Padding down the slovenly facility with a fresh fantasy of chaos, Bill relaxed back into the polyester cushioning- the only hygienic structure offered to him. The hunched hybrid of a slobbering wrinkly bloodhound and a man with a phobia of the outdoors paused, sobering from fatigue, and slacked its files against the dusty desk to finally glance up and acknowledge him.
"Bill Cipher," it drawled, pale pink tongue slipping past its rubber lips and salivating onto the papers. Bill resisted the urge to barf up his afternoon snack of stomach-faced duck.
"Are you gonna tell me the result or what?" He tapped his foot against the desk's wooden leg. "I've been sitting here for six days. I'm not physically capable of growing body hair but I think I might out of spite. You'll be the one who has to see that."
"Your result..." The mutt had the gall to let another pause linger. He could feel its hot breath stagnant in the air, greasing up the tiles and a nearby glass of mysterious purple liquid. "...Is halfway processed."
Oh, he was going to be growing a lot more than body hair.
Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months; Bill was tiring of the waiting and his immortality didn't make for a lack of needs, namely the need for entertainment.The business dimension was among the most despotic, trapping one in with tax files and printed contracts until their minds were run through the shredders and they cried out to the text filled skies for a mere drop of disorder. Why he'd dared to arrive was a mystery to him- after all, he'd never cared for his gender before.
It had started with a comment; next, a thought endowed to his mind. Bill Cipher didn't often have thoughts. When he did, they were like graceless flies fumbling between the thick, polluted atoms of the Nightmare Realm's air. He'd simply swat them away. Perhaps electrify a few. At the end of the day, all that existed in his labyrinth of anatomy were primal urges and the occasional burst of pain-induced hysteria.
"Do you intend to procreate with me, Bill?" she had asked, voice as sweet and sickening as honey. How he'd ended up in her bed with a cane sticking out of her nose was an event unknown to him, and wedging the object out covered in mucus implied it hadn't been a fun one. He had blinked and excused himself to the bathroom, where he'd promptly escaped through the window and retreated back to the comforting foam of his home. Stranger even- the situations continued to arise. Comments on his ability to produce offspring, questions of his true gender or what may lay beneath the bricks across his belly. He didn't know the answer to that. What on earth did they expect of him?
He resorted to a peevish glare. Surely it would take the hint and pick up the pace on its processing. He had global domination to look forward to. The end of all that they knew didn't wait at the paws of a droopy-faced Pope imitator.
On the sixth day of the sixth week of the sixth month of waiting (which, in all honestly, Bill couldn't resist a snicker for), the paper ran cold and the machine sung its song. The moment he'd been begrudingly waiting for was about to arrive.
"Bill –"
Bill held his hand up. "No. No. We're not playing sleeping crocodiles right now. Just get it over with."
It smacked its lips, clearing a chunk of bacon fat from the corner of its lip, and squinted down at the papers. "You are an Equilateral."
Bill near flicked the table right up to the bottom of its wet black nose.
"WHAT?! I THOUGHT I WAS AN ISOSCELES!"