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it doesn’t take stanley long to realize there’s a certain criteria to every reset.
four free-falls from the top of the stairs. five inputs to heaven. six trips in the elevator. every reset had its point of no return.
in his feigned freedom ending, reset began the second he stepped three feet past the door.
he had played along for god knows how long. he knew how it all ended, he knew the script word for word by now. sometimes, he wishes he forgot everything upon reset, so maybe he could feel something. that dread when he first stepped outside his office, the panic during countdown, the hopelessness at the top of the stairs.
nowadays, he didnt feel too much.
there were times when he got so mind-numbingly bored, he would follow his path all the way towards his freedom. he rehearsed it like a script in his mind as he followed it; the door on the left, up to the office, power off. he could do it with his eyes closed.
however, rarely did he go through it all to barrel outside in the hopes that maybe, one of these days, the game wouldn’t actually reset, that maybe he had been going crazy this whole time, and one day he might actually be let out. no, none of that. it took him a few rounds to recognize where exactly reset initiated, but he eventually learned that he could safely sit upon the last step of the catwalk, to toe off his shoes and feel the cool dirt on his feet and breeze in his hair, so long as he didnt go any further.
if somehow the narrator ever lost stanley, he knew exactly where to find him; perched upon the last step, staring out at the expanse of mountains and blue sky.
the first time stanley did this, the narrator had berated him, had snapped at him to keep going. didnt he realize that he was free? that he had won? the second time, he was a little nicer; just a few more feet, stanley, and you can get a good look.
by the third time, he decided to give him his space.
stanley felt some odd comfort in the stillness of the scene he was presented with; rarely, a bird would fly past, to perch in a nearby tree. it was always a treat to hear it sing, to watch it make its nest. he found comfort in the way the grass rippled and the leaves of the trees rustled in the wind. if you asked him on a date to simply watch the grass grow, he might have accepted.
he’d sit on his step for hours at a time. occasionally he’d doze off for a quick nap, even if he wasn’t really that tired. something about the fresh air and the sound of something other than buzzing computers and a broken AC unit was beyond relaxing to him. it allowed him to let his guard down, to let the warm light of the sun send him into a light slumber.
it was almost, almost peaceful.
despite wishing it could last forever, that one day if he stepped out he would be allowed his complete and total freedom, stanley wasn’t stupid. he couldnt sit like this forever. whenever he took too long on a reset, he tended to get a little hungry, a little tired, and his narrator got a little impatient. most days, he would leave him to himself, but occasionally, stanley would be awoken with a start to an airhorn with a bashful narrator wondering where in the world that could have come from.
when stanley had his fill, he would pull himself to his feet by the handrail, take a deep breath to prepare himself, and take his final steps out.
it was always a treat to get just a few steps in the grass before the reset.