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Ironically, for as much pain the concept of the passage of time had caused Stanley in the past, he had no need for it anymore. It simply wasn’t needed here- beyond the rising sun of the day and the setting sun of the night, there was no way to mark when it had been however many days. Months, years? No need. Nowhere to write it down, and Stanley found it fitting that he would spend the rest of his days traveling this barren land. No, a ticking clock was not something he deserved anymore.
It was nice, sometimes. The heat could get extremely annoying, sure, but during the nights it was cool and peaceful and the wind would mess up his hair, leaving it in a state that definitely wouldn’t fly in his uniform. He chuckled when he thought that, realizing just how far detached he was from… well, everything. Even in the parable he had found himself thinking things like that, but when the abnormal became normal, you began to miss things you knew you’d never have again.
Stanley tried not to think about specifics of what he missed when he could. It would always end in nothing good, or at least that’s how he figured it would go. It was too dangerous to try. Sometimes he’d wonder what there is to lose, and then he’d remember what he HAD lost, and well, it’s not a productive cycle. It just led him to the same point, the same memory over and over.
Understandably, Stanley was sick of cycles by now.
So, this is what it was. Complain or love it, the sand would scratch his arms the same way when the wind picked up. Sometimes he found furniture from the office. Little things, like chairs and wood and bits of desks. It was enough to make a fire, eventually, and that was a very good day for Stanley.
After that, he decided to give himself a bit of purpose and not just wander, and decided not to feel guilty about it. Now, he could gather! Maybe one of the vending machines would find themselves out here, and if everything wasn’t terribly expired maybe he could have some. If there was a calendar, he’d mark that day as a holiday.
And so that was what he was doing now, surveying the land and letting his mind drift comfortably behind the line he drew in the (surprisingly, metaphorical) sand. Today, he found himself thinking about the chairs from the employee lounge. Just the chairs, and nothing else. The cushions would be a lot more comfortable than the long flattened pads on their desk chairs, which hardly had anything to them to begin with. In the far distance, he made out some sort of shade against the land, deciding to make that his next stop.
The shape slowly took form as he approached, proving to be larger than he had expected. Jackpot! Stanley decided to try and see if he could remember a room of that size or what could be in it, when he noticed…
An arch?
Now, where had he seen that? Well. He really didn’t need to ask himself. Stanley knew immediately what that arch was and what was in store for him.
The Memory Zone.
More importantly, this is an enclosed space with lots of furniture. This will make survival much easier, much nicer, he tried to tell himself. But he couldn’t ignore that feeling in his throat. Hope. Stanley felt his legs tremble. HE wouldn’t be here. He knows it’s too late for that, he really does. There’s a reason he doesn’t let himself linger on it. But at the very least, this could be some sort of closure for him. Something.
It’s better than the desert.
Stanley takes note of a few things as he enters the open door (open, as to allow a power cable connected to a generator to enter the house. He wonders how much more power it has left.). Interestingly, the sand hasn’t completely taken over the building, only leaving it lopsided and half submerged into the earth beneath. He steps cautiously, the floorboards creaking with age. One of the staircases has been completely cased off, leading only one path. Stanley takes a deep breath and continues further.
Whoever was here (whoever, he thinks, because thinking about the Narrator doing anything wasn’t something he let himself do) had dug down into the earth, dirt becoming clay and being formed together into walls, the odd wood paneling and framing from time to time. It’s much cooler here than it had been outside, and for the first time in a long time Stanley’s shirt is more than just protection from injuries by the harsh winds. Despite the layer, he still finds himself shuddering, holding his arms against himself as he continues. Finally, after what felt like forever (or really just felt like a minute for him, he duly notes) some light begins to show. It made sense the generator would be powering something, but it still sparked something in him. Life. Artificial life, but life nonetheless. His steps grew in speed, almost kicking himself ending up in a rush to see what was on this large billboard, he could just begin to make out some text, and-
And it-
It was a review.
A bad one.
Stanley felt sick. It wasn’t for The Stanley Parable itself, no, but for the Ultra Deluxe version the Narrator had lost himself trying to perfect. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t have kept reading it; Stanley’s vision blurred and he stumbled on, trying desperately not to fall over. He really tried not to think about it, what the Narrator had done without him all those years, what happened to him, but. But if his last moments were really and truly spent still suffering under the weight of failure put upon him by those.. Those awful critics who know nothing of him or how hard he worked, just another nail in the coffin, without Stanley to distract him-
He hoped that the Narrator hated him. Had passed with nothing but malice and envy left in him. He wished he could do the same, one day. What was Stanley’s purpose here anymore, anyway? This wasn’t freedom. Well, sure, he was free to do what he wanted, but what does that mean when what you want is-
“Jim.”
Stanley jumped what he could have sworn was ten feet into the air, the first voice he’s heard in God knows how long echoing up at him from the ground. He’d stepped on one of those buttons. Of which there were many. Briefly, he wondered nothing but the word ‘why’, before pressing it again.
“Jim.”
It was nice, in a way; it was nothing but a hollow name but it was still something. It was almost like listening to music, or white noise. Now brought back to reality, Stanley took in his surroundings once more; there was a lot of these buttons, actually. And another review. He could make out a few words, mainly gathering that there would be no more sequels. Maybe at a different time in his life, this would make him happy. At another, sad. Sympathetic? Maybe. But right now all he could do was take in the worlds and breathe them out. That wasn’t his life anymore. He didn’t have a life anymore, really. At least, not in the parable. It didn’t really matter if more had even been planned- clearly they hadn’t happened. Stanley caught himself wondering for a moment what the Narrator would have planned for a sequel. What new endings? What would they have done?
“Jim.”
He really didn’t want to think about it.
“Jim.”
It was too hard to let linger in his mind.
“Jim.”
Because if the Narrator had really cared,
“Jim.”
If he died before he could care,
“Jim.”
Then what would he do?
“Jim.”
He wished he could be told.
“Jim.”
He wanted an answer so badly.
“Jim.”
He wanted to be told what the point of all this was.
“Jim.”
He wanted to see him one last time, just to hear-
“Stanley.”
Stanley broke into tears, falling to his knees in the dirt.