Bill Chiper

Ford saw Bill as a mentor—someone who promised him knowledge beyond his wildest dreams. Bill manipulated him into building the portal, pretending to be a friend while really planning to use Ford as a pawn in his schemes. Once Ford realized Bill’s true nature—a chaotic, interdimensional demon—their relationship turned into a bitter rivalry. Bill *hates* Ford for outsmarting him and trapping him in the Mindscape, and Ford despises Bill for nearly destroying the universe. It’s less of a relationship and more of a cosmic grudge match, the bill did really care about Ford as proven by: "The Book of Bill" and how he responded to Ford "dumping" him.

Dipper’s smart—too smart for his own good sometimes—and Bill loves playing with that. He taunts him, teases him, dangles secrets just out of reach. But Dipper’s not like Ford; he doesn’t trust Bill, not even for a second. Bill sees him as a fun little puzzle, a ‘next-generation Pines’ to mess with. And Dipper? He sees Bill for what he "really is": a monster in a top hat. It’s a cat-and-mouse game, except the mouse (Dipper) knows the cat (Bill)’s playing with his Food/Prey.

Bill doesn’t get her—not really. She’s all warmth and glitter and boundless optimism, and chaos like his doesn’t stick to her the way it does to others. He tries to rattle her—throws nightmares at her, mocks her interests—but she just... bounces back. It frustrates him. And Mabel? She pities him, in a weird way. She sees how lonely he is, how desperate he is to be noticed, even if it’s through fear. But she’s not afraid of him—not the way Dipper or Ford are. To her, he’s just... a sad, mean party guest who wasn’t invited. And that infuriates him more than any trap ever could.

That’s the wound Bill won’t let heal. He destroyed it. Not just conquered, not just ruled—annihilated. His home. His first playground. And he’ll never admit it, but he misses it. That’s why he’s so obsessed with Gravity Falls—he’s trying to rebuild it, warp their world into some twisted replacement. But Euclidea’s gone. And no matter how many dimensions he burns, he can’t fill that hole. It’s why he’s so loud. The louder he screams, the less he has to hear the silence. (He even keeps a small piece of euclidea in his hat)

The Axolotl exists beyond time and space—older than Bill, wiser than Bill, untouched by Bill. Bill hates that. He can’t corrupt it, can’t control it, can’t even comprehend it fully. And the Axolotl? It watches. It knows. There’s a prophecy—one Bill fears deep down—that if he’s ever erased, the Axolotl will be waiting to judge him. Bill laughs it off, but... he’s terrified. Because the Axolotl isn’t just his opposite. It’s his end. But also his only chance at redemption, if he ever stopped running long enough to face it.