Gravity Rises (S3)

TTF: Part Four

Ford lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The morning grew late, and yet. . . Ford just lay there. As soon as he'd woken up, he'd frantically recorded his dream in his dream journal. Then. . .

Then he'd realized just how bizarre the entire thing sounded. He'd had to lie back down for a while after that.

"I can help, Sixer," the creature had said. "I've been keeping an eye on you. You're really something special, aren't you?"

This creature — this Bill Cipher — claimed to be a powerful being who could only visit people in their dreams. He said he had a lot of knowledge, including most — if not all — of the answers Ford had been searching for. But why now, why at the time Ford needed it the most? Was this just a hallucination from his tired mind? Ford knew he was high-strung, but he had half a mind to declare himself insane for fabricating something like this!

A hesitant knock sounded at his door.

"St-Stanford?"

Ford sat up. Was it truly that late? He was usually the one waiting for Fiddleford, not the other way around.

"Just a moment," he called. Maybe some human interaction would do him some good, after these crazy dreams. He got up, got ready, grabbed his third Journal, and pulled open the door.

Even though it'd been a few minutes, Fidds stood outside Ford's door like he hadn't moved whatsoever. His face was drawn with worry — not an unfamiliar expression for Fiddleford, but certainly unusual this early in the day.

"Fidds? You okay?"

Fidds started — honestly, everything startled this man. "Yes. I-I mean, no. I-I-I mean — did you see him too?"

Ford's stomach lurched. "See who?"

"B-Bill Cipher."

For a moment, Ford just stared at his research partner. "Where. . . where did you hear that name?" Perhaps — perhaps it was a name Ford had heard before, in waking life — perhaps he wasn't crazy—

"In my dreams. Did he. . . did he visit you?" Fidds gave Ford a hesitant, but curious, look. "He said he was going to."

Ford frowned. "Yes. . . yes, he did. Have you spoken to him before? How long have you known him?"

A curtain of guilt fell over Fidds' face. "J-j-just this week. I've been t-talking to him the past couple nights, a-and I was. . . I was too afraid to tell you. I'm sorry."

Well, Ford couldn't blame him — it's not like Ford had been planning on sharing his strange dream; it made sense that Fidds would likewise keep them to himself. "What has he said to you?" he asked. "Is he legitimate?"

Fidds nodded slowly. "I-I think he's the real deal," he said. "A-a-after all, he showed up in both our dreams, and we ain't never talked about him before, have we?" When Fidds got nervous, he tended to slip back into his natural Southern drawl.

Ford shook his head. "We haven't," he replied. "I. . . I guess he is the 'real deal,' as you say — it wouldn't be too hard to believe in a place such as this — but. . ." He put a hand to his head. "I don't know, it just seems too good to be true."

"I guess so," Fidds said. "But — but Stanford! Do you know what this means? We can finally get our answers! If this creature — this muse, if you would — wants to help us, then I say we take him up on the offer!"

"Muse. . . ," Ford said. Bill had used that terminology to refer to himself, too. He'd made it sound like he only offered his service to the most brilliant of people. And, well — Ford qualified under that umbrella, if he did say so himself.