Chapter Text
Is this it? Stanley asks himself. The freedom that he’s been craving for, the final ending that might set him free. The figurines that he collected along the way are still heavy in his bag. He found them all, at the narrator’s request. Now that the narrator’s voice is gone, Stanley can finally do whatever he wants. No more directions, no more sarcastic comments, no more tedious ruminations. Stanley looks up at the sky, admiring its breathtaking grandeur, which has become so foreign to him ever since started that seemingly endless loop began in his office. The desert stretches far ahead, with nothing else in sight, but Stanley isn’t bothered. He’s had enough of time. What matters to him now is the present, this very moment - the fact that he’s free at last.
Stanley takes in the fresh air, so sweet and mesmerising, so very different from the stale smell of his office. He treads silently in the desert. He breathes in the sunris, the sunset, and at night, he makes a cosy fire for himself, and goes to sleep comfortably under a cozy blanket. He doesn’t want to think about the narrator. There’s no point to it, Stanley tells himself. He doesn’t know his name. He has no idea where he was when they were both trapped in the office. Hell, he doesn’t even know whether the narrator was real or not. You’d imagine that a company that controls minds would have no problem with creating a semi-sentient artificial intelligence system that has some form of personality.
But he does feel lonely. He thinks it’s natural - who wouldn’t feel lonely travelling alone in a desert in the middle of nowhere? What he doesn’t realise is that he never really felt alone when the narrator was with him.
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Today is when things are all going to change.
Stanley wakes up, and to his surprise, a ruined house, much like one he’s visited before, has been erected next to his campsite. Carefully, he steps on the creaking floorboards, and makes his way into the room. The sunlight gently envelopes the few furnitures in the room, a sofa, a desk, a shelf, and - over there - a makeshift bed?
As someone who prefers a comfortable, predictable life, Stanley has never been particularly adventurous or inquisitive. Yet something tugs at his heart and tempts him to get closer. He follows his intuition, and discovers in the rather shabby bed a lean, middle-aged man, who, though asleep, exudes an air of elegance and authority that doesn’t match his surroundings. He’s wearing a shirt and suit trousers, his suit jacket covering him, apparently used as a comforter. His clothes are all a bit ruffled, probably because he has nothing else to change into. His glasses, Stanley now notices, are tucked carefully under the bed.
Stanley observes him, both excited and nervous to see another human, after having been on his own for so long. It has now occurred to him that the man is quite handsome. Stanley tries to touch him, careful not to disrupt his sleep, and -
The man’s eyes flutter open. A pair of pale blue eyes, beautiful and confused. Stanley freezes, not knowing what to say or do as the man eyes him up and down. The man’s all-too-familiar voice drags him back to reality. ‘Stanley?! Is it really you?’
Stanley is still flustered, but he manages to collect his composure. ‘Yes, I suppose. Uh, so I guess you’re the narrator?’
‘Yes, yes I am.’ The narrator sits up in his bed, and smoothes out a few wrinkles on his shirt. ‘Well. Well of course, I imagine this would be strange for you, since you’ve never been given a chance to see my face. It was never my intention to remain so mysterious, though, Stanley, I hope you understand. It was one of those unpalatable rules that I was unfortunately obliged to follow.’ He extends a hand to the younger man, eyes gleaming with the pleasure of finally seeing Stanley again.
As the narrator speaks, Stanley has taken the time to adjust to this new set of information. He shakes the narrator’s hand, and nods. ‘My narrator. It’s nice to finally meet you - I have lots of questions.’