Sentient life finally appeared.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… gradually. Thought emerging from instinct. Curiosity blooming where there had only been survival. Minds looking up at the stars and wondering—why.
It took a long time.
Thousands of years. Maybe millions.
I wasn't counting.
Time had become background noise to me, like a heartbeat you only notice when something goes wrong. I spent most of it learning—really learning—how to exist as what I now was.
I practiced my domains carefully.
Knowledge came easiest. Information bent naturally toward me, secrets unraveling the moment I focused on them. Death required restraint—understanding when to let it happen, when to deny it, when to guide it. Space was… delicate. Tear it wrong and reality complained loudly.
Magic, though?
Magic was fun.
I learned to open portals across dimensions—cleanly, precisely, without tearing holes that screamed. Multiversal travel, however, I left alone. That kind of jump wasn't just stepping through a door; it was crossing narrative boundaries. One mistake and I could strand myself somewhere with rules that didn't care who—or what—I was.
I wanted full control before I tried that.
So I stayed.
I stayed in this universe.
And I stayed with Bill.
That part was… complicated.
We were equals in power, opposites in temperament. Twins in a sense, though age meant nothing to beings like us. Brother. Sister. Reflections split by a cosmic accident.
I tried to make him better.
I really did.
Teaching Bill Cipher empathy is like trying to explain ethics to a supernova—but I tried anyway. I taught him techniques to control his emotions, to pause before reacting, to think instead of exploding.
It sort of worked.
The first time Bill interacted with a newly sentient species, it went badly.
Very badly.
They were primitive—tribal, curious, terrified. One of them panicked and threw a rock at him. It barely brushed his form.
Bill laughed.
Then he erased them.
The entire tribe.
Gone.
I remember just… staring at the empty space where they'd been.
"That was unnecessary," I said slowly.
"They started it!" Bill snapped. "Besides, they were annoying."
"They were afraid."
"So?" He grinned, eye blazing. "Fear's funny."
That was the moment I realized this wouldn't be easy.
I didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Didn't punish him—because honestly, that would've only made it worse.
Instead, I explained.
What death meant to mortals. What it meant when you ended a story before it had a chance to unfold. The difference between destruction as a cosmic function… and cruelty.
Bill rolled his eye. Mocked me. Called me boring.
But he listened.
A little.
Over time—slow, frustrating time—he learned restraint. Not morality, not really. But control. He stopped reacting instantly. Stopped annihilating entire civilizations over minor slights.
Progress.
Minimal progress.
But progress nonetheless.
Sometimes I wondered why I bothered.
Then I remembered humanity.
They weren't here yet. Not even close. But they would be. Fragile, brilliant, self-destructive creatures who would dream bigger than they had any right to.
And when they arrived, Bill would be here too.
So someone had to teach him how not to burn everything the moment it annoyed him.
Even if that someone was me.
I watched a new civilization spark to life on a distant world—tiny, hopeful, unaware of how small they were in the grand scheme of things.
I folded my arms, thoughtful.
"Don't kill them," I said preemptively.
Bill sighed dramatically. "Ugh. You're no fun."
I smiled faintly.
"Someone has to be."
And for the first time in a very long while, the universe felt… less empty.