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The Axolotl has no official affiliation with the Theraprism. It is a timeless being; a manifestation of forces that move outside of reality, cosmic and unknowing, benevolent by virtue of its own indifference.
Bill Cipher is a grain of sand. Bill Cipher is a mote of dust. Bill Cipher is not enjoying the Axolotl’s compromise.
If its perspective were a little more constrained, it might have been more sympathetic to Bill’s plight. What is reincarnation but death of self? In what way has Bill Cipher been delivered? Is he not still burning, even now? But the Axolotl’s perspective is vast, and it doesn’t really care what Bill thinks of his situation, because Bill asked to return, and that wish was granted.
Transaction complete. Card punched. Another satisfied customer.
Except–
The Axolotl is a being outside of time. The Axolotl cannot be harmed in a way that matters, as it does not exist in a way that matters.
Except–
There is no way to talk to the Axolotl. There is no way to communicate with it, to pray to it, to invoke it. Everything that is and that has ever been has passed through its gills; nothing is overlooked, and nothing draws its eye.
Well, except–
It’s really unfortunate that Stanford Filbrick Pines exists. This is the kind of thought the Axolotl would be having if it had the capacity to have a targeted thought or opinion about anything, ever. It would be having this thought roughly two years after the events of Weirdmaggedon, from the perspective of somebody living in Dimension 46'\. Not that it matters. None of it really matters, right?
It could be argued that Ford Pines does matter, actually. He matters quite a bit, and the Axolotl feels what could be described as dull irritation at this sentiment. One could argue that Ford matters to Bill, therefore mattering to most of reality at large by proxy, because Bill matters to a lot of people in a very direct way – but not to the Axolotl, usually, because the Axolotl is, as established, a non-being that doesn’t exist in any way that can be interacted with outside of metaphor.
Except Ford is snapping his fingers in front of the Axolotl’s cosmic, unknowable, unknowing eyes and saying, “Hey– hey. I know you can hear me. Undulate if you can hear me.”
The Axolotl obliges.
“Good. Now– care to tell me what this is?” Ford Pines pulls a book from the recesses of his coat, neither of which are metaphorical or allegorical, and it’s really starting to unsettle the Axolotl that it’s apparently perceiving these actions play out in linear time.
It’s a book, though. As indicated by the narration. The Axolotl knows this and knows that Ford Pines knows this — though, Ford probably isn’t aware of the narration.
“Yes,” Ford says with the pinched expression of someone regretting making a phone call, “I am quite aware of– thank you. Let me be more specific: why the hell is Bill still alive? How is Bill alive?”
The Axolotl isn’t really interested in answering that question. Isn’t it self evident, as all things are?
“I would be inclined to disagree–”
The Axolotl is significantly more preoccupied with the various sensations emanating from its own body. Is it… in water?
Ford opens the book, flips to the back, and turns it. “Theraprism,” he says, tone damning, like it means anything. “You sent him somewhere.”
Couldn’t it be argued that Bill’s own actions sent him there?
Ford’s face suddenly seems very large. To a creature with no prior experience with foreshortening or relative sizes in three-dimensional space, the change is abrupt and jarring.
“Bill isn’t dead,” Ford says. “My family isn’t safe. No one is safe, do you understand me?”
Bill isn’t even a blip on the cosmic scale. Bill is a fallen leaf from an autumn long past. Bill is a wave, already broken on the shore.
“No.” Ford sounds angry. “I don’t think you get what I’m asking, here. I need to see him.”
The Theraprism is very selective about its admissions process.
“I am not looking to become institutionalized, I am asking for him to be extradited.”
The Axolotl doesn’t know what to say to this. It kicks its back legs; finds, to its amusement, that this action serves to propel it forward through the water. Delightful.
Ford’s face recedes. His eyebrows are raised; his mouth is open; the expression is one of disbelief. “Like asking the tide to rise,” he says. “Pull the plug, Stanley. This thing won’t help us.”
And the Axolotl is as it ever was.