Chapter Text
“Stanley was an average man living an average life whose average job was in an outbearingly average office building,” The Narrator droned, the rumbles in their throat echoing across the empty building’s walls. Boredom and sarcasm clung to their words. Stanley's head shifted up, his chin now resting on the comfy blue couch cushion. A lazy gaze on the ceiling, along the little cracks instead of the tiles. He was face-planted—quite comfortably—on the employee lounge’s couch cushions. The Narrator called it foolish and a waste of time. Stanley, however, just wanted to detox from stress that being stuck in an infinite loop will bring you. Of course, The Narrator would never understand(especially since they’re just a voice).His groggy, muddled mind took a second to realize that The Narrator commented something. Stanley had minimal energy to lift himself up and try to sign, especially since he felt so comfortable, so he just raised a brow at The Narrator. This was rather odd, not entirely worrisome but uncommon to say the least. The Narrator never liked going off script. Well, to be fair, Stanley was just.. not doing the story.
“You’re finally using your button-obsessed head, Stanley! Who knew that no progression in the story causes the narrator and creator of the story to make up scenarios to keep things interesting! It’s almost as if there’s an apparent lack off stimulation occurring at this moment from the protagonist!! How bizarre, Stanley, how bizarre indeed,” The Narrator exclaimed with mock excitement, surprise, shock even. Stanley rolled his eyes at The Narrator’s words. As per usual, he wasn’t considering that The Narrator Stanley had barely registered that The Narrator had gotten into his head. Again. He’s sort of .. used to it now. In the past he’d feel creeped out and invalidated, but he was just indifferent at this point.(he can’t pinpoint if that’s a good or bad thing). He knows he can just block off his thoughts and keep them contained(he thinks, anyway) but it’s a strain and oftentimes he forgets. Besides, he doubts half of his unblocked thoughts even reach The Narrator. So he was in the clear! Probably!
Stanley rolled his eyes in response to the Narrator, and face-planted back into the cushions. He was a bit delayed, but it was better than no reaction. He knows how The Narrator does whenever Stanley ignored or doesn't provide any evidence of listening. Especially after that button.. He’d rather avoid it; along with any memories that come up. He doesn’t care, obviously, he just… doesn’t want things to get awkward. He heard The Narrator shakily sigh and Stanley could’ve sworn he felt the AC jet out more cold air sharply—even just for a split second. The Narrator began to drum his fingers against something, the audio broadcasting device picked it up clearly. Stanley paid it no mind as he stuffed his head back into the cushions. Until he heard them clear their throat.
“Those thoughts won’t do any good, Stanley..” The Narrator mumbled, their words soft, almost small… such a sharp contrast how they usually talk. Stanley ever so barely caught it, which caused his head to bolt up to the ceiling. The couch stiffened ever so slightly after those words. The air felt.. charged. Stuffy. As if the AC got clogged. Stanley felt a bit silly, for thinking about that. That stupid, stupid—he cut himself off. He felt a bit ironic, that he was listening to The Narrator. Him, the protagonist?? Listening?? The Narrator should be happy for Stanley even acknowledging him right now. That felt mean, even for Stanley’s standard. Thankfully, there was no anticipated hum of the British man(voice? Thing? Stanley would never know), only a slight ruffle of the office plants around him. No other acknowledgment. But the silence that followed was.. unsettling. It made Stanley’s skin prick. So unlike The Narrator. All thoughts about wanting some rest fled from Stanley’s head as he shifted onto his haunches, the couch smushed under his body.
The room around him felt way.. bigger. Overwhelming. Especially without the calming droning of The Narrator that plagued his thoughts, literally. Everything was off. Well, everything is off, but moreso than usual. The discarded papers among the longue with held history and reports that Stanley once clambered for. The abandoned seats and couches around Stanley that begged to be used and seen. The broken vending machine that Stanley often tried to pry open. The times distraught on the coffee table that had the ghost of warmth and use. The cushion he used as a pillow with a small imprint of where Stanley put his weight on. The couch he was currently sitting on, a beautiful royal blue shade. The whole “once lived in” look just.. irked him. Much more than usual. Stanley gripped onto his shirt as his gaze went back up towards the ceiling. He felt his shirt slid and rub against his clammy hands.
Something poked his insides, poked his veins and heart and stomach. Prodded and grew and invaded his insides.
Guilt. He recognized it. He knew he felt this every time he brought something up that made The Narrator quiet. Or that immense, overwhelming and choking feeling knowing the end is never the end never the end is never the end is never the-.Almost similar o how he felt in The Zending, or the Evil Staircase of All That’s Bad as Stanley likes to refer it to. He loves spinning things in a humorous way. Which was what he was about to do right now!
[Hey, c’mon Nar.. I know you like immersion but this is a little bit too 4D, even for your standards!] He tried to sign at the ceiling. He hated the way his heart paced in his chest. Too full, too fast, too erratic. Hated the way he felt his forehead scrunch and his brows downturn. Hated the way he felt the wrinkles stretch as he frowned. The humor he had tried to output definitely did not work. The Narrator was always unpredictable with emotions. Stanley knew this(speeches when Stanley defied, anger when he broke the narrative, guilt tripping Stanley as he stumbled towards freedom, yelling and fussing and going insane about a STUPID yellow button). Stanley pushed those thoughts way. He couldn’t be thinking about this. He didn’t want to overwhelm The Narrator. He didn’t know how the whole “reading thoughts” thing worked, but he was 75% sure it just flooded into The Narrator's head. It only made his face distort even further.
Stanley slid off the couch, the silence was starting to get unbearable. Right under his skin is it itched and buzzed. He felt helpless. Antsy. What if they abandoned them? What if they got back into a panic attack? What if they are purposefully ignoring him as a punishment for constantly reaching for a sharp yellow glow?? Sure, The Narrator went silent, but only rarely. And with a purpose, often towards the story they are oh so entangled in constantly. Not on a whim. Sometimes they do go silent after a memory or two of the Skip Button Ending, but they often told Stanley they are going to work on other parts of the game and to sit tight. Nothing like.. nothing like this.
[Narrator? Hello?] He tried. No response. The Parable didn’t even make a response. It was still as stuffy, still as underwhelming yet overwhelming. The ground felt sturdier, stiffer. He felt his shoes tap underneath him. Tap. Tap. Tap. He twisted his cuffs as he wanted a second longer, before he released the pinch on the uncomfortable, smooth fabric.
[Hey, hey, I know you see me. Answer me.] Stanley had started to get a bit fed up by this. They could at least say something to say they were busy, or they didn’t want to talk! Hell, Stanley will take any insult over this. The only time they did was when they were waiting for Stanley. Not the other way around(exceptin that dreaded room). He pushed and pushed away those thoughts(which invaded his mind and throat like the itchiness of the sand) away. He didn’t need them. He didn’t want The Narrator to have to experience those… memories. Even if they already did.
Then he heard something.
A small noise. Ever so slight, but it cut him from his thoughts. Akin to a stuttering breath. The plants had ever so slightly quivered. A few moments of clean, cold air as the AC choked, before nothing came out again. His eyes bore straight into the ceiling with upmost interest, hoping to hear anything. Any annoying, sarcastic or rude comment. Anything. He wanted to hear their voice. Maybe even telling him off he did something wrong(he felt like he was to blame for the button, the press—). He shook his head. Out, out, out-! He didn’t notice the small gasp as he rammed the heel of his palm into his temple. The thoughts were quickly replaced by a deep, sudden ache. He then gently rubbed his temple as he now had to deal w—
THEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDISNEVER
LOADING..LOADING…LOADING…….
Once second he blinked, the next he stared at his computer screen. He usually didn’t reset in the employee lounge. In fact, he never did. His brows furrowed. Did The Narrator.. manually reset it? They could do that?? At least he didn’t have a headache. This also meant that The Narrator never responded to him deliberately, on purpose. Of course. He couldn’t help the twinge of irritation that he quickly washed over. He sighed, and pushed himself off of the squeaky chair. He exited his office, expecting the usual “Stanley decided to go to the meeting room, perhaps he had simply missed a memo”, but… nothing.
Guilt began to stab him again as he forced himself to walk. Without the voice, the already unsettling office felt all the more empty and spacious. Uncanny valley, really. His skin prickled as he walked through the halls. (Was it as bad as what The Narrator felt waiting for an eternity?) The memory of The Narrator’s little breath lingered in Stanley’s thoughts. Played on loop. What could that even be?? What even warranted that? He never heard The Narrator make that sort of sound. It sounded watery, kind of. Something in the back of Stanley’s mind told him that, despite him not knowing what flowing water even sounds like. Stanley glanced up at the ceiling momentarily, before he continued on. He didn’t know what happened to The Narrator, but he had to get them back.
One way or another.
He strides confidently through the left door, not even casting a glance towards his favorite right door. He had to get The Narrator back. And what better way to do that than play the intended ending.
Right..?