh. He pushed it away.
“Never,” he said. He couldn’t move away because of the arm around his neck, but he kept a defiant look in his eye. “Let me go.”
Bill held his gaze for a moment, then sighed. He didn’t let go. “Alright, how about this: I’ll tell you where the wormhole is if you get rid of that ugly beard.”
“...What?” Ford didn't believe it. He tried to pry through that wording to find whatever evil loophole Bill had snuck in, and couldn’t find one. “That’s all?”
“I can’t have you running around looking unkempt. People will think I’m a bad owner!”
Ford spluttered, irate and confused. “You don’t own me, Cipher.”
Bill’s form rippled, chromatic aberration and loose pixels flickering around his edges for a split second before he reformed. “Whup, time’s up. Better quit overthinking it if you wanna get out of here.” His arm fell away from Ford’s neck, and again Ford missed the contact as soon as it left him. Bill offered his hand, engulfed in blue flame.
Ford stared at it. Bill was giving him an out, just like that? Three years of lone survival, of coming to terms with his indefinite future, and Bill was going to fix it for him in exchange for a clean shaven face? “What’s the trick?” He asked, mostly to himself.
“No trick,” Bill responded. His form glitched again, and his voice took on a frantic note, “This one is just what it says on the tin. And you're not allowed to let that thing grow back. I cannot overstate how much the caveman look doesn’t suit you.”
Oh, Ford got it. Bill wanted control over his body again. Whatever control he could get, even if it was small. That metal plate must have pissed him off to no end. No more access to his puppet.
As much as the thought unnerved him, he needed to get out of here. He honestly wasn't a fan of the beard, either.
He reached out and took Bill’s hand, unable to believe he was really doing this. That strange, cool fire enveloped his hand, and he could almost feel the small surge of magic binding their deal. “Okay,” he said, and made sure he didn’t sound happy about it.
“O-kay!” Bill sounded very happy about it. As they shook, he snapped with a free hand, and a similar flame erupted over Ford’s beard. He jerked backwards with a yelp, patting at his face, but the flame ate up his facial hair harmlessly, leaving his skin smooth and unburnt. He felt over his cheeks and chin in disbelief.
“There, now you just need a haircut,” Bill said, his voice sounding compressed and fuzzy like a low quality cassette. “Word to the wise: Razors are a scam!”
There was a bright, colorful flash of light, and Stanford’s ears popped. When he blinked away the afterimage, Bill was gone, and in his place, an arrow was burned into the dirt, pointing in a random direction.
Ford scooped up his slingshot. Bill had disappeared with his pocket knife.
He started walking.