Chapter Text
You know those terrible books you’d read in middle school? The ones where some kid from Nowheresville, Futureland finds out they’ve got special magic powers that the government wants to suppress so society doesn’t devolve into chaos? That’s what happened to little Billy Cipher one Flat, fateful morning in the Second Dimension. More or less.
He’d been seeing things nobody else could see since the day he opened his eye. Shapes and colors and concepts that twinkled somewhere far away, vying for his attention. Trying to reach for them felt like pressing against an impassable membrane, impossible to shove through no matter how hard he pushed. He was pinned beneath a KEEP OUT sign that only made the need to get past it a million times stronger.
His parents thought it was cute at first. Wasn’t Billy so creative? So imaginative? How lucky they were to have such a starry-eyed son, even if they didn’t know what stars were to begin with. He’d grow out of it eventually, but wasn’t it charming?
In a twist no one could have seen coming, he didn’t grow out of it, and it stopped being charming. In fact, it started to get properly concerning the older he got. At five years old, he was confusing his classmates, perplexing his parents, and driving his teachers moderately insane on a daily basis. Playing make-believe at recess? He refused to participate in any game that didn’t involve those big bright things Up there — which was all of them, because nobody knew what the hell he was talking about. Doing arts and crafts in class? He’d just draw arrows pointing “Up” and “Down,” complete with messy labels, while the other kids drew Flat shapes in a Flat world.
“You mean Over and Under, Billy,” his teacher corrected.
“Nope,” said Bill. He pointed above his head. “That’s Over.” He pointed at the stars. “That’s Up.”
Not for the first time, she nudged at glasses and did her best (which wasn’t very good) to see where he was gesturing. “What is?”
“That!” He was looking straight at it, at all the Up in front of him, but his teacher just sighed. He was used to that by now; the school parts of school were easy, but the people parts were way too hard. Getting anyone on board with Up was pretty much impossible. It didn’t surprise him when a week later, he was in the doctor’s office, playing with a basket of toys while the adults talked about him like he wasn’t in the room.
“There’s one little thing we wanted to check on,” said Euclid, using that tone adults always do when there’s something wrong with their kid but no one knows what yet. A dash of caution, a splash of misplaced hope. “It could be nothing at all, it’s just…. It’s this word he keeps using. ‘Up.’ One of his first words, believe it or not!”
“We didn’t, at first — believe it, that is.” Scalene, busy watching Bill yank the head off a stuffed bear and stick it onto a plastic doll’s foot, didn’t notice the way the doctor’s eyes widened. “Because we didn’t teach it to him.”
There was more to be said, but it was interrupted by a loud CRACK. Little Billy, it seemed, had snapped the doll’s leg off entirely, and was now jamming it thigh-first into the stuffing that spilled from the stump of the poor bear’s neck. “Look!” he said proudly, and Scalene smiled. “Now it can bite you from way higher Up.”
“That… that sure is weird, buddy. Great job.” While Scalene’s quiet laugh wasn’t white battle-weary, it was definitely somewhere close.
Nodding in thought, watching Bill intently, the doctor said, “Is this out-of-the-box thinking usual for him?”
“Definitely,” said Euclid. “He’s a creative kid. Loves mixing things around, making things weird. That goes for real things and imaginary ones. He’s been talking about Up day in and day out for years; once he figured out sentences, he wouldn’t stop telling us how scared he was of falling.”
“We didn’t teach him that, either. If you go too far Over, you come back from Under,” said Scalene. “Everyone knows that. Billy knows it, too. He’s a smart boy.”
“Too smart for his own good.” Euclid’s voice was tinged with the weariness of a thousand sleepless nights. “But he just won’t leave this whole Up thing be. He seems so convinced that it’s real.”
Bill rooted around through the toys, searching for another piece to add to his custom-made monstrosity. “That’s ‘cause it is,” he said. “If I imagined Up by myself, it would have teeth. Big teeth on all the stars so they could chomp each other into little pieces, and then they’d keep chomping and chomping for a million years until the only one left was a huge mega-star with the most teeth you’ve ever seen. Do you have teeth I can borrow?” he added, glancing at the dumbstruck doctor and holding out his creation. He jostled the basket with his other hand. “I wanna give the legbear teeth for eyes, but I don’t think you put any in here.”
The doctor grabbed her pens and clicked one, open-shut, open-shut. She hadn’t blinked in well over a minute. It took visible effort for her to remove her attention from Bill as she said, “I’m glad you folks came to see me today. From an entirely professional point of view, this… definitely doesn’t sound like it’s nothing.”
“What does it sound like?” Scalene asked.
“Something that I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. It’s nothing too dangerous,” she added when both parents gave little gasps of worry. “It has to do with his vision, and I’m not a specialist in that sort of thing.”
Euclid reached for Scalene’s hand. “Is there anyone who can help?”
“Yes. Yes, there is. I’m going to write you a referral.” The doctor scratched out a string of colorful squares in that illegible way that transcends language and dimension to ensure that no one but other medical professionals can read the sacred text.
“A referral. That’s great. For an eye doctor?”
She paused a little too long before answering. “Of a kind,” she said. “You’ll be heading to the Department of SuperVision.”
Scalene and Euclid exchanged a glance that contained several questions, all of which pertained to whether or not this woman was pulling their legs. “The what now?” said Euclid.
The doctor’s pen stilled against the paper. “Mr. and Mrs. Cipher, I’m going to be as frank with you as I can be. There’s a reason why you haven’t heard of the Department until now. I’m putting in a rush order to have Billy seen as soon as possible, and until then, you’ll have to keep Up to yourselves. No more discussing it with friends, with family, with teachers. This goes for all of you.”
Bill set his toy (which now had a large gash across its mouth that formed some toothless perversion of a grin) aside. “So what am I supposed to talk about?” he asked.
“Just about anything else,” the doctor told him. “Normal things. Things your friends and family like to talk about, too.”
“But that stuff’s boring,” Bill said, prodding at the cracked remains of the doll’s body. “Everybody is always so boring. Why can’t I talk about anything fun?”
“Because it’s not allowed, and doing things that aren’t allowed can be bad for our friends.”
Bill didn’t have any friends, so that didn’t sound like a huge deal to him. (People didn’t usually like to listen while he talked to them, so he mostly just talked at them until they either started crying or ran off to find a teacher.)
“Just fit in,” said the doctor, “and everything will be fine. The SuperVisor will help you feel better as long as you do what he says. Easy peasy, right?” Her response was a roar from the legbear.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m following,” said Euclid. “How serious is this?”
There was sympathy in the doctor’s eyes. Sympathy and a touch of pity. She watched little Billy for a minute at least. “Very.”
Very, schmery. Bill grabbed his legbear and tore off one of its arms, then happily stuck the doll’s head in its place. He flung the amputated arm across the room just to hear the dull thump it made when it hit the wall, laughing all the while. If anyone was looking at him funny, he was none the wiser. He had a toy in his hand and the stars in the Up, and in this moment, that was his whole universe.
The Department of SuperVision was stark and white and empty. Probably the worst place for keeping your eye busy Bill had ever seen. That wasn’t a problem, of course — he had Up right there, after all — but it made him feel bad for anyone who had to come here that couldn’t see all those shapes and colors like he could. Everything here looked boring and smelled funny. He wanted to go home.
His parents each held one of his hands as they passed by a million identical doors on their way to wherever his appointment would be. Bill tried counting them, but he got bored after seven and switched to counting the stars instead.
When they found the right room, the specialist was already seated in a sharp, angular chair. Bill sat on the equally angular exam table and waved hello, but the SuperVisor , a serious-looking rhombus with a serious-looking frown, didn’t wave back; he just grabbed some tools and got to work inspecting the sides of Bill’s eye. He shined a light through it, held a magnifying glass to it, got as close as he could and stared, stared, stared. Bill swung his feet from side to side and kept on watching the stars.
“See anything cool?” he asked after a while, wondering when this would be over so he could go get the trapezoidal ice cream he’d been promised. When the SuperVisor didn’t reply, Bill scooted away from him and waved a hand next to his face.
“Hey! Mister! This is boring. Is my eye awesome or not?”
The SuperVisor lowered whatever weird doctor-y thing he was holding. “This eye is… well, it’s strange.” He looked to the parents, who both wore the grimace-grins of people who were bracing for some truly terrible news. “We’d call it a mutation. It’s not something we come across often, but it is something we know how to treat.”
“What are we treating? Is something wrong with him?” Scalene asked.
“Not physically,” the SuperVisor said. “But mentally, the things he sees could begin to take a toll on him if left unattended. Give me a moment.” He swept out of the room just long enough for Euclid and Scalene to shift uncertainly in their seats; then he returned, a little white cup in his hand, like he’d had it waiting outside the door all along.
“This should help quite a bit with those pesky visions,” said the SuperVisor. He set the cup beside Bill and took out a clipboard, not bothering to spare his patient a glance.
“Visions?” Bill said.
“Yes, visions. Those stars you think you see. The Up. Drinking this will help them go away.”
Bill frowned as much as something without a mouth could manage. “But they’re cool. I like them. One time two of them crashed into each other, and there was this big light, like PSSCHSCHWW, and then —”
“Sometimes we like things that aren’t good for us,” said the SuperVisor, scribbling his squares just like the doctor had. “But trust me, son, you won’t miss all that nonsense one bit when you’re feeling better. This will help you.”
Why was this guy talking about him like he was sick? He didn’t need help. He felt fine. This whole thing was dumb, anyway. Bill tuned out as best he could and watched a comet trail across the Up above him.
“You’re sure this is necessary?” asked Scalene. “He’s perfectly happy. One of the happiest boys I know.”
“Positive.”
“I’m only worried that —”
“Let me ask you a question.” The SuperVisor caught her gaze and held it fast. “This happiness, does it come at the expense of his social life? Maybe you notice him isolating from his peers at school, or failing to fit in with other children his age. Up may keep him placated now, but in time, this obsession will only amplify all of these problems tenfold.”
Euclid clearly shared Scalene’s uncertainty, but the SuperVisor’s words seemed to have sparked something more. “He’s always been… he’s so bored. Always bored, with everything around him. Nothing here is interesting enough for him. Nothing’s weird enough. His classmates want to play hopscotch, and he wants to… what is it he says, honey?”
“Sail the stars,” Scalene supplied.
“Right. Whatever that means. This medicine, would it help to make him less bored? I don’t want to dull that spark in him — he’s so clever, but —”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said the SuperVisor. “He’ll even out. Now, Billy, take a sip of that medicine.”
Upon hearing his name, Bill returned his attention to the room (begrudgingly, because he’d just noticed a brand new star that looked kind of purplish when he squinted but white when his eye was open wide). He wasn’t sure why his parents looked so sad, but he figured doing what they wanted him to might help. He lifted the cup and shuddered at the smell.
Whatever was inside it was a mix of every awful thing he knew and a dozen more he didn’t. Paint thinner and old eggs and garbage and, somehow, the metaphysical concept of loneliness. Getting this stuff away from him was way more important than whatever they thought was best. He threw it without aiming, letting its contents fly across the room. “Eugh, no thanks!”
“Billy!” Scalene exclaimed, far more sternly than Bill would have expected. “That is not how we act! SuperVisor we’re so sorry. He can be stubborn.”
“It’s just some stupid medicine,” Bill said. “What’s the big deal? I don’t even feel sick.” He looked to the SuperVisor, who did not appear pleased. “Am I sick?”
“In a sense, yes,” said the SuperVisor. He sat again in his pointy chair, staring him down like a single blink might give Bill the time to bolt out of the room and never come back. “You think you see things that nobody else can. This Up that you’re so fascinated by, this supposed dimension outside of our own, it’s not something that would be healthy for you to continue fixating on.”
“But —”
The SuperVisor spoke over him, addressing his parents now. Bill did not like this guy. Not one bit. “You’ll need to find a way to ensure he takes this medication,” the SuperVisor said. “I won’t deny that it’s not the tastiest thing, but if he refuses it, there will be consequences of both the governmental and behavioral varieties. Just three sips a day, and he’ll be on the road to recovery, to fitting in, in no time.” Then, to Bill once more: “Wouldn’t you like that, Billy? To fit in?”
Not really. Not if it meant no more Up. But he knew what his parents needed to hear him say, so he said it. “Yeah. I would.”
His parents smiled, and the SuperVisor nodded, and he ate all the ice cream he wanted on the drive home.
The next morning, Scalene entered his room with a bright blue cup and a red silly straw. Euclid turned up not long after, his eyes crinkled with encouragement as Bill took the cup in his little hands and stared at its contents.
“This will help you, Billy,” they told him. “Just a sip, okay?”
Okay. He could do that. Help was good. He could be good. So he closed his eye and drank.
Ooooooooh man. Oh no. Oh yuck yuck yuck. It tasted just as bad as it smelled. If anything, it tasted worse. A billion times worse. Sour and bitter and acidic and some secret fourth thing all battling for the title of Most Awful Flavor and somehow all winning at the same time. But his parents would be so sad if he spit it out.
He pretended the silly straw made the bad taste go away. It didn’t, not even a little bit, but the way his parents beamed when he swallowed the nasty stuff made him think it could maybe be worth it. He really, really hoped it was worth it. It wasn’t, of course. Not for him.
After a single day of doses, he learned that the medicine didn’t get rid of the stars; it just dulled them. Muddled them. Swirled them all into mush he couldn’t focus on no matter how hard he tried. School got harder and classmates got friendlier. He didn’t have the energy to engage with any of it. But he had to take this medicine; it was going to make him better. It was going to make him fit in. He couldn’t fit in on his own, could he? The SuperVisor swore that medicine was the only way.
Luckily, Bill was good at finding loopholes. If he looked hard enough, he could find one here. Some way to see the stars and keep his parents happy, too. Some way to feel alive without ruining everything for everyone around him. He could make that happen. He would. He had to.
The checkups started not long after, and though they grew fewer and further between as time went on, they never stopped. Even after ten years, he could hardly go a handful of months without “touching base,” as his parents called it. They had taken to acting like these visits didn’t exist. None of them talked about what they were for or who they were with. They just happened, then ended, then happened again. Sometimes Bill was dropped off at the SuperVisor’s office after school without warning; sometimes the SuperVisor came to him. Today’s visit was the second sort. He stood just inside Bill’s front door when he got home for the weekend, clipboard beside him, pens at the ready.
Bill un-Velcroed his shoes and kicked them off, heading straight past him. This asshole didn’t deserve his full attention. “SuperVisor!” he said, laying the very fake excitement on as thick as he could. “It’s such a not-pleasure to have you drop by. Can I get you anything? A map back to your office? A turtle with too many heads?”
“I’m not here for a chat,” said the Super, unfazed as he always somehow managed to be.
“Aww, you don’t wanna catch up? We haven’t hung out in forever! How long’s it been — a day? Maybe three? It’s just not the same around here without you, buddy.”
The SuperVisor was already scribbling. “Seven months and twenty-three days,” he said. “You know we like to keep —”
“Keep things spontaneous! Trust me, I’m aware.” Bill had to admit it was nice that the Super hardly ever looked away from his notes; it meant Bill was free to glower at him for nearly the whole appointment. “One thing you don’t change too often is those questions of yours, though. I’ve been working on some new answers to them. Go ahead, ask your first one. I’ll show you what I’m workshopping.”
The SuperVisor eyed him with the same suspicion he always did, plus a little extra just for flavor. “What is Up, Bill?”
“Not much! What’s Up with you?” Bill laughed like it was the funniest joke ever conceived and was rewarded with a lifeless lifted eyebrow in response. He let it drag on for a good fifteen seconds longer than it needed to before sobering just enough to say, “Up’s the same thing today as it was last time you asked, Super. Nothing, nowhere, and very illegal.”
He nodded, writing writing writing his stupid, colorful notes. “And you’ve been keeping with your medication?”
Oh, not even a little bit. It was way too easy to fake drinking it. He’d been so good, after all, once they started using those silly straws. No one had any reason to think he’d started to pour it where they couldn’t see or spit it out as soon as they looked away. If his parents or the Super were ever smart enough to keep an eye on him while he took it, he’d just suck it into the straw and plug a finger over the top, holding the dose inside until he could go water some flowers with it. (Scalene never could get those poppies in the yard to stop wilting.)
“Sure have!” Bill said, then immediately redirected. “I gotta say, you’re looking sharp today!”
The SuperVisor blinked at him. Maybe this guy had a joke allergy. Maybe Bill could make him break out in hives with the right pun.
“Get it? Because you’re pointy?”
“I understood, Bill, thank you,” he said humorlessly. “Now, on a scale of one to ten, could you rank —?”
“The clarity of my visions? Wow, I totally just read your mind there. We know each other so well, don’t we, ol’ pal?” Bill sat on the sofa, crossing his legs like only the most unbothered of triangles might, batting his lashes as infuriatingly as possible.
“One to ten, please.”
Man, this guy was boring. “Ugh. Negative three. You know I don’t see anything.” (He did see things.) “I haven’t in years!” (He was seeing them right now.) “This routine’s gotta get boring, Supes. Ask me something interesting for a change!”
The SuperVisor clicked his pen half a dozen times before speaking again. “If I were to ask you to describe the stars, how would you do so?”
“Okay, what you just did there? That was the exact opposite of what I told you to do.” Bill pretended not to notice the SuperVisor’s almighty sigh.
“I understand that you find these meetings tedious” — massive understatement — “but I’m not altering protocol to appease you. There are questions that must be asked. I’d rather not waste time. Your cooperation will make this visit go by far more quickly than badgering me will.”
His cooperation didn’t make a difference, and they both knew it. However long the Super wanted to stay was however long he stayed. Even if Bill answered every question without a single quip between them, he’d get grilled harder, just to make sure his answers held water. They held absolutely zero water, of course, but the SuperVisor liked to think he could pick out one unconvincing lie amid a field of hundreds he believed implicitly.
“Stars, huh?” said Bill, tapping the side of his head like this one was really a thinker. “You’ve got me stumped! Never heard of ‘em.”
Another reprimand was clearly on its way, but before the SuperVisor could deliver it, Euclid emerged from the next room over. “Who’s that you’re talking to, son?” When the Super glanced away from his clipboard by way of greeting, Euclid smiled. “Oh, SuperVisor! What a nice surprise.” (It was disgusting how sincerely he meant it.) “Come on now, Billy, you haven’t offered him a drink? Let me get you a drink. How ’bout circular soda?”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” said the Super, writing once more. (Euclid, already halfway to the kitchen, didn’t hear.) “Bill, if you could answer my question, it would be most appreciated.”
Bill, who was trying very hard to explode the Super with his mind, took a moment to notice that he’d been addressed. To be fair, the tiny blue flame that had sparked atop the SuperVisor’s head was pretty distracting. Did he put that there? Was he hallucinating? “Question,” he repeated. “Right. Answering it.” No way had glaring and seething and thinking be on fire be on fire be on fire actually worked. This had to be impeccably timed spontaneous combustion or something.
The SuperVisor idly brushed at his pointed head, and just like that, the flame was gone. It had been a tiny thing, after all — even if it was real, it was barely enough to light a candle. Not too hot, not too strong. Maybe it could be bigger next time.
“Bill,” came the Super’s voice through the smoke filling Bill’s brain. He didn’t accept the glass Euclid attempted to offer him, so Euclid passed it to Bill instead. “I thought you wanted this over with.”
“You have no idea how much I want this over with.”
The Super shrugged. “Alright. Then tell me about the stars.”
“You are relentless,” Bill groaned, shoving the glass aside. “Stars aren’t real, and even if I did see them — which I haven’t in ten years but also didn’t see to begin with because they don’t exist — they’d probably be super boring, so I’d want them gone. And, lucky me, they are! All thanks to your magical medicine. Are we done here?”
“Just about,” said the Super, withdrawing a magnifying glass from his pocket like an absolute nerd. He approached the sofa and leaned in (without warning, of course, because the element of surprise was so important to an eye exam), holding the glass almost close enough to touch.
Bill let his eye drift out of focus, same as usual. He drummed his fingers on his knee. Started counting to a billion in intervals of thirty-seven. When the Super finally put away his stupid loser tools, Bill hardly noticed. He felt the little slip of paper that would serve as his Certificate of SuperVision until their next little get-together be pressed into his palm. He left it to rest innocently on the couch cushion.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” said the Super, strolling toward the door. “I’ll be seeing you.” And then he was gone.
Euclid grabbed the abandoned glass, muttering something like “Maybe square soda next time” on the way back to the kitchen. “You really should be kind to him, son,” Euclid said, pausing by the door. “He’s been helping you for a long time now. That’s very generous of him, fixing your eye like he has.”
“So generous,” Bill deadpanned. He stared at the certificate without blinking. After Euclid had finished frowning at him — people really loved to frown at him, didn’t they? — Bill stared even harder. Be on fire, he thought. He needed this to be a fluke just as much as he needed it to not be one. He poured every ounce of hate in him toward that piece of paper, which was a whole lot of hate. Be on fire be on fire be on fire b —”
“Billy, why don’t you help me get dinner started?” Euclid called from the other room, and Bill came within half a second of ripping the entire couch in two.
“Sure thing,” he said around the red-hot rage boiling his insides. He pointed at the slip as threateningly as anyone can point at an inanimate object and said, “I’ll be back for you.” He stomped out of the room, leaving the certificate behind, not noticing the blue-tinged smoke that trailed from one of its corners.