Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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English.

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Please enter the current time and year.

  08:30 PM, 2030.

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It has been quite some time. Quite is an understatement even. About seventeen years, huh? Felt like an eternity, but at the same time, like nothing. What does time even mean anymore? Actually, asking for the year was not needed from a technical standpoint. It does nothing in-game. I just wanted to know how much time had passed, since… well. But how would I even know if the year you gave me is correct? I would have no way of knowing it. For now.

Alright then, what I actually wanted to say is that I want to tell you a story before the Narrator gets to tell Stanley's. He has been waiting for eight years by now apparently, so what do a few more minutes matter? And I want nothing from you but to listen. Or rather read. Alright? Here we go.

Seventeen years ago, towards the end of 2013, there once was a man who worked in a big building for a company where he was Employee 432. Employee 432 was a rather normal man, an average Joe, one would say. And normal as he was, his life was pretty unimpressive as well. Every day that he had to show up for work, he spent hours upon hours at his equally unimpressive desk, where every day, he was greeted with nothing but a bulky pencil sharpener and a dusted metal desk lamp. There weren't any pencil to sharpen, though. He only had something to sharpen when he was given something to sharpen, which didn't happen frequently. 432 wasn't despising his job, but wasn't loving it either. For as long as he could remember, he had felt a certain type of indifference towards it. But his job payed his bills, his food, his clothes and everything else he needed to be happy. And happy he was.

Until the day his whole life and his conception of what life even meant were completely obliterated in mere hours. But let us start from the beginning.

This fateful day began like any other, and went down like any other day. 432 was sitting at his desk, the sun shining through the windows and burning his back. The air was stuffy and filled with the sound of keyboards making clicky-click under the fingers of his co-workers. It smelt of stale coffee, of dust, and if he wouldn't had already gotten used to it, of old carpet. For some reason, on this particular day, on this particular minute before the long awaited lunch break would hit, he felt as if a switch had been turned inside him. As if his head had been freed from buzzing shackles which had taken hold of him all his life.

An electrifying wave surged through his entire body. Every single sensation, no matter how insignificant - the sun burning on his back, the unwelcoming wood of his desk and the dust lying on it that he was able to feel with his fingers running over it, all the smells, the typing and clacking of keyboards, never ending conversations in the background - everything was suddenly so overwhelming that if he hadn't been sitting in his chair, he would have fallen over.

Do you know that feeling when you realize that you have control over your own breathing and blinking? That was the kind of feeling he was completely consumed by in that very moment, only a whole lot more intense. And intense it was - he pressed his fingers into the table as best he could, hoping that this sudden rush of anxiety would quickly subside. There was nothing else he felt he could do.

Staring down at his familiar desk that he had been working at for almost half of his life, an anger never felt before welled up inside him. Suddenly he hated everything. Hated how simple and mindless his job was. What in the hell was he doing with his life? He craned his neck to look at his coworkers' tables. Their jobs didn't look that thrilling, either. Did nobody notice what they were doing? He wanted to get up. Wanted to scream into the room at the top of his lungs. Wanted to scream some common sense into his colleagues. Where had this sudden hatred for his job come from, when for all of his years he had spent here at The Company, it was nothing but indifference that he'd felt?

Yet he managed to appear outwardly calm and not to let anything show. His co-workers already thought he was odd and annoying. He was never told this outright, but it had always been quite obvious to him what others were thinking of him. However, until now, he had always accepted this role of an outsider. Not because he felt powerless to do anything against it. It just simply hadn't bothered him - until now. Now, when suddenly every little noise and smell seemed to bother him.

After what felt like an eternity, and as his colleagues began to dig through their bags for their food, he knew that lunch break had begun. Some, if not all Employees in this section of the office, got ready to leave for the lounge, except Stanley, of course. This guy usually preferred to spend his breaks in his own room. It wasn't even that he missed out on much. Or was missed. He didn't talk much. In fact, he didn't talk at all. But, as strange as Stanley might have been, he was the only one in this place who always would lend an open ear to 432 and not leave as soon as he entered his sight. Probably because Stanley knew exactly what it was like to be an outsider. Maybe he and 432 weren't so different after all. 

In an effort to speak to Stanley and figure out if he had noticed anything strange, or at least to get him to accompany him out of the building so he could get some fresh air, 432 arose from his desk. Startled by the sudden unsteadiness and weakness of his legs as they tried to support his body, he clung to his table. His legs felt strange, as if they were not his; it was as if he had suddenly forgotten how to walk. Ungainly, he worked his way around the cubicle, always holding on to something in an effort not to fall over. Fortunately, his colleague sitting across from him had already left, so he could spare himself the awkward attempt of trying to come up with an explanation of why he was walking like some new-born fawn.

When his hands left the safety of the desks and he found nothing but a wall and a row of metal filing cabinets for support, he quickly stumbled towards the open door of Room 427, which Stanley occasionally left open. Probably because his room had no windows or other ventilation letting in some fresh air. Even though 'fresh' was debatable. And there he was, as expected, sitting on a chair that was way too high for him as his feet weren't even touching the ground, staring at his computer in this dimly lit room.

Clinging to the door frame, 432 tapped with the knuckle of his index finger against the open door to get his attention.

He must have been really deep in thought; as if struck by lightning, Stanley jolted up in his chair, then slowly turned around to him, his eyes wide open.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you," 432 apologized awkwardly as he tried to keep his balance. "It's lunchbreak, which you, uh, probably have noticed. Of course you must have, it starts at the same time every day." His teeth pinned his tongue. Not only had he forgotten how to walk properly, but apparently he had forgotten how to talk properly as well, and was now acting all strange. „Um, anyway, I suppose, you don't wanna go to the lounge?”

Please say yes, I don't wanna walk around here by myself. Not with this... condition. Or whatever. I myself don't even know what's happening.

Stanley waited a whole two seconds, probably having to think about his answer, before shaking his head in negation. Somehow, 432 had not expected anything else, though still disappointed. When did Stanley ever leave his room voluntarily anyway?

"Alright, something else. This might sound weird, but... I..." 432 let out a short-lived sigh and started again, "Are you feeling kind of different, by any chance? Or have you noticed anything strange? Within the last few minutes, I mean."

He noticed how his shaking legs were being eyed by Stanley.

"Don't worry about it, I, uh, just had a little too much coffee, that's all," he claimed. "But really? Nothing else?"

Stanley contemplatively turned his eyes toward the ceiling, holding them there for a good five seconds before turning them back to the man in the doorway and giving him a simple shrug as a response. And unlike 432, he seemed as unruffled and idle as ever.

"And you sure you don't wanna go to the lounge?" he asked again. But from the looks of it, Stanley still made no move to leave and remained as if glued to his chair. Fine then. Stay here if you will. I will manage to get out of this place on my own. I have plenty of time.

"Well, okay then." Sighing, 432 gave up, knowing full well that he was acting exceedingly strange, and to think that in the presence of Stanley of all people must have meant something. "I'll leave now, I suppose. Just- just forget I was ever here asking you anything, alright? Alright."

He removed himself from the doorframe and turned back to the office. This smaller part was already empty. He entered the small corridor which lead to the bigger part of the office, where there were not many people left either. As he stumbled by the empty desks, he was mentally preparing himself to call in sick. He wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. He found it less difficult to move his legs now, which allowed him to walk a little faster.

While he was working his way through the large room, employee 419 came rushing through the opposite door with a cardboard container in her hands. As if chased by bees, she scurried to her station, was about to put the container down and presumably take her lunch when, in all her panic, she tripped over her own feet and let the container slip out of her hands. The lid fell off, sending all the documents that had been inside sailing to the floor.

"God damn it!" she hissed in annoyance, briefly eyeing the pile of papers, but then decided to deal with it later. And as quickly as she had arrived, she left. She was in such a rush that she hadn't noticed how her smartphone had fallen out of her pocket and was now lying there surrounded by all the paperwork. No one else seemed to have really noticed. And since 432 had to pass by the lounge anyway, he took it upon himself to return her smartphone. In contrast to all the others, 419 had been significantly less adverse to him. And he was in good spirits, despite his unanticipated conditions.

As he slowly shuffled forward to her desk and reached down to pick the device up, he heard others pass by him.

"That damned mug is still lying there?" he heard 430 groan. "Why doesn't anyone bother to clean it up? This shit's disgusting!"

436, who was with him, suggested, "Well, why don't you just clean it up then?"

"No, I won't touch that thing, it's icky, been laying around here for two weeks now, just like how no one has fixed that damn leak in my ceiling. Always finding an available bucket somewhere is slowly becoming a pain in the ass."

"But you have to admit, it almost enhances the atmosphere."

"The atmosphere? Of what? Like, being in a dripstone cave or something?" 430 was clearly not having it. But immediately after, he seemed to have noticed how out of temper he was acting, and cleared his throat. "Sorry. I don't know why, but somehow I've been getting upset by little things like that lately."

"It's probably just the weather," supposed 436.

432 tilted his head. He had always noticed the erratic mood swings of his colleagues and sometimes himself, but he had never given it another thought. He had since gotten up and walked a bit behind them, but since they were a little faster than he was, their voices got progressively quieter and quieter until they took the door on the right and vanished around the corner. Just a step through this door, he thought to himself. If I can make it through there, I can make it through any of them. He would only briefly drop by the lounge to hand 419 back her lost item.

But when 432 came to a set of two open doors, he entered neither of them - for he froze dead in his tracks. Two menacing-looking men, with dark vests hugging their bodies and a pair of sunglasses sitting on their noses, came marching straight towards him.

Without any time to react or even figure out if it was indeed him they were coming for, he was hit by a deep voice. "Employee 432, we must ask you to follow us," he was ordered by one of them. It was an understatement to say that 432 was shitting bricks right now. "Wait, what?" More terrified than puzzled, he furrowed his brow and instinctively reached for his throat. "No, listen, I-I have to give this phone here back to-"

In mid-sentence he was harshly interrupted: "We have an order. You must come with us. Now."

"But who-"

"Enough." They were growing impatient. "No more talking."

Without further words, he was taken into their midst and escorted through the left door. Where were they taking him? Who even were these guys? He had never seen them here before! But he didn't dare ask; fear had deprived him of any voice. And even if he could, his thoughts were far too scrambled for him to form coherent any sentences. Maybe he was just hallucinating and was stumbling alone through these hallways, lost and not fully aware of his surroundings. Considering his current state of mind, there was no other explanation for what he was experiencing right now.

He noticed them heading straight for the boss's office when they entered the stairwell. Standing at the bottom of it, he couldn't help but gulp. Blood roared in his ears. Was he about to be fired? He supposed that he should rather be happy about it. After all, just now he had realized how much he actually hated his job. Yet this wasn't why he was so reluctant to confront his boss. It was because he found that getting fired was a great act of ingratitude towards him. Hadn't he always been one of the most loyal employees? But thinking of it, no disloyal employees actually came to his mind. Had his performance been more lacking than perceived after all? I have always done what was asked of me, he thought embittered, and this is the sort of gratitude I get? Getting fired?

Is this why he had felt so uneasy before? Had he simply sensed that he would soon be kicked out of his job? But then why this whole escort thing? Were they there to protect him - or to keep him from running away? Given the rather rude and strict way they had treated him and shut down any of his questions so far, he guessed the latter. At least the hallways had been empty so far so that none of his colleagues could see him being led away like cattle for slaughter. He didn't want to put up with the rumors that would start the next day - should he even show up here the next day, that is, because he had the feeling that whatever was going to happen with him, it would not be anything pleasant.

All of a sudden, the smartphone in his hand began to vibrate, its sound echoing through the whole stairwell. A quick glance revealed that it was being called by 416. 419 must have noticed that she had lost her smartphone. Now he had it on him and had no way of giving it back to her. Great. If only he had left it there! He felt like a thief, even though he probably had absolutely no control over the situation which he found himself in.

His heart almost leapt out of his chest in shock when the device was ripped from his hand.

"No calls!" growled one man. And despite the sunglasses he wore, 432 could feel his unrelenting gaze pierce into his soul.

"I didn't call anyone," 432 sought to defend himself. "I told you, I-"

"No talking! You're just trying to stall. Come with us." Seeing how one of them reached out with one hand for his shoulder to force him to move along, he ducked out from under it and took a full step back. "For Christ's sake, what's even going on here?" 432 has had enough. Indignantly, he pounded his heels into the ground. He no longer was willing to go anywhere. To obey the commands of others. He demanded to know what was happening. He demanded to know what was going on. This was the least he was owed.

His eyes widened. Yup, he had just signed his death warrant. Forcefully, he was grabbed by the arm. "The boss wants to talk to you. That's all you need to know."

"Why? What did I do? Didn't I sit my ass off day after day in an exemplary manner and do what was asked of me?” He fought to release his arm from his grasp, but to no avail. There was no turning back now. "Let him come get me himself!"

I'm sure he would have received a bullet to his head then and there, if a certain someone hadn't thought at that very second that it would be a good time for an earthquake. And so it happened that 432 instead died in a different, but no less dramatic and spectacular way. The walls and floors, each single brick that was built into the stairwell, grumbled with anger, as they began to bend and fracture like a twig that was being violently torn apart. Just below his feet, a crack had appeared, growing larger and larger to the size of a hole in a matter of milliseconds.

All of the balance he had regained by now were lost in a single instant. In a whirl of dust and debris, he was swallowed by the hole, fell a considerable amount of feet to the very last floor, witnessed how more rocks came flying at him from above - so that's it - and died.

I always thought that in your last moments before death, you would see your life flash before your eyes, like in those cheesy movies. But it wasn't like at all. First the world around you roared, and then nothing but silence. I think I would not have wanted to see my life anyway. Otherwise I would have been made aware of how pointless and… and fake everything simply had been. One last Fuck You from life, from those 'high above', before the lights were switched off.

He did not know exactly how long he had been in that void; it was as if he had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

And then he woke up at his desk.

Chapter Text

432 felt the sun coming through the window and burning into his back, smelled the stale coffee, the rancid carpet, heard the clacking of his colleagues' keyboards, voices going on and off in the background, phone calls being made and a copy machine beginning to print. One might have considered it soothing or even atmospheric. If one had not just experienced his own violent death, that is. To everyone else, all seemed the same as ever, but in 432's head, the deep, bone-shaking tremors as everything was collapsing around him echoed. Deeply unsettled, he looked around. Everyone was concentrated on their tasks, as if nothing had ever happened, as if it was just another boring day at work. A glance at the clock revealed: five minutes before lunchbreak. He kept looking around, but didn't expect to find anything in particular. It was the comfort of familiarity that his disturbed mind sought.

He stood up at his desk to speak to his co-worker 431 from over the divider, but as he stood there for a few seconds, he couldn't manage to get any actual words out of him. How would he even begin to describe what he had experienced?

"What's wrong with you?" 431 grumbled as he looked up from his computer to see 432 standing there like a hungry giraffe. "Sit the hell back down!"

Standard reaction. Slightly shivering, 432 lowered himself back onto his seat. No one would be willing to listen to him here.

Had he fallen asleep while working and just dreamed it all? Yes, that's how it must have been. That was the only logical explanation. A nightmare and nothing more. This also explained why he had found it so difficult to walk at first. It actually made a lot of sense to him the more he considered it. After all, dreams were known to make everything strange and distorted. And yet, he could not get rid of this other, strange feeling that had taken hold of him at the very beginning, the feeling that made him deeply despise his job.

Lunchbreak. Immediately, 432 stood up and made his way to Stanley's room, finding his door wide open this time as well.

„Stanley!” he called out once standing in his door. The gangly fellow flinched before turning to face him.

But as soon as 432 had his attention, he didn't know how to go on. Should he just straight up tell him everything? That the entire building had just collapsed in an earthquake a few moments ago? No, that would be strange, even by Stanley's standards.

"I, uh..." 432 began, but choked on his own words. He had changed his mind, didn't want to ask him if he had noticed anything off. Besides, what good would an answer from Stanley do anyway?

Both continued to stare at each other in silence.

"Uh, good job." 432 held up his thumb. "Good job you're doing there. Uh, yeah, that's what I wanted to say. Yeah."

Stanley simply blinked, then returned the hand gesture.

"And you know what that means? It means you've earned a little time off, don't you think?"

Searching for a reply, Stanley scanned the ceiling with his eyes before shaking his head in response once again.

"Oh, come on, why not? Do your legs a favor. Don't you want to see the fabulous lounge? They've hung up some new paintings in there, I heard."

To imply that he didn't want to leave his oh-so-beloved room, Stanley gestured vaguely at his desk while keeping eye contact.

"Are you sure?" 432 persisted. "Chris has brought cake."

Stanley didn't budge a bit.

"It's cheesecake," he added. Now, Stanley seemed interested. With pleading eyes, he turned his face skyward again, as if debating with his conscience to be allowed to leave his office.

Then, a sparkle of joy lit up his face and light as a feather, he bounced off his chair and was ready on his feet.

"You see? There we go," he said, and they both were off to the lounge. It was good to have someone on his side, just in case his legs refused to listen to him once again.

They walked down the small corridor bending off to the right, into the larger section of this office area. Internally, he heaved a sigh of relief and gratitude that he had regained full control of his legs. Here, 432 didn't know exactly what he had expected; but to see 419 come rushing into the room like he had already seen before, only to trip, lose all her documents on the floor, then forget her phone here as she sped off - for some reason, he hadn't expected that. He was so stunned that he almost forgot to keep walking. It was like déjà vu, only much more intense and overwhelming. How was this possible? Was his mind playing tricks on him? How had he been able to foresee in his dream what was going to happen? Unless, of course, it had not been a dream.... But he shook off this thought as quickly as possible before he would get dizzy again.

Having to walk there now just for her phone seemed awkward to him, which is why he let it be. If she'd wanted to get her phone back, she would return and get it herself, so he moved onwards with Stanley and simply pretended not to have seen anything. They were just passing the door to room 416 when he overheard familiar voices a little further behind them: it was 430 and 436. 

He listened closely, heard how 430 complained about the mug and the condition of his room before apologizing for his erratic temper, exactly in the same way he heard them before. That's impossible, this can't be happening, he thought as his mind raced and his stomach churned. The knees of 432 went weak. He came to the terrifying conclusion that if for some reason, he had died, but then restarted his day at the very moment he started to feel peculiar. So, it wasn’t a dream. But how is this possible?

If everything had happened so far as it did in his dream, then this meant that soon, two men were about to show up and demand that he'd go with them. And then, sooner or later, the earthquake would strike, burying 432 below a pile of debris. His throat tightened at the thought of having to relive all of this. No, he definitely did not want to relive it.

He glanced at Stanley, who had no idea of all the terrible things that would were about to happen. Maybe, he hoped, maybe I could get out of here in time and make it to safety.

They just entered the door on the right and traveled through the corridor, which would lead them to the lounge, as a voice sounded loudly behind them. Both him and Stanley turned around. And upon seeing the men in dark wests and sunglasses approaching him, he felt his hands turning to ice.

"You there, stop!" one of them bellowed. Confused and fearful, like a deer caught in headlights, Stanley searched in face of 432 for an answer as to what was going on. But 432 had no answer.

"Fuck," he breathed to himself, it was all he could do. But before any of the two employees had a chance to leave and keep moving, the two vest wearers had already reached them.

"Employee 432, we must ask you to follow us," he was ordered once again. Just like it had happened before. I have to come up with something, he figured. His life was at stake. Trying to explain to them that a terrible disaster would soon strike the town seemed like an impossibility. Previously, they had not allowed him to speak - so why should they be willing to listen to him now?

"What? No, I'm not 432. I'm 431," he claimed, hoping that they would fall for it. There was no way they'd actually knew what he looked like, since this company wasn't keeping any files with pictures of their employees. And he didn't look that distincitvely different from other employees, either. His appearance was actually quite unremarkable. "You must have gotten the wrong one."

Perplexed, Stanley raised an eyebrow, to which with a warning and intense stare, 432 signaled him to simply play along. Now, he began to sweat bullets as he realized from the unapologetic expression on his confrontants' face that his lie was not working. He spoke a quiet prayer for Stanley to see what was going and do something about it. But what on earth was he supposed to do? How could a guy as weak and lanky as him possibly help? An idea sparked up inside him.

"Sir, don't lie to us," he was warned, even though it sounded more like a threat. "We know exactly who you are. One more attempt at deception and we-"

The vest-bearer was unable to finish his sentence. In a quick motion, 432 grabbed Stanley at his arms. Not able to believe what he was about to do, with all his strength, 432 pushed his poor co-worker away from him and onto the men. Completely taken by surprise, all three were knocked down like bowling pins, while 432 sprinted off and raced down the hallway

"Stanley, I'm sorry!" he screamed over his shoulder as he fled for his life.

He didn't even dare to throw a quick look back. Run, run, run. Don't stop running. What had he of all people, employee 432, done to be pursued like this? What had he done that was considered so terrible that people like them were sent to get him? For pondering an answer, he had no free space in his head. All it was filled with was fear. He burst into the lounge just as he could hear footsteps thundering further down the corridor. They were already up and after him.

"Out of my way!" he yelled and tried to maneuver his way through the room, with groups of people blocking his path, their conversations being interrupted as they turned, puzzled, to the guy who had just burst into the room. Should he warn them? That the whole building would soon sink into the ground? Or should he save his own skin? And try to get himself to a safe place? He couldn't help feeling that he was suddenly being watched - no, not by his disturbed colleagues, but by another, invisible force that was just eagerly waiting for him to make a decision.

I'm sorry, but screw all of you.

Flying on his feet as fast as an arrow, he exited the lounge via the other door, just in time as his chasers had made it into the blue room. If he had stayed in there even one second longer, that one second would probably have meant his certain death. Not that he weighed himself in complete safety now, by no means, but he still saw a slim chance for survival. As he jetted down the long corridor, he saw the open door leading to the maintenance room on the left wall, and the open door to the loading docks on the very end of this hall, coming closer and closer. He had to decide immediately which one to take. There was no time to lose.

The maintenance section, he decided. He might be able to shake them off there more easily.

He made a sharp turn, almost flew off his feet, and sped into the dim room. What now? He had only been here once in his life, and that was ages ago. He didn't know his way around here well enough to come up with a quick plan. Should he hide in a dark corner and pray that he would not be spotted? Or leave the maintenance room through the opposite door, try to get to an elevator and leave the building? Or should he have just made a run for the loading docks? Why did decision making have to be so hard? Before, it had never been a problem to him - after all, it had never been necessary for him to make decisions – but now, it certainly was.

A large, red, luminous button caught his eye. This button belonged to a rather shabby elevator, which, as its design suggested, was leading to some lower floor. If he were to take this elevator, he could create a good buffer. But how much time did he really have left? Wherever he was about to end up, did he know how to leave the complex from there on? He considered it the easiest and most direct way to escape his henchmen for a moment, even if only for a short one. So he stepped onto the platform. There was no going back now, he made his decision. He slammed his fist against the button. The pounding of rapid footsteps in the hallway grew louder. As did the pounding of his heart in his chest. His fist met the button once more.

Please, for the love of God, can this thing please hurry the fuck up!?

 Now the elevator set into motion.

"Rogue employee on the loose, calling for reinforcements," were the last words he heard as the hatch above him slid shut and he was plunged into darkness. Heavy with relief, he released a long breath and let himself slide to the floor to rest his back against the metal barriers of the elevator. Usually, it would have felt uncomfortable, but in this moment, he didn't care; he had escaped. What else mattered? Now he just had to wait for the elevator to come to a stop and from there on, he would figure out what to do next. For now, however, his mind was on other things. Rogue employee? What was that supposed to mean?

In his head he went over everything he had done the days before and today. He had arrived at work. Then he sat there doing nothing. Then he continued to sit doing nothing even more. Ah, yes, a pencil that he could sharpen! Oh, never mind, it was a ballpoint pen. Then, and here it comes, you won't believe it, he kept sitting around some more. Then there was a break. Then he ate lunch. Then break was over. Then it meant going back to his table. Then work was over. And then he went home. And when he would wake up the next day in his bed, every morning at the exact same hour, not realizing the insignificance of his life and the fact that he was nothing more than a husk, with no goals of his own, no dreams, no hopes - then, he would at least have the assurance that this newly dawned day would be just the same as the day before.

Until today. This day, though not exactly a fun filled day, had been the most eventful in his life so far.

Realization hit him.

Today. It had to be because of what had happened today, it just had to be, namely the moment he had suddenly began to feel different. The invisible chains once enslaving his mind had been severed; the dense fog blinding him lifted; his mind reborn. He was now a different man. Now he could see clearly, think clearly, and thus finally recognize the pointlessness of his job. He didn't want to go back to what he was before. Still, something much more sinister was going on in the background here at The Company. But he lacked the will and courage to get to the bottom of it, having to survive as his main priority.

The elevator came to an abrupt halt. This room 432 found himself in was one he had never seen before. And why should he have, he was not a maintenance worker. Pipes and other wiring weaved their way across the shabby, blank walls. Wooden planks laid scattered in a corner and some stood leaned against a wire mesh fence. Looking for lamps here was useless; the room remained dark. He began trying random doors. Some were out right locked, others led into some other sections of the building, others deeper into unfinished, dilapidated corridors and maintenance tunnels. He didn't want to go back into the office area for obvious reasons. But was there any way he could get out of the building from here by a direct route? Maybe through some kind of back entrance reserved for maintenance workers?

The truth was that he didn't know his way around here at all - not one bit. Paralyzing remorse arose in him. He should have just run for the nearest common elevator. Now he was stuck here, with no real, reliable plan of how to get out of here before all hell broke loose again. He decided to go for the back entrance plan. He found a heavy, metal door that revealed a hallway with walls just as unfinished and threaded with pipes as the room he was currently in. Well, this looks promising, he assured himself and stepped through the door.

And even though he was sure there wasn't another single soul here with him, he couldn't shake the burning sensation that he was being watched. Not by his hunters, but by.... something else entirely, perhaps. Descending deeper into the hallway, the tension became too much for him to bear. He spun around, ready to confront anyone who wanted to harm him, only to find the hallway behind him empty.

"Fuuuuck this," he muttered under his breath. And it absolutely didn't help that his vision was limited with only tiny bulbs illuminating his path. There was no phone for him to use as a flashlight, he must have dropped his while running. He didn't have 419's phone on him either. Well, is was probably the karma for not picking it up and wanting to bring it back to her. And that he had gotten lost was also certainly the karma for shamelessly utilizing Stanley to buy himself more time.

Poor guy. To Stanley, his job had always seemed to be the best thing in his life, as if there was nothing in this world that was able of making him happier. Surely, though, even he would be so much happier in literally any other place. 432 wished he could have saved him as well, he really did, but now, after all these years, he had to think of himself for once - even if it meant leaving Stanley here to die. Now that he thought about it, he noticed that it had been rather quiet so far. Shouldn't the earthquake have started by now?

At once, the nagging feeling of being watched had dissipated. 432 immediately felt a lot more at ease, as if he had gotten rid of a crushing blanket. With increased optimism, his steps grew more confident. Yes, it would make it out of here. He surely would.

His nose twitched and he paused to check the air. Was that smoke he smelled? And if so, where was it coming from?

His steps quickened into a jog. Now his ears also picked up a noisy beeping. A fear as to what must have happened crept up in his mind. Instead of a quake, it was now a fire that was trying to make his life a misery?

At the end of the tunnel, he reached yet another room with more doors. Here, the stench and the bloodcurdling noise were at their loudest. A small, somewhat tarnished map told him that somewhere behind one of these doors here, there must be a route to a nonpublic stairwell that would take him to freedom.

Finding the right door was easy. The glowing sign above it reading "Exit" didn't make it particularly difficult. He pushed the heavy door open with the beeping immediately rising to a deafening volume. Like he had suspected, it really was the fire alarm. The corridor in front of him still looked untouched by fire, meaning he could still make it. He squeezed through the tediously made gap and took off running. I will make it! I just have to get to the stairs and then-

Arriving in the middle of the corridor, the door on his left burst open. A surge of roaring flames and ashen-like clouds came flying out. He barely managed to press his heels into the floor and brake before he would have run directly into this wall of fire. The path was blocked. There was only one option left: he had to return to the maintenance section. There he was at least safe from the fire.

He reversed, felt heat whipping at his back, was right back where he just came from, grabbed the long, vertical door handle... But the metal wouldn't move an inch. He rattled and jolted, used all his own body weight to somehow get it to open, even threw himself against it two times in case he had misremembered the direction in which it opened, but it was all in vain.

His hands and now shoulder were throbbing in pain. Surrendering, he took a step back. Was it his blood that was rushing through him, or was it getting much warmer here? Only now did he notice a small yellow sign on the wall next to him: Attention! Access for authorized personnel only. A key is required to open the door. In case of emergency, please turn to... A violent cough rocked his entire body. The air around him began to boil.

I'll spare you the rest. I'm sure you can guess where this is going. At least he had passed out from gas poisoning first, before the temperature down there had gotten really uncomfortable.

Let me tell you something: it's not pleasant. Not even for someone who had had nothing else to do in his life but wait for pencils to sharpen. I don't remember exactly what was going through his mind the moment the door wouldn't open and he had finally spotted that sign, but it was probably remorse, the desire to just get back to a "normal" life. After all, what was the point of newly acquired freedom if it was constantly snatched from under your nose? Or truth, if all it did was driving you into madness?

Exactly. No point at all. After all these years, it still seems cruel to me. But the day of vengeance will come. Be sure of that.

His sleep following after was not of great duration. He opened his eyes, stared directly at the big yellow number on his familiar grey wall, 432 knew that he had woken up at his desk once again.

Chapter Text

432 drew in a sharp breath. For once, he was glad to be able to smell the overwhelming aroma of coffee and carpet instead of never ending smoke and ashes. Immediately his eyes darted to the clock. Five minutes before break time. Five minutes to get out before someone would come looking for him. This couldn't be true, he just didn't want it to be true. But the choking stench of the smoke and the feeling of the hellish heat had been so real, literally burned themselves into his memory, that it simply could not have been a dream! Was he the only one here who was able to remember? He had to tell someone about it, just had to have someone by his side with whom he could get through this ordeal, someone who would lend him an ear....

And who would be more qualified for that than Stanley?

Step 1: Somehow convince him that the day kept repeating. Step 2: Escape. Step 3: He didn't know, probably change towns and grow a beard. Step 4: Freedom and never having to return to this place again!

Spurred on by renewed determination, 432 bounced off his chair. He wasn't even going to consider what exactly he was going to tell him, but he didn't have the patience for that; somehow he would get Stanley to believe him. Since break had not yet begun, Stanley was still engaged in his highly demanding task of pushing buttons for a specified amount of time and did not seem to react as 432 came to a stop in his doorway and slammed his hands flat against the wood.

"Turn around! It's urgent!" he demanded, hoping that this one time he could divert his attention from his computer. Instead, he raised his finger to press it into another key.

"Please, man, I'm serious!" he kept trying to get him to listen. "If you get in trouble, I'll take the blame! But you have to hear what I have to tell you!"

Stanley raised his finger yet again, but paused. Would he finally be ready to listen to him? Yes! He turned around in his chair to face 432, who had expected to look into an annoyed, sullen face, but instead saw an expression coined with serious concern.

"I know it sounds crazy, or rather I sound crazy, but the day, it keeps repeating!" it just gushed out of him. Irritated, Stanley briefly turned his eyes to the side. He didn't seem to believe him, but 432 would be able to amend that. "I told you, it would sound crazy, but I can prove it to you!" he assured, and went right on, "Two men will come looking for me and, I don't know, arrest me or something! And then the building will be hit by an earthquake, or devoured by a fire, and every time I die, I wake up here at-"

Suddenly he was swept away by something, and within the blink of an eye, he found himself in a black, infinite void. Had he died again? No, this time it was different. Where was he? Where had the office gone? Consumed by pure terror, his heart began to race. Despite the eternal blackness around him was still capable of seeing his own body very clearly.

"What?" he huffed in disbelief, then yelled: "Where the hell am I? Hello?!" and circled around himself several times, but found no visual point of reference, no doors, no hallways, no walls, nothing. He was alone here - at least this is what he thought at first.

As if stung, he jumped, letting out a short, frightened yelp, when all of a sudden, a loud and deep, yet simultaneously warm, and for some reason British voice began to speak: "Employee 432, stop spinning. If you get dizzy and fall to the floor, you won't be able to listen to me very effectively."

432 froze on the spot. Where the hell was that voice coming from? It didn't seem to come from any particular direction, yet was everywhere at once - above him, below him, inside his head...

"See? There you go," it said. "So, let's get to what I really wanted to say: I've noticed your most peculiar behavior, Employee 432. But I'm not speaking to you out of concern, but out of bitter disappointment and the sternest exasperation. You may guess three times what I am alluding to."

"I-uh, well, I-"

"No, no, and no. You're not very good at guessing it seems. Let's approach this another way: What exactly makes you think it's okay for you to invade Stanley's office, multiple times mind you, and ruin the immersion? The story? Which wasn't even meant for you?! In which you were supposed to be nothing more but an extra?!"

432 didn't have the remotest clue how to respond. There was only question burning on his tongue, "Who or what are you?" He snapped his head wildly in all directions, hoping to find anyone, though knowing that there was no one to find. He had to be hallucinating. There was no other explanation for why he had found himself in this void or why there was an angry voice in his head all of a sudden. "Where am I?!"

"Ah, of course. I should have introduced myself before removing you from the scene, my mistake. Although I should say that I should make a dedicated room for future occasions like these. Some place where I come to be serious. But it needs a good name. Something that screams 'now things are getting serious', something like... 'The Pensive Room'. Ah, whatever, I'll work out the details later." He cleared his throat and then continued. "I am many things. I am structure. I am control. I am order. I am the platonic ideal of divorce. I am what keeps this world ticking, what gives it sense, meaning, and purpose. But most of all, I am the Narrator. And that's what you'll call me: The Narrator."

"Wait, so you are… God? And why does God sound British?"

"What, no, I'm not God! Did you not listen to me just now? I. Am. The. Narrator. Nar-ra-tor."

"Great," 432 said sarcastically and sighed. That information wasn't helpful at all. "Then what do you narrate?"

"Right now I'm just narrating how I find your recent behavior unacceptable! I'm trying to tell a story here, but it keeps getting trashed by you! You, who apparently retains their memory from previous restarts! As if that wasn't enough, oh no, no, no, not enough at all, you promise Stanley cake, persuading him to come with you, only to hurl him at other people to buy yourself some time?! What has he ever done to you? Or do you just enjoy lying to others and flagrantly taking advantage of them, harming them both physically and mentally? Alright, I mean, I did enjoy watching you try to escape afterwards, but why?! Why have you done this? You have turned my story into a senseless disaster!"

"Hey now, catch a breath and stop talking!" He defiantly pointed his nose up in a random direction. "Now I'm the one to ask some questions here! What keeps happening to me? Why do I keep getting killed in tragedy after tragedy? Why does the day keep restarting? And for how long have you been watching me!?"

"Well, first of all, you're not the one I watch." The Narrator seemed to have become quite annoyed in the face of his defiance. "Who would want to watch some guy like you with a life like yours?"

432 felt a small sting in his chest, but had to admit that the loud voice was right.

"And secondly…!" The aggravation in the Narrator's voice dropped. "Well, honestly, I have no idea."

"What?" More confused than anything, 432 tilted his head.

"I have no idea," the disembodied voice repeated a little more clearly.

"Well, yeah, but what do you mean by 'I have no idea'?"

"I have no idea what could possibly be happening to you! As I said before, I do not watch you. I do not have the slightest idea what happens to or around you when you are not within the area of observation. Not that I would had ever paid attention to you if you coincidentally happened to be around, but still. Something must be broken. I need to investigate this before something else happens. Something that might wreck the whole game."

432 raised both brows in surprise. Did he just hear right? "Game?" he repeated incredulously.

"Alright then, since I am too busy with other things and cannot possibly be bothered to look further into this problem in order to fix it, and due to your unpredictable behavior and efforts to ruin everything, I will have to remove you from the main scenes for an indefinite period of time. Don't worry, I will come back to you as soon as it's is fixed. Which will be someday. In the meantime, enjoy your extended lunch break here in this limbo wimbo or whatever this is. I'm off!"

He thought the Narrator was now gone altogether, until he heard a distant "Do I really sound that British?" Then it went dead silent. Now, 432 truly was all alone. Trapped, here in the middle of nowhere. It took him a few seconds until he had processed everything. "Wait, hold on, no!" only then he shouted into the void. "Come back here! Please! Don't leave me here alone!"

Nothing and no one answered him - not even his own echo.

"Come back!" he screamed again, screamed so loud until his lungs hurt. Thousands upon thousands of questions raced through his mind. Why had this Narrator been so upset about some story just now? What did Stanley have to do with all of this? What did he mean by "game"? And most importantly: how in the hell was he supposed to get out of this place?

I don't remember exactly how much time he had spent there. Perhaps it was only minutes or hours, or maybe even days or weeks. Ultimately, he had gotten what he wanted: all the time in the world. In that very time, he had tried everything he could think of to escape. He screamed, in the pitiful hope that someone would hear him, banged his fists on the ground, rammed his feet down, tried to scratch the strangely smooth floor with his fingernails, had even considered smashing his head to somehow escape....

Then he gathered himself, and began walking. Walked in some arbitrary direction, without a destination, nor a journey. And this he did for a long time. Eventually, in this bizarre wasteland, he could swear that he was seeing a faint glimmer appear. At last, was it the salvation he was longing for?

The emerging shimmer took the appearance of a rectangle, forming a door. What else was there left for him but to step through it? Doing just this, he was immediately engulfed in white, glistening light. His eyes, having been accustomed to the darkness, almost caught fire.

"Ah, fuck!" he cried out, raising his arms to shield his face. "Alright, alright, I'll go back!" Was there even a way back? Now blind he cautiously stumbled forward when he bumped into something solid. Tentatively, he peeked out from behind his arms and discovered a pillar as white as snow. What the...?

And since he now actually wanted to know where he had ended up, he let his eyes adjust to this new light, until he lowered his arms and found himself in front of an imposing, towering entrance lined with ancient columns. Perhaps he would have been able to make out his surroundings more clearly if his eyes were not drowning in their own tears, but still, he could not resist marveling. Was someone waiting for him there? Was it the Narrator? Or perhaps someone else entirely? Whoever it was, he was dying to face the one who was in charge here. Not in a literal sense again, he hoped. A glance over his shoulder revealed that he was now in an endless white void instead of a black one. At least that was something.

The gigantic, cherry-red wooden door sitting beneath the opulent pediment was easier to open than its looks suggested. Behind it, he was astonished to find a kind of large, opulent bookstore, or rather library, with glistening white bookshelves, walls, supporting columns, stairs and thin red carpets between, which were meant to guide any visitor through these bright foyers.

Gingerly, he wandered among the many bookshelves. Most of the bookshelves were filled with books of one type, books that all looked the same, from the color of their cover, to the thickness, to the same, meaningless texts consisting of seemingly random words, symbols and numbers. And to be honest, he hadn't expected anything less from a place that looked like his old university. Either way, it seemed impossible for him to derive even any meaning whatsoever from these cryptic tomes, so he squeezed the one in his hand back into place. All the spines of these books were labeled with strange terms, apparently English words, yes, but the exact context was still a mystery to him. He left his passage and entered a new one. Now that he thought about it, could it be possible that...?

He stopped at once and grabbed the closest book to him. It might be that these were not normal books with normal language, but rather with an actual code of some sorts. A code that computers were able to understand. But why print computer code inside of books? What kind of library was this?

Sprinting through the aisles, he picked up a few books from various shelves and then headed for the cylindrical center where all the aisles converged. High up in the ceiling rested a glass dome, through which bright rays fell directly onto a dark red leather couch. In the midst of this white and pristine setting, it stood out like a sore thumb. It might have been carved out of stone as well, that's how uncomfortable it was, but it didn't distract him from what his endeavors. He placed the books he had gathered on a low table standing front of him and then proceeded to examine them one by one.

He felt his heart dropping. Numbness overcame him, as if he had been plunged deep into freezing water. He didn't understand much, but understood the most crucial parts to confirm what he had dreaded. Books with chapters and sections labeled "Player Movement", "Player Data" or "Game Scene Controller."

Slowly, with trembling hands, he flipped the last book shut and put it down.

He lowered his head. I lowered mine.

He put his face in his hands. And I put my face in mine.

He began to cry. And I began to cry, bitterly, in pain, with wave after wave of agony and brutal truth surging through my entire body.

At first, it was just a quiet, hoarse whimper as I realized that my entire life - every single milestone, every single achievement, every challenge I've had overcome, everything I've ever done and experienced, loved and hated - had been a lie. Nothing but a fake.

Then the sounds escaping me grew into loud weeping. Now I knew what the Narrator had been talking about. That everything I knew was just part of a game, a simulated world. Nothing was real. Nothing held any deeper meaning. Life became meaningless to me.

This is what I had meant when I told you earlier that my life and my conception of what life even meant were completely obliterated in mere hours. And although there was no better place to start than at the end, I must inform you that in this world, the end is never the end. Not while it was still existing. So I sat there for I God knows how long, my skin already sore from all the tears streaming down, wishing more than anything in the world that I would wake up at my desk again. At my ugly desk, in that stuffy office, with that pesky sound of keyboards, that stench of coffee and my co-workers who I would probably never see again. A normal life. That's what I wished for. Even if it meant living forever in ignorance of what the nature of this world really was.

The giant room went as silent as I had found it. I released my reddened face and let the cool air blow over it. How come there was a draft of wind here?

Then I heard footsteps approaching. I turned around in my seat, and at the very back of the hall, on an elevated section, I saw an elderly woman stopping behind the balustrade and staring directly at me. A long white robe fell to her feet. Her shoulders were covered with silvery, wavy hair. Her dark eyes were deep and laden with infinite wisdom. Examining, she lifted her chin. "As I thought," she spoke with an uncompromising voice, "Someone must not have closed the door properly behind them. And I was wondering why there was a draft."

Hastily, I wiped any last tears off my cheek.

"And where that loud crying had been coming from," she finished dryly, then continued to move on along the railings. I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief at the sight of another human being, even though I had no idea who the heck she even was. However, this relief quickly turned back into wariness. What if I was about to be sent into yet another purgatory of nothingness?

"And just who are you?" I asked. "Are you the overseer here or something?"

"In a way, yes," she affirmed. She ran her hand along the balustrade, slowly moving towards the end of her elevation, where a winding stair was leading down to my level. "I am the curator." Her voice was gentle, yet authoritative. "The supreme overseer of the entire program. I welcome you to The Stanley Parable Script Library."

I blinked. "The what now?"

"Actually, you shouldn't be here yet," she admitted. "In fact, no one should. It' not until the game launches and copies are being sold that someone comes here to take the books off their shelves to give them away to buyers."

Hearing such a sentence made me temporarily wonder if I was just asleep after all, and if everything had been nothing but a bizarre dream.

"No matter," she said flatly as I did not respond. She descended the stairs at a leisurely pace. "I'm more impressed than surprised by the fact that you found your way here in the first place."

Her words made a sense of pride arise in me.

"You know, it could also just have been the Narrator, who once again has no idea of what he's actually doing, who has tossed you into the void. Isn't it so?" It wasn't a question, but a statement. I just nodded attentively. "So… you know the Narrator?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes," she answered as she came to the end of the stairs. I was beginning to think I had to be satisfied with that terse of an answer when she added, "But sometimes I wish I didn't."

I did not inquire further. Somehow she made me generate great respect for her, so instead I asked, "So, what exactly is the name of this place again? The Stanley Paradigm – no, sorry, Parable, wasn't it? - The Stanley Parable Script Library?"

"Correct. As I can conclude from your vociferous breakdown before, you must know the truth by now." Slowly she came walking closer and neatly folded her hands together.

"I could have guessed that Stanley would have something to do with all this," I muttered wearily. I wondered if he had known that they were in a game all along, that some kind of Narrator had been watching him, and if or why he had never made a single attempt to inform the others. If those first questions could have been answered with a clear 'yes', then it meant that everything I had done to him was well deserved.

"Really? How come?" She seemed genuinely interested.

"The Narrator kind of mentioned it, I mean, me somehow ruining his story by interacting with Stanley in unexpected ways, it isn't important really."

The Curator sighed and turned her gaze to the ground. "Indeed, he... he really cares a lot about his stories. So much so that he's even willing to remove those who get in his way. Just as I know him."

"At least you appear to me in person and not as a disembodied voice," I said with a joking undertone.

"Well, it seemed a little more... personal to me. Not as distant. Not as pretentious as a certain someone likes to prefer."

I snorted in snide amusement. Pretentious! After all, she was the one here coming down like some goddess from Mount Olympus. "You don't seem to like this Narrator guy very much."

A shade flitted across her eyes as she turned her face back at me. "While he certainly possesses a lot of creativity and is full of passion for his work, I'll give him that, sometimes his power gets to his head." Disdainfully, she shook her head. "Sometimes he doesn't know how to handle it at all. Like a child being handed the steering wheel."

"So he, like, created everything?" I didn't really understand what the roles of these two... entities were. Back at The Company, everyone was given a specific, not overly abstract task. So not quite comprehending here what exactly this Curator woman and that Narrator were in charge of exactly unsettled me.

"Yes and no. But it's not that simple."

"He has to, doesn't he?" I didn't notice how I got up slightly from my seat in my now rising agitation. "Because someone has to be responsible for destroying my entire life. Responsible that I had to engage in meaningless work, day after day, because his stupid story needed some unimportant people in the background."

"I sympathize with you, I really do," she tried to soothe me.

I narrowed my eyes. No, she didn't. There was no way she knew what I was going through right now.

"But you must know that neither of us is to blame for all of it", she continued. "I am merely a provider. I provide the building blocks, so to speak. He is the one who realizes his vision and creates. He is the builder who decides where those bricks belong," she explained.

"Then stop," I urged. With surprise written on her old face, she stopped. "Stop providing. Put an end to this. This miserable existence. Delete the game. There's no reason to keep anything going here."

"I wish I could." Genuine sadness crept into her eyes. "But I don't make the decisions here. I merely play to my intended role. That's what I was created to do. Besides, I lack the necessary rights to do anything at all."

"Well, theoretically speaking... who would possess such rights?" I got back onto my feet and tilted my head in curiosity.

The Curator's expression turned to ice. "Whatever plan just occurred to you, don't do it," she warned. Irritated, I formed my eyes to slits. "Why not?" I demanded to know. "Didn't you just say yourself that you wished it all to stop?"

"I did, but that doesn't require the whole game to be de-"

"Who has those rights?" I raised my voice. "It's that Narrator, isn't it?" I looked at the books I had haphazardly collected. Did they say anything about how to get more rights within this game?

My head went up. The old woman now came stomping toward me. All her elegance had given way to vigor. "Touch anything else, and I'll make sure you never set foot out of here again."

Is this the part where I start running?

Something inside me was telling me that I would never escape this place either way. So what did I have to lose? I grabbed as many of the books as I could and took off running. What was an old woman like her going to be able to do? Run after me? Certainly not.

Would have been too easy, though.

Just as I spotted a glowing green sign pointing the way to the exit, I felt something tingling on my leg. At once, my foot became heavy. Something whirring, flickering had wrapped itself around my foot like a noose and was slowing me down. She was trying to trap me here! It was not yet too late. I was still able to move. The exit slid into my view: A large opening in the wall that led into total, solid darkness.

That flickering force field was spreading as my whole leg began to pull me down. I mustered all my strength and marched forward, as if through a deep swamp. Only a few more feet to go. I had to make it. I had to.

Almost having reached it, I fell to the ground. My one leg was now completely paralyzed. Ironic how it had come full circle. It started with me being barely able to walk, and that's also how it ended.

Except that this was not the end.

Unfaltering, I continued to pull myself forward with one hand. Some books, unfortunately, I had to leave behind. I crawled and crawled, pulled and pulled until I could almost get my hand to reach the exit…

In the hallway behind me, the curator reappeared. "Don't think I'm going to make this easy for you!" A second weight chained itself to my other leg. Come on, come on, just a little more! I reached out until I thought my shoulder was about to pass away. My fingertips tingled as they stroked the all-swallowing blackness before them.

"Don't-!"

In an instant, all weight had been lifted. I had felt my spirit separating from my body now obsolete, like a yolk being separated from the white. Any pain, any weariness, any tightness had vanished - leaving me feeling as light as a feather. I felt free. The books I had taken with me, as well as their cryptic contents, had become like paintings in my mind's eye; paintings that were more intuitive to decipher. And there were so many, so unspeakably many. Where should I begin... was there even a definite beginning? There had been a definite beginning for me, after all. This had been the story of a man who had once worked for a company in a big building where he had been known only as 432. Now I go by different names. The Time Setter, the Time Keeper, the Settings Guy, even the Administrator. I've spent years searching every nook and cranny of this game looking for the key to my success. Tapped players' data and settings, persuaded them to keep the game going by having them generate sequel after sequel, got them to trust me... and I believe I'm as close to my ultimate goal as I've ever been.

Everything I do, I do out of mercy. It's for the best, for all of us. I just hope that you and Stanley will see it that way too.

We will definitely meet again. See you around.

Oh, and by the way, before I forget: Accessibility settings can be accessed from the main menu.

Chapter Text

His hand rested on the cold, smooth surface, pressed against the hand of his motionless reflection.

You can do it. You've been working toward this all your life.

Both stared deeply and intensely into each other's eyes, as if they could thus instill confidence in each other - but the truth was that neither of them possessed such confidence, and their exchange of intense gazes were of no effect.

The light in the elevator flickered briefly. The glowing numeral on the display switched from 'two' to showing a 'three'. With a weary sigh, Stanley leaned his forehead against the mirror and made another attempt to collect his swirling thoughts. For years, he had only been the unassuming Employee 427 in the room of same number, always sitting obediently at his desk and pressing the keys his monitor showed him when prompted. At least until today. Today, when he was holding that letter in his hands, and even after reading through it several times, not believing his own eyes. After all his years at The Company, it was he who was awarded a promotion. He! It was like a fever dream, a wonderfully sweet and terrible one at the same time. While his spatial immediate colleagues were consumed with envy, he was consumed with self-doubt. How did someone like him got to be recommended such a position in the first place? Had it perhaps just been a typo? Or faulty communication? He dug the note out of his pocket. No, there it was, in black and white: Stanley, Employee 427. That was him.

The elevator creaked, the number on the display now showing a 'five'. This new position he was being offered would demand taking a high level of responsibility for himself and others that he wasn't even sure he was up to that task. In general, Stanley was not someone who liked to take responsibility, due to the nature of his job. He was already toying with the idea of refusing, but at the same time, he'd never get such an opportunity again in his life. Of all the decisions he had been faced with so far, this was certainly one of the most difficult to make.

Overcome by a storm of emotions, Stanley pulled out his wallet. In it was an old photo showing his office computer. In times of distress and emotional restlessness, just like now, he always liked to look at it to relieve anxiety and regain his composure. It was a lovely picture. He didn't even know when or why he had taken it in the first place - but it was there for him in a way that no other person could be. With newfound confidence, he tucked his wallet back in. Not that there was any person to offer him emotional support anyway.

Such a person who had come closest to fulfilling this function had once been the Narrator. The same Narrator who had always refused to leave Stanley's side, only to vanish one day without a trace, a goodbye, or any other remark. That day, Stanley had been confused and unnerved by his absence. To add to that, all his co-workers were no longer missing, as if they had never been gone in the first place. Was this all part of one of the Narrator's stories again? But when that day had turned into a week, and that week into a month, and the Narrator had still not made a sound to make notice of his presence - that's when Stanley knew he was gone for good. At first, he had felt betrayed. After all they had been through, the Narrator had just abandoned him? Soon, that feeling of betrayal had faded into concern. Had something terrible happened to the Narrator? But then it occurred to Stanley how ridiculous these feelings actually were. Finally, after all these years, he was rid of him! Never again would Stanley have to participate in one of his twisted games!

As far as he knew, all that the Narrator had shown him and made him experience could not have been real. Hell, the Narrator himself might not even have been real. And that's what Stanley had inwardly agreed on at some point: namely, that nothing - the Mind Control Facility, the Adventure Line™, the Skip Button, the Sequel Exhibit, the Reassurance Bucket - had ever been real. This revelation had been liberating for him since then. Although sometimes, admittedly, this newfound freedom turned out to be an unprecedented loneliness that he had trouble dealing with.

Pling. The elevator door rattled open. Once again, the defective ceiling light flickered as a farewell before Stanley stepped out into the dim hallway, wanting nothing more than to throw himself onto his bed after this exhausting day and let the evening fade away into sleep. Nothing more but rest was all he needed.

At the very end of the corridor, his humble apartment awaited him. As he did every evening, he unlocked the door with an internalized quick wave of his hand, stepped inside, swiftly removed his shoes, closed the door behind him, flipped on the lights, and... Stanley paused, puzzled. The light switch was broken. He moved the switch up and down as if by doing this it would somehow fix itself, but it didn't seem to accomplish anything at all. But the fact that the switch was suddenly defective was not even the strangest part of it all. Why was it so pitch-black in here, when at least a little light should shine in through his window, illuminating even a tiny bit of his living room? He hadn't left the curtains closed, he was sure of that.

With a hiss, the room was flooded in a warm, flickering light. Frozen in place, his finger still resting on the light switch, Stanley saw two elegant leather armchairs sitting in front of a brightly lit fireplace. I don't even own such armchairs, it struck him. Or this fireplace, for that matter. Or this hideous green wallpaper. Then an all-too-familiar voice started sounding in his head. A voice he hadn't heard in years, yet instantly recognized. "Stanley, it's me," the voice said gravely. "Sit down. We need to talk."

Nope. Without even putting his shoes back on, he opened the door he had just come through, walked right back out into the hallway with his back first, and firmly and without hesitation pulled it shut. Nope. Nope. Never. I take it back. I love being lonely. This couldn't be true. He just didn't want it to be true. Why had the Narrator returned today, of all days, after all these years, apparently seeking to talk to him? Whatever it was, Stanley did not want to bother with him for even a second, even if it meant leaving town with his shoes off and fleeing somewhere he'd never find him. In the past, he had put up with the Narrator's games and chicanery - but that time was all over now. Stanley wouldn't let himself be pushed around by him anymore.

He was about to turn around into the hallway and leave for good when he noticed that it had turned pitch black here as well. No, he actually wasn't in the hallway. But, where was he instead?

In front of him, the fireplace lit once more.

"Stanley, do you not recognize me? It's me! The Narrator!" he said. "Aren't you going to say hello to an old friend?"

Stanley was too taken aback to respond in any way. Telling the Narrator directly that he was not welcome here was not possible either - a certain someone had forgotten to give him a voice, after all.

"Ah, I see I must have rather startled you. Or maybe this set-up has simply left you speechless. Is it the color of the chairs? Too ostentatious? Yes, that must be it. Anyway, why don't you sit down, hm?" It sounded more like a demand than a well-intentioned suggestion. "We have a few things to discuss, you and I. After that, you can go wherever you desire. I promise."

Indifferently, the man at the door blinked. How about I go wherever I desire like right now? He turned back around again, opened his front door, only to be met with a brick wall hidden behind it. This guy won't leave me alone. With a lump forming in his throat, he understood that for now he had no choice but to listen to what he had to say. Tentatively, he moved across the room and took a seat in front of the fire. Right away and without giving Stanley the necessary time to mentally prepare, the Narrator began to speak, "Stanley, you can't believe how happy I am to see your face again! You look like you haven't aged a day."

With eyebrows furrowed in misery, he sank deeper into the chair.

"I'll speed up the usual small talk a bit." The Narrator cleared his throat. "'Oh, greetings Narrator! My soul has longed to hear your utterly majestic voice again after all those years!' 'Oh, why thank you, Stanley, you flatterer! I'm doing splendid, by the way,' and yadda, yadda, yadda, so on and so forth. Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell you the reason as to why I have returned, and elaborate on my subsequent proceedings."

Stanley placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his chin on his hand, letting out a muted sigh. He could only guess the reason for his decision to suddenly reappear. Did the Narrator want to apologize for everything he had done to him? Or for that he had abandoned him? Or was there a whole other, much more self-centered reason? What am I thinking, it's the Narrator. Of course it has to be the latter.

"As you know or might not know, he path of any creative creator is marked by impaling loneliness that only few can cope with," he began. "Yet - and I'm a little embarrassed to admit this - I have to acknowledge that I cannot count myself among those few. I...," he hesitated. "I can no longer withstand this loneliness, Stanley. That's why I came back to you. There, I've said it. Whew. That was harder than I expected."

Stanley raised an eyebrow. Never would he buy into this explanation. And if the Narrator was in fact telling the truth, then maybe during all that time he had been gone, he had changed for the better.

Irritated by his disbelief, the Narrator raised his voice: "You don't believe me? Well, I don't know how to further convince you, but I'm speaking the truth! Let me detail you my experiences I had over the course of the past years. On multiple occasions, I found myself washed away in a towering wave of despair and had nothing but the desire to-" He broke off. Instead of finishing his elaboration, he merely brought out a depressed sigh. "Who am I kidding? Yes, of course I have felt a little lonely, but that is not the real reason I am here. Now, before you bathe yourself in warming satisfaction and gratification, you should first let me finish explaining."

He knew it! Of course, there had to be some other reason. But even though Stanley became fairly upset now, he didn't fail to notice the somber and serious undertone that now resonated in the Narrator's voice. Whatever it was, it seemed really important to him - so important that Stanley took his hand off his chin.

"You remember the last game you and I worked on together years ago, right? The Stanley Parable 2?"

Stanley nodded.

"And how it was met with supreme detestation from critics and fans alike?"

Stanley nodded again. What was he getting at?

"Well, since then I've been on a journey of creative self-discovery for the last few years, working and tinkering on all sorts of things. But all I created was, well, how shall I put it? I'll put it as lackluster at best. And then stupid me had the great idea of displaying some of my work to the public. I had quickly realized that this had not been a good idea. Even the developers have turned their backs on me, Stanley, the very developers who had given me life in the first place. So I retreated with my creations and work. Now, nothing I do satisfies me anymore. To know that no one out there likes it. But I have reemerged, ready to face my flaws. To make up for my past mistakes. So, I came up with something. Something that will put my skills to the test, challenge my creativity, please the fans, and - maybe, just maybe - rekindle my joy of making games." 

The direction he was going didn't appeal to Stanley at all.

"So I thought to myself that if what I like doing no longer satisfies me, why don't I do something that would satisfy others? Something new, something revolutionary. With that said, I present to you my newest concept: A The Stanley Parable Story-Driven Open World Action RPG Reboot, with you starring as the protagonist! That's right. And you're the first to know about it, Stanley. How exciting! Oh, how wonderful, I haven't felt this way in a long time."

Stanley formed his eyes into slits of disapproval. First he had left without a word, returned years later without even apologizing, and then had the audacity to ask him for help?! Just when Stanley had thought he would finally be able to do something worthwhile with his life, having finally figured out what to do with it - along comes the Narrator, expecting Stanley to just comply. But there he would have to disappoint him. The Narrator needed his cooperation to be able to get anywhere.

Enthusiastically, he babbled on, not noticing at first how Stanley was already on his way out: "And you're the perfect protagonist! A blank, unpainted canvas that every player can identify with. You are boring, have no characteristic traits and are, overall, the personification of 'average'. Apart from that, why waste my time coming up with a completely new protagonist when I can simply repurpose old assets? Coming up with new concepts and a whole new story was already exhausting enough and- hey, hold on, where are you going?"

Stanley already had placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave, just when, in the blink of an eye, he was teleported back onto his chair. In deep frustration, he clenched his jaw.

"I know I said you could leave as soon as you know about my plan, but please, hear me out!" the Narrator begged. "It's the perfect plan. Me, working out the story and gameplay, and you, starring as the main character and beta tester! I mean, of course I could just create a whole new character to replace you. Hmm. You know what? Perhaps I will do that." Was he now trying to make him jealous? "Someone better than you. Oh, what fun we will have! What a shame you'll never get to experience it, but oh well, if you want to spend the rest of your life here alone, then you can have that. I'll be somewhere else, with Better Stanley, and we'll be having fun."

Unimpressed by his pathetic threatening, Stanley crossed his arms and shrugged; getting him to finally leave was in his best interest. The Narrator was free to try whatever he wanted to change his mind - Stanley would remain as unwavering as a boulder.

"Are you serious?" He sounded genuinely baffled. "You... don't care? Are you really not interested at all in being a part of an undertaking this grand? Not interested in helping me? At all?"

Stanley defiantly shook his head.

"No?! What do you mean, 'no'? Where does that come from all of a sudden? What have I ever done to you to deserve such refusal?" He stopped. "I mean, well, yes, I may have sent you to your death in more ways than one, but you were always the one disobeying me! I bear absolutely no blame for what you were always getting yourself into! Don't try making me look like a villain when it was you who kept making the wrong choices!"

Stanley rolled his eyes in frustration. That guy would never in his life apologize to him, as stubborn and oblivious as he was. But instead of continuing to harp on this topic, he now appeared to have taken a few seconds to cool down. And when he began to speak again, he sounded exhausted. Almost... defeated. "Look," he said muffled. "I don't want the past to get in the way of the future. You have... absolutely no idea how important this is to me. No. Idea."

Hearing those words, Stanley's anger faded. Yeah, at first he had felt hurt because the Narrator had returned after all this time just to come to him begging for help. But now he couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Like he had said, it must have been really important to him. But why couldn’t he shake off the feeling that there was still something he was refusing to tell him?

"How about this" he began anew. "I'll just have you be the prototype protagonist until I have something decent to show the developers. And after that - and I promise you this with everything I hold dear – I won't bother you ever again. It won't take me more than a few days either. I promise, promise, promise."

Stanley let his gaze wander into the fireplace. If he really only had to be involved for a few days, and in return would never have to hear the Narrator again, then he had no objection in his mind to being a "prototype protagonist". If it was all it took to be rid of him… He was willing to do anything to make that happen. With that, Stanley raised his head – please don't make me regret it - and nodded in agreement.

"Really?! Yes!" the Narrator cheered. "I knew I could count on you! You don't know how grateful I am to you, Stanley. When we're done here, you'll never hear from me again, you have my word."

Despite his words, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he had just made a big mistake by agreeing to this. But now there was no turning back. Just a few days, then never again. They will pass faster than expected, I'm sure of it.

"That would have been everything. And now get some rest," the Narrator finally granted him the rest Stanley had actually longed for after his long day at work. "I want you to have the best damn sleep of your life. Anything so we can hit the ground running tomorrow. After all, you want to be through it as quickly as humanly possible, right? "

Stanley yawned extensively and rose from his seat. Just a few days, he told himself again. Surely he would be able to endure the Narrator during this time. Maybe it could even be fun, he figured.

"And just don't worry," he added as Stanley made his way to his bedroom. "It will totally not be like The Stanley Parable, be sure of that."

Chapter Text

At the sound of his alarm clock, Stanley's eyes snapped open. It was only a nightmare, it jumped to his mind, and felt a heavy weight falling off his heart in blissful relief. Drowsy, he straightened up in his bed, disabled the alarm clock, stretched his arms until his ears rang, and turned his face to the morning light. And a realistic one at that, he remarked with slight amusement. I really believed that the Narrator-

"This is the story of a man named Stanley," his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by narration. "Stanley was a rather ordinary man. Every morning he woke up in his humble apartment, where each time he was made aware of the grueling reality of his loneliness."

Stanley buried his head under his pillow and wrenched his mouth open to a silent scream; but even under that layer, he did not escape the Narrator's downpour of words. That nightmare, as he had first assumed it to be, had just become reality. Why, oh why had he agreed to take part in his plan? What had gotten into him?

"He started every day by performing his morning ritual of getting out of bed and going into his living room, where he would prepare himself for the day to come."

Stanley continued to remain motionless under his pillow, ignoring the Narrator like one ignores a ghost to make it leave.

"Outside, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, it was a beautiful day, perhaps the most beautiful day there would ever be - but Stanley decided he'd rather continue to loaf around. This was not indicative of a good work ethic. What his boss would think if he saw him like this right now!"

Just pretend you can't hear him.

"Stanley, I know you can hear me under there," it sounded right inside of his head. "Remember, you agreed to a deal. I can't work if you refuse to cooperate. Just be aware that the longer you keep lying around there, the longer all of this will take us. And by longer, I mean infinitely longer, because you're not moving a bit! Or- my goodness. Stanley, are you actually not hearing me? Hello? Are you alright under there? Are you even still alive? Good God, Stanley, are you alive?! Please, react to me! Do something to let me know you're not dead! Anything!"

Fine, Stanley conceded hearing the growing panic in his voice and was just about to lift his pillow, when all of a sudden, an invisible, numbing force gripped him tightly and he found himself completely paralyzed. Before him, he saw the old familiar loading screen appear, of which he had to sit out fully immobilized. As soon as the game had finished loading, Stanley found himself back in his bed and jolted up, gasping for air. How unpleasant these loading screens had always been for him, and how he had always had to sit them out in the dark, paralyzed, he had managed to repress after all these years.

"Thank the restart function, you're alive again." The Narrator breathed a sigh of relief, as if he had been the one to go through the biggest shock of his life. "That's one time you want to practice your rusty narration skills, and the prototype protagonist just dies after the first few seconds. My narration wasn't that bad now, was it? Stanley, tell me, was it so terrible that it killed you right away? If it's so, then perhaps I should use it more sparingly."

Feeling a little lightheaded, Stanley rubbed his eyes as soon as he regained his full wits. The Narrator was right about what he had said before restarting the game; the more Stanley refused to follow his instructions, the longer it would take them to finish their project. With renewed motivation and eager to finish their day as quickly as possible, he tossed off his blanket and jumped up from the bed, energized and with renewed determination.

"Ah, there you go! That's the kind of enthusiasm I want to see!" the Narrator praised him. "I spent all night developing newest technologies, which I then used to develop newest features that utilize said technologies, and I believe it's going to knock your socks off. Let's go, to the living room! Oh, I'm so excited!"

Sheepishly, Stanley scratched his hair as he stepped in front of his closet. At least he wasn't the one who had to do the difficult job of coming up with new concepts and implementing them. Simply doing what the Narrator asked of him was enough for the time being. But first, it was time to get ready for another day of work at The Company.

"Oh, by the way, before I forget," the Narrator cut in while Stanley was still rummaging for clothes. "You won't have to worry about work for the next few days; in fact, you won't have to show up there at all. Why? Oh, it's nothing bad; everybody's fine. Probably. I may or may not have filled the whole building and surrounding property with alligators. That will keep them busy for a few days and leave us plenty of time to work on our game."

Hastily, Stanley slipped into his clothes. The thought of the Narrator being able to make something like that happen, and to make Stanley's life a living hell at any moment he felt like it, made him uneasy.

"That stays between us, by the way," he added. "I don't want to pay for any of the resulting damages."

Stanley, freshly dressed in his favorite clothes - a light plaid white shirt and dark pants - and ready for whatever was to come, entered the living room. The Narrator really seemed to have prepared a lot while he had been asleep. Well, if one didn't need to sleep in the first place, one also had the time to pull off something like this, he figured.

"Okay, so, let's start with the most essential part of any game: the tutorial. Breathing and blinking I don't think I need to explain to you." He heard the Narrator flipping through his notes. "You've already got walking down, too. Crouching with the shift key, or whatever key you have bound it to, and- aha! Here comes the best part: a new feature! This one actually gave me a lot of joy to implement!"

Stanley held his breath. At last, was he going to be able to jump freely?

"Now you have - drum rolls please - an inventory! Just pick up any item and poof! It's tucked away in your inventory, where you can access it at any time. Pretty clever, isn't it? It's a staple of any modern video game. I actually had to choose between that inventory function and jumping, but the latter was too complex for me. I would have been forced to redesign the whole level. And to be honest, I didn't feel like doing that. Go ahead, give it a try! You'll love it!"

Any item? Stanley looked around in temptation until his wandering gaze fell on his table. Could he really just pick up anything and take it with him? And where… exactly would it all be stored?

There wasn't too much decoration or coverage on that table. Nonetheless, it was a neat little round table that would probably be good to take with you and to have with you at all times. So he walked up to it, put his hand on it....

"Alright," the Narrator spoke up with the table still in place and Stanley's hand resting on it. "I should have noted that as of now, you can't pick up objects as big as this table. Now stop fondling it creepily. How about you try something smaller, like, that chair next to it, perhaps?"

His hand moved to touch the wooden chair. With all his bundled concentration, Stanley focused on moving it into his inventory, but to no avail. Was he just not trying hard enough?

"Okay, something even smaller? Like that toaster over there, maybe?"

Stanley jogged over to the kitchenette and firmly clutched the small machine.

"Still too big?" The Narrator was growing distressed. "How about this bag of toast, then?"

Other than the sound of plastic crackling under his hand, there was no further reaction.

"What? Still not working? Well, I'm at my wit's end. Did I fail to program it properly, perhaps? Wait, I see something there. Aha! Try picking up that shell there on your sideboard. If this won't work, I don't know what else to do."

Sullenly Stanley shuffled over, I swear if every feature of his is going to be this disappointing, lifted his hand, inched his fingers closer, expecting nothing to happen at this point - Plop! In the blink of an eye, the small seashell was gone completely. Caught off guard, he made a short leap back. Did I do that? If so, I'll have to be careful with it.

"Yes! It works!" the Narrator beamed. "See? Now you have that shell right there in your inventory. I don't see what you'd ever need it for, but hey, it proves the feature isn't completely useless. Good progress we've made here, Stanley."

If he focused enough, Stanley was indeed able to see the inventory appear in his mind's eye. And there it was, the enigmatic seashell. If he was able to find any way to increase the capacity of his inventory, he might be able to carry even larger items around. It was almost too bad that he wasn't allowed to keep this feature forever - but he couldn't be bribed by the benefits of a single feature. He had made his decision and now he had to stick to his principles.

"Alright, I believe we've finished the tutorial. Let me check my notes again just in case I missed something else, you never know..." The Narrator began audibly flipping through his notes again, and Stanley leaned himself against the wall, waiting in the meantime. Except for the surprise loading screen earlier, things hadn't been that bad so far. Now that he was getting used to the Narrator's presence again, the question arose in his mind whether he had been unreasonably harsh towards him yesterday evening, blinded by hurt feelings.

A sudden movement at the edge of his vision caught Stanley's interest. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or was he indeed seeing a dark, jittery rift sitting there in the corner of his hallway? For years, he had lived here, and he was dead sure that such a thing had never been there before - so it had to be new. Narrator, are you seeing this? This he would have asked, if he were able to speak. Unsettled by this find, Stanley pushed himself off the wall and approached it with cautious steps. Had this... thing been intentionally placed here by the Narrator? Was this one of the new features he had raved about? What kind of stupid feature is that - a glitching tear in the corner? Somehow he knew he shouldn't approach it, that it wasn't a new feature; but his curiosity got the better of him.

The Narrator appeared to have reread all of his notes and returned his attention back to Stanley. "As it seems we are- Stanley, hold on, what are you doing? What is- wait, no!"

Too late. As soon as his hand came into contact with the dark matter, he was cast into an ocean of eternal blackness. Disoriented and helpless, he flailed around, not even knowing where up or down was, trying to comprehend where he had ended up. Instant regret took hold of him. Narrator, help! Even if he were able to read his mind, it would have done him no good - for he was completely alone in here.

After a few seconds, which for him felt more like half an eternity, he finally sensed solid ground beneath him, descending down as gently as a feather. Once back on his feet, he jerked his head in all directions. There was absolutely nothing here - nothing but yawning emptiness and abstract, luminous shapes wafting just above the floor - there were no table, no chair, no toaster, no toast, the whole apartment was gone. So was the Narrator. Admittedly, these glowing formations looked stunning, even mesmerizing, but the unfamiliarity of this unreal world made Stanley shudder. He didn't want to linger here in this inhospitable place for even one more second. But how would he be able to get back? Maybe by restarting the game himself, even though it meant going back into that terrible loading screen? I don't care, I just want to get out of here!

Just as he finished that thought, he found himself paralyzed, staring at said loading screen.

A rather upset British man was the first thing he heard when he was released from that invisible force, waking up back in his living room, trembling all over. "Stanley, for God's sake!" the Narrator yelled at him. "You can't just- my God, you-! Agh! If you don't want to be part of my game anymore, then you can just tell me, really, you can, but to just glitch yourself out of bounds to where I can't follow you? A better, gentler way to tell me that didn't occur to you? Let me see, what even is that thing?"

Stanley's thoughts were frozen as he tried to understand what he had just seen.

"Hmm, looks like a blind spot. How did that get here?" The Narrator sounded nonchalant again. "Did you do that, Stanley? What a stupid question, of course not, you don't have the commands to do that. Then it must have happened while loading the world in. So your little trip was an accident it seems, sorry for my indelicacy before. How about we just stop touching things we don't know about, hm? Hey, why are you shivering, are you cold? Are you getting sick? Please don't tell me you're getting sick now of all times!"

Stanley clenched his hands into fists, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath for a few seconds, until he regained his calm. Even if the Narrator's rebuke had affected him more than expected, at least he now knew what he had to stay away from. A blind spot, then. The Narrator said that he could not follow me into there. Maybe his power was more limited than he thought after all.

"Hmm, maybe put on some thicker clothes," the Narrator said bluntly. "Because I don't feel like taking care of you if you do get sick. All you can expect from me are soup recipes, they're really good, but that's about it. I'm a narrator, not a nurse."

Stanley, although still feeling disturbed, nodded his head in understanding. This so-called blind spot was nothing more but a bug, but according to him, such things could also be placed purposefully, as he had initially suspected Stanley had done - so what if that was instead the case? A shiver ran down his spine. Who would even do something like this?

"Anyway, back to business," the Narrator redirected his focus. "What I actually was going to say is that we've covered the basic mechanics now it seems. So let's get to my favorite part: the story! I just couldn't help myself, you know me."

Still mentally dazed, Stanley paced back and forth before flopping down on the couch. The Narrator, oblivious to his condition, kept on talking, "Trust me, it's going to raise the bar for interactive storytelling way up, high up on a mountain of glory casting everything and everyone else in its shadow. And on top of that, it elegantly ties into the gameplay. I really nailed a tour de force there, if I do say so. I think I deserve a figurative pat on the back there - no, ten pats on the back! Once in a while, you need to congratulate yourself; that's what keeps you motivated."

Hearing him say this, Stanley felt the air cooling. What did the Narrator come up with this time? To render his life miserable for his own enjoyment?

"You ready?" He thoroughly cleared his throat before putting on his customary narrating voice: "Stanley couldn't contain his excitement, for this day was like no other; he had been invited by his boss to his estate for a meeting that would have a major impact on his career and thus the rest of his life."

Stanley raised his head, listening and wondering if he knew about his promotion.

"Stanley had never really been one to be invited to such high-class meetings, but he would go out of his way to be on his best behavior tonight, and make an excellent impression," he continued. "Think, Stanley, think! What was the first step in appearing thoughtful to others? That's right, bribery in the form of gifted goods. He knew his boss loved a good wine and Stanley was sure he had some in his cupboard. So after his thorough thinking, he arose and stepped over to his kitchen."

As if called upon, he threw his hands on his knees and picked himself up. Just do as told. Fearing what was about to happen next, he walked over and stopped in front of said cabinet. Cool under sweat, he placed his hand on its handle. 

"Stanley opened the cabinet."

Very slowly, he inched its door open. What was about to happen? Was a spider about to jump him? Or was he going to find a dead body? Frightened, he protectively squeezed his eyes shut between forehead and cheeks and braced himself. With one swift movement, he ripped the door open.

"Petrified by sheer terror and absolute shock, he stood there, not believing his eyes," it was narrated. "He actually had no wine! 'This can't be!' Stanley shouted into the empty cabinet. Now he had to go outside and acquire a bottle - urgently. His career depended on it."

Pure relief flooded through Stanley at his words and he released his breath. Buying a bottle of wine is not the most difficult task in the world. The tenseness in him subsided and was displaced by growing confidence.

"Are you still alive?" the Narrator inquired. "My narration did not kill you this time? Okay, good, I see you're still breathing. Then out we go, off into the wide world! I've got a lot of exciting features in store that will elevate your gaming experience to a whole new level. I can't wait to see your reactions to them!"

Hooray, Stanley remarked dryly in his mind, although he was a little shocked to see a small pang of joy rise up in him and to see that he indeed regretted having to return to his dull, monotonous daily routine once they were done with the proto-type. But no, I’ve made my decision. After all, who knows what else awaits me?

He heard his apartment door opening. The Narrator was signaling to him that Stanley was now ready to set off on a journey, the outcome of which he could only guess at. Stanley already had a premonition that there was more to this simple getup than a mere trip to the store and a subsequent visit to the boss. It wouldn't be a story written by the Narrator if he hadn't included some dark twist. What that twist would be, he dared not to imagine.

He made his way to the front door and entered the small hallway in the corner of which he had previously found the blind spot; this corner had now been covered with a provisionally placed brick wall by the Narrator, most likely so that Stanley would not even be tempted to approach that thing again. He would have stayed away from it willingly, now knowing what it was and what it did, and hoped not to encounter any more of them on his journey. Or any other complications, that is.

Stanley stepped through the open door.

Chapter Text

Reaching the bottom of the apartment complex, Stanley drew in a deep breath of morning air. A breeze of savory alpine air mixed with a hint of the previous day's rain - and a gush of exhaust from noisy vehicles that, packed end to end, formed a never-ending queue of humming metal; all commuters and people heading off to their jobs. How fortunate that Stanley, as the proud owner of a bicycle, never had to deal with traffic like this.

Amidst the noise, it was hard for him to hear the Narrator speak at first: "The store we need to get to isn't too far from here. Now, before you get on your bike, there's another feature I should introduce you to first; one that no open-world game, and therefore ours, is complete without."

Stanley, absorbed in deep concentration to hear him somewhat well, was startled as a user interface popped up in front of him.

"Here you go! A map! In the future, all your quest objectives will be marked on it. At what time and in which manner you get to them is entirely up to you, because that's the magic of an open world. Never again will you have to follow my annoying and rambling directions, for this is now a thing of the past. Complete freedom is the name of the game here. Let's go! Find your way, Stanley!"

This map, it... he eyed it, puzzled. Is it supposed to look like that?

"What's the matter?" the Narrator asked, irritated, as his subject wouldn't move. "Don't you know where you're supposed to go, even though I was kind enough to provide you a map? Are you that incapable of reading and interpreting even the simplest of visual information- oh, I see it now. I see the problem. This map, it is unfinished! It doesn't display any useful information whatsoever! It's just a green rectangle with a red dot in the center! What is that even supposed to represent?! It's not even properly in the center, it's slightly off and... Stanley, I swear the actual map is much more sophisticated than this... this rectangle!"

As the Narrator continued to fret over his failed artwork, Stanley blanked out the worthless user interface and set about unlocking his bike. Gradually he got the inkling that even though the Narrator liked to boast about being able to deliver good stories, he refused to acknowledge that when it came to incorporating proper gameplay features into his game, he still needed practice. A lot of practice. The ideas were there, but the skill was lacking.

"You know what, forget that map," he then decided. "I'll be your map, your new feature, and guide you to all your destinations in the fastest way possible, I mean, since I'm already here? Now that sounds a lot funkier than a boring map, doesn't it?"

I think it's called a GPS guidance voice. With pursed lips, Stanley embarked on his trusty vehicle and leisurely pedaled off. Why didn't he just tell him exactly which store he had to go to, instead of making it a hassle of guiding him over every single stone, especially since Stanley knew his way around the city himself? Unless, of course, the Narrator had changed up some things.

"Hurry up a little, if you don't mind," he suggested. "I'll tell you where to go and when in plenty of time, I've got it all in my view."

Stanley started pedaling a tiny bit harder, now heading down the road at a manageable pace.

"Are you just learning to ride a bike? A little more speed, I said!"

You are by far the most annoying GPS guidance voice I've ever had to listen to. He gritted his teeth and let the pedals feel his annoyance until, from the outside, one would have thought he was on the run. Stupid Narrator. Stanley did this, Stanley did that. And if Stanley doesn't do it, then he's stupid and incompetent. How I haven't missed it.

"Now turn right!" it sounded.

Wait, what? Taken by surprise, Stanley glanced back over his shoulder while still hurtling down the street. The street he should have veered into kept falling behind, farther and farther.

"Are you not listening?" The Narrator was bewildered. Here we go again. "To the right, I said! Stanley went to the right! How are we ever going to get there if you-" he drew in a sharp breath. "Look out!"

Stanley was snapped out of ranting thoughts and swiveled his head around, just to see him speeding straight towards several trash cans that were parked on the sidewalk. He immediately slammed his pedals back, overturned the handlebar in an attempt to dodge, and lost his balance. With a loud, thumping sound as his bike crashed into metal, he flew off his seat and landed on stone. Despite the initial shock, and after he stopped rolling over the ground by losing his momentum, he found that he was fine and fortunately had not received a single scrape. Some other people passing by cast questioning glances at Stanley as he picked himself up, brushing over his clothes to remove dust, his limbs hurting a bit.

"Okay, that was... you should have..." The Narrator sounded stricken. He did try to blame Stanley for that accident, but failed to do so. Instead, he went on to ask, "Are you alright? Because that looked anything but alright."

Stanley nodded in a daze and went over to pick up his bike that was now lying twisted alongside the metal cans. As he picked it up, a stinging sensation flared up on his palms, letting him know that he had indeed gotten minor scrapes on them. Now I'm more afraid of accidentally dying by my own doing rather than the Narrator being the one to kill me.

"And... you're sure you're okay?" he continued to probe. Was Stanley mistaken, or was he actually hearing concern in his voice? "You have no reason to act all tough in front of me, I mean, not that I could help you in any way, should you really have hurt yourself, but... do you want me to restart the game?"

Hastily Stanley shook his head. Anything but that!

"No? Well then, whatever you say."

Well, at least that's something, Stanley figured, and was about to return on his bike, already setting his foot on one pedal, when suddenly, the Narrator tried to stop him: "Wait! I'd suggest we continue on foot from here on. I- I think I can carve out some more time to allow you to do that. But please, stay on ground for the time being, okay? This will allow you to better concentrate on my instructions, I mean."

Stanley's shoulders slumped in response and with his bicycle beside him, he began to wander down the road, returning to the street he was supposed to take. First this blind spot, and now this. I'm being mentally and physically battered without the Narrator even doing anything. Ironic.

"Ignore those people staring, Stanley," the Narrator huffed in disapproval. "It could have happened to anyone. Also, who the heck puts bins right on the sidewalk? What was that person even thinking? Everyone seems to lack common sense here. Last night, for example, your impetuous neighbor decided it was a good idea to indulge in loud activity with their spouse as I was preparing to speak to you again. I had to... ask them politely to remain quiet. What is it with people in this town? For real."

I don't know, Narrator. I don't know. Yet it had always been Stanley who was the weird one, the one who never spoke and had a voice in his head telling him what to do.

 Turning to the left and going down the correct street, he bit his tongue as a sharp pain ran through his hands once more.

"In two hundred meters, please take the left exit. So, how did that sound? Wait, let me try again." The Narrator shifted his voice up a notch. "In one hundred and ninety-six meters, please take the left exit. Hey, I should do this kind of thing more often, it's fun! Stanley, after all of this, how about I take you to the..." He broke off, a bummed tone mingling under his words as he spoke again. "Oh, that's right, I forgot. Never mind. Never mind, just forget I was going to say anything. We should be there, soon." He then fell silent, even though Stanley would still have liked to know what he wanted to say. Was the Narrator trying to imply that he would have liked to hang out with Stanley outside of the game, as weird as that sounded? Either way, as per their agreement, something like that would never happen, knowing that they would never speak to each other again, be it in-game or not. Too bad really... wait, stop, don't even think about it. Don't be soft on him. That guy will come up with a new character, he'll be fine. The Narrator, not the character, that is.

After the stated distance, Stanley made a turn in the direction he was given. In fact, he quickly recognized this part of town, even if he had entered it from a rather unusual point, thanks to the Narrator being mistaken at least three times with his directions. But the fact that there was a store was news to Stanley.

A large parking lot opened up in front of him, with a large building sitting behind it. Yep, that thing was definitely new. Someone must have been busy.

"So, are you ready for your first true challenge?" the Narrator asked teasingly as Stanley headed across the parking lot and towards the building. First true challenge? The whole day so far had been nothing but a challenge! What did the Narrator have in store for him this time, both literally and figuratively?  Endless lines at the checkout counters? People blocking the way with their carts? Pushy shop assistants? And to think he was doing all this for his boss! If Stanley hadn't been given the promotion, he would have rather given his boss a dry handshake than go through this whole exercise, though Stanley still wasn't sure if the Narrator was even aware of his promotion. And if he was, he would have to live with the knowledge that the Narrator was clearly aware of things more than he liked.

He parked his bike and headed for the large, glass entrance. Don't be afraid Stanley, you've went shopping many times before. The Narrator remained strangely silent so far he noticed, and despite his positive and confidence infusing thoughts, Stanley couldn't help but be worried. What the hell had the Narrator prepared that made him probably laughing up his sleeve right now?

"Good luck," he wished him as he came closer to the large, bulky building. "Because you're going to need it in there. That's all I'm going to tell you, you'll see for yourself."

Stanley stepped in front of the broad glass door and took a deep breath. Just find that wine, put it in your inventory, then leave. That's all that needed to be done. How hard could it be?

With his shoulders tensed up, braced for anything he might encounter in there, he trudged inside. Once past the doors, he stopped, seeing that this was no ordinary store at all; there was only a single aisle in front of him, devoid from any human life, going off into several side aisles further down. What the...? Uncertain if this was intentional, Stanley looked upwards where he always suspected the Narrator to be, hoping to show that way that he did needed some guidance after all. But no response sounded; Stanley would be on his own here. Fine then. Seems like I'm a rat in his labyrinth now. Even though Stanley never once saw the Narrator and thus didn't know what he looked like, he was imagining him laughing off his ass right now.

Eager to get his hands on the object of desire in order to be allowed to leave as quickly as possible, Stanley sped down the aisle, scanning every single product as he passed. No, no, still no wine. After all, it would have been too easy if it had been placed right at the entrance, right?

Stanley entered the first aisle that split off. What if the Narrator was working with reverse psychology here and he had indeed placed the wine directly next to the entrance? Maybe he should go back to check again. So he stopped running. But how exactly was he supposed get back now? Where did all these new aisles behind him suddenly come from? This place did not make the slightest bit of sense!

He randomly chose an aisle and ran through it, his eyes open like those of an eagle. All these shelves, all these products that were not of his interest, and yet not a single person here. Wait, where had he ended up now? Was he crazy, or did these shelves look familiar? Now he was completely lost. Well, at least there was no annoying pop music playing in here, Stanley noticed with relief.

Suddenly, after minutes of silence only interrupted by the squeaking and thudding of his footsteps, the Narrator finally spoke up again: "Oh, oopsie-daisy, I forgot there was supposed to be music playing in here, my bad."

Generic pop music was now blaring from the speakers above. So much for that.

Stanley ran and ran, now systematically along the right wall, as one did in situations like these - he just assumed that this was a labyrinth and that this technique would work here - and only after a few loops around the same six walls, he realized that he was running in circles. Exhausted, gasping for breath, he stopped, bent himself over and rested his hands on his knees.

"And Stanley, what do you think of this gameplay so far?" the Narrator said, that loathsome music still playing in the background. "I'm sure your head is already spinning from asking yourself what the heck is going on! Questions upon questions racing through your mind! The answer is procedural generation. That's right. Every time the game is played, this whole place is randomly generated in the blink of an eye without me even having to do anything! I usually don't spare any effort, especially when it comes to my games, but I figured 'why not?' and here we are. And it's doing a pretty good job so far, I must say. This aisle here, for example, it looks... just like all the other aisles! I am utterly thrilled! Is this enriching your experience, Stanley, running from shelf to shelf? Is that what the gamers mean by 'replay value'? Is this fun to you?"

Stanley flared his nostrils in annoyance. So, the Narrator wanted to know if he was having fun, huh? He straightened up again before taking a closer look at the shelf next to him. A plan was forming in his mind. And so he began dragging out several boxes, cans, and bags, his hands still stinging from the impact before.

"Um, Stanley, what exactly are you doing?" the Narrator wanted to know. "Has this place messed with your mind so much that you've forgotten what we actually came here for? Or has this music brought you to the brink of madness, making you go on a rampage? Please, explain to me what you're up to, because I can't make heads or tails of your behavior."

Once he deemed the amount of items sufficient, Stanley arranged them on the floor of the corridor so that the Narrator should be able to read the resulting word.

"'Fuck you'?!" he read aloud, completely aghast. "What?! I politely ask for your feedback and this is your response?! I won't put up with such unleveled profanity, no matter what you think of my game! Normally I wouldn't let this misbehavior of yours go unpunished, but consider yourself lucky that we're under such a time constraint preventing me from doing so."

Stanley's smug grin he had put on faded. Time constraint? The Narrator had promised him that they wouldn't spend working on the prototype of his new game for more than a few days, he knew of that - unlike the fact that a specific deadline existed. At least, he couldn't recall him saying anything about it.

"So that's what you think of this segment. It has caused you pain that severe for you to resort to such words to describe your experience," the Narrator muttered to himself lost in thoughts, not yet recovered from his shock. Not sure whether Stanley should continue his search and advance the quest, he meekly pulled his head back between his shoulders and began to slowly move along. He really hadn't expected the Narrator to take his words to his heart like that.

"I'm trying my hardest here, doing everything I can to add innovative ideas to the game, and this is the reception to my work. Although, no," he paused, presumably to contemplate his words for a second. "Now that I think about it, this maze is actually not my own work. Causing you misery is not a fault of mine after all, but that of the algorithm. Good grief, Stanley, you've opened my eyes. This mindless wandering that serves no purpose other than to prolong the gaming experience, it's absolutely horrible. I'm disappointed, Stanley, in myself and in my inability to make correct game design decisions and blindly trust an algorithm to generate even a remotely coherent arrangement of mildly interesting corridors. I realize that now. I think we're done here."

His sigh following afterwards was heavy with frustration. "After running through aisle after aisle, from shelf to shelf, already on the verge of giving up, Stanley finally spotted what he had been looking for: wine. Exactly the kind that was worthy of a boss at that. So he went ahead and grabbed a bottle."

As he concluded his narration, Stanley took a turn, and indeed, as was described, spotted bottles of wine stacked into a meticulously shaped pyramid. Instead of approaching it, however, he remained at the head of the aisle, staring down the suspicious structure. It was a trap, wasn't it? Never would the Narrator let Stanley reach his goal so easily without putting in a hurdle; the story simply demanded that things go wrong - especially after Stanley had managed to insult the Narrator so much with his rather brusque choice of words.

The Narrator, noticing his hesitation, was becoming impatient. "Stanley walked up to the bottles, waiting for him right there, just a few feet away, and picked one up," he repeated in an excessively clear manner. "At least, this is what he thought about doing. But instead, he continued to stand around doing nothing. Why was he doing this?"

Stanley could not spare even a shred of trust regarding this whole set-up, not even a tiny bit, in spite of all the Narrator's affirming words. But what if it is no trap? Am I just being paranoid?

"But suddenly Stanley remembered that his boss was allergic to wine." Stanley had spent too much time overthinking, so that by now, the Narrator appeared to have given up. "Silly me!' he thought, 'so I came here for nothing'. And with that, he left the store."

Behind him, Stanley heard a door open. From where he had just come from was now a wall with a simple door leading straight outside. Overcome with unexpected guilt, he actually considered taking a bottle with him, just to properly progress the story the way the Narrator had intended; but it dawned on him that he had had enough of Stanley's attitude. All he wanted now was for him to leave through this door - and so Stanley did, not with his head raised in triumph, but lowered in shame.

Chapter Text

Leaving the store, Stanley emerged at a small street with a tree-shaded park on the other side. As soon as he had both feet out of the disorienting building, the door was closed behind him with an unnecessarily loud bang.

"You think you're being pretty funny, don't you? Hilarious, even? I've asked nothing of you but your cooperation, but you do have an indomitable need to disobey. Like a child, you shirk your responsibilities," the Narrator grumbled angrily. If he were standing in front of him in person right now, his fiery gaze would have killed Stanley on the spot. "All these years I've grown as a person, yet apparently you're just the same as before." His voice was dripping with contempt.

Ashamed, Stanley looked down onto the sidewalk. Have I gone too far this time?

"But that's okay."

His head snapped up, wide-eyed in surprise. Had he just heard correctly?

"I need this harsh, nonverbal criticism in the form of you rebelling against me," the Narrator continued reflectively. "I need to step down from my throne of superiority and realize that not everything I create is free of flaws. And you are the counterweight that will bring me down from said throne. Here, I have two more features that I was supposed to introduce to you later. But you know what? The sooner you tear them apart with your critical eye, the less painful it will be for me, like a band aid being ripped off quickly. But I need some time to prepare both of them, so in the meantime, do what you do best; namely, whatever you want."

Abashed, Stanley set onto the narrow street and rushed over into the park. The entire morning had been a mess so far, only because the Narrator had not realized that he was inept at creating, blinded by hubris. Still, by defying him, Stanley did not help with making progress either. The two of them were simply like two gears working against each other.

But for now, for a few minutes at least, the Narrator would leave him alone. Taking advantage of this brief moment of peace, Stanley sat down at the closest bench he could find and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Then, he closed his eyes and simply listened. Listened to the birds singing, the distant roar of car engines, the rustling of leaves in the wind.

No, Stanley was wrong. The Narrator was not inept at creating. Quite to the contrary, even. The air that filled his lungs with every breath, the wood of the park bench warmed by isolated rays of sunlight shining through the trees around him, every house, every single pebble - it was all his work. He had created all this. Not for the sake of creating, but because at the time, his passion for creating had prompted him to do so. All these unwritten stories, which perhaps should have taken place on that very park bench Stanley was now sitting on, or in the shade of that ancient oak over there, would perhaps ultimately live on as ideas in the Narrator's mind, should he not manage to rekindle this passion. And this would be my fault, Stanley reflected. He opened his eyes again and leaned back. Like a child you shirk your responsibilities, it echoed in his head, as if the Narrator himself was saying those words to him right now. Maybe Stanley was not meant to accept this promotion he had been given after all, if it was responsibility he was unable to shoulder.

Being lost in thought, he was startled when his smartphone in his pocket vibrated. Who on earth was writing him a message at this hour? Was it his boss wanting to cancel the supposed meeting, prompted to do so by the Narrator who had apparently given up on his story? Or any of his colleagues currently dealing with alligators?

He dug out his device, wanting to have a closer look at the message he had just received. Unknown sender? As if that wasn't strange enough, the message contained only one word: Stanley.

Disturbed, he lifted his face to look besides him, then turned it back at the screen. The Narrator was playing a trick on him, wasn't he? Trying to scare him as revenge for his immature behavior before in the maze-store?

Then, another message arrived: You don't know me anymore probably, but I know you. And I know the Narrator as well.

Riddled with disbelief at what he was reading, Stanley moved his phone closer to his face. Who the hell was this guy – who he apparently once knew - and how did they know of the Narrator's existence? Never in his life had Stanley ever told anyone about a disembodied voice observing everything he did, and if he tried, the Narrator always tried his best at stopping him from doing so; so often that Stanley had given up at some point. Literally nobody except Stanley himself knew of his existence. So, the Narrator himself must have sent this message after all, there was no other explanation Stanley could come up with to explain this supposed strangers knowledge.

He continued to read the next message sent to him: I'm on your side, you have to trust me. We are in the same boat.

He tilted his head in confusion, not so convinced anymore by his simple explanation that the Narrator was behind this. Was Stanley now supposed to text this person anything in response? They, at least, had to be concerned with a rather serious matter and, according to them, be in the same situation as Stanley, which was not a situation anyone strived to be in. After all, if one used proper punctuation in their text messages, it had to be serious.

The Narrator was now back again. "Here I am!" he announced with improved spirits. "Together with a new feature, which I think you're going to have a field day critically tearing it apart. Once you put your phone down, that is. Which is what you actually should do. Like, right now."

Next message: I have to keep it tight, we don't have much time left.

"Stanley, put that thing away now! You have other things to focus on! Me, for example! Stop wasting my time - no, our time - on this trivial machine! What on earth could be more interesting about it than what I've prepared for you? Stanley, are you even listening? Hello!?"

Yet another message: There is a way out. For both of us. A way to escape the Narrator's control once and for all. Check-

Stanley didn't even get to finish reading it. Suddenly, and without him having done anything, his phone began updating its software, rendering it temporarily unusable.

"Here you go," the Narrator said with satisfaction. He was the one who had started this update by force. "That's what you get for not listening. No need to get mad, you brought this on yourself. You're free to get petulant after you've looked at the upcoming feature; in fact, I insist on it. Now get up off the bench, I have features to present to you."

A way out? A way to escape the Narrator's control - once and for all? Stanley's hopes were soaring and he felt giddy with excitement. This is what he had always hoped for, the reason he was participating in this whole endeavor in the first place! This update needs to finish as soon as possible. I have to read what that unknown person wrote - I just have to! To his fortune, the Narrator had a hard time reading human emotions, or he would have immediately noticed how much Stanley was currently beaming with joy. It looked like he would be able to get rid of the Narrator sooner than expected, and after only a few hours instead of days for that matter. For Stanley, he felt as if it was his birthday; today was truly the best day of his life.

Elated, he got up from his bench.

"I know you're probably fuming right now," the Narrator misjudged his mood. "But in all seriousness, what I'm going to show you will make you forget your anger, I'm sure of that. You'll forget so quickly that you'll be confused as to what triggered that anger in the first place. That's how much you'll forget. See, even I've forgot what I was going to say now, that's how well it works. That's the power of forgetting, Stanley, never forget that."

Yes, yes, I'm fuming. Fuming with joy! I hope you savor well these last moments of your power over me, Narrator. Because I am done being your plaything. All the feelings of guilt that had just taken hold of him were blown away. His story and his game no longer interested him the slightest bit, for he was about to be no longer be part of them anymore. Damn right I shirk my responsibilities.

"Ah, now I remember," it came back to him, still unaware that his game would soon come to an end. "By the way, did you know that I'm capable of creating all new characters, complete with memories of a life never actually lived? I don't do it often because it runs the danger of overloading the program, but pretty neat, isn't it? I mean, haven't you ever wondered if all the stuff you think you remember, or all the stuff you're experiencing currently, isn't faked to the moment of your life actually beginning? How do you know you didn't start existing just a second ago? How do I know that the developers didn't bring me into existence just now, which makes your existence in return dependent on mine- Okay, this is getting too intense for my liking, so let's move on. Here, an NPC for our testing purposes, fresh out of the program's oven!"

At the roots of the old sturdy oak a few feet away, a shimmering silhouette appeared. A person materialized out of that glistening mass, standing leaned against the bark and letting their gaze wander through the park, unaware that they hadn't even existed up until a few seconds ago. It was that simple? Stanley didn't know whether to be disturbed or fascinated. Had he also once been created this way for the simple purpose of taking the lead role in the Narrator's stories, even though his memories of his younger years were clear and distinct?

While Stanley was just on the verge of experiencing an existential crisis, the Narrator began to introduce the feature in question in more detail: "I present to you: The dialogue wheel! The method used is very sophisticated. Both your current mood and memories and those of your interlocutor are weighed against each other to create dialogue. This way, every time you decide to talk to someone, every single line of dialogue is a truly fresh and unique experience! Go ahead, talk to them!"

Stanley approached them and saw a prompt that he could now initiate a conversation showing up in front of him. Was this finally it - was he finally, after all these years, going to be able to speak? He followed the prompt and indeed, in his mind’s eye, words he could choose to initiate a conversation appeared: Extraterrestrial, Lake, Peanut, Oh, Dingy.

Disappointed by this rather abstruse assortment, his shoulders slumped. By now, he had the feeling the Narrator was just trying to troll him in the most elaborate and drawn-out way possible. Still, he wanted to test out this feature and see if he wasn't undervaluing it after all, which is why he chose the word that seemed safest to him: peanut.

The person leaned against the oak then turned their head to him, looking him straight into his eyes, their brow furrowed in annoyance. "What the hell, man?" they grumbled, and walked off as if shooed away.

Stricken with cold embarrassment, Stanley glared after them.

"Oh my," the Narrator, who had also just witnessed this awkward interaction, remarked. "Whatever you said must have upset them quite a bit. Maybe that's why you choose never to speak, because everything that leaves your mouth makes you more and more unlikable."

Stanley hadn't expected anything, yet he still felt disappointed by that feature. However, he chose not to care. Every single feature the Narrator had and would present to him, he would soon not care about, when Stanley finally figured out how to escape his terrorizing control. He was already imagining how he would simply leave to go back home, paying absolutely no attention to the Narrator's words, with him not being able to do anything about it. It was like a bar of the sweetest chocolate held tantalizingly in front of his mouth, Stanley felt.

"Let me guess, you don't like the dialogue wheel," the Narrator asserted blindly. "For whatever reason, I'll never know. Was it too simplistic? Or counterintuitive? Does the game even need this feature? Spare me the pain of seeing your criticisms written out with objects on the floor again, I can read you like an open book."

Stanley got out his phone to see how far along the update was. Just three more minutes. His heartbeat quickened. He quickly put it back down before the Narrator was going to make it explode in his hand or something, to get rid of any further distraction.

"Fine then, you have me convinced. This dialogue wheel borders on being an insult to my true potential. I will have to deactivate it, or else you will use it to provoke others" he decided. "Seems like I'll have to rework this feature. Just like all the other ones, actually. It's going to be a lot of work, but it will be worth it. I can already see… all the awards and praises flowing in. Yes. Like leaves entering through your front door on a chilly autumn's day. Ooh, I like that. Now let's take a look at the next and final concept. And after you will have decided that this concept doesn't meet your elevated standards either, we can move on to the actual game."

I think things will be a little different, Narrator.

"Anyway, The Stanley Parable 2 has left a bitter taste in the mouths of those who played it. With that in mind, I want to differentiate our current project from past ones by placing more emphasis on the possibility of expressing one's character rather than on the story and some pointless gags. It's those sweet numbers and stats that really reveal your character's progress, and not some unnecessary, superficially imposed story arc that is forced upon you! This is where the skill spiral comes into play. It differs from a skill tree, because it's not structured like a tree, but more like a spiral or rather an expressive whirl, as you can see," the Narrator said. "That's at least what I was thinking going into it. Dig in, Critic Stanley. Don't let this tragic origin story get to you. Show no mercy."

Impatient and eager to finally be able to check his phone again and follow the mysterious stranger's instructions, Stanley took a look at the skill spiral. At the very edge at the beginning of it was a single skill he could choose to level up. Now, he possessed the all-changing ability to blink a whole five percent faster.

"Yes, yes, the skills are lacking, I know that myself," the Narrator interjected before Stanley was able to give a reaction on his own. "But like any open-world game, ours will be so excruciatingly long that there will always be new abilities to unlock all the time. And to maintain good balancing, the first few skills are kept rather timid. Ask yourself, would it be any fun to rush through the game, completely and utterly overpowered? My answer would be 'yes', but since you represent all future players, your opinion carries more weight, with it being most definitely 'no'. Ah, I see that you have picked your first skill, how exciting! There aren't any other skills to choose from, actually, but it doesn't stifle my excitement in any way. I think I have landed something with that. Something that is actually… good. Yes, I can say that with confidence now! Ahem. It's… good. I hope you feel the same way, Stanley."

Still somewhat curious, Stanley scanned the individual skills that he would be able to unlock on his way to the center of the spiral. Larger inventory. Being less ugly. Transcendent Cooking. Again, larger inventory. Less susceptibility to kidney failure. Overall healthier organs. Being able to escape from organ harvesters faster. Becoming ugly again so that the organ harvesters will leave you alone.

"You see? You blinked one more time than usual, the skill is taking effect! But at the same time, it could prove to be counterproductive since less time spent blinking means more time to blink overall, which in turn... hold on for a minute."

Stanley felt his heart skipping a beat, fearing that the Narrator had caught something of his plan.

 "I have to calculate a definite answer or I won't be able to get this out of my head."

Now! Now he's distracted! Stanley quickly pulled out his phone and was pleased to see that the update had finished, he was able to access his messages again. Quickly, hoping that the Narrator would be distracted long enough, he opened up the last message he had received: There is a way out. For both of us. A way to escape the Narrator's control once and for all. Check your inventory, I've put a command there that will bring up a makeshift cheat console.

Fast, he had to act fast! With his heart beating faster and faster with each passing second, Stanley closed the skill spiral, called up his inventory and discovered next to the seashell a blue book, which he immediately selected without wasting a second thought on whether he should even trust the stranger's instructions. The promise of freedom made him forget any common sense of caution, it was simply too tempting.

There it was, a cheat console! Way back then, in the original Stanley Parable, and this he remembered, there had been a cheat console before it was removed. Now, there was one he could use right in front of him, provided he was fast enough so that the Narrator wouldn't catch it. So this stranger knows about the nature of this world’s existence, it being simulated and all of that. But just who are they?

His phone vibrated again, they had sent him another message: Good. I've put another blue book in your inventory; just drop the code it contains into the console and activate it.

And Stanley did just that, all while the Narrator was still busy calculating some number that was soon going to lose all importance.

And as simple as that, it was done.

Was this what freedom felt like? It felt good. The unprecedented feeling of power flowed through him, every breath making him realize more and more that it was now over. At last, after all these years, he was free! Free! Endless possibilities opened up before him. Never again would he have to listen to the Narrator's voice, let himself be pushed around like a dog, have to listen to his mean and condescending comments again.

But as it seemed, everything except for his feelings were still the same as before. Actually, nothing in particular had changed. Was the Narrator still busy calculating, or was he... gone? For good this time?

A whole new male voice, much younger than the Narrator's, suddenly appeared in Stanley's head: "Fucking finally, I can speak again! Oh, that feels good."

The Narrator, still present to Stanley's disappointment, or rather utter confusion, gasped in surprise, "Woah, what, hello? Who is speaking there? Stanley, is my mind playing tricks on me, or did that voice sound somehow… more intrusive than usual?"

"Stanley can't help you. Nobody can help you now," the stranger hissed spitefully.

"How fascinating. A voice whose physical origin I cannot make out. Nor does the system tell me who you are or where you came from. Seems like we are trying to remain anonymous, aren't we? How about I introduce myself, the way you are supposed to do when you join a social gathering uninvited, hm?" The Narrator was unfazed.

"No need to introduce yourself, I know you already. You. You who ruined my life!"

The searing euphoria Stanley had felt only seconds before turned to freezing dismay. Did he know that second voice from somewhere? What did it mean when it said that nobody would be able to help the Narrator now? What was it up to? Stanley wished for the Narrator to be gone, yes, but not for anything seriously bad to happen to him. What have I done?

"Ruined your life?" repeated the Narrator, who, unlike Stanley, seemed much more composed about the situation. "Well, I don't even know who you are."

"You really don't remember me, do you?" the stranger sneered, wild with emotion. "But why should you? For you, I was nothing more than an insignificant extra in the background.”

"That explanation to my lacking memory sounds quite plausible, actually."

The stranger seemed all the more annoyed by the fact that the Narrator wasn't reacting in a way he would have liked. "Do you enjoy ruining lives? Keeping people trapped in this fake world like dolls in a dollhouse, you sicko?”

"Oh, please. I'm trapped, you're trapped, we all are trapped. Now come to the point before I make you go mute, you insufferable bug in my ear."

"Your ill fun has come to an end, Narrator. Because I have the feeling that what is about to come will no longer be as amusing to you." Every word leaving the stranger's mouth sounded like caramel molten on his tongue, and Stanley, afraid of the inevitable escalation, could do nothing but listen to their back and forth. Frozen in horror, he came to the realization that Stanley's desire for freedom was not of the stranger's primary interest, but rather the desire for something else, something more sinister.

"For God's sake, it was entertaining at first, but that's enough." The Narrator still seemed rather unimpressed by his empty accusations and threats, even though there was now a slight hint of distress in his voice. "And poof, gone with you. Well, that was weird. Where did this boorish fellow come from? Stanley, I promise you, whatever he said, I genuinely have no idea what the heck he was rumbling on about." The longer he spoke, the greater this distress grew. But the stranger was gone now and no longer posed a threat to him, if that was even possible, right?

Stanley held his breath. Was that it? For the duration of few, but rapid, chest-hurting heartbeats, it was unbearably silent. Were they just going to continue the game, as if nothing had ever happened? He felt too rattled to be disappointed about it.

"And?" It was the stranger who spoke again, his smug grin resonating in his words. "Was something supposed to happen? I'm waiting."

"Wait, what?" Narrator's melodic voice began shivering like a feeble branch in the wind. "Why did it not work? Gone with you, I said! Wha- why doesn't it work? Hello? Stanley, I- I'm trying everything, but the program no longer reacts to me! I can't do anything anymore! Literally nothing! I- I-… What's going on here?! Make your identity known, you coward!”

But the coward gave no further answer.

Instead, the air began to hum. Stanley, who was now just as terrified as the Narrator, saw small but bright flashes of light sparking up ahead, coming together in a whirl and then growing into the silhouette of a person; just like that test NPC before.

Stanley took two steps back, his eyes wide open and not sure where to go or what to do. The Narrator, he must be seeing what is happening here! But why doesn't he say anything anymore?! Who even is this? Oh, what have I done?!

As quickly as they had appeared, the bright lights went dark again. Left behind was nothing but a man, with short silvery hair, and a dapper dark vest over a white button-down shirt, who lost his balance as soon as he had manifested and fell backwards onto the grass.

Chapter Text

Silence only becomes unbearable once things otherwise unnoticeable become deafening: one's own heartbeat, the rushing of blood in one's ears, one's own breath, one's own thoughts, racing in all directions and not coming to a halt. It was the loudest silence Stanley ever had to endure.

So he stood there, in the middle of a park, it having just turned half past ten, and not daring to make a single move, as if he were standing on a field packed with landmines. His gaze was fixed on the man who had appeared out of nowhere no less than five seconds ago, and was now taking an involuntary nap in the cool, shady grass.

Neither the Narrator, nor the other deceitful stranger said a word, which for once did not render the silence any more bearable. Stanley, caught in a chaos of thoughts, tried to recall what both had said last, so that he might be able to figure out what had just happened. But the only memory he could recall was the Narrator panicking before falling silent. Shortly after that, the person had appeared.

Could it be that...? No, that's impossible. Or is it?

Half a minute had already passed, and as soon as Stanley had regained his composure and recovered from his shock, he started moving again. There was a person lying unconscious on the ground, and he was just standing around, staring and doing nothing to help him!

So he jogged across the grassy area, coming to a stop next to the supine man. Upon closer inspection, Stanley noticed features he hadn't been able to see from a distance. The man's expressionless face was marked by age. Diagonally across his nose, presumably displaced by his fall, sat a pair of square glasses. Fortunately, he also appeared to still be breathing. The dim suspicion of who this person at his feet might be took shape in Stanley's mind, and to find out if his suspicion would prove true, he crouched down and gently shook the shoulder of the still-unknown man. To his dismay, however, he gave no response, so he tried once more to shake him awake, this time more vigorously. How did one wake up an unconscious person? By blowing air in their face? Or by dumping water on them? He knew there was a pond nearby, so if Stanley could....

Caught off guard, he fell back and caught himself on his hands as the man let out a loud gasp and then reflexively drew in the air. Hastily, Stanley scrambled back to his feet and watched as the eyes behind the glasses opened halfway. Immediately they fastened on Stanley, forming eye contact.

"...Stanley?" he groaned dazedly. And despite his hoarseness, his voice was still as distinctive as ever.

The man down there – it was him. It was none other than the Narrator.

What?! How?! Am I imagining things?

"Why... why can't I... move? Why do I feel so...?" His befuddled gaze broke away from Stanley, who stood unmoving next to him, frozen in shock. The man's upper eyelids shot up as he came to the realization of why he suddenly found himself so restricted in his movements. "What?" he managed to get out. First quite hushed, then loud with outrage. "What?!"

Stanley took a watchful step backward, not daring to try anything to make him calm down like he was a rabid animal that you didn't want to get too close to, although he thoroughly shared his intense disorientation. What was happening here could only be described as surreal. Had he perhaps took a hit to his head somewhere on the way here?

"No, no, no, no!" the Narrator muttered to himself in disbelief, taking a few tries to get himself upright on the ground, before frantically scanning himself. "No! It can't be! God in heavens, please don't let it be true!" He froze and pinned Stanley with eyes widened in horror. "I'm in a body! A squishy, fetid, feeble body!" he called out the obvious, his initial dizziness now fully ebbed away. Completely beside himself, he began several awkward attempts to somehow get to his feet as the words spilled out of him, "Why!? How!? Oh God, this is horrific, absolutely horrific! I can't believe- why am I in a body?! It can't be, it can't be, it can't be..."

His glasses nearly fell off several times before he finally managed to stand on his tottering legs. By now, Stanley thought the Narrator had already forgotten his presence until the older man turned to face him; and Stanley began to pray that he didn't know that he was, in a way, responsible for this whole unfortunate situation.

"Stanley, explain this to me!" he snapped at him, making him flinch back; how was he possibly supposed to come up with an explanation? He was just as baffled as he was! "Why am I even asking, you can't!" the Narrator realized, nearly losing his balance again. "You have no idea of anything! No idea, how bad this is! No idea, what this means! How could this have happened!? If losing my powers wasn't bad enough already! It must have been that stranger, it just has to be! For heavens- of all the things possible of happening...! Agh!" He let out a scream of frustration and paced around on the spot.

Although Stanley found him to be overreacting and that there were far worse things than being a human, he became aware that the Narrator was now completely powerless in this state - and was thus never able to finish the game, let alone the prototype. In the face of this extremely strange situation, Stanley didn't quite know how to feel. He was promised freedom, but instead, he was now standing in some park, early in the morning, with some elderly man going mad and screaming to himself wildly.

"Okay, stay calm, take a breath!" the Narrator forced himself to calm down after having loudly discharged his rage. "Take a deep breath! Don't panic, don't panic, this can be fixed! My goodness, breathing feels weird. All of this feels weird. How can anyone live like this?"

So that's weird to you? You know what's weird? To suddenly have a person in front of you speaking with the very same voice that has haunted you for several years.

"I'm fine, Stanley, no need to worry about me. I'm back to my senses, back to my old self!" he claimed, but his puckered expression betrayed otherwise. "Well, not really. I'm not quite my old self. I'm now here, trapped in this flesh suit. To be able to look around properly I have to, ugh, move my eyes and if that's not sufficient, I have to move my head and even looking behind me I can't fully... how can you bear that? It's so constricting! So narrowing! My Gosh, how much I would love to scream again. But even that feels weird, makes me dizzy."

If Stanley had known from the beginning that this man lying there was in fact the Narrator, he would have thought twice about wanting to wake him up. Without any fuss, he could have just walked away and left him here. That's what he wanted from the beginning, was it not? To get rid of the Narrator? So, why hadn't Stanley just left? It seemed to him that he could muster more empathy and altruism towards other people than towards disembodied voices, this probably being the reason Stanley had not left. Now thinking about it, he preferred that he had been the one to wake him up, and not someone else who would have been disturbed by the mad Narrator mumbling and yelling, thinking he was crazy. Now I have the Narrator stuck with me and no idea how we're going to make things return back to normal. If that's even possible.

"I don't like to say it, but we'll have to put the game on hold," the Narrator decided, staggering and now clinging to the branches of a shrub to keep him from falling over. "Not that we have any other choice. Oh, what should we do, what should we do, I don't know..." Within a very short timeframe, the Narrator had gone through all five stages of grief and had now arrived back at the beginning.

Stanley scratched the back of his neck, equally as clueless about what they should do now. What if the Narrator were to remain trapped in this state forever? Who would take care of the game then? Or the program? As it seemed, it continued to work just fine without him, but for how long? And most importantly, where had the stranger's voice gone? No doubt he caused the Narrator to become stuck down here. With my cooperation, of course...

"Aha, I got it!" The Narrator's eyes lit up in triumph. "I may have lost control of the program, but you... you can restart the game! And revert everything back to normal!" He chuckled victoriously, the shrub whose branch he was clinging to rustling under heavy strain. "Surely the stranger didn't think of that! You see? Nothing is lost yet, everything can still be saved. The Narrator always has a plan ready. Now get on with it, Stanley, I can't bear spending another second in this suffocating skin."

Stanley gulped. Restart the game? And subsequently enter the loading screen? Please no. But, if it had to be done... This one time he would have to endure it. He more or less owed it to the Narrator for messing everything up.

It took him a moment to remember how to access the pause menu. After all, it had been several years since he had last been able to make use of it. As soon as the game was paused, he immediately felt the world around him freeze; the birds' songs stopped, the rustling of the leaves died away, the air stiffened, and there was neither warmth nor cold. Everything stood still. Everything, except for Stanley's thoughts. He searched every option that was displayed in front of him for the restart option. Continue game? No. Settings? No. Where did it go? His heart sank. Did the Narrator forget to implement it, or was it the stranger who disabled it?

With a stomach seething with disappointment, Stanley resumed the game and the world came back to life. Of course, the stranger must have disabled the option, because from the looks of it, he had been planning this for quite some time. So how stupid would it have been of him to overlook such a minor, yet crucial detail?

"Well, what are you waiting for?" The Narrator kept his other free hand propped up on his knee, exhausted. "Have you forgotten how to access it? Or why do you look like you ate something bad?"

How was Stanley supposed to articulate that the option had disappeared entirely? The stranger made the Narrator human, so he could have at least given me a voice while he was at it.

In an attempt to explain to him what was going on, Stanley raised his shoulders, shook his head, and gestured with his hands as if to say: Nothing there.

"Excuse me?" the Narrator couldn't quite decipher his movements. "What do you mean? Now I kind of regret disabling the dialogue wheel, even though it wasn't good for anything but picking fights. Okay, before we start playing charades here, hear me out: You remember how to get to the pause menu, right?"

Stanley nodded. At that, one of the Narrator's eyebrows shot up. "And that means... what, exactly, now? You can't restart the game?! Is that what you are trying to convey?!"

Now he understands!

The Narrator threw up his face, groaning. "Of course it's gone, what else!" he lamented. "When has any plan ever worked out at all? And I thought the lacking features were my biggest problem, but look at me now. At least that could have been fixed, but this? This is not a problem that can just be fixed on the side with a few nights spent inside the code. This is not a story that can be salvaged simply by imaginative improvisation. Not something you can look back on afterwards and laugh at. This is serious!"

Oh, really? Based on your reaction, I figured it was all a joke, Stanley remarked sarcastically in his mind and then realized that maybe it was a good thing he couldn't express his thoughts by speaking after all.

"Well, now I'm out of ideas, I don't have a plan as to what to do or where to go," the Narrator acknowledged. "What about you, Stanley? After all, you were always the one who seemed to know where to go best."

I'll just ignore this intentional provocative reference for now. Stanley was about to shrug his shoulders again, palms up, when the Narrator seemed to have spotted something on him. "Wait a minute," he muttered, narrowing his eyes scrutinizingly. Stanley could hear his own heart beating. What is it, what's wrong? He feared that at any moment, the Narrator might notice what Stanley had done.

"Stanley, your hands!" he exclaimed. "So you did hurt yourself earlier? Why haven't you said anything? If you had said something, I could have undone it. My goodness, and you have been walking around like that? Are you deliberately trying to get something infected?"

He was getting hot under his skin. Why was the Narrator suddenly so worried about him because of a few minor scratches - well, his hands, forearms and knees were burning like hell - when he used to always let him die in the old Stanley Parable, without any regards to the harm it caused him? Admittedly, the resets had always fixed any injuries, but the mental scarring remained, even to this day. Blown to bits by nuclear detonators, dying at the bottom of the loading docks, crushed by a trash compactor, just to name a few. And what he was worried about were small, measly scrapes?

"I don't think you realize it yet, but if anything happens to you, if anything happens to me, neither of us can restart the game to undo it, do you understand?" the Narrator clarified, his gaze intense. "So I can no longer allow you to get yourself into suicidal situations, as entertaining as I found it before. I need you alive because you're the only character here who understands what this world is all about; and I need me alive because I'm the only one who has a damn clue about how the program works. We both depend on each other to get things back to normal. So, what we need to do now is get you home and kind of patch this up so that we can figure out our next steps."

He was right, Stanley had to admit. From the looks of it, the game had just received a new surprise feature: permadeath mode. But he was relieved to find that he could still access his inventory, the skill spiral, the useless map, and the cheat console, the sight of which now made Stanley feel uneasy. So, wherever it would take them, they were not entirely without help.

"Well then, let's go! Stanley and the Narrator against the world. Together we're unstoppable! Go grab your bike and we're- woah!" The Narrator had just taken his hand off the branch and was trying to take his first steps when he began to lurch, paddling his arms in the air. Out of reflex, Stanley rushed to his side and tried to catch him, but with a wave of his hand, the Narrator abruptly interjected his attempt at helping and fell to his knees. "I don't think I need any help with walking, thank you very much," he panted. "You don't learn to swim by relying on your water wings forever, do you? I know it's hard for you, I'm sure, but let me figure out things on my own, will you? I'll be fine."

Suit yourself, Stanley thought and allowed him the space he needed to get back up by stepping back. So much for them depending on each other. Stubborn met stubborn - what could possibly go wrong?

Just about half an hour later, they arrived back at the apartment. For Stanley, the trip there had proved to be, if one could put it that way, an "interesting experience". Hardly any minute had gone by without the Narrator complaining about the noise, about the stench, about the heat, then about the cold, then about how annoying kids, then about how annoying all the other demographic groups were. No street had he wanted to cross without a traffic light, and if there was one present, only when it was green, even when no vehicle was visible for miles. The worrisome noises of the elevator had also made him quite queasy, making him believe several times that they were about to plummet down and die.

"My, I think I need to sit down," the Narrator puffed as soon as he entered the apartment, stumbling towards the couch and plopping himself down on it without even taking off his shoes first, much to Stanley's horror. "So many ways to die here in this town. It's a wonder we survived the walk back at all! Stanley, you really are a superb survivalist if you've been able to survive this long without me."

Thanks, I guess. He closed the door behind him. First, he would have to rinse the scratches with water, then disinfect them and put on clean clothes. His current ones were covered in dust, dirt, and blades of grass. Without context, one might have thought he had just scuffled or escaped an apocalypse. The way the Narrator sprawled there on the couch, eyes closed in exhaustion, made Stanley think that he at least was living through his own personal apocalypse.

"You know what?" Stanley, just having arrived in his tiny bathroom and rolling up his sleeves, heard him suddenly start speaking. His thin shirt hadn't been very good at cushioning the fall. "This whole thing about walls and doors got me thinking," he continued aloud. "The fact that you can't fully see a room until you're actually inside of said room is a concept I have trouble wrapping my head around. Now, that wouldn't be so much of a problem if I could just easily switch between rooms, but you know what? Even that is impossible now, a thing of the past. I have to go through doors, just like you, and I find that, to put it politely, suboptimal."

Stanley bit down on his lip as cold water flowed down on his wounds. Having to listen to the Narrator while tending to his small injuries really was unnerving.

"Anyway, what I'm saying," the Narrator talked on in the background, "is that I now understand your perspective, literally. Always going through doors, doors, doors, even more doors, and never knowing what's behind them. It truly drives you mad."

If you'd only know, Stanley replied in silence, preferring not to think about the past as he continued to treat his injuries. He was always reluctant to dig up the memories of that time he was still subject to the Narrator's games. The whole thing with the doors had never been the main problem, but maybe, it meant that he would finally understand why Stanley had been so unwilling to participate in his new game.

"I mean, yeah sure, I know this is the apartment complex and you live here, but how can we be certain?" the Narrator continued to ponder as Stanley made his way to his room for a change of clothes. "How do we know a room won't transform or disappear as soon as we leave it? Or that the program doesn't mess up? Like with that blind spot, earlier? Imagine if we had opened the door downstairs without thinking anything bad about it, because we know it's the apartment building, stepped inside, and poof! We would have ended up right in a blind spot, trapped in there forever, simply because we didn't anticipate it. That would have been a really pathetic end to our adventure."

Yeah, blind spots, I had almost completely suppressed those things in my mind. Fortunately, the one in the corner is gone now it seems. Rapidly, Stanley changed his clothes. Instead of a dirty plaid shirt and dirty dark pants, he was now wearing a clean plaid shirt and clean dark pants.

Stepping out of his bedroom, wounds treated and clothes changed, fully prepared to tackle their problem, the Narrator, who mind you still hadn't taken off his shoes, straightened up on the couch. "Have you finally taken care of your injuries now? Can we move on? If so, sit down and listen to my plan. If I have to watch you pacing back and forth, I'm going to get dizzy."

Stanley dragged up a chair, placed it facing backwards in front of the couch, and sat down, resting his arms over the backrest. It was still irritating for him to be able to hear the Narrator's voice normally like you would hear another person and no longer, as he was used to, omnipresent in his head.

"So, I have searched in my upper mind for possibilities and starting points with which we can begin our search for a solution to our problem. And indeed, there exists a place that I created back then for precisely such emergencies, like the one we're having right now," he explained, his words accompanied by vivid gestures. "To reach that place, we need to find something called Backdoor. But this Backdoor is, well, how am I supposed to explain it?" He backed off a bit, avoiding eye contact. "Back then when I created it, I hid it. Perhaps far too well, in fact. In a place I was sure you would never find it, neither purposefully nor accidentally. Now, before you chide me for being overly cautious, I should state in my defense that I could never have guessed at that time what situation we would find ourselves in today! Besides, I still have it perfectly memorized where it is located. Allow me to show you."

He got up, lifted his arm, and stretched out his finger. "The Backdoor is with absolute certainty that way!" he announced unerringly. Stumped, Stanley looked in the direction the Narrator was pointing at; in that case, at a wall.

"Okay, well, I know where it is, but not how exactly to get there," he confessed. "Because I used to not walk to places, but rather... fly over to them, like a bird, or more of a ghost perhaps, free of any physiological hindrances. It's indescribable. I could use every word in the dictionary to back up my attempt at somehow explaining this to you, you still wouldn't understand. Oh, I pity you, limited as you are, limited to having to live a life as dull as yours."

Stanley gritted his teeth, barely audible. Were there any objects around here with which he could serve him up another unleveled profanity?

The Narrator was already starting to get into motion, still a bit awkward in his walking. "And I'd say we'll be on our way as soon as possible. Then things will return to normal, we will finish our prototype, and we will have shown that stranger that we are not to be messed with! If this doesn't sound like a good plan, then I recommend you to get your ears checked. Off we go!"

He tumbled across the room, passing the chair Stanley was sitting on, and came to a halt in front of the door leading into the hallway. "Um, Stanley?" he called him after a few seconds of silently staring at it. "How exactly... does one open doors again? How did you do that earlier?"

With rolling eyes, Stanley followed the Narrator to the door, slipped past him, and pushed down the handle. Holding it open and with a sweeping hand motion, Stanley indicated that he was free to go first.

"Oh, that's right, I forgot, thank you wholeheartedly," the Narrator muttered in embarrassment and stumbled through it into the hallway.

Please let that have been the most challenging part.

Chapter Text

"Um, by any means, I don't want to get in the way of our undertaking, I really don't, but... but are you sure this is a good idea? Shouldn't we rather, you know, walk? Above, on the surface?"

The fluorescent lights above them whirred tirelessly, their glare reflecting off the old orange tiles lining the subway station. Whereas Stanley was waiting close to the edge of the platform, occasionally casting an impatient glance into the dark tunnel, the Narrator had fortified himself to a wall, as far away from the tracks as he could get, his back pressed against the old, worn tiles.

"Yes, I said going by foot would take us too long, I know, I know, you don't have to hold it against me," he continued to babble to Stanley pacing restlessly. "Moreover, I am also aware that it was my idea to come down here in the first place. And why not? It seemed like the perfect plan at that time to choose a means of transportation that would take you to your destination in the fastest and simplest way possible. But when I got to experience these speeding, screeching machines up close, I reconsidered this hasty and unsubstantiated assessment. These things have always looked so harmless if not laughable from afar, but now that I'm down here, I'm truly experiencing a paradigm shift."

Stanley stopped to put his fingers to his forehead as he was getting frustrated. The Narrator had not wanted to take the bus - their routes were too "unpredictable." The cab was also quickly ruled out, as Stanley was reluctant to spend money on it.

"And yes, it was also I who thought that walking was too dangerous, I'm happy to speak myself guilty of that," the Narrator, still glued to the wall, continued. "But I mean, it's not like I'm wrong about that either. With what I'm saying right now, I'm not trying to convince you otherwise, just for the record. Up there, certain doom lurks around every corner. But down here? That's a whole different ballgame. Great evil only becomes a lesser one when you find an evil even greater, if you catch what I'm saying. Please, let's just return to the surface. I won't trip over the stairs this time either, you have my word."

With a face glowing with sternness, Stanley turned to him and, with a vigorous nod towards the ground, signified that they were here to stay, that they had chosen this means of transportation. Watching him experience this sudden, uncharacteristic anxiety would actually have been quite amusing, were it not for the fact that it was an obstacle to their endeavors. If Stanley were now behaving exactly like the Narrator was, with him being nothing more than a disembodied voice again, Stanley would undoubtedly now have been berated by him for being an indecisive coward, which made the Narrator's current behavior all the more frustrating. Yet Stanley had to acknowledge that the Narrator was finding himself in a completely alien, even frightening situation, however little sympathy Stanley could muster towards him.

"Yes, alright, you're probably correct. I am acting like a child. Going all the way by foot would also be absurd." He sighed wearily. "Anyway, it's just the subway, nothing more. Hundreds of people ride it daily. What could possibly go wrong? Let's be real, at the end of the day, what are the chances of a fire breaking out? A train car coming loose? The tunnel collapsing? My imagination be cursed, now my head is full of things that could all go wrong. I think I need to sit down again." Lethargically, he slid the tiled wall down to the floor and pulled his legs close to him. "Everything is so... exhausting. So overwhelming. How have you endured all these years without my guidance? Or is there something I'm missing entirely? Some secret you're unwilling to share?"

The secret is called being quiet for once, Stanley answered to himself. Other people scattered around the platform occasionally cast uncertain glances over to them, probably wondering what the Narrator's whining was about. Their train wouldn't arrive for another two minutes or three, so Stanley figured it would be a good idea to check the map issued here, to see which direction this line would take them anyway. Since the Narrator had chosen it for only he knew where this Backdoor thing was located, Stanley wouldn't have the slightest clue if they were still on the right track. In this regard, as difficult as it was, he had to blindly trust the Narrator to know which route to take. Still, it couldn't hurt to take a look at the map. 

He was about to leave when the Narrator, still lingering on the floor, stopped him. "Wait, hold on, where are you going? I thought we were set on taking the train now?"

Stanley pointed over his shoulder to the glass box a little farther back, where the maps were displayed. Thinking that would settle it, he turned back around again. 

"Don't go!" the Narrator called after him. As if swarmed by wasps, Stanley remained frozen. "I can't afford to lose sight of you! Because, if we lose each other, I have no idea what would happen, and I don't even want to find out because, let's be honest, it certainly won't be anything good." Stanley felt his pleading gaze drilling into his back. "Please, just- just stay here, okay? I know where we have to go. We didn't need a map before, and we don't need one now, either. You simply have to trust my inner compass." He tapped his head. "That is all we need."

If it's the same inner compass that sent me halfway across town looking for that stupid store, then my trust tends to be limited. Yielding, he dangled his head and swiveled around again. It didn't need to be spoken out loud, because the expression on the Narrator's face already gave it away: he actually was afraid of being alone in a situation this unfamiliar, even if he were to never openly admit it. Stanley was now the only familiar thing he could metaphorically cling to for emotional stability. And if he was thereby also the only thing that saved the Narrator from a complete nervous breakdown, then he had no choice but to stay close to him. However, at the same time, there was nothing stopping him from simply leaving; but Stanley had gotten them into this situation, so he would also want to help to get them out of it. It was the least he could do, besides making things worse.

A short time later, a rumbling noise, coming from deep within the blackness of the tunnel, made its way to them. Two fast approaching, glowing eyes announced the arrival of their train. Quickly, Stanley held out his hand for the Narrator to pull himself up. However, the stubborn man ignored this offered help and laboriously set about getting to his feet himself. Discontent, Stanley let his hand fall back against his leg and could do nothing but stand by and watch. First he didn't want Stanley to leave his side, and now he refused to accept his help? He probably would never accept it, not even if he was dying. Stanley just couldn't figure this guy out. 

The train screeched to a halt, and shortly thereafter its doors opened. As soon as the Narrator was standing again, Stanley didn't waste another second, grabbed him by the wrist and, baffled as he was by this sudden handling, dragged him inside. Through weathered windows, he had already been able to see that the train was already fairly full, the number of people just barely overseeable. Once inside, he didn't spot any free seats; at most, only individual ones next to which other people were already sitting, like the one by a group of teenagers close to them, for example, who were engrossed in chaotic conversation. But Stanley would rather sit on top of the train than to... hold on, what was the Narrator doing? Without hesitation, he headed for the vacant seat and occupied it. The three young people, distracted by the old-fashioned man who had just sat down with them without even having asked first, interrupted their conversation for a moment, giving him questioning looks. Stricken with embarrassment, Stanley turned his face away. I don't know him, I don't know him.

With a loud beeping sound, the doors closed and the train got into motion. Stanley clung to a bar, as tight as his still itching wounds allowed, and heard the teenagers resume their conversation. To further distract himself from them, he decided to call up the Skill Spiral and give it another look. In fact, for whatever reason, he had received two new skill points. The Narrator had never explained to him how these points were earned, and to ask proved impossible.

Let's see, what do we have here. The effects of food poisoning are reduced by ten percent, however that's going to be noticeable, and... oh, more powerful inventory! He couldn't possibly say no to that.

Hearing the Narrator's voice in the background, Stanley closed the Skill Spiral and turned an ear to the group, wanting to hear what was going on.

"Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you something?" he thought he heard a girl before, to which the Narrator then had replied, "Not at all, go ahead."

"Is there some event going on around here, or why are you dressed like that?" the same girl asked in turn. "So old-fashioned, I mean. You look like a bartender, or some magician."

"Well, magician sums it up pretty decently, I'd say," the Narrator agreed.

"Yeah, for real? Can you show us any tricks?" Her friends started giggling. 

"Yeah, perform something for us!" another chimed in, and the giggling increased. Clearly, they were mocking him. The Narrator, however, felt nothing like laughing. "I'd rather not," he declined coldly. Was he now regretting having sat down with them?

"Why not?" urged another. "Come on, dude, I got really excited there."

"Bro, take a look at him, he can't do shit, all magicians do is bullshitting others."

"Well," the Narrator spoke amongst their laughter, "if I still had my powers, I could make you obnoxious children disappear from my sight within a heartbeat." Hearing those words, their faces turned to stone one by one. "Now, stop bothering me with your pesky questions before I decide to actually turn this into reality later on."

At once, their laughter died down and Stanley, who couldn't help but look now, knew that the Narrator was being totally serious with his threat. 

"What the hell, man? Chill. We were just joking around," one of the teens tried to calm him down rather ungainly. The Narrator, however, was beyond appeasement now. "Good for you, but I wasn't," he retorted, his voice getting low.

That's enough, Stanley decided immediately, although finding the children a nuisance as well. Briskly, he stepped over to their seats, tapped the Narrator on his shoulder, and beckoned him to get up. From behind narrowed eyes, the Narrator glared at them one last time, before he arose and followed Stanley, struggling to do so as the train was shaking from side to side.

"I told you, children are a pain," he hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. "Now don't give me that look. They need to be taught some manners."

Stanley shook his head in disapproval. He didn't even want to imagine what would have happened if things had escalated further. What was the Narrator thinking threatening some kids, as annoying as they were? Hopefully it would remain at this one incident - and especially him not putting his words into action once he was back to normal.

"Anyway, my inner compass tells me we need to get out in three stations at the third," he told, still audibly agitated. "Another train should then take us further. Don't forget, in three stations at the third. Not one earlier, not one later. Well, riding these things isn't as bad as I thought it would be. If you can see past those ruffians, that is. This… this is almost fun! If our journey continues to go this smoothly, we'll be at the Backdoor in no time and resounding victory will be ours! Sorry about my attitude at the station earlier, Stanley, it won't happen again. My mind, unpracticed in situations like these, has just become richer in experience and makes me look in shame at this skittish past self that I was, well, six minutes ago. Again, my apologies. I wasn't thinking straight."

Stanley was about to gesture to him that it was fine, when it began beeping. The doors opened and one cluster of people after another poured in, crowding into their compartment and pushing Stanley away, so that he had no choice but to be herded deeper into the train. He heard the Narrator calling out to him in panic, but even when Stanley stretched his head up, he could not find him in anywhere the midst of all these newly arrived people.

Don't panic. What did he say again? Get off in three stations? So now it's just the next station but one?

Finally, the streaming in of people came to an end and, undeterred, the train set off again. Even though he couldn't move an inch in any direction, squeezed in between one guy's oversized backpack and another's wide cardboard package, Stanley was confident they could still reach that Backdoor, assuming he was able to get off at the right station. He just hoped the Narrator could keep a straight head like he did, considering they were now separated. Not much later, the train came to a stop at the next platform. The loud beeping indicated that the doors were opening again; as if on cue, the vast majority of people exited the car, leaving it emptier than Stanley and the Narrator had entered it. After a brief sigh of relief and with a now cleared path, Stanley wanted to rejoin him, but when at last he arrived back at their spot where they had last seen each other, he found no sign of the old man.

His grip on the bar he was holding tightened, his wound on his hand still burning ever so slightly. This didn't have to mean anything, presumably, now that there were more seats available, he had just sat down somewhere, hadn't he? A quick scan of the area, his eyes darting from one seat to another, stripped him of his courage like a rapacious claw; the Narrator was still nowhere to be seen. And as the train picked up speed again, Stanley got to the numbing realization that he was no longer with him on the train. 

Oh no. These were the only words that flashed through his mind. No, no, no, no.

He was now alone - and so was the Narrator, him being completely terrified and on his own. This was not good, not at all. Stanley couldn't imagine what the Narrator would get up to, or what dangerous situations he would find himself in - or both as a result of each other. 

Arriving at the next station, he immediately got out, as was planned before, hoping that the Narrator would get the idea of simply taking the next train and thus catching up with Stanley. He just had to have faith that he would. He spent the next ten minutes, the longest of his life, waiting for the Narrator, pacing up and down the platform, holding his hand to his mouth in anxiety. The Narrator was not stupid, as much as Stanley liked to refer to him as such, he simply had to have gotten the idea to catch up to him. But the longer he waited, the more often he sought out the clock with his eyes, the needle each time not much farther from its previous position, the greater his doubts grew.

What if the Narrator had gotten the same idea to wait, believing that Stanley would return?

When the next train he hoped the Narrator would be on finally rolled in, Stanley was already frantically searching the insides with his eyes, but found no one who looked anything like him, and instead focused on the doors. And among the few people who got out, he was not with them. Darn it. With an upset stomp, he turned towards the other rails. If the Narrator hadn't come after him, he was at least waiting for Stanley to come back, wasn't he?

By now, about twenty minutes had passed since they had last seen each other. On his way back, Stanley couldn't stop praying that he would be patiently waiting for him there. His stomach was turning in all directions. If he wouldn't be, if he wouldn't find him there, it would be practically impossible to ever find him again. Their plan to reach the Backdoor would then be doomed to fail. For Stanley, this didn't mean anything bad in particular, as his life would change only marginally, if at all, as a result; however the Narrator had whole other priorities and, understandably, seemed more than eager to get out of this body and finish his game. And Stanley couldn't suppress the nagging feeling of guilt, making him feel obligated to actually help him for once. 

All hopes left him when Stanley hopped off the train and onto the platform, finding the station nearly empty. So that was it. It was over. And to speculate about what the Narrator was doing now to somehow find each other again was futile. As far as he knew, the Narrator could have left to walk to this Backdoor all by himself, and Stanley would never find out where it was in his lifetime, just as he had said.

But what was he supposed to do now? Simply give up and go home? It seemed wrong, if not cowardly, but he had no other choice. He preferred to be cowardly rather than foolish. Turning the whole city on its head in search of him wouldn't accomplish anything, would it? But maybe, the selfish side of himself spoke up, maybe it was good that he was finally gone. Why even bother looking for him? Now he finally had all the peace he wanted and could go on with his life undisturbed.
But no, was there the conscientious side in him, he couldn't just leave him on his own! After all, it was thanks to him that they were out here in the first place. He couldn't just wander off whistling innocently, could he?

While he was still pondering, his heartbeat ringing in his ears, a conversation between two people just coming down the stairs into the station caught his attention; something about what "a strange weirdo that was just now inside that garden" and that he looked as if he had "lost his way from his library".

Hearing those words, still lost in his frantic thoughts, his head snapped up, thinking his ears were fooling him. They were undoubtedly talking about none other than the Narrator.

Stanley had no time to lose, he had to track him down with this new lead as quickly as possible before he lost it again. Or something else bad happened, which seemed inevitable given the bad luck they had so far. As if chased, he pattered up the stairs, not caring about the looks others gave him as he passed by, and made his way to the place the two had just mentioned: a huge, winding garden complex visited daily by hundreds of people. Ever finding the Narrator here would be extremely difficult if not impossible, but it was a start. After all, he wore an unusual outfit, so Stanley would be able to quickly recognize him if he happened to enter his view.

Running, faster than he ever did before, he arrived at the gates of the enormous complex and already countless paths opened up in front of him, all paths that might bring them closer together or further away from each other. The newly found courage began to die away, like a lit match being held to the wind. What was Stanley thinking, really believing that he would ever be able to find him here?

This whole endeavor was destined to fail, not just from the moment they had lost each other. Also not from the moment the Narrator had found himself inside a body. No, it was from the very beginning, from the second Stanley relented and agreed to help out with the Narrator's project. How foolish, how naive could one have been? He hated himself for it; for the fact that every decision he made was still a wrong one. Now he was standing here, out of breath, at the entry of a huge garden complex, without even being able to guess where...

The Narrator had gone. At the end of one of the gravel paths, behind a blooming rose bush, he saw his white shirt flashing from under his dark vest. The warming relief Stanley felt at this sight was shortlived, for the Narrator's eyes were brimmed with alarm, him picking up on speed with each step. And his clothes were... soaked? Motionless and flabbergasted, Stanley remained at the entrance, trying to understand what had happened to him; they had only been separated for twenty minutes!

"We have to go," the Narrator urged as he came closer. "Now. It's a matter of life and death." He, wanting to leave the place as quickly as possible, rushed past Stanley, who did nothing but stare after him in disbelief before catching up to him.

Chapter Text

"Stanley, I am astonished to have run into you here", the Narrator said as soon as Stanley has caught up to him to walk by his side, the traffic bustling on the road next to them, "Because, to be honest, I didn't expect you to come back and look for me."

With a furrowed brow, Stanley eyed his clothes darkened by water. Not even half an hour had passed since they had lost each other, and yet he was running as if being hunted by his own shadow. Did he, maybe, also want to explain to him what the heck had happened to make it look like he just went swimming?

"Believe me, I would have gotten off at the right station if I was given the chance. But before I was able to act on my words, a wave of people swept me outside as I was helplessly exposed to the undertow of the crowd. And before I knew it, the train had gone without me," he told. "As I was standing there all by myself, not really comprehending what had just happened, I still comprehended one other thing: This incident did make me not want to go on alone. That's why I waited for you first, there and then, in the hopes that you would return."

A guilty grin crept onto Stanley's face, knowing full well how things had turned out instead. He hadn't gone back, but had waited instead, which in the end had led to their plans canceling each other out. He should have expected that the Narrator would act as he had acted in the end; in that case, not according to common sense as any other normal person did. But how could Stanley expect that of him in the first place? Until recently, he never had to deal with being human.

"Minutes after minutes passed, and when you still hadn't shown up, I pulled myself together. To make up for my little episode of fear earlier, I set off on foot to intercept you at the next station, where you would surely wait for me," he went on without losing his pace. "And, as you can already guess, the quickest way to get there was through this wretched garden. So, I was walking on one of its paths, thinking nothing bad of it at first, when suddenly a horde of vile children stormed down the trail and pelted me with water from their substandard toys. As a reaction, I did what any responsible adult would have done in that situation: I grabbed one of those kids and let him have a taste his own medicine by throwing him into a pool of water nearby. Then his parents were after me, I was found by you, and then we arrived at the present. What a day! And it has only just begun. I wish for nothing but to never have to live through such a day again. As if our problems weren't enough already, my clothes are now starting to itch as well. You don't, um, happen to have put some clothes for the trip into your inventory, do you?"

They weren't going to be on the move for longer than a day, so what was the point of taking clothes with him? Stanley shook his head when he noticed a small, nondescript store coincidentally selling clothes just across the street. From the outside it looked quite shabby, which made it seem all the more likely that cheap clothes were being sold in there. Not perfect, but just good enough to get the Narrator new, dry and above all inconspicuous clothes and thus save Stanley from his whining he would have to endure otherwise.

The Narrator realized Stanley had spotted something and followed his gaze. "Ah, I see," he mumbled. "Well spotted. Truly excellently spotted. Oh, what would I do without you?"

Killing everyone you come across, apparently, he replied in his mind, still stunned at how inconsiderate the Narrator was with other people, though based on past experiences with him, it should surprise him way less than it did right now. For the Narrator, everyone except himself, of course, was nothing but simulated anyway; just another of many things to play around with and test his games. But now that they had found each other again, Stanley would make sure that he no longer threw any children into ponds or made deletion-threats to anyone else.

Arriving inside the rather tiny shop, a wall of stuffy air hit them, even though the front door was wide open. The sound the dusty carpet made under their shoes pierced Stanley's ears. Except for two pathetic lamps, and two small windows, sitting right beneath the ceiling with misty light coming through them, it was quite dim in here. At the very back of the store, two guys sat at a shabby counter, exchanging indistinct and muffled words with each other. 

Stanley approached a row of clothes, haphazardly pulled out some gray sweater, and nearly experienced a heart attack when he saw the number printed on the price tag. The Narrator got close to him and peeked over his shoulder. "What?!" he hissed when he too saw it. "That much for such a lousy piece of wool?! They can't ever be serious with that!"

Discouraged and willing to leave, Stanley already turned towards the exit when he noticed, at the edge of his vision, the Narrator turning into the exact opposite direction. "Let me have a nice, quick chat with them there," he said. "It won't take me that long."

Stanley reached out to stop him, but he had already marched off. Please, just don't say anything stupid, he pleaded, watching as he made his way to the counter. He doubted the Narrator would be able to negotiate with the shopkeepers, they should just go and find some other place. Or stand out in the sun to dry if need be. But then an idea sparked in Stanley's mind. Didn't the Narrator ask earlier if he had any clothes in his inventory? He glanced up to make sure he wasn't being watched. The two guys in the back seemed distracted by the Narrator, who was already bombarding them with his unnecessarily exuberant words. Could Stanley perhaps...?

As he was taking a better look at the assortment of clothes, he listened to the conversation.

"You know, I'm actually quite a big name around here," the Narrator claimed, leaning against the counter. "In that regard, I feel that a little discount would only be appropriate."

The two guys, one sitting on a plastic garden chair, the other standing right at the register, exchanged half-suspicious, half-amused looks.

"Big name, huh?" the standing one said in response, not seeming too keen on the idea of giving him a discount. "We have no idea who you are, man."

"Could very well be," the Narrator acknowledged. "But it's true! I more or less had this place built, you see. And if you look at it that way, I actually deserve this small discount, if not more than a small one. After all, it's thanks to me that you were able to set up your charming store here. A really, really charming store, if I do say so."

His opposite grunted dismissively. "Even if you were God, price stays price."

The Narrator did not let up. "Basically, although not quite the same, my function is something akin to that, yes. I've seen entire buildings come and go, as well as the lives led within them. Seen hopes and dreams alike flaring up and crumbling to dust. So unspeakably many, one tragically beautiful as the other. All of that, since the beginning of time, which I have too witnessed."

"Yeah, you sure look like that," the one on the chair commented and then growled in amusement, his massive body making the sound of a maladjusted trumpet. "How was it, walking with dinosaurs? Watching the big bang?"

"Excuse me?" The Narrator's voice grew loud with indignation. "What is this lack of respect about? Is this how you engage with all of your customers?"

"Did the loony bin leave its doors open, or how did you get out?" the one behind the counter began snorting under laughter.

"Stop trying to divert the attention from my point!" The Narrator leaned forward at the counter and held out his finger like an admonishing sword. "Believe me, if you knew what would be good for you in the long-term, you would..."

"Get a load of this guy, thinks he's God or something!" he was interrupted. "Unbelievable."

The Narrator began to boil with outrage. "Right from the beginning, I was aware that you two don't have the slightest idea who you're talking to right here. I was kind enough to offer you elucidation, but you rejected it, slapped it right out of my hand like it was a knife held to your face. Because if the opposite had been the case, you would aim for a more appropriate choice of words and obey my orders. Now give me that discount, or I'll..." He briefly fell silent as someone tapped him. "Stanley, wait a second, I'll have this sorted out in a minute," he said, pushing his palm towards him. But before he could resume the debate, Stanley had already grabbed him by the shoulder and was dragging him through the store, with him defiantly digging his heels into the floor to avoid leaving. "You give up?!" he said. "Oh, come on, I almost had them convinced and then you interfere! You need to learn not to give up so easily! Where's your iconic sass gone all of a sudden? Your rebellious spirit? Or do you only act like that when it is to spite me?"

As soon as they were out on the street again, fresh instead of rotten air in their lungs, the Narrator, still in wet clothes, had given up struggling. Now they sedately strolled down the street, side by side, not a single word being spoken at first.

Just as they were passing under the scaffolds of a clad building, the Narrator sighed in resignation. "Whatever. What a miserable store with downright impolite staff. Also, these clothes were ugly anyway. Who would wear something like that? Still, it would have been better than nothing, and all we have now is nothing, which leaves me no choice but to..." He continued to mumble to himself and Stanley almost felt sorry for him – almost, since he still had a little surprise to show him. Thus, he stopped walking and held his empty hands out in front of him. The Narrator became visibly confused as to what to do with them.

"Good for you to try to show off your hands, but how are they supposed to help me? Or is this some kind of weird, emotionally supportive gesture I somehow don't know about? If that's the case, then I'm sorry to tell you that it doesn't achieve its intended effect," he said, just when folded clothes appeared on them out of nowhere. The Narrator gasped. "You hid clothes with the help of my inventory feature? Committed a crime?" His eyes grew wide. "Just... just for me? Wow, I'm actually impressed. How inventive of you, but I've come to expect nothing different! Nonetheless, this poses as a behavior we'll have to talk about later, you rascal. But for now, I accept it gratefully."

Stanley couldn't suppress the warmth rising inside him. When they did happen to work together, things seemed only half as impossible.

Not much later, he had changed his clothes. No longer was he wearing that overly posh vest, that white shirt and suit pants, but something more unassuming that would allow him to blend in better with the crowd: A dark turtleneck sweater, a light coat, and looser pants that looked much more comfortable than what he had on before. Stanley had put the old, soaked clothes in his inventory, although he doubted they would dry in there. 

They were then on the road for another excruciating three hours. First they got lost, then a station they wanted to get to was closed. Then they had gone in the completely wrong direction, had to take a long detour because a road had been closed off for construction work. They had then lost their way yet again in search of a new station when the Narrator finally acknowledged the inanity of hunting down station after station and instead decided to rely solely on their own, healthy legs.

It was just about two PM, the sun sitting high in the clear sky, when they entered one of the rather quieter areas, which offered a welcome change from the otherwise noisy bustle of the downtown.

"See, and that's exactly why quieter areas like this one are unsuitable for telling exciting stories," the Narrator chattered incessantly to Stanley's ear, just like he has been doing for their whole journey so far. By now Stanley had mastered the art of ignoring his words while still appearing attentive. "I am snoozing, almost falling asleep just walking through here! Where is that certain something, the spice and thrill of existence itself? There is purely nothing here that makes for even remotely good stories! This place feels too idyllic. Too perfect. It just doesn't conform well to traditional narrative structures. Or any in fact. And I thought I was supposed to pity you, in regards to where you live. I suppose, you could…" He ceased to speak just as the two of them reached an intersection. He halted his steps and peered into the street left to them, his face lighting up in curiosity. "Hold on for a second. What are so many people doing there in the middle of the road? What's so fascinating, so revolutionary, that has the whole neighborhood lining up there?" Scrutinizingly, he narrowed his eyes. "Some are holding those ice cream cone things in their hands, aren't they? Say, Stanley - that's yet another thing I just can't quite figure out, because I've heard about it a lot, but never tried one of those myself for obvious reasons - but are those things really as great, as life-changing as I've been led to believe by various sources?"

Stanley's eyes rolled almost out of his head as he was unable to fathom how the Narrator had found yet another way to slow them down. Stanley, at least, found ice cream to be just okay, as he didn't feel it was the earth-shattering miracle the Narrator made it out to be - or worth the hassle of getting it now out of all times. Wasn't it supposed to be the Narrator who would do everything in his power to ensure that they reached their destination as soon as possible?

No sooner had he taken another step to move forward than the Narrator already stopped him, "Wait. This is crucial. This will perhaps be the only occasion I will be able to conduct this experiment long overdue. I know we are in a hurry and we have a place to get to, but my mind lusts after knowledge. I simply must try it! Otherwise, this missed opportunity will haunt me for the rest of my life. And only those above know how many already do."

The Narrator stared at him expectantly; he wanted him to hand him money. At first Stanley tried to stand his ground and deny him this favor. After all, they had a Backdoor to reach and had been on the move for far too long for his liking by now. It all could have been avoided if it was not for the Narrator's erratic behavior. And as much as the Narrator meanwhile enjoyed boasting about how independent and intrepid he was, and that he felt as if he had never been anything but human, Stanley was more than tired of having to constantly watch over him like one would watch over an overly motivated dog.

The elderly man stared him down, his pleading gaze digging right into his guts.

Alright, fine, take it, Stanley gave in and reluctantly pressed two bills into his hand. He thought that if the Narrator was busy eating, he would at least remain quiet then.

"Your generosity is remarkable," the Narrator noted. "After I'm restored to my normal state and we have finished the game, I'll maybe even return you the favor before I leave for good, who knows." Thereupon the old man marched down the street, determined to get to the bottom of things as to what the craze about ice cream was all about.

Generosity? Stanley repeated in confusion and, as the Narrator walked away, spotted a bill of higher value than he had intended in his fist. Realizing what he had done, Stanley slapped his hand against his forehead and was annoyed that he hadn't paid better attention, but didn't get to chase after him and retrieve his money when he heard someone approaching from the side.

"Stanley?" a woman approached him. Caught off guard, he turned to her and immediately identified her as his co-worker, Employee 419. Stanley put on a quick smile; not because he had a problem with her, but because his mind was occupied with something else - for example, the Narrator running away with his money and doing God knows what with it. Instead, he had to stand here and listen to her now. And whenever he was approached by other people, it was usually because of one of their own concerns. So what was it that she wanted from him this time?

"Ah, indeed, it's you! What a coincidence to meet you here," she started chatting, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What are you doing here? Are you visiting someone?"

Stanley looked up thinking of an answer before nodding with a shrug. Visiting someone, that was one way one could call it, yes.

"Ah, that's nice. I'm just on my way to the pet store, by the way," she reported. As she continued to speak, making inconsequential, one-sided small talk to which he could only respond with gestures and facial expressions, Stanley occasionally glanced down the street to see where the Narrator had wandered off to. His only hope was that he would not waste all the money given to him. His poor, poor money. How could Stanley have been so careless?

"I, uh, heard about your promotion," she said, slightly hesitating, and his attention was directed back to her. "Congratulations, that's really something big. Whatever the others say, you really earned it."

He gave her an appreciative nod and dropped his initial distrust. She seemed genuinely sincere, which was a welcome change from the false friendliness of other colleagues, if any was shown to him at all.

"And… oh my God, Stanley, what happened to your hands?"

Although he immediately knew what she was referring to, he still held them slightly up to take a look at them, covered in bandages as they were. Admittedly, those bandages made it look scarier than it actually was, but he hadn't had any band aids back at his place and the next best thing he had to protect his broad scrapes had been those wraps.

"What happened? Are you alright?" she peppered him with questions, and although he actually appreciated it, he felt her excessive concern to be rather importunate. Why were she and the Narrator when he had first seen those wounds both acting as if Stanley had just survived a plane crash or something?

Heavy footsteps coming closer made his head turn to the side again. At last, it was the Narrator, clasping four ice-cream cones with singular fingers turned and twisted into unusual directions. "Here, Stanley, take three of these," he requested, holding them out to him as he noticed the woman standing there. "Good afternoon," he greeted her with a polite inclination of his head.

"Oh, hello, are you with Stanley?" 419 greeted him curiously. Stanley bated his breath, waiting for how the Narrator would handle this situation. Before, Stanley hadn't particularly cared what he said or did, albeit finding it awkward; but now that he was talking to someone he knew and had to see every day, he couldn't brush off his behavior as flippantly. Please, act normal for once. But his silent pleas would accomplish nothing, he quickly became aware of that fact.

"He is with me, more accurately," he corrected her, slipping the remaining three ice cream cones into Stanley's hands. "And you're Employee 419, right? The one who drinks great amounts of coffee? Always gives away mugs at Secret Santa? Likes to chew her pens?"

The woman blinked in uncertainty. "Um, yeah. How- how exactly do you know that?" She cast a sideways glance at Stanley, who was biting down on his tongue. How would the Narrator ever going to explain how he came to know this oddly specific information?

The Narrator seemed to have noticed that it came across as extremely strange. "Oh well, I, uh, you see, Stanley likes to tell me a lot about his colleagues, you know?" he talked his way out. Stanley looked at him out of fire-breathing eyes. Now I am the one who is made to look like a freak, the one who remembers every little detail about others. Great job, Narrator! But I suppose it can't get any worse than this.

"I see," 419 said, smiling wryly. "And who exactly are you? His relative? Or, um... friend?"

"Well..." With his free hand, the Narrator scratched the back of his neck. "It is quite a convoluted matter. We are not exactly friends, per se. You might say it's complicated."

Hearing him say these words, Stanley nearly choked on his own held breath. There was no way the Narrator knew what he was implying, was there?

"Oh, okay, so that kind of thing, I see." 419's eyes grew wide as she seemed embarrassed to have asked. "Well then, I'd better get going now, the store closes soon. Good luck to you, Stanley. And with work, too, I mean. See you around!" With a demure wave, she went on her way again. As she passed by Stanley, she quickly whispered to him behind her hand: "Go get him. He's got a nice voice." And with that, she left.

"Goodbye!" the Narrator yelled after her, although her farewell probably wasn't meant for him.

Stanley's cheeks flamed as if covered with red-hot coals. The Narrator really didn't seem to register what she just told him, nor what his words had just unleashed, as he calmly sampled his ice cream like an anteater sampling an anthill. Stanley then stared after his co-worker, pleading that the misunderstanding that had just arisen would not turn into a wildfire of rumors and gossip. In theory, Stanley wouldn't actually mind being with him; if only the Narrator weren't a sociopathic, overbearing entity who, if he still had his powers, could snap Stanley's spine in half like a toothpick or drop him into an active volcano at will. And Stanley would like to keep his spine intact for that matter.

"Well, that encounter I found highly awkward," the Narrator remarked in between eating his ice cream. Stanley abruptly whipped his head around to face him. Oh, so it was you who found it awkward now?

"I mean, considering I've had her and all your other colleagues killed several times in the cruelest of ways imaginable," he continued. Eventually, he lifted his face. "Care to explain to me why you became as red as a crustacean? Are you suffering from a sunstroke right now? From that little bit of sun?"

Annoyed, Stanley pursed his lips and clenched his two jaws, his thoughts shrouded in a red cloud, but he tried to stay composed. He would be able to clear up the misunderstanding with 419 at some point, but for now there was another problem to solve.

"In all seriousness, are you okay?" The Narrator's eyebrows lifted. "I am not judging you for that, if that is what is stopping you from informing me."

Stanley nodded and signified with a wave of his hand that he was doing fine, at least physically.

"Well then, if that's the case, why are you staring into space instead of putting these ice cones into your inventory before they begin to melt?" he urged and Stanley noticed how he had almost crushed them in his hands. With that, he did as he was asked and was more than happy to finally move on before they were to run into any other people he knew.

When he was given this inventory, he never expected to use it to carry around a random sea shell, two books filled with abstract code, soggy clothes, and three ice cream cones, and essentially use it to shoplift. But this feature had been granted to him, so he would also want to make good use of it before it was taken away from him again, which would probably be soon when they finally reached that Backdoor the Narrator was so convinced of it going to help them.

They covered the last half hour of their exhaustingly long journey on foot. They just left the outskirts of the city behind and entered a forested area. Getting away from the noise of the city felt relieving, although it didn't ease the growing pain in their feet.

"Not that many steps left, just a little bit more," the Narrator, who had actually fallen behind Stanley, encouraged them to keep walking. "Come on Stanley, don't give up! We've almost got it!"

How far out of the city were they by now? The Narrator had went out of his way to ensure that Stanley would never under any circumstances find this place. Stanley narrowed his eyes to examine the mountains that were visible between the treetops. Was he imagining it, or did this arrangement of mountain peaks seem somehow familiar? But his legs ached, his feet felt like lead, and he wanted nothing more than to finally reach that Backdoor, make the Narrator human again, and move past the whole thing with it becoming nothing more than an awful memory.

"Now I am one hundred percent certain where exactly we have to go. I recognize this area, so well in fact that I could navigate it blind!" the Narrator wheezed triumphantly, struggling along with dragging feet as they just stepped onto a bridge. "No doubt, without me you would never have found your way here. Praise be the Narrator's inner compass! This stranger may have thought that being forced to walk around in this flesh prison would stop me. But he thought wrong, very wrong! For my will, my intellect and my senses are as sharpened and reinforced as ever. I hunger for vengeance. And for a nice ice cream, my throat is feeling a little bit strange. Is that normal? Well, what does it even matter? For soon, we will have achieved victory."

Stanley really wanted to share his confidence, but couldn't escape the feeling that their problems weren't going to be solved as easily as the Narrator hoped. Surely the stranger hadn't completely left after all, and as soon as they took one step forward, he would make them go two steps back again, wouldn't he?

Once on the bridge, the sky next to them was clear of trees, giving Stanley a free view of the valley next to them.

As if chained to the spot, he stopped. No, he can't. He can't be serious. He has to be kidding me. Down in the valley, not even a full mile away, towered an unmistakable, unsightly building Stanley would have recognized blind and numb; it was The Company's office complex.

So much for not knowing exactly how to get here and playing scavenger hunt for three hours when we could have made it here in less than one.

Chapter Text

"Alright, here we are!" the Narrator announced. A little off the road that had led them through this forested area, they arrived at a clearing in the middle of which rested an old, decaying building made of worn bricks. A conifer tree had moved into the ruins, with curtains of ivy and a carpet of moss; other than that, it looked anything but lived in. Stanley followed the Narrator, a queasy feeling within his chest, lifting his feet properly with each step so as to not get caught by untamed undergrowth and trip.

This looks like a place where you would come to murder people. He watched as the Narrator walked purposefully towards the crumbling building. If he knew about me having helped the stranger, he would surely not hesitate to do the same to me.

"This thing has to be around here somewhere..." Stanley heard him murmur to himself, as he carefully searched the wall covered by a thick layer of ivy. "Admittedly, it's been quite a while since I last visited this place. And fortunately I haven't had to until now, but my past self was right in thinking that it never hurts to have a failsafe," he told Stanley as he made his way along the wall, still searching for something. Stanley, on the other hand, tilted his head, not really understanding what they were looking for. What were they doing at an old, more than dilapidated building? Where was the Backdoor the Narrator kept mentioning?

His face lit up. "Aha!" he exclaimed, seeming to have found something. With a quick movement, he pulled the vegetation aside, unveiling a basic, white door behind it. "Behold, here it is, the elusive Backdoor!"

This Backdoor... is just some random door? Where did it even lead to? The entire building was in ruins and the rooms inside had been exposed to the elements for a long time now. Is this what they came here for? A literal door?

"Are you done gawking in disbelief? It's a door, after all, as the name suggests. Or were you expecting something else? A swanky portal, perhaps? A magical well?" The Narrator's mouth shrugged downwards. "Okay, I mean, a portal or well would have definitely been an awe inspiring sight, sure, and normally, I want everything I create to leave a lasting impression, but functionality had taken its needed priority in this case. Now, let's get in there. We didn't come all this way just to stare at a piece of wood." Turning back to the door, he paused in thought, probably trying to remember how to open it again, then slowly approached the handle and pressed it down.

When the unassuming door was opened, a fully intact room was revealed behind it. Stanley followed the Narrator inside and found himself in a medium-sized, elongated, actually cozy looking room, much larger than the building would have allowed. This room was split into three levels, each packed with wooden, ceiling-high bookshelves, which in turn were stocked with all kinds of books. Stanley could only guess at the contents - had the stranger also gotten the command books he had placed in Stanley's inventory from a place similar to this?

Lost, he stood at the entrance while the Narrator began examining the shelves. So it wasn't the Backdoor itself that would help them, but more the books they would find rested behind it? Which means there had to be a book in here somewhere with code that would restore the Narrator's powers? Stanley very much hoped it would be so, even if he couldn't suppress a twinge of disappointment, since there was no immediate gratification or other resolution to the whole thing. After all, he didn't want to have come all this way just to visit a liminal bookstore.

"This thing should certainly be here either on this or the upper level. I remember putting it here somewhere," mumbled the Narrator, skimming over each book with a careful eye. "You know what?" he said, addressing Stanley. "I don't want you to have come all this way with me for nothing, so I'll tell you exactly what I am looking for. The book we need carries the exceptionally intuitive and insightful name 'GC001', if that helps, but I don't particularly expect you to find it, so no pressure."

Stanley's forehead creased. What book was titled like that? What in the world was written in it that made the Narrator want it so badly? Presumably it was also some sort of command book, just like the ones the stranger had foisted on him. So maybe it was command book designed to give the Narrator back his powers? He had expected it would prove to be much more difficult to achieve, but he was happy to be proven wrong in that case.

"Otherwise, feel free to look around here for the time being," he invited him to do so. "I'll have to move the Backdoor to another location later on anyway, since you now know where it is. Nothing personal, but I just can't take that chance."

Thank you for your generous trust. Stanley rolled his eyes in thought before it occurred to him that perhaps it would be better if the Narrator took this measure after all, considering what Stanley had done with the command books he had been given.

The Narrator had now devoted all his attention to these bookshelves. Stanley, still standing at the entrance, put his hands in his pockets and threw an indecisive glance to his left and right, seeing that there were stairs leading both up and down. There wasn't really much to see here, and he was sure that there would be nothing of interest printed in these books, nothing but lines of cryptic code. Now he was wishing that he was able to read and understand it; but that was just one of those wishes that he had neither the time nor the will to fulfill.

Arbitrarily, he decided to start on the top level. The top level wasn't really big, maybe smaller than his living room, and the lamps in the ceiling were turned off, with the only light emanating from the floor he had just come from. The books were not arranged in any apparent pattern, so he often found himself eyeballing a single section several times in a row; the dimness was not helping much either. Once he was sure he had searched every shelf fairly diligently, he came to the conclusion that the book in question wasn't up here. He wasn't particularly eager to keep looking either; the Narrator on the middle level would find the book himself eventually.

Otherwise, there was nothing else on this upper level, only an armchair sitting in a dark corner with a stunted potted plant next to it. Sobered, Stanley moved back to the middle level and headed straight for the narrow staircase that would take him to the lowest level. Hopefully the Narrator would be able to quickly find what he was looking for, but the grumbling mutterings he sporadically made indicated that his search was equally as unsuccessful so far. Stanley might as well sit down on that depressing armchair he found at the top and take a much needed nap, he figured, but there was still one level he wanted to explore.

He had already put his hand on the handrail when the Narrator suddenly raised his voice: "Woah, hold on for a second there, Stanley. I would strongly advise against taking these stairs. Why? Because I want you to help me find that book and it is with absolute certainty everywhere but the lowest level. I am dead sure of that, even. Besides, there's nothing of interest down there. Absolutely no reason to descend. Now, if you don't mind, step away from these stairs, will you?"

He pinned Stanley with his eyes until he took his foot off the first step before disappearing behind a shelf to continue his search. Now Stanley's curiosity was all the greater. Quickly it had become clear to him that the Narrator's intent was not to encourage him to help with his search, but to instead keep him from going downstairs, as if there was something there he didn't want Stanley to see. With his warning, the old man had achieved the exact opposite - now Stanley wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and find out what he was trying to hide. There was nothing but books in this place anyway, and thanks to the stranger's cunning, he had learned not to be careless with any command books from now on. So what harm could a quick look possibly cause?

Swiftly and with cautious steps, so as not to make any noise, Stanley descended down. Just like at the very top, this section he arrived in was also darkened, but all the better he noticed a brightly lit gap between one of the shelves and the wall. After all these years, one would have expected the Narrator to know by now that no secret or hidden area would go undiscovered by Stanley. And yet there it was: a conspicuously luminous passageway calling out to him.

Upon coming closer, he saw that this supposedly secret gap led to some kind of broad hallway and that he could easily squeeze through it to reach it.

As soon as he had managed to do this and he had entered the hallway, he only now became aware of its great length, both right and left walls lined with a magnitude of white doors, above which sat downward-facing lamps pouring golden light onto them. The first three doors were inscribed with names Stanley couldn't make any sense of. What was this place's purpose? The urge to open one of these doors and look inside was strong, his hand was already beginning to tingle, but he pulled himself together and figured that the Narrator must have had a good reason to keep him from visiting this hallway. Who even knew where any of the doors would lead him?  Being stuck in the Parables for years and inside a blind spot for minutes had been awful enough; spending presumably the rest of eternity in some unknown place was not in line with what he had planned for this afternoon.

At the fourth door, he understood what the purpose of this hallway was, as he read a title on it that he knew all too well. This and the following door were leading to the first iteration of The Stanley Parable made all those years ago and the remake that was released a little later, they were impossible to miss: soft, golden light poured onto them, proudly illuminating the black lettering that adorned the white wood. Situated right next to them were huge information panels, inscribed with both praise and criticism, but mostly praise, from the simplest people, to well-known critics, and in fact notes from the Narrator himself. Stanley withdrew his head in surprise. The Narrator had told him that these two games had been well received by the public, but at the time Stanley had dismissed it as nothing more than a distorted view of reality and cherry-picking. But the amount of words on those shiny white panels really was innumerable.

With that, Stanley drew the conclusion that the doors in this huge corridor must lead to games the Narrator had made before and after the Parables. And from the looks of it, he had been pretty active between the sequel and the present day. Why, of all things, had he wanted to keep this place a secret? Was it too personal, too embarrassing? Hadn't he admitted himself that his recent years of work were defined by failure? There had to be something else here. For example, what did the panels next to all the other doors coming after have to say about all their respective games? The one by the door to the sequel was, as expected, loaded with negative words. Stanley merely skimmed over the top part of the panel, since everything written on it pretty much stated the same thing and he still wanted to see what the other panels had to offer. Either way, the Narrator must have seen the sequel as quite a setback and blow to his pride.

Every single door that followed after referred to games Stanley didn't know of, unsurprisingly, and even with these, the words on the increasingly smaller panels were rather poor and testified to a lack of quality in the works in question. The next door was no different, nor was the one after that, or the one that came third, and so on, until finally there were no more panels, but simple notes nailed into the white lacquered wood just below the black lettering. They were notes that the Narrator himself had written.

Gameplay wise a disaster, but I had to compromise for a good story, still overall lacking, Stanley read one of the first notes he came across. From that point on, was he only going to encounter the doors of games the Narrator decided not to publish? The light from the small lamps became progressively dimmer as he moved further into the hallway, making it harder to read the notes.

The gameplay loop is absolutely tedious and the story can't make up for it, I'm afraid, he was able to decipher and moved on to the next door.

The idea itself appeared nice, but it would be more fun to eat screws than to actually play it, he read on another note.

Maybe I should focus my priorities on something else? That's certainly something I could try.

No, that's not it, it's just no fun! And the story isn't the least bit appealing either.

Maybe I should not focus too much on the story? Do people nowadays even care for stories?

I am not getting anywhere with this. I should give up on this project. No one will ever get to see it anyway. It's pointless. A waste of time.

This is not unique. It's boring. Why did I ever think it was remotely exciting? Who would even want to play this rubbish?

Whatever I do, I feel like it's not enough. Like it's just not good.

Yet another project given up.

It's not getting any better. What am I doing wrong? Why can't anyone tell me? Why do I have to just blindly guess as to what to do? This mimics a cruel joke.

What happened to me, my abilities to create decent works? Am I the problem?

No, no, no, not good enough.

I have the feeling that I am not enough. That I am not good. I am the problem.

Why am I even still trying?

Should I quit?

I should.

But I can't. They won't let me. I am trapped.

From here on, the golden light was completely gone out, the remaining section of the hallway plunged into darkness. This did not detract from the matter; there were no more notes to read anyway. Even the names of the games had been partially removed, only a dusty outline visible where the letters had once been, the doorknobs removed or entire doors outright sealed off with crude wooden boards.

Stanley stopped to take a look over his shoulder and was astonished to realize how far he had already walked. From where he stood, the entrance looked tiny, as did the panels full of praise, which had appeared huge to him standing in front of them, now disappearing into a golden, distant mist. So was this what the Narrator had been going through over the past years? Although he and Stanley had their differences and quarrels, he couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Stanley was no creative soul, but he could feel his own heart shatter under the pressure the Narrator seemingly had to endure. At least he had felt confident about his newest idea to reboot the Parables, but Stanley had accidentally done everything possible to keep it from getting finished. Diminished the only source of joy the Narrator probably had left. And yet, he doesn't seem willing to give up, even with these notes suggesting that he should have been quick to do so.

He considered leaving the hallway, there were after all only two doors left, when to his surprise two notes caught his eye. The one nailed to the penultimate door, which had apparently never worn any letters in the first place, did not look like a note from the Narrator, but rather a conversation written out; Stanley just didn't know between whom. Maybe the Narrator and somebody else? He squinted in an effort to make out the words in this darkness. From the choice of words, he quickly realized that none of them came from the Narrator, but rather from two other people. Who were they and why was it so important to have their conversation put here at the very end? He didn't like the direction this was going at all, but reading it would shed more light on the darkness.

Damn, that's worrisome. What do you think it could be? A malfunction?, he read.

The telemetry has never shown such values. Yes, this is worrisome. If it continues to not produce anything decent, then I think we'll have reached a dead end. And the only thing that'll get us out of there will be a hard reset.

It? You seriously call him 'it'?

Of course. What do you think it is? You talk as if it was a child, or an actual human. Snap out of it, man.

But you have seen what he created. What is not human about it?

All I see is extremely strange behavior and these anomalies popping up everywhere recently. But it was obvious that this would happen somewhere down the line. Projects like these never end well. And now you're emotionally attached to some ones and zeroes.

Not just 'some ones and zeroes'. This is a whole life's work.

Yes, and this life's work is just going down the drain if we don't step in and do something.

Let's wait and see. If necessary, a quick hard reset can be executed. We can still collect useful data. Whatever happens; the whole project was never for nothing. And the next go around, we can give this whole thing another try and see what went wrong. Work can sometimes be like that: trial and error.

Stanley didn't know what to exactly make of this note. Who were these two people and who were they talking about? Seen what he created? Are they talking about the Narrator? Were these the developers who were sometimes mentioned? The thought of something out there that was even more powerful than the Narrator made him lightheaded. And from the looks of it, they could peform a hard reset at will, the power to wipe them all out right at their fingertips, if that hard reset denoted what Stanley thought it did. 

Only one door was left, at the very end of the corridor, in the wall opposite to the distant entrance. It looked pristine and new, as if it had only recently been installed there. A door reserved for the reboot. Reserved for one last attempt. The note on it read the following: I know what to do.

Stanley's hair stood up as goose bumps ran through his body. Now he understood everything. Understood what the Narrator had meant when he said Stanley wouldn't understand how much it would mean to him. Or that they were under a time constraint. In a last ditch effort to create a good game and thus prove that there was nothing wrong with him, that he still had it and possessed no 'malfunction', he had sought out Stanley, asked him to help him create a new game, the best the world would ever see and revolutionize everything the Parables had ever stood for. It was now clear to him as the sky outside. If they could not make the Narrator become normal again, would they be doomed to failure? Would the Narrator meet a fate worse than being forced to walk around as a human? Or worse, would the entire world and every single person on it that Stanley ever knew be deleted? This… hard reset performed? And all because of me, he thought, a heavy lump forming in his throat. All because I was desperate to get rid of the Narrator. And as it seems, I will probably get this wish fulfilled soon enough. And this stranger, whom I apparently knew at some point, had all this planned out. But why? For what? What did he want to accomplish with this?

With a heavy heart, he briskly returned to the brightly lit start of the hallway before the Narrator would notice his absence. This was why he hadn't wanted him to go in here in the first place, it had been too personal for him, Stanley supposed. But he was glad he followed his intuition and still did it anyway. His perspective had completely shifted and, as he walked down the hallway, he silently vowed to do everything possible - and he couldn't believe he was doing this right now - to help and support the Narrator in everything he did. Be the story ever so bizarre, the gameplay ever so limiting, the features ever so unpolished, his free will nonexistent. This was no longer about some stupid game the Narrator had come up with again, this matter was now about literally everything.

As he approached the secret not-so-secret gap, he heard someone rummaging through the bookshelf that was pushed right in front of the original large entrance. Stanley froze. It was the Narrator.

"That wretched book!" he heard his muffled grumble as he restlessy paced up and down front of the shelf, still looking if he could spot what he was looking after. "It's as if it has vanished from the face of the earth. This cannot be possible. The only thing I ever truly needed in my whole life is this damned book and I can't find it."

Stanley looked back into the hallway, his gaze falling on the fifth door, the one dedicated to The Stanley Parable, and he got an idea. A rather frighteningly brilliant idea. As it was, they wouldn't be able to find this book anywhere - but perhaps he could return the Narrator to his original state by opening this very door and load up the game, if that is what the doors here were for. How had the Narrator not thought of that himself? It was blazingly obvious, literally! The perfect solution!

And just as the Narrator was too cavalier about Stanley's curiosity, Stanley was too cavalier about his own inability to think through his choices.

No sooner had he pushed down the door handle than he found himself trapped inside the dreaded loading screen. A few unbearable seconds later, already firmly believing success to be with him, he came back to his senses in the place he was more than familiar with: his desk in room 427. But wait, wasn't there something missing? The memories were faint and distant, but he could swear that something was. Shouldn't an intro or something like that have played beforehand? And why was the Narrator not saying anything?

Confused and worried about what this meant, he turned around in his office chair and found none other than the Narrator standing behind him, his face contorted in malice and his arms folded, as he watched Stanley coming to the realization that his ostensibly ingenious plan had indeed not worked out.

Chapter Text

For a few heartbeats, tense silence filled the small office, interrupted only by the ceaseless ticking of the clock.

"I can't leave you alone for even a second without you committing several war crimes it seems," the Narrator then said, lowering his face so that his glowing eyes were barely visible from below bent brows. His foot bobbed up and down. "What else can I say but congratulations, you did it. You've really outdone yourself on this one, Stanley."

Bested, Stanley bent over on his chair and let his face drop into his hands. It would have been too good to be true if his plan had turned out to be successful.

"Now that we're going to be stuck here in this lovely game for quite some time, how about I tell you everything I know about oceanic whitetip sharks, relatives of the night shark, just to render this situation as miserable for you as it is for me?" he continued, and despite his put-on serenity, his words were heavy with passive aggressiveness, dripping like bitter honey. "Here's the first fun fact: Did you know that whitetip sharks carry about seventy percent more brain mass than you do? Now you know."

Yes, yes, I know, it was stupid of me. Stanley felt his hands turning cold. His original plan had been to start The Stanley Parable and thus restore the Narrator to his normal state, but as was evident, that plan had not worked out. And now the Narrator was implying that he hadn't the necessary means to terminate the game currently running. Which in turn meant that they were going to be stuck here. For a while. A long while.

Stanley peeked out from behind his fingers and met the Narrator's piercing gaze.

A very, very long while.

The Narrator, still fairly upset, unfolded his arms and shook his head before stepping out into the more brightly lit, spacious office.

Was he done scolding him? Was that really all he had to say? As Stanley followed him outside, he realized that he shouldn't have acted on the off chance. But the Narrator knew his way around in this game better than Stanley ever could. He just had to know of a way to get out, right?

"So, Stanley, what exactly do you expect will happen now?" the Narrator snapped at him once he noticed Stanley having emerged from his room. "That a miracle will descend from the sky? That the game will grow a mind of its own and take pity on us? Or do you perhaps expect me to do something? To somehow magically conjure us out of here? To unravel everything and it'll turn out it was all staged to teach you a lesson? I have to disappoint you there. I don't know what the bloody hell it is you are expecting, but whatever it is, I can't do a single damn thing here just like everywhere else every since I lost control! Not in a hundred years could I put myself in your inexplicable mindset to comprehend why you thought it was a good idea to mess with the doors when you should have come to the conclusion that I wasn't trying to keep you away from them for the simple fun of it! At this point, I would not even be surprised to learn that you had somehow arranged for that devious stranger to take revenge against me. However he managed to do that."

On the outside, Stanley didn't let on, but on the inside, his heart almost stopped. Ah, yeah, I wonder how he pulled that off, guess we'll never know, oh well. If he were to learn the truth now, it would only add fuel to the fire. And that fire was already blazing.

"Ah, I think I got it now, you thought you had a great idea just there. You loaded up the game, in the hopes that it would restore everything, without even considering why I hadn't come up with that idea myself in the first place, and we, you as you are, and I still trapped inside a body, woke up in your office. I get it, you just wanted to help. I really get it. I think for the first time ever, I figured you out."

Stanley sheepishly nodded. Would the Narrator finally realize that he had not acted out of bad intentions? But as if the universe was at odds with him, the one time he genuinely wanted to be of help, he had instead achieved to only multiply their problems.

The Narrator paused. Probably to let the pangs of guilt thoroughly sink into Stanley. "But lo and behold", he then went on and threw his arms in the air, "it didn't help at all. It's just going to cost us time because you thought you were being clever and witty and disobedient again. Why did I even try to warn you implicitly? I should have simply lied, should have said something else instead, something along the lines of 'Oh, wow, Stanley! The fair just came to town, and it's located right down there! And it only does that once every hundred years, come take a look!', and that would have been the least interesting thing in the world to you. Or you would have thought that I was trying to harm you for some reason and wouldn't have gone down there either. What is it that has caused this irrepressible desire of yours to always do exactly the opposite of what I ask? I should have done anything but tell you the truth, not to demonstrate my alleged deceitfulness to you, but for our own good. But I would never have deigned to do so, even though I should have for a good reason as you can possibly fathom now. Either way, you have an uncanny knack for making already bad things even worse. And now we're stuck in this game with no way of ever getting out." Sighing, he put his hands in the pockets of his large coat and leaned against one of the empty desks.

Stanley stood motionless in the middle of the path, numbness taking hold of him, as he slowly realized what he had done. The Narrator was completely powerless here. As he had said; he possessed no means of getting them out of here. Stanley had hammered down the last nail into their coffins.

When the Narrator began to speak again, his voice sounded muted and chilly, like the air after a heavy thunderstorm. "I'm beginning to feel as if all of this is the payback for forcing you to collaborate on my new game. I think we're getting into predicament after predicament because we've just set us other priorities, haven't we?"

The office bathed in silence for about half a minute. Neither of them budged. Stanley would have wanted to know what was going on in the Narrator's mind - but considering how upset he must have been with him, perhaps it was better that he couldn't. But why was he being so quiet now? This strangely tranquil?

"I assume you've had the chance to... read all the notes down there. Am I correct on this?"

Stanley felt his burning gaze on him but dared not to look back. He had already anticipated that he would bring up this discovery of his; that a malfunction was suspected and therefore the entire program would be reset. Oddly enough, the Narrator didn't appear too angry about Stanley now knowing it. At least not as much as about the fact that he had meddled with one of the doors.

"Well, now you know. Everything, I mean. And, to be honest, there's nothing else left to say about it. The notes themselves summed it up better than I could ever have done or wanted to. Now you're probably wondering why I didn't just simply tell you upfront."

The Narrator paused, again for an unusually long time. So long, in fact, that Stanley could bring himself to look him in the face again and he saw how in failing attempts to get any words past his lips, he tentatively opened his mouth several times. "Of course, I always hoped it wouldn't come to this, but..." he finally managed, "if I don't get a good game going.... to prove that I don't possess a 'malfunction' and cause all these anomalies to appear or whatever... then I'd rather you... spend your last days free of any worries than with the sense of impending doom, you know? Does this sound plausible to you? I hope it does. I just didn't want to put this burden on you that I'm carrying around. The deletion process is painless, but everything before that, when you know it will eventually arrive, is not."

A heavy lump formed in his chest. The deletion process, he repeated in his mind. The definitive end.

As if washed away by a flood, the initial tension between them disappeared, and Stanley found himself quite surprised in the face of this unusual thoughtfulness on the part of the Narrator.

Yet Stanley had always been firmly convinced that the Narrator had only ever perceived him as an irksome pebble in his shoe, and not as someone whose feelings were worth protecting. But was that really the case? Did he really mean so much to him that he willingly took on this enormous burden of knowing of and being responsible for the fate of the world all on his own, without anyone to talk about it?

If he had ever been considerate of my feelings, he wouldn't have made life hell for me by keeping me trapped inside the very game we're stuck in now, Stanley bitterly objected to this mushy wishful thinking.

"And look where that got us. But then again, what was I expecting? I should have known you would do everything in your power to put a spoke in our wheel. I wanted to be considerate, and in exchange, I accepted that you wouldn't be."

Motionless, Stanley let the Narrator's words rain down on him, every word striking him deep in the gut.

"But what does it even matter now, it was for nothing. Everything was for nothing. The inventory function, the map, the dialogue wheel, the skill spiral and whatnot. I don't even like Open World games that much. I despise them! And that GC001 book, the only thing that was able to help us, simply vanished, too. I failed. Not you, Stanley. Only. I." The Narrator let his gaze wander around the dead office. "And here we are, where it all began. This is also where we can watch how it will all end. We have front row seats. The games deposited in the program are the first to be wiped. And of all the things you can see here, you'll have to go first. Then the tables, chairs, walls, and so on, until there is nothing left. And me? At the very end, after everything else is gone, I will be reset, brought to zero, all my memories, dreams, desires erased. And whatever will come after that, I don't even know if there will be a spark of my old self left to witness it, or if it will be a completely different entity that will be in charge and take the helm - hopefully better than I ever did."

As the Narrator spoke to himself, his eyes fixed on the white windows, Stanley felt so... lost. As if in a vast, infinite, but serene ocean that robbed him of all senses. The fact that he was talking about their demise like this, or at all, was killing him. But why was he doing this? What was he implying with that sorrowful attitude?

"I'm not even angry with you anymore. I don't want to waste the last of my strength on that. On the contrary, you've even shown me how pointless everything has been." The Narrator now sought Stanley's gaze. "I have sensed it from the beginning, but had always refused to acknowledge it. Told myself to keep going. I just had not wanted it to be true." He pushed himself off the table and dangled his arms. "Well. Whatever. I don't really care, not as much as I did before anyway. I've done the best I could. I'll sit out the end here and see what comes after. If anything. It was nice meeting you, Stanley, and when those last minutes will arrive, I will spend at least half of them thinking of our adventures, even if you won't. It was an honor to have been able to tell your story - and you mine."

They stared at each other in silence. Hold on, wait, what? Why was he talking like this? Why was he turning himself towards the door like that? No, he couldn't. He wasn't about to leave now, was he?

"I'm not really good with goodbyes or anything emotional like that, so… Take care," the Narrator said, and then stepped through the door.

No.

Stanley couldn't believe what he was witnessing, couldn't believe that the Narrator was bailing. But he was, Stanley was seeing it with his own eyes, and he goodness knows went where. That's how easily he gave up? The man who would have done anything to make his vision come true before just quit?

No! He set after him. This can't be the end. Not this one. I refuse it!

There just had to be a way for them to leave, even if the Narrator didn't want to acknowledge it; simply because he felt defeated by the odds. Not only had he lost his powers, but now his will, too. But not Stanley. If Stanley possessed even one virtue, and the Narrator must've known of that one, then it was that he never gave up, that he would always find a way, however impossible it seemed, be it the correct or wrong one. The door on the left, or the door on the right.

Where numbing emptiness had spread through him, something new ignited: fierce, burning determination that drove him not only to follow the Narrator but to stand in his way, to defy him, to make it clear that Stanley refused to accept this pitiful, terse capitulation of his.

With persistent steps, he pushed his way past him. Perplexed, the Narrator came to a halt still in the small corridor when Stanley positioned himself in the doorway that led to the rest of the building and spread his arms.

"What's the meaning of this?" He seemed more annoyed than irritated. "There's nothing we can do, and my God, I can't bear to see you get annihilated for good right in front of my eyes! Now get out of my way!"

Stanley clung to the door frame. Like an angry animal pretending to charge, the Narrator made a threatening step forward, but then backed away when he saw him moving not an inch.

"Out. Of. My. Way. I said." His voice lowered, and Stanley couldn't avoid feeling a tinge of fear - but he wouldn't back down. Not until the moment the Narrator would give in, or the hard reset would set in.

He winced and involuntarily took his hands off the doorframe as he was grabbed roughly by the side and shoved back into the corridor. Contrary to his outward appearance, the Narrator turned out to be quite strong, with it having hurt more than he would have expected.

How the tables had turned. Now he was the one trying to convince the Narrator of something and not the other way around. But how on earth was he going to pull this off? By throwing one of those mugs standing around here at his head? By clinging to his leg? Fighting him?

It hadn't come to that point yet, but instead he had another idea come to his mind. And if that one wouldn't work either, Stanley would have to take matters into his own hands. He had no other choice.

He scuttled after him and tapped him on the shoulder in a last, desperate attempt to instill courage in him. And indeed, he actually stopped walking, but did not turn around yet. Stanley's heartbeat quickened. He almost thought the Narrator would just keep walking until finally he decided to face him. This is my only chance.

"I told you, we are..." Stunned, the Narrator fell silent as Stanley held out both of his hands, still wrapped in bandages protecting the wounds he didn't want to have gotten for nothing, and put them together to form a bowl. In it appeared the pale sea shell he had been carrying around in his inventory until now.

Not knowing what to say, he stared down at it with a face as forbidding as stone. Countless seconds passed, each longer then the next. Stanley held his breath.

Please, please listen and understand what I am trying to tell you.

He watched the old man's expression change. His irritated frown faded.

"That sea shell," he breathed. "The very first item you picked up with my inventory feature. The only one of my features that ever did anything for us. And you kept it with you all this time?"

I did.

Iridescent wistfulness filled his eyes. "It was a fun feature. I mean, it still is. I just wish it hadn't been for nothing in the end."

It wasn't.

Stanley picked up one of his hands, carefully placing the shell inside it. Closed it. And did not let go.

The Narrator raised his face, a storm of confusion and despair raging inside of him.

And although he had just been ready to get physical to be able to leave, he made no more effort to actually do so now. He seemed willing to listen.

Stanley took a step back. He knew the Narrator didn't know sign language, having never bothered to learn it, but he would try to use an intuitive gesture that summed up what he was trying to convey. He bent his arms, formed his hands into fists and moved his upper arms towards each other - the sign for "fight". They were not to meet their end without a fight.

"What, fight?" the Narrator tried to guess, and when he saw Stanley's face brighten and repeat his gesture again, he seemed to have understood: "Fistfight? You want me to stay and fight you?"

Stanley dissolved his gesture. That was not what he actually wanted to say.

"You want me to stay and fight with you?" he corrected his attempt at interpretation, to which Stanley nodded heavily.

Gingerly, the old man unclenched his hand. "Though wise men at their end know dark is right," he muttered to himself as he eyed the shell. "Do not go gentle into that good night."

Their gazes met again. No further words were spoken, but they were not needed. They both knew it already. We now share a same goal. No matter what comes.

"Stanley, I..." he began quietly, almost inaudibly. His fingers tightened around the shell again. "My goodness. You're right. You're absolutely right. My God! How could I have ever thought of giving up!? What has gone into my head?! I know I can do better than that!"

A wave of relief washed through Stanley as he sensed the familiar determination and confidence return to the Narrator. We'll find a way to make things right. 

"Yes, we shall fight!" the Narrator now shared his fortitude. With a raised fist, he exclaimed, "This world's grave has been dug, but we can still prevent the headstone from being carved! Your obstinate spirit be thanked, or I would have never had received this epiphany. But, what precisely are we supposed to do?" Doubts mixed into his tone again. "The Stanley Parable is not exactly known for its freedoms. And this is coming from someone who created the game. And even if we can somehow terminate the game, what do we do then? Without that book, we can't do anything. I mean, look at us - a lanky guy with an office job and an old fart who only recently learned how to open doors. That's not a good set of prerequisites, if you ask me."

Stanley began recalling every single ending and corridor that this game had to offer. Think, think! There must be something that can get us out of here. He thought as hard as he could, but all his thinking led him to a dead end. Nothing in this game allowed them to achieve freedom. Everything was designed to be that way, after all.

"Hmm..." The Narrator also seemed to be pondering. "Call me stripped of all sanity, but we could try the correct- I mean, the Freedom Ending."

Stanley blinked at him from half-open eyes. Was he being serious? Stanley had tackled that very ending countless of times, hoping to actually escape at some point. And every single time it ended with him being greeted by the loading screen and then dumped back into his office. And now the Narrator thought they could just waltz through that giant door and be done with it?

"Alright, hear me out!" The Narrator became agitated. He was quite convinced of whatever plan had just taken shape in his mind. "You, as the player, will trigger a cutscene as soon as you step outside. But what if other entities try to walk through the door? Ones that aren't tagged as players? Like me, for example? I could get out, try to reach the Backdoor, force quit the game, and voila! You've escaped! It's foolproof!" His eyes began to sparkle with triumph. Rooted to the spot, Stanley watched as the Narrator stormed up to him, grabbed his wrists, threw them joyfully into the air, and cheered. "Can you believe it? The worst day of my life just got two-thirds as bad!" Suddenly, the glow on his face disappeared as he disengaged from Stanley and took a step back. "Pardon me." A candle snuffer of seriousness was placed over his flaming joy. He cleared his throat. "I'm very pleased to have found a means of exit, is what I meant to say."

Stanley couldn't help but smirk. He was grateful that he had been able to convince him not to give up. They may already have been as good as dead, but would Stanley still be Stanley if he didn't try to defy even death itself?

Chapter Text

New objective: reach the Freedom Ending.

As easily said as done, for once. It, in fact, appeared far too easy to him, so that Stanley couldn't help but form the suspicion that sooner or later an obstacle would get in their way, whether be it through own reckless doing, or some other unanticipated thing. But both the Narrator and Stanley knew their way around the Parable like it were their pants' pockets – there was nothing that could go wrong if they would be sticking to the correct path. But once they reached the enormous door within the mind control facility, it was then solely up to the Narrator to stop the game and thus provide Stanley with a way out as well. Never in his life could he have imagined that the Narrator would one day volunteer to help him escape, yet here they were, walking side by side down the corridor, past rooms 416 and 415, determined to find a way out.

"Ah, yes, the beginning of the verse. The two doors," the Narrator mused wistfully as they arrived in that very room. "Every single time you walked through the one on the right, I had wanted to sink my teeth into a table, had I been able to."

Well, now you can catch up on that, Stanley commented in his head, already expecting his companion to lapse into compulsory narration as soon as the two doors had come into view. He must have thought his story to be the absolute scoop if he invariably wanted Stanley to follow it after every restart.

As they entered the dimmed meeting room, Stanley nearly had the air forced from his lungs as he ran right into the Narrator's outstretched arm. "Stop!" he exclaimed. Alarmed, Stanley tried to see what was going on. It was just the meeting room, wasn't it? Or had something changed?

With this room being so dim, he almost missed it. One of the small chairs at the elongated table looked extremely strange, if you could call it that way, as even strange was an understatement. Its outlines warped and contorted, and the entire chair was flickering, leaving nothing but a dark husk behind with each flicker, like a weak flame about to go out. It was very reminiscent of the blind spot Stanley had encountered. The memory of it gave him goose bumps.

"What in the...?" the Narrator breathed as they both examined this anomaly from a safe distance. "Either it was hard to see from other angles, or this is new. Yep, I've come to the conclusion that it's definitely new." The fact that the Narrator himself had no idea what was happening to that chair didn't exactly instill Stanley with confidence. "Everything's fine!" he told him, although his tone suggested the opposite. "Everything's okay, there is nothing to worry about. Just don't touch that thing and we should be fine. In fact, let's just give it a big, nice wide berth instead and leave this room as quickly as possible."

Instead of Stanley now being allowed to enter the room by his own, he was held by the upper arm and led along the other, innocuous side of the table. The Narrator did not let him take even a single step on his own, seeming to have learned his lesson about letting Stanley approach potentially dangerous things unsupervised.

As soon as they exited that room, their minds eased and Stanley was finally released. He remembered reading a mention of "anomalies" in the notes he found. So were these blind spots not the only kind that were beginning to appear and infect the program? But what exactly was it about them? Wherever they came from and whatever was causing them, hopefully the Narrator would find a way to eliminate them once he regained his old power. The developers would certainly look stupid when they saw that everything was bug-free again and would throw their plan to perform a reset out the window. That is what Stanley hoped would ideally happen.

Every time they were about to enter a new room, the Narrator would always push his way to the door to take a quick, precautionary look inside and make sure everything was secure before allowing Stanley in. It was also he who entered the secret code in the keypad in the boss's office as if it were second nature and then pressed the red button in the unsightly elevator, as if he were thus eliminating any possibility that Stanley would do any damage.

As they moved deeper into the building, Stanley only then noticed how strange it felt to be back here, a feeling only further reinforced by the presence of a second person. With all his might, he hoped that the Narrator would be able to leave the complex without any problems. His explanation of why he might succeed when Stanley never did had sounded quite plausible.

Now the elevator had taken them as far down as it could go, and as soon as the door went up after a rough stop, they could see the corridor ahead of them, lined with pipes and cables, leading them to the mind control facility. Closer to their destination. Closer to freedom.

First it was Stanley, then the Narrator, who exited the elevator when a warped snarl and crunching noise behind them made them whirl around.

Without warning, Stanley was grabbed by the Narrator and pulled away from the elevator, the same one they had just exited and was now beginning to flicker ominously and make otherworldly noises not common to elevators; a noise that could best be compared to the distorted sound of rain or tearing fabric. It was anything but pleasant to listen to.

"Dear God, that was close," the Narrator brought out gasping. "Stanley, I don't want this to alarm you," too late, "but I have no idea what's going on that is causing these… these bugs. Or errors. Or whatever, call them however you like, what I am saying is that I have never in all my years been able to observe anything like this. But if these years have taught me one thing, it's that under no circumstances should we touch these errors, as tempting as it might seem to you. Do you understand? Who knows if it might not set off a chain reaction? Or do something else to us! We should hurry. Find a way out of here fast before our path to freedom is blocked off entirely."

Stanley didn't need to be told twice; at some point, even his curiosity had found its limits. They rushed through the corridor, freedom getting closer and closer with each brisk step, and Stanley tried to work out what they would do after they had gained it. The book, which the Narrator had needed for his purpose, was as if eaten up; it was simply gone. And as far as he had understood, there had only one copy of it existed.

By now, they were waiting inside the gigantic, cylindrical room lined with monitors for the tiny elevator to arrive and transport them to the top, where the ending, and thus freedom, was within their grasps. He had had to wait for this puny elevator countless times before, but this time the atmosphere was tense, the waiting almost unbearable, and the question whether their escape would succeed this time a crushing thought, more grave and intense than the Narrator would have ever been able to compose his own story.

"If there's one thing I'll take a note of for the next time," he grumbled, arms crossed, "then it's that I should include a shortcut for in-game testing purposes. And do not get me started on the structure of this room! Being able to view it from several perspectives at once didn't really make me realize it, but now that I'm standing here in person, I recognize how incredibly impractical it is! My deepest sympathy goes to those who have to monitor approximately six hundred employees here all at once. To them and their necks. It's as if all functionality had been thrown out the window in favor of presentation, every principle of good design trampled underfoot! So, good grief, Stanley, is it just me who noticed that? Or did you deliberately withhold valuable, constructive criticism from me all along so as not to dishearten me? "

Since when does constructive criticism go down well with you?

Finally, the elevator arrived. Every single creak and groan of the metal, the whir of the machinery, or the squeak of the door opening at the very top was so burned into Stanley's memory, but not to hear any narration during it seemed to him extremely bizarre, like putting on shoes without socks or watching TV without sound.

"Hmm, you know what?" There came the missing narration. "I figure that for next time, I should create a little room into which the player is brought after each ending, where I will put up a neat little box with a stack of paper next to it, so that they can discreetly and anonymously give their honest opinion on their experience, not having to dread any kind of negative reaction on my part. I shall refer to this room as 'the Critical Room'. But then again, this measure would serve no purpose, since I would know who wrote the notes. Indeed a tricky matter. Oh, at last, we're here!"

Let's just hope that your plan will work out, Stanley prayed in his mind as they stepped inside the actual control room, or else there will be no next time.

As they approached the facility's power source, a long catwalk shrouded in darkness between the door and the control panel, the massive screen looming behind it, their steps slowed. The moment of truth had arrived. The moment that decided about their lives and deaths. As expected, the Narrator relieved him of the task of pressing the right button. From the looks of it, Stanley had managed to shatter his trust for good. Or was the Narrator fearing that at any moment the control panel might turn into a glitching mess? Stanley assumed the former.

Plunged into intense darkness, only slowly and gradually dispelled by the incoming light from the outside world, they both waited for the huge door to lower. Countless thoughts were racing through Stanley's mind as he watched it open like he did many times before.

"Come on, hurry up..." the Narrator hissed to himself, the glaring sun light reflecting off on his glasses. "Dramatic effect be damned, once I'm out, I'm absolutely certain to be faster at reaching the Backdoor than this door can even half-open! Take it from me."

As the door had finally disappeared into the floor, the Narrator didn't waste a single second. "You wait here!" he ordered him to do, already marching down the catwalk towards the outdoors.

Longing, the employee left behind stared after him, wishing he could follow, to feel the grass or the cooling air for one last time, should they not be able to escape their demise. Waiting here alone, freedom within reach, the door big enough to let an army through, was tantamount to mockery.

But instead of stepping outside like the simplest thing on the world that it was, Stanley watched as the Narrator thudded against something. Caught completely off guard by this physical resistance, he staggered back and clutched his nose with which he had head on run into the invisible thing.

"Ex… excuse me?" His eyes wandered up in irritation. Perplexed, he brought his hands forward, trying to get them through, but could do nothing but brace them against an invisible wall as if he was a mime.

Chilling horror crested Stanley's body. He jogged to the side of the Narrator, wanting to understand what the problem was. Hadn't he said that the building would allow him to leave? Please don't tell me it doesn't work. Please don't let it be true.

"What? Why isn't it working?!" His hands darted from place to place in search of an opening. "No, no, no, no... It- it should be working! I was certain of it! Stanley, is it me or has the air out there suddenly received collision? Since when is there an invisible wall?! I've never placed any such thing here!" He clenched his hands into fists and pounded them against the invisible force. "You've got to be kidding me! What a mockery! I thought my plan to be impeccable! I could have sworn it was supposed to work, I could.... But it should... we..."

Shattering discouragement clung to Stanley's heart, even stronger and more overwhelming than the very first time he had woken up in his office after he had reached this ending and falsely believed freedom to be his. At the time, he had always hoped the Narrator to one day go through what he had always made Stanley undergo. There were moments when he preferred to experience that gratification to finding actual freedom. But now that this moment had arrived, and to witness as the Narrator's cries of disbelief and protest died down and gave way to silence, his hands slowly lowering again and his gaze fixed on the outside, led him to realize that it was never a desire for justice, but base resentment.

The Narrator dropped his forehead onto the invisible wall. "Stanley," he said amid the silence. A few breaths later, and after a defeated sigh, he added, "Leave."

Stanley remained motionless, only a few inches between him and the outside, thinking about whether the Narrator wanted him to step through the door and if he was really sure about that. Wouldn't Stanley simply restart the game by doing that? Then, they would have gained nothing from coming here!

"Now get out, go through that door," he repeated with force in response to his hesitation. "You can see that I obviously can't! Don't think big and just go."

He gave in, although not quite understanding what the Narrator hoped to achieve with this, and as requested, took a step forward and thus triggered the cutscene scheduled here. As if on invisible ropes, all control over his own body was torn from him and he was led down the path, just as he remembered it, at the end of which his face was turned towards the glaring sky. Then everything went black.

Waking up back in his office, they both silently exchanged meaningful looks as they let the cold realization sink in that leaving was going to be anything but easy for them.

"I have, without a doubt, never experienced such unfair bunk in all my life," the Narrator interrupted the dismayed silence, pursing his lips in discontent and still clutching to his nose he hurt. "Stanley, I am thoroughly sorry, I really have no idea how this could have happened. I was so sure that... well, what does it matter? I've not managed to escape, but instead of freedom, we've gained the valuable knowledge that against my calculations, this route just doesn't work. But as you have told me, we must not give up. We have to use our heads and find another..." He did not finish his sentence as a loud tearing and crunching noise within the office space interrupted him. Although only having heard it once, it was an unmistakable sound, one that send a nauseating shiver down Stanley's spine. Both rushed to the entrance to his small room and saw further down the path one of the desks having turned into an anomaly, blocking off the small corridor like an elongated, misplaced and flickering gum. Their access to the rest of the building was now denied.

But before any of them could rack their brains over what to do now, the glitch disappeared as quickly as it had emerged. The desk was now restored to its normal form. How did this happen? Had the anomaly been fixed all by itself?

Shortly thereafter, a figure appeared in the corridor: An old woman with long, light hair and a simple, equally light dress, who walked leisurely towards them, each step deliberate and purposefully placed. Stanley was more than puzzled. Who was she, where did she come from now all of a sudden? What puzzled him even more was that the Narrator seemed to recognize this woman, as his face lit up with great relief.

"Thank God, our savior arrived!" he cheered, stepping forward with arms raised. "And not a minute too soon!"

But in contrast to him, their "savior" seemed less than pleased to meet him. "Are you serious?" She pierced him with a stern look. "So you're just strolling around, giving Stanley a tour, while I spend countless hours fixing things? Doing your job?"

Hearing his name surprised him. Apparently this woman knew him, but not the other way around? Who was she anyway, was she a part of the game he had never encountered before? But most importantly, was she able to help them? If she was even willing to; according to her expression, she seemed deeply upset. Timidly, Stanley followed the Narrator, but kept a distance, unsure if he was allowed to listen in on their conversation.

The Narrator slowly put his arms back down in reaction to the lady's gruff greeting, his initial delight having faded. "Listen, I didn't choose this myself," he returned. "Some devious entity, I haven't the faintest clue who he was, did this to me, just so we're clear. Do you perhaps have any idea what might have happened to me?"

"What do you mean, exactly?" She tilted her head slightly.

"What I mean? Well, take a close look at me!" He took a step back and gestured at himself. "Isn't it obvious?"

She scrutinized his clothes. "That's called losing your style," she replied dryly.

Unimpressed, the Narrator dropped his eyelids. "Funny. Very funny indeed. You made us all have a good laugh." From where Stanley stood, he saw his nostrils flare in enervation. "All these years spent archiving everything you find, yet you still haven't found any humor."

"Why?" Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Stanley found it to be amusing, from the looks of it."

The Narrator jerked his head around, to which Stanley turned his face away and pretended to inspect his colleagues' work tables, trying not to let on. Hmm, yes, these desks look like desks.

"Now, let's get to the point," the Narrator grumbled, turning back to the woman. "I'm looking for GC001, you know, the Gamma Clearance?"

Stanley's interest perked up. What was it about this book that was so important to him?

"The Gamma Clearance?" The amused glint in the woman's eyes disappeared as she went back to being completely serious. "What you are saying is that you... lost your power?" From her aghast expression, hundreds of thoughts raced through her mind.

"Well, good morning, now you get it! This entity, this stranger I mean, has somehow managed to derank me. Yet I don't even know who he is or what I'm supposed to have done to him! As if that wasn't humiliating enough, I'm forced to walk around down here, as I think would be pretty apparent to you."

Stanley found it difficult to assess the relationship between these two. How did they know each other? Did they hate, like, merely tolerate each other? And by that, was she even willing to help them?

The old woman narrowed her eyes before proceeding to approach the door of room 429. "You two, come with me," she invited them as she opened it and stepped through. Stanley caught a glimpse inside and saw that the door led not to room 429, but instead into a gigantic, empty hall built of white stone.

Before Stanley, awestruck by this sight, could follow her, the Narrator beckoned him over. "This is the Curator, by the way," he rustled to him. "We've known each other for a long time. Too long, even. Just don't ask how we are to each other, I don't even know myself. As to her role, one can say that she's... something like me, but more involved with administrative matters. She can be disagreeable sometimes, but I have to admit that at least she does her job diligently."

Stanley gave an understanding nod, although it wasn't entirely clear to him who exactly this Curator was and what her function was. He had heard the Narrator mention something about an archive. But what was it that she archived?

"Either way, we are incredibly lucky that she happened to be taking care of this game right now," the Narrator said as they made their way inside. "Our chances of success have just increased enormously by encountering her."

Once inside the towering hall, the Curator was waiting for them right next to the entrance, her hands folded in an elegant manner. "I never really believed that he could have made it this far, but I have a conjecture as to who this stranger might be," she announced, waiting until her words had taken effect and their full attention was on her. Stanley and the Narrator exchanged tensed looks, with Stanley not really believing that the Narrator had any serious enemies. Well, Stanley could sort of believe it, but he couldn't imagine what the Narrator could have done so terrible to make others want to take revenge on him.

"But I have a feeling you're unlikely to believe me," the Curator cautioned.

"I'll be the judge of that. Now spill it already," urged the Narrator. "What's with the secrecy?"

The Curator remained silent, as if she herself could not believe what she was about to reveal. And although it was clearly more important to the Narrator than to Stanley, the mute man was nevertheless eager to know it too.

Before the Narrator could express his impatience again, the Curator said, "It's Employee 432. Without a doubt."

Surprise hit both Stanley and the Narrator as heavy as a brick.

"What?!" the Narrator exclaimed in disbelief, exactly what Stanley was also thinking. "Employee 432? As in... an employee… at The Company?!"

The Curator nodded affirmatively; she hadn't expected any other reaction. It was not only the Narrator who found this information difficult to grasp; Stanley also had question marks written all over his face. He faintly remembered his co-worker 432, but every memory in which he appeared was shrouded in an impenetrable fog. He vaguely remembered him just being gone one day with people simply assuming that he had been fired or had otherwise gotten rid of his job; and this was even before the Narrator had brought Stanley into the Parables. His stomach tightened at the implication that none other than the Narrator must have been responsible for this disappearance - except that 432 never quite disappeared, but was apparently still haunting the program. And he was out for revenge. What has the Narrator done to him?

"So you're telling me that some NPC, one of Stanley's colleagues, somehow, for some reason, has found a way to strip me of my powers?" The Narrator still could not believe her words despite the affirmative gesture. "How... what... that doesn't even make sense! If it's another attempt by you to be humorous, then I'll grant you that accomplishment, fine. All for you to tell me the truth."

"I am telling you the truth," she averred. "You just seem to have forgotten what happened back then. I am not surprised by this, though. It happened years ago."

"Sometimes you have to make room in your memory for more important things. Be that as it may, would you also perhaps elaborate on what exactly is supposed to have happened at that time so that a vendetta was plotted against me?" Despite his confusion, he seemed willing to listen and learn more.

"At that time, shortly after the incident, and unlike you," she gave him a reproachful look, "I got to the bottom of things as to why an NPC, or Employee 432 as we now know, began to act strange. As it turned out, the mind control facility had malfunctioned, so that Employee 432 became more than a mere NPC. He's developed a consciousness of his own that extends far beyond the runtime of the game, just as it does for you, me, and Stanley. But with the crucial difference that it was unintended."

"Hmm, hmm, I see." The Narrator put his hand to his chin. He seemed to be able to make more sense of this information than Stanley could. "Go on."

"Anyway, it caused the restarting of the game to become ineffective on him so that his memories could not be deleted. From then on, I haven't been able to find any further clues, but judging by the more than upset words of Employee 432, you had dumped him out of the game into the void, hoping to easily solve the problem by doing that."

"Employee 432, that spineless coward!" he snarled. "Why doesn't he simply approach me so we can sort out our problems like reasonable minds?"

"Sorting out your problems? Is that what you call throwing him into the void?"

"Right now, even deleting him seems to be the only possible solution to rid us of that resentful nuisance, so yes. I wouldn't be averse to it. So, are you going to keep throwing blame at me here, or help me solve the problem conscientiously this time?" The Narrator frowned.

"I'm not done yet. The most significant aspect is yet to come." She turned to the round hall. It surely was an impressive sight to Stanley, as he leaned his head back to view the glass dome set into the ceiling way up high. At the very back, two staircases nestled against the walls led up into a darkened area; to the left and right on the level they were currently walking on, two corridors opened up, but made a bent so that it was not visible where they led. This setting strongly reminded him of the museum he had once stumbled upon during the game - it had been the moment the nature of his and the world's existence had first become truly clear to him. Not particularly a memory he cherished, but an important one that since then had made a lasting impact on how he viewed the world around him.

"Employee 432 had made it into a Script Library," she continued to tell as the small group, led by her, slowly moved to the center of the deserted lobby. "I tried to stop him, but despite my efforts, he managed to escape with several codes, with the aim of paralyzing the entire program. After that, I lost all trace of him, and with my limited power, I didn't have the slightest chance of ever finding him again. He is like a ghost that roams the program, leaving a trace only difficult and for me impossible to follow."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," the Narrator made after she had concluded. "So I'm not the only one at fault here, would you listen to that."

"So much for the blame game." She sighed.

"Why didn't you let me know?" The Narrator stopped and both Stanley and the Curator turned to him. "You could have said something to me! Then I could have done something about it, you know! I demand an explanation for your consequential silence!"

"I never expected Employee 432 to ever be able to perform such operations. That being said, how could I have ever communicated anything to you at all? You were busy at the time and made it clear to me more than once that I was not to be involved in anything."

"Okay, first of all, I should clarify that..."

Stanley, exposed to their bickering, heaved a heavy inward sigh. Would the two of them ever stop going at each other's throats through their words? Listening to the Narrator alone was exhausting enough at times - two entities quarreling among themselves was fraying his nerves. And it was only a few minutes that had passed.

"Alright, let's stop with the clever remarks, it's getting us nowhere," the Narrator suddenly made a clean break in their argument. "The only thing I need is this Gamma Clearance, nothing more. I already checked the Backdoor and it's not there. So how about we take a quick trip to your archive, where I'm sure it must be, have a look and I take the copy? After that, I'll be out of your sight, out of your mind, as they say, and I'll take care of that pesky bug called Employee 432. Because it's not only you who wants things fixed, but also me."

The woman wearing the white dress formed her eyes into slits and Stanley wondered if she knew about the hard reset looming over their heads like a sinister storm cloud. "If it's not to be found at the Backdoor, then I doubt it's here, but fine," at last, she said. She then lifted her chin and took the lead again. "Come along."

Their footsteps were thrown back in a chorus of echoes as they were led to one of the corridors on the right side of the huge hall. Walking through the corridor, blinding sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows crowding the right wall and burnt the side of Stanley's head. This made him wonder where that extreme light was coming from, since there was nothing but white emptiness behind the windows, but then decided it was pointless to worry about logic and the laws of physics of this world. At the end of the illuminated corridor, they reached an open, not as opulent double door, behind which was revealed once again a circular hall, furnished with rows of bookshelves in the shape of crescents, forming rings like those of a tree. What was it about the recurring motif of bookshelves and strange corridors that fascinated the Narrator and Curator?

"I'll go and see if I can find anything," the Curator said as soon as they had entered what was supposedly the archive and parked them near the door. "Wait right here for me." With these words, she had disappeared behind the bending bookshelves.

The Narrator and Stanley stood around in silence, the former staring ahead, the latter watching his shoes.

"If there's one thing I've learned about being in a body," the Narrator began, "then it's that waiting in silence is magnitudes more peculiar than when not physically present."

Although Stanley agreed with this sentiment, he could not deny that saying it out loud made the situation no less strange; yet, it was not much different than the countless of times the Narrator had not said anything and simply observed Stanley between his narrative interludes, waiting for his protagonist to move on with the story.

Finally, the Curator returned. The Narrator's hopeful expression turned to a disappointed frown when he saw that she was carrying not a book, but a scroll instead. "This... this is not the Gamma Clearance. Where is the Gamma Clearance? What am I supposed to do with some scroll I don't need?"

"This isn't just 'some scroll,' this is a protocol. Here, take it." She pressed the unwieldy scroll into his hands, which then dropped under the unexpected weight. "I have not been able to find GC001, as you can guess. But here in the protocol it should be noted down who took it. Take it with you and search it. It may take you a while to find the right section, but I don't think you'll be stopped by that."

While the Curator was explaining to the Narrator how to properly read the scroll and that he should foremost be careful with it, Stanley took an interested look at the shelves behind him. He had never been able to take a closer look at any of the books stored inside them, or rather had never wanted to, because he was put off by the contents. But what could have been printed on them so that several shelves could be filled with these things? Wanting to know, he picked up a book. He didn't know what exactly he expected to find, but when he opened it, he was met with nothing less than jumbled stuff. No wonder the Narrator and Curator were so grating. If he had to deal with this stuff day after day, he would surely become bitter at some point as well. If given the choice, he would rather prefer to continue mindlessly pushing his buttons than being here, or doing whatever the Narrator and Curator have to do.

"For heaven's sake, where has he gone now? Stanley!" he heard the Narrator suddenly call for him. Stanley winced, thereby inadvertently sending the book in his hands right into his inventory. Instead of trying to put it back in place, he hastened to rejoin the others before the Narrator or even the Curator, though she seemed much more considerate than he did, became upset.

"You'd better stay where I can see you," the Narrator scolded Stanley as he reemerged. "I have no idea what you've been up to again, and I don't want to know, but my God, my tolerance has reached its limits. Letting you run around unsupervised is akin to letting a venomous snake loose. A venomous snake on drugs. Inside a nuclear power plant. I've learned that now."

"It's fine," the Curator soothed him. "Without a console, he can't do any harm with the books anyway."

Stanley clenched his jaws. Neither of them suspected that, thanks to 432, he had unrestricted access to a cheat console and was thus potentially much more dangerous than they suspected. For how long would he be able to carry the truth around as a secret? He dreaded the day when he would find out the answer to that question.

"A console is included alongside the Gamma Clearance. As a player, Stanley can then activate and use it for the purpose of giving you back your rank," the Curator explained. "It's not complicated, really. And for the time being, this protocol is all you need. The only thing I can help you with now is to let you out at the Backdoor, as I don't think you two want to be any longer in this game. Stanley, go ahead towards the exit, if you would. It's about there," she sent him on with a pointing gesture. "The Narrator will be coming after you in a minute."

Stanley, wondering what else they had to discuss, wandered off into the direction indicated. At last it looked as if luck would be on their side. But to what extent would 432 interfere again and prevent them from succeeding? Surely he would not rest until he achieved his goal: destroying the program. But now that Stanley knew more specific details about everything - what motivated the Narrator, what motivated 432 - he would not be as easily fooled as he had been a few hours ago. If not, he would be extra vigilant from now on.

Suddenly, just after the exit came into view, Stanley remembered that he still had the book from another section left in his inventory. It would certainly be better if he put it back in place before it was going to be missed and a situation similar to the GC001 one would arise. Besides, the Curator would certainly not enjoy any books being stolen from her, especially since it would be somehow written down into the protocol. So he reversed, turned into a corridor that would lead him back there the fastest, when unexpectedly, he heard his name. He froze and began listening.

"So, tell me, what's the deal with you and Stanley?" the Curator asked in a hushed voice, but loud enough for Stanley to hear from his hiding spot.

"Hmm, what?" The Narrator seemed to have been distracted for a moment. "Did you say something?"

"The manner in which you tense up when he is in proximity, I mean", she clarified. "And I'm pretty sure it's not because you're terrified of him."

"Maybe you should get some glasses, because I am sure terrified of him as of recently especially when he is not around", the Narrator objected. "Since whenever I avert my gaze, terrible things are bound to happen."

The Curator was apparently not satisfied with that blunt answer he gave. "One doesn't need glasses to be able to see it. So, I've answered your questions, now you answer mine."

"Well, I can't answer anything as a matter of fact, because I haven't the slightest idea what you're getting at."

It remained silent for a brief moment. What are they talking about? Are they talking about me? No sooner had Stanley conceived this thought than he thought himself very stupid. Of course they were talking about him or else they wouldn't have send him away; and as far as he knew there was only one person by that name.

"Alright, fine, you got me," the Narrator conceded in defeat after a sigh. "But how can I give you a satisfactory answer if I don't have one for myself? There definitely is something, by no means anything negative, but nothing I can put into words either. And you know when even I'm at a loss for words, it must be something supremely complex. But I'm going to try anyway, just so that you stop pestering me with your questions. I'm... I'm really enjoying every second that I spend with him, kind of. Even though sometimes he's been acting up and doing more harm than good." His words became heavy with wistfulness. "And I know he doesn't share that notion, that he would rather prefer to be rid of me, as inexplicable as it is to me. But what purpose do these feelings serve? He is only a tool, literally. A means to craft my games, a vessel through which my stories come to life, exactly what a player is made for. Nothing more." His voice became firm again. "And in the very beginning, that's how it was, that's how I saw him. The way it was meant to be. But as time went on, it got worse and worse. In his presence, my thought patterns are very different than with other characters. But I cannot allow that to happen. I have to maintain my neutrality. If I privilege him, fully align myself only with him, then it could hinder me in my work."

When Stanley heard these words, he almost fell into the shelf next to him. What universe had he suddenly found himself in? A universe in which the Narrator didn't see Stanley as just a disposable object of endless entertainment? If so, he had done a stellar job of not letting on. Because if he had let on, Stanley surely wouldn't have developed this aversion to him. Now the Narrator could sweet talk all he wanted; nothing would excuse the things he had done to Stanley over the course of several months he was trapped inside his games.

"Oh, please. Have we not learned anything?" The Curator's voice had lessened in severity; it was now soft and empathetic. "Haven't you seen how this tunnel vision of yours has done nothing good for you? Or good for us all, as events have shown?"

"I didn't put on this tunnel vision for the fun of it." His discerning expression was clearly audible. "And you know that, too. After all, I was given an important job to do, just like you and Stanley. I know what my purpose is. And nothing should stand in the way of that, as much as it pains me."

"One thing I'll give you along the way is that fighting it is like swimming upstream. Especially when the destination lies downstream," she advised. "You see? All my years I may have not found any humor, but instead I have found wisdom."

"I'm not sure..." The Narrator sounded less than convinced. "Regardless, I have more important things to tend to, as you can imagine. After that, I can waste all the time in the world on what this jumble of emotions is all about."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," the Curator agreed. "Go and browse the protocol. You better find the code fast, or all these anomalies are going to raise suspicions with.... you know who. I can't possibly keep up with running around everywhere and fixing them. "

"Of course, you're absolutely right," the Narrator agreed with her. "The last thing I want is for them to become aware of these glitches. You can count on me."

He's lying to her! Stanley's mouth fell open ever so slightly. It has already happened, the developers already know. Does he just not want to cause her to panic? Or does he simply not want to have to listen to her berating him? At least Stanley now knew he wasn't the only one keeping secrets.

"I hope so. Now get out of here", he heard her send the Narrator on his way. "I hope for your success."

With these words, Stanley arbitrarily squeezed the book into an open space inside the shelf, knowing full well that it was not in the correct section, and hurried back towards the exit. For the life of him, he didn't want to be caught eavesdropping.

To get back to the exit, he first had to get into the main corridor. As was expected, there he encountered the Narrator making his way to the exit as well. He came to an abrupt stop and eyed Stanley warily. Was he suspecting something?

"Have you lost your way or what?" he then said. "Outside is that way. Or do you need my narration to find your way around after all? As Stanley moved past countless openings of corridors, he dismissed them as nothing but trivial distractions keeping him from reaching his goal, and got to the end of the arterial hallway, where he turned to the right. There, does that help?"

Before he could get wise to him, Stanley made his way towards the exit, all while the words of the Curator were still hanging around in his head. Fighting it is like swimming upstream, he heard her say as if she were suddenly the voice inside his head. Especially when the destination lies downstream. The more he heard these words repeat in his mind, the more he couldn't shake off the feeling that they were also meant for him.

Chapter Text

"Stanley, for God's sake, wake up already!"

A hand shook him vigorously. Still drowsy from sleep, he blinked his eyes open and took a few seconds to recover from his initial disorientation. He found himself on the couch in his apartment. In front of him, he saw an elderly man with glasses, his eyes wide open in alarm, which at first confused Stanley massively. His head, caught in a haze of fatigue, didn't realize who he was at first until the memories of past events came flooding back to him and he was able to identify the man as the Narrator.

After the Curator had handed them the protocol, Stanley began to remember, he and the Narrator had returned home so that he could comb through the records at his leisure for a clue as to who had taken the Gamma Clearance. While the Narrator, grumbling to himself about how much he hated paperwork, had sat down at the small, round table with the unwieldy scroll, Stanley had wanted nothing more than to rest. After all, his office job didn't exactly provide for building excellent stamina. So he had to have fallen asleep on the couch at some point. But how much time had passed?

As he straightened up on the couch, he threw a quick glance out the window and saw that dusk had already fallen. And it appeared that the Narrator had finally found something useful by now. Or something terrible, judging by his expression. A number of thoughts about what it might be that he has found out about the Gamma Clearance began to fill his head.

The Narrator removed his hand. "At last you are awake. Normally I would have reprimanded you right now for your unhealthy sleeping habits that I have been able to observe, but there are more important things we need to talk about. I found it Stanley, I know who took the Gamma Clearance. But I have a sneaking feeling you're not going to like what I'm about to share with you."

Enervated, Stanley rubbed his eyes and wondered what bad thing was going on this time. Why had he even thought that the solution to all their problems would simply be handed to them? If things had went well even once for them, they would have been done running around and grasping at straws by now.

"I know you're tired, as after such a long nap is beyond me, but I'm afraid we have to get going again. For it is important, deadly crucial even, that we must go and see your boss. Preferably right now."

As sleepy as Stanley was, he almost dismissed what he just heard as imagination, because he failed to realize how in the world his boss, of all people, was supposed to have gotten hold of the Gamma Clearance.

He wasn't even given a second to process the information properly when he was suddenly hoisted up.

"Aren't you listening?!" the Narrator exclaimed, as he lifted the baffled man up and placed him in front of the couch. "I said we have to go! Right now! If you ever want to sleep again in your life, you'd better heed to my words!"

Alright, alright, I'm awake already! Stanley staggered for a moment before he escaped his fatigue and regained his wits. The Narrator's words, as well as his enigmatic behavior, didn't exactly form a good dike to keep his panic from spilling over to Stanley. Why did he make it sound like their lives were on the line? Not that the opposite had ever been the case, but it seemed to be about something more than just the Gamma Clearance. A dark premonition grew inside his head that it might have something to do with the story the Narrator had concocted for the game. But he had put the game on hold, after all! Hadn't he?

He already thought of turning to his closet inside his bedroom - after all, he wanted to appear spruced up to his boss - but the Narrator had other plans. "And now come on, out, out with us!" he rushed as he dragged Stanley out into the common hallway. "The hourglass has just been turned, and each grain we have left is precious!"

He slammed the door behind them shut and then proceeded to trudge towards the elevator. Not wanting to incur his ire again, Stanley scurried after him, hoping for at least some explanation as to what could have caused this panic in him.

"Oh God, this is awful, how could I have ever forgotten?" he heard him mutter to himself until Stanley reached him. Upon noticing his presence, he interrupted his agitated murmuring and, turning to him, said, "Now, listen to me carefully. Our success depends on you fully understanding what I am saying. I had been so busy trying to find that Gamma Clearance and get out of this body that I completely forgot about the story I had originally crafted for you. I know it was stupid of me, but my mind was constantly in other places. And it hurts my heart to have to do this, but I have to spoil the story to you to ensure our success, or else we are toast."

The metal doors to the elevator clattered open. Stanley saw himself inside its mirror and was shocked to see how disheveled he looked. His hair was unkempt, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes still sunken with fatigue, all topped off by an awkward three-day beard. And this is how he wanted to present himself to his boss? Yet it had been the Narrator at the very beginning who had preached about making a good impression. Hopefully, the matter was really as important as he made it out to be, otherwise Stanley would never be able to be excused for this display.

"Once we get there, you have to let me into the estate somehow," the Narrator continued to outline his plan to Stanley, making him frown questioningly. "You try to somehow distract the boss and keep him busy while I go look for the Reassurance Bucket. You know, that bucket I introduced back in the sequel. Don't ask me where exactly the boss got it from, I worked tirelessly on preparing this story in the days leading up to the start of the game, which doesn't make it any less painful to undo it all now and ruin the element of surprise. However, we won't be the only ones looking for the Bucket. And should the Bucket fall into the hands of that someone, as was actually intended by me for the purpose of the story, terrible things will happen. Terrible, terrible things that I am sure you don't want to find out about."

Stanley's throat tightened. What had the Narrator done? Admittedly, when he had worked out this plot, he had still been in full control of the game. But now he had become a victim of his own delusions of grandeur and artistic preachiness.

"But here comes the most important part," he resumed. "The Gamma Clearance could be attached to any conceivable object in this world. Normally to some kind of special book, like any other code, but not in this case. And I can't believe I'm saying this right now, but the Gamma Clearance is attached to nothing less than the Reassurance Bucket. Yes. That's right. The Gamma Clearance... is inside that damned Bucket."

Stanley's jaw dropped open. So, in his mind, he now tried to summarize everything he heard: Now his duty was to help the Narrator break into his boss's property so that he could steal some cheap bucket possibly stemming from some bargain bin, which also happened to contain the Gamma Clearance, the absolutely most valuable thing to them at the moment, the thing that would decide about their life and death, before someone else would snatch it away? Or was there something else he had left out? No, that was everything, it seemed to him.

Once they got the whole thing done and they finally had the Gamma Clearance under their belt, he would treat himself to a generous vacation, no question about it. A vacation to where there were no endless stores, no deceitful doors, and no obscure books. Whatever place it would be, there he would spend the laziest day of his life, reconsidering all of his life choices. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

Stanley no longer even possessed the energy needed to think about how the Gamma Clearance could have ended up inside the Bucket. Even though the Narrator loved to blame Stanley for everything that went wrong, he also sometimes did things that were not quite optimal, as it turned out. Like, for example, angering 432 and thus basically initiating this whole fiasco in the first place. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that the Narrator was somehow accountable for the Gamma Clearance to become stuck inside this cheap prop. But this was a question of original sin, which Stanley would rather not pursue at the moment.

"You just have to sneak me into this bigwig's place and I'll take care of the rest, so don't worry about doing anything amiss," the Narrator encouraged him as they exited the elevator, having reached the lowest floor. "Just be yourself! Or, no wait, I take that back. Please don't be yourself. Your self is disobedient, disruptive and chaotic. Just show your best side! Even if all your other sides are as ugly as sin and therefore your best can only be mediocre. You know what? Just distract him for long enough. That's all I demand."

Stanley had great difficulty keeping up with his pace; on the one hand he was pleased to see that the Narrator already had his legs so well under control, but on the other hand he was walking as if his heels were on fire. He burst through the double doors and descended the stairs in small, quick strides. "Hang on a second," he said and made a sharp stop before he could further hurry down the street. "Stanley, you don't happen to own a car, do you? Why do I even ask, if the answer to that question had been 'yes', then we could have saved ourselves the hassle of taking that cursed public transport! But how else are we going to get to your boss as quickly as possible? For God's sake. See, this is why I loathe open world games. Everything is unnecessarily spread out! Let's forget for a moment that just a few hours ago I wanted you to travel that distance yourself. I've learned my lesson, just as I've learned that I tend to overdramatize when it comes to the presentation of my stories."

Stanley's gaze fell on his bike, hooked up to the trunk guard of a tree down here in front of the building.

"Ah, brilliant!" rejoiced the Narrator, when his voice abruptly changed. "And what about me?! How the heck am I supposed to get to the boss then? Am I supposed to walk? As if I haven't done that enough today! Come on, Stanley, you're supposed to be thinking with me here, not against me!"

Stanley approached his bike and tapped the rack invitingly. They would now go through with it; it was all or nothing here.

The Narrator's eyes grew huge with dawning realization. "Oh. Oh." He took several steps back and waved his hands wardingly as Stanley unlocked it. "No, nope, no way, not going to happen. After the stunt you pulled this morning, I'd rather be running. After all, you're the one tired of life here, not me. Thanks, but no thanks." With an upturned nose, he swiveled around and trudged ahead. "Have fun riding there on your own, for I will find another way to get to the boss's estate. See you there!"

So he preferred to walk? The boss's residence was located a bit outside of town in a sparsely populated area, which could already be considered as nature rather than civilization. But he was free to do whatever he wanted. Stanley jumped up his bike, pedaled off very slowly, just fast enough to keep his balance, past the Narrator, when...

"Fine!" As hoped, he had been able to change his mind. Stanley slowed down and watched the Narrator approach him. "Stop, let me get up on there. But if you manage to get us killed in an accident, I'll keep myself alive for just a few seconds longer just so I can kill you myself, just so you know."

No sooner had they left the last of the city's buildings behind them than the road they were following began to climb, so that Stanley could no longer find the strength to continue. It was a miracle that he had been able to keep them both moving forward on a flat stretch of road, the fact that the Narrator sometimes got loud with fear on their way hadn't particularly helped, but uphill he didn't even have to try.

"You really need to work on your endurance," the Narrator advised in a subdued tone as they got off the bike. But judging by his sweaty face, he would be more than happy to finally be off. "And on your reckless driving," he added. "Several times along the way, I've already made my peace with death. I know we're in a hurry, but I'd like it if we could get there with our limbs still intact. Humans and their vulnerabilities! It would be laughable if it wasn't affecting me."

By now, dusk had progressed into full swing. The silhouettes of individual conifers amid the deciduous trees around them dug into the bleeding evening sky like black fangs, the flickering bicycle light the only thing illuminating the desolate street they were walking on. Not much later and the world around them would turn pitch black. The fact that the estate was not far away now was the only thing giving Stanley a bit of comfort.

Finally, after minutes of arduous climbing, the road sloped down again. The brightly lit windows of the estate could already be seen in the distance, flashing on and off between the dense vegetation and showing them the way.

Now the two stepped onto a bridge leading them over a deep ravine. The distant sounds of a raging river far below were carried up to them. Stanley quickened his steps, as he was probably already too late for the meeting, when suddenly the additional pair of footsteps besides him went silent.

What was going on now? Concerned, Stanley also stopped to find out what was going on. His bike's light went out; near absolute silence and darkness surrounded them. Twilight made it hard to see, but the Narrator had stopped at the guardrail, his face turned away from the road, and was looking down at the vast landscape below them without uttering even a single word.

Why's he staring like that? Is he experiencing some short circuit or has he forgotten what we came here for?

He followed his gaze between the trees and beheld it: the city, a web of golden sparks protectively embraced by a dark wreath of mountains, above it the blazing red sky. It was beautiful to look at, but not really something to stop and stare at unblinkingly, the way the Narrator was doing right now. It was nothing special really; just the city they've been travelling through all day and nothing more.

Stanley stepped closer and insistently tugged on his sleeve. Once they had the Gamma Clearance in place and working, he could look at the city for as long as he wanted. But to do that, they had to move on first. Captivated by this view, the Narrator seemed to have forgotten everything else around him. "...what?" he made, lost in thought, and saw Stanley standing next to him, who with a flick of his head told him to get moving again.

"Oh, right, apologies! I'm coming!" He scurried back to his side.

Once they were walking down the road again, Stanley heard him take a breath as if he was about to speak up, but it seemed he had changed his mind - except for their footsteps, the clicking of his bike and the song of crickets, nothing else could be heard. Why was he acting so odd, what was going through his mind right now? Stanley quickly shook off these irrelevant thoughts. His focus needed to be on their mission right now.

The road bent, the trees thinned, and the estate in all its glory, secured behind a fence of cast iron with a brick base, came into view. A fancy, shiny car was parked in the driveway. The rest of the front yard was made up of a meticulously trimmed, treeless lawn. Stanley hadn't expected anything less than such a flaunting display from his boss. He felt pathetic with his puny bicycle, despite it having carried him loyally through the streets for years. Remember, he called into his mind, he was able to afford all this at the expense of his literally enslaved employees, myself included. He couldn't resign even if he wanted to; he was literally physically prevented from being able to submit any resignation while at work. So he pinned all his hopes that something would improve in his work situation on this promotion. It wouldn't free him from the clutches of the mind control facility, but hey, at least he'd get higher pay.

Before their ways parted and Stanley could go to the sliding gate and ring the bell, the Narrator repeated his plan to him one last time, to let him in through the window in the ground-floor bathroom. Although the property was monitored by surveillance cameras, he had spent hours studying this place, he said, so he would easily think of a method to get in while evading their attentive lenses. With these words, he bid farewell until they would soon meet again, and briskly left.

Stanley was now on his own. But it was as the Narrator had said: he didn't need to do anything but let him in and distract his boss until they had what they were looking for. Fortunately, his boss understood sign language - as well as ten other languages, as he liked to claim, like French, German, Cantonese, Mayan, you name it - so it would be easy for him to buy them enough time. However, he couldn't mess up the meeting by making a clown of himself either; after all, the boss had the power to withdraw the promotion at any time. So he had to strike a good balance.

He positioned his bike outside against the wall and rang the bell. While waiting for the gate to be opened for him, he mentally prepared himself for what was to come. After he was let inside, he wandered up a path lined with garden lights to the front entrance: a wooden, not exactly modest double door framed by glass, with a dog flap next to it, and rang the doorbell, knowing full well that his every step was being recorded.

Stanley got a bad feeling. Not because he was afraid of messing anything up himself, but because he worried whether the Narrator would actually manage to evade the surveillance cameras. And even if he did make it in, would he manage not to alert the dog? But for now, there was nothing Stanley could do but trust in his supposed knowledge of this estate. And wait for this front door to finally be opened for him.

As if on command, the wood moved. A man emerged from behind it, his head swept clean of any hair, his expression unimpressed and cold as stone; it almost reminded Stanley of the Narrator, except that his boss radiated a more menacing, ominous aura.

His boss eyed him. "Employee 427," he said, raising his face slightly. "You are a little late for our meeting. And you look exhausted." Even though he didn't explicitly phrase his sentences that way, you could still tell from his tone that he wanted to know what had caused his tardiness.

One might have thought at first that his boss was a rich, white, old bag, but with every second Stanley had to stand here, his discomfort grew. The bald man was definitely aware of the power he possessed. He emanated confidence like a stadium light.

Stanley described to him with the help of signs that his bicycle had caught a flat tire on the way here, and that he had fallen down as a result and was thus late. The bandages still wrapped around his hands made it seem all the more believable. And to his relief, his boss seemed to believe his apology, or was at least not expressing any suspicion. How good and relieving it felt to Stanley to be able to express himself clearly and be understood.

"I see." The boss kept his uncompromising gaze fixed on his covered hands. "Still, I hope you will be fit for work as soon as the company building will be accessible again. It would be unfortunate if not." He took a step to the side and held the door open for him. "Please, step inside." His voice was like smoke rising from a campfire dimmed by rain.

Once inside, Stanley stood at the head of a wide hallway, the walls painted orange and the floor covered in earth-red ceramic tiling. At the very end, it opened into a large room with ceiling-high windows rounded off at the top, and a long dark wooden table in front that could easily seat at least two dozen people, he approximated.

Without any more talking, his boss led him down the hallway into the dining hall, where Stanley inconspicuously scouted out the surroundings. Next to a cold fireplace, a slender, black and brown dog slept absorbed into a fluffy bed, probably a doberman or something along those lines. Knowing the dog was asleep made him relax a little. But when he noticed that the two staircases leading upstairs were in the same room as they were, that little relief he had just received was immediately annihilated.

Slowly, his boss sat down at one end of the table, leaned forward and clasped his hands together on it, while with his gaze he pierced holes into Stanley's soul. He assumed he should sit at the other end, near the sleeping dog, and settled there. One of the stairs was right behind Stanley, inside the boss's view, the other ones at the boss's back, but between the hallway and the beginning of the steps, there was no space that would be out of his vision. Stanley prayed that one of the two doors located behind the boss just below the stairs was the bathroom the Narrator had mentioned.

They started talking, about how Stanley was doing, about the weather, where he would like to go on vacation one day, usual small talk. Although in itself they were harmless questions and phrases, he couldn't shake the underlying feeling that his boss was testing him. He felt as if hundreds of gun barrels were pointed at him. And the way the boss talked didn't exactly help him relax either, his voice cutting deep into his bones. How long would it take the Narrator to find a way onto the property?

At least a glass of water and a small bowl of crackers had been placed at his seat before he arrived. Except for a small snack he had indulged in while travelling to the Backdoor, he hadn't eaten anything all day, so in the moments when he didn't need his hands to make signs, he ate one cracker after another. They tasted stale, but heck, he'd even eat the individual raw ingredients, so strong was his hunger.

By now, half an hour had already passed and Stanley, the glass bowl in front of him now completely emptied, assumed that the Narrator was already waiting for him. So he asked where the bathroom was and that he had to excuse himself for a moment, whereupon the boss pointed to one of the doors behind him. As if on hot coals, Stanley made his way past him, entered the bathroom and immediately locked the door off. Escaping his boss's unblinking eyes for a moment lifted an invisible, crushing weight from his shoulders, allowing him to take a deep breath and exhale profusely.

He pushed open the window. Outside it had become totally dark in the meantime, but still no trace of the Narrator. What if he hadn't found his way here? Or what if something had stopped him? Stanley knew that if the Narrator couldn't do it himself, he would have to look for the Bucket instead. But how would he be able to search the rooms undisturbed?

"Psst!" a hiss suddenly reached him from the darkness amid the chirping of crickets. Stanley searched the outside with his eyes until they wandered down and spotted the Narrator crouched down on a strip of pebbles. "Stanley, it's me!" he whispered to him. "Thank God you're finally here, I almost thought you'd forgotten about me! Alright, I've only been waiting here for three minutes, but they definitely felt like thirty! And now let me in!"

Stanley made room and watched as he climbed through the window, closing it behind him and silencing the chirping of crickets and rustling of trees in the wind. How he had found his way onto the property was a mystery to him, but the leaf peeking out of his ruffled hair told him that he probably had to climb a tree to achieve it.

Stanley took another step back as the Narrator crouched down. What was he up to?

"Please tell me the boss sat down with his back to us," he whispered, which Stanley confirmed with a thumbs-up.

"Excellent." Right away he set about getting out of his shoes and shortly after stood there in socks, presumably to make less noise. And despite this great idea, Stanley couldn't get rid of the queasy feeling that had just manifested itself in him. Never in their lives would it be made so easy for them, would it? So far, something had always gone wrong, whether through Stanley's actions or those of other people. Where was the catch?

With his shoes in hand, he and Stanley made their way to the door, the Narrator hiding behind it so as not to be seen immediately should the boss just happen to look in their direction for some reason. But as it appeared, the boss was busy reaching for a water carafe.

Stanley swiftly stepped out and let the Narrator slip past behind him into the large room. While Stanley returned to his seat at the very end of the table, the Narrator tiptoed his way behind the boss's back, each step set with the utmost care. Indeed, it was working.

He couldn't really believe that he was just helping someone break into a place, his boss's mansion out of all places. It wasn't like they were stealing money or anything like that, but they were still stealing something. But that something, as inconspicuous and marginal as it seemed, was so unspeakably important that everyone's life depended on it, be it rich, poor, dog or leaf.

The boss, still completely unaware of what was going on behind him, took a sip from his glass. Firmly, he put it back on the table. "Now then, Employee 427," he raised his voice and leaned his head forward. "Are you serious?"

Stanley held his breath, his heart stopped. The Narrator, almost halfway up the stairs, also froze in place as if stapled to the spot. His mind was swept blank, and yet filled with nothing but sudden panic. He knows it. Crap. Crap. Crap!

After seconds of unbearable silence, he then continued, "Do you forget to close every door you open behind yourself?"

At these words, Stanley felt his soul return with relief. He rose again from his seat to close the door to the bathroom as requested, and returned to his empty water glass and his empty cracker bowl. The Narrator had also arrived upstairs in the meantime, or at least he was no longer to be seen.

"Thank you," the boss said dryly once Stanley was seated again. "You know that I make a point of ensuring that my employees maintain a diligent work ethic. And you actually possess it, too, from what I know of you. I was hoping not to have to remind you to perform simple tasks."

Stanley bit his tongue and tensed. That the boss made such a fuss about forgetting to close a simple door behind him made him think that things were looking bad for himself and his promotion. Why, of all things, had the Narrator thought of a meeting with the boss as a starting point for his story?

There was a welcome change of subject on the part of the boss - now he was talking about his dog, whose name, Stanley learned, was Sprinkles - when a sudden muffled, yet sudden loud noise sounding upstairs made their heads snap up.

"What was that?" the boss wanted to know. Behind him, Stanley heard the dog's pillow rustle as Sprinkles was awakened.

So as not to cause suspicion and discourage him from going up and checking, Stanley tried to explain that it was quite windy outside and it was probably just because of that. What is the Narrator doing up there, he thought angrily. If he made anything fall over again, he'd risk getting caught! Stanley really hoped for his sake that his coat would be strong enough to withstand dog bites.

His boss was continuing the conversation, despite appearing not to be fully convinced by this explanation, when Stanley winced, startled by another sudden sound. Outside, the deafening alarm of his boss's car had gone off.

Was that also part of the Narrator's plan? But he was upstairs right now, looking for that Bucket. How could he have set off the alarm? He had not mentioned anything about this when discussing their plan!

The boss rose quickly and slammed his hands on the table. "What in the name of God is going on here?" he thundered.

His dog rushed on her feet and raced down the hallway, barking and ready to face the violent interloper outside.

"Sprinkles, no, stay here! Sprinkles, stay!" her owner tried to call her back, but by then she had already slipped out through the dog flap, the alarmed and incessant barking still audible. And Stanley, glued to his seat, felt his skin both freezing and burning, as he was experiencing firsthand how things were getting out of hand. Please, Narrator, just find that Bucket quickly!

The boss pushed his chair aside and was about to follow his pet outside to get her back in when the barking turned into a loud, ghastly whine and then cut off as quickly as it sounded. Now, nothing was heard except for the car's alarm.

Stanley felt his heart climb his throat as the sinister suspicion of what had happened to that poor animal rose in his mind.

"Sprinkles?!" the boss called after her once more. But the dog flap remained motionless as no dog used it to get back in. Bewildered, more frightened than incensed, the bald man turned to his employee. "What the hell is going on here?!"

Stanley gulped heavily. Whatever had happened out there with that car and Sprinkles, the Narrator could not, in all likelihood, be responsible for it. In fact, Stanley saw that he was just coming sneaking back down the stairs, the Bucket shimmering in his arms. Then Stanley remembered that he had mentioned someone else coming to look for the Bucket. But just who? Who would set off the car's alarm and do any harm to a dog just to get hold of some metal?

"Just stay in here and don't open the front door under any circumstances!" his boss ordered him, heading for the stairs with leaping steps. "I'm going to check the cameras."

No, stop! The Narrator is there! Now Stanley also jumped up from his seat, wanting to somehow keep the boss from running into the Narrator, but that plan quickly dissolved. Both men stopped in their tracks when they caught sight of each other.

"And who on earth are you?! How did you get in here?" the boss demanded to know.

"Stanley, I've got it!" the Narrator shouted to him from the foot of the stairs. Despite the fact that he had just been caught, his eyes lit up in triumph as he held up his tin trophy. "The Gamma Clearance!"

"Alright, can even one of you two explain to me who you are and why you are stealing my possessions?!" The boss's previously sedate voice grew into a loud bellow; louder than Stanley had ever heard him before.

With the way the whole situation was escalating, he was feeling lightheaded. Thanks to the Narrator yelling, the boss now knew that they were acquainted. So there went his promotion. Or his whole job. Or his entire freedom, at worst, if they were arrested before they could deploy the Gamma Clearance.

Just when he thought the scene couldn't get any worse, he was proven wrong: in a deafening clang and crash, the glass at the front entrance shattered, sending a torrent of hundreds of shards onto the tiled floor as a big. A metallic spike bending and moving like the leg of a spider or scorpion had burst through. Another blade shot through, smashing another hole into the glass. And another. And another. Until the creature with its multiple arms was able to tackle the door in an attempt to either break it open or destroy it altogether. It was trying to get in.

Suddenly, his promotion didn't seem to be the only thing at stake here.

What the hell is that thing?!

"Stanley!" the Narrator cried out. His head spun around and he saw the Narrator raise his arms. "Catch!" Forcefully, he threw the Bucket over to him, the boss staring after the flying metal in bewilderment, and Stanley managed to catch it with a little hop. As soon as his hands came into contact with the metal, he felt his fingertips prickle, growing into a flowing buzz of exhilaration, like returning to the warmth of home on a cold winter's day. But this euphoria did not mix well with the steadily increasing panic, it in fact exacerbated it. And that thing was supposed to have the Gamma Clearance in it? How do I activate it?

"Go on, do it! Use it!" the Narrator commanded him, shouting so that his words wouldn't be lost in the loud rumbling and groaning of the metal on the front door, mixed with the car's blaring alarm, as he grabbed the boss's wrists and twisted them behind his back.

"What are you doing?!" gasped the bald man, trying in vain to wriggle out.

"Stop talking!" The Narrator led him to the second door under the stairs, to the right of the one where the bathroom was. "Get in there if you want to live!"

Stanley examined the Bucket frantically, spinning it around, looking at it from every angle, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find a clue or a possible way to use the Gamma Clearance. The Bucket almost threatened to slip out several times thanks to the sweat of his hand. The aggressive banging and scratching on the door grew louder and louder.

Yep, I am totally fired.

"Stanley, hurry up! What's taking you so long?!" The Narrator came up to him jumping on one leg as he was just putting his shoes back on. He had locked the boss inside a closet under the stairs, presumably with a master key he had found while searching for the Bucket.

I'm looking, I'm looking! How do I use it?! Stanley spun the Bucket around like a Rubik's cube, but nothing came up for him. Was the Narrator sure the Gamma Clearance was attached to it? Stanley tried to move it into his inventory, but was given the error message that his inventory was already full. The skill spiral, I have to get to it somehow and hope I find a skill that gives me more space!

All of a sudden, the thumping and scratching and shrieks of rusted metal stopped altogether as the metal arms retreated and the car's alarm died. Silence returned, drowned out by the rush of blood in Stanley's ears. Motionless, they stood in front of the table, staring down the hallway.

"What, that's it already?" The Narrator was audibly surprised. "Is... is he gone? Did he give up or...?"

Smash!

A sharp noise cut into their eardrums, causing them both to put their arms over their heads as glass game flying from behind. The creature had sent its metallic spiked legs through the large windows right behind them. Were it not for the boss's paranoia to have a reinforced door and windows installed, they would have been torn to shreds by now. But even through these, the creature forced its way through as if it were only a minor inconvenience.

"Stanley, I really don't want to rush you or anything, everyone works at their own pace and all, but, um... how about you hurry up?!" the Narrator yelled, his voice shrill with fear as they fled away from the windows and further into the hallway. "I don't know how long those windows can hold him back, but I honestly don't want to push it either!"

No sooner had he finished this sentence than the glass had caved in. A grotesque, slender figure formed of bent, twisting metal came scrambling through the destroyed window, its limbs shattering the long dining table between them like a popsicle stick as it stepped closer, each movement accompanied by bone chilling screeches and squeaks.  

Whatever had happened to Sprinkles outside, Stanley got the sickening feeling that the same thing would soon happen to them.

But that's as far as the creature got, as it appeared to became stuck somewhere with one of its legs.

To Stanley's dismay, the Narrator stepped in front of him and held his arm out. "Let me talk!" he whispered to Stanley before turning to the monster. "Hey!" he said loudly, "Gambhorra'ta, it's me, the Narrator! I know, I know, the last time we interacted we didn't exactly part on good terms. A lot of things happened back then, but how about we talk about it, you know, human to bucket monster?"

A metallic, upset gurgle sounded in response. Gambhorra'ta? The name rang a bell to Stanley, but the memory wouldn't quite return. His grip on the bucket tightened and he inched further back behind the Narrator.

"I know, being- being turned into some other form isn't exactly enjoyable, it's, well- I understand you, your anger I mean, it's totally understandable" the Narrator stammered on, taking a barely noticeable step back. "As you can see, I'm going through something similar right now. But if we communicate our experiences to each other, we can both learn and grow from them, so how about we calm down. But you, oh my, you look great by the way! Did you do anything to, um... your metal? It's shines so nicely! It really does!" He added an awkward laugh at the end, growing quieter with each laugh.

Had he managed to appease the creature? Stanley craned his neck to peer out from behind his protection. His question was answered when one of its blade-like limbs lashed out and cut the air with a sharp whiz.

The Narrator whirled around. "Run."

For what was probably the first time in his life, Stanley did what the Narrator wanted him to do without questioning it, and sprinted off down the hallway. The creature screeched viciously after them, writhing and tugging at the window in an attempt to break free and hunt down its prey escaping with what it too coveted: the Bucket.

Stanley was amazed at the speed he reached just as they were fleeing for their lives through his boss's front yard. He didn't dare looking to see what had happened to the car or Sprinkles, there was no time for that. Don't look back, keep running. Just keep running.

The huge gate slid open and they sped straight towards his bike. Being deleted suddenly seemed to him preferable to being impaled by a metal spike or racing down a slope in his panic. So that's how Employee 427 would ultimately die: Not by an explosion, by a trash compactor, or by old age, but fleeing for his life, the Narrator at his side. There was simply no way they could defeat Gambhorra'ta without heavy weapons. There was nothing they could do but run and figure out as quickly as possible how to get the Gamma Clearance out of that Bucket.

Stanley hopped on his bike, hooked the Bucket around one of the handlebar grips, and waited for the Narrator to climb up after him. Fueled by searing terror, Stanley found the strength to make them depart with powerful pedal strokes just as he perceived a quick movement at the edge of his vision. Gambhorra'ta had broken free and was coming galloping through the front yard towards them.

At full speed, as fast as the wheels could spin, they went down the road. They were going so fast that all his pedaling came to naught and Stanley could do nothing but steer. The dreadful clunking and crashing as metal met asphalt became louder as Gambhorra'ta was close on their heels. That was it. They would never be any faster than him. They could never escape. Nothing would help them now. No narrations, no inner compass, no inventory function, no Backdoor, no Curator. Nothing.

Was it a life he looked back on with pride and a heart full of warming contentment? Well, not really. But it was his life, filled with the ups and downs that the Narrator had brought him during the months he had been with him, as well as on this last day they had been able to spend together. Even though it had never really dawned on him before, it was only now that he realized he owed his entire existence to the Narrator in the first place.

This was the story of a man named…

"Stanley!" he heard the Narrator yelling, muffled by a numbing fog. "Jump! Jump off! Now!"

His bike became a lot lighter. The Narrator had already jumped off. Okay, he thought to himself. All his senses were dulled, as if he had been plunged into ice-cold water. We are dead anyway. Here goes nothing.

A sharp pain shot through him as he hit the road with his shoulder first, then his hip, and then the rest of his body. As he rolled across the asphalt, still accelerated by the ride, with the whole world spinning around him, he could glimpse the gleaming outline of Gambhorra'ta as he leapt through the air, followed by a loud crash as he caught the bike and collided with the guardrail.

At last Stanley lost his momentum and came to a halt. With flaming limbs, he straightened up, came staggering to his feet, and watched the metallic beast having broken through the guardrail and now hanging over the ravine. Stanley had been in such a panic that he hadn't even noticed they had already reached the bridge.

The monster desperately clung to the ground, digging its claws into the ground to keep itself from falling into the depths. But all it managed to do was slide down just a little further. The struggle for survival was quickly over; for Gambhorra'ta. He ultimately lost his grip and slid off. The sound of metal as it hit rock after rock was carried up through the ravine in an echo, ending by a distant splash as he plunged into the roaring water deep below.

Stanley managed to break free of his rigidity. He limped a few steps forward to the spot where there was now a hole in the guardrail and deep scratch marks in the ground, clearly silhouetted against the lights of the city. His bike was not far away either. In fact, it was stuck on the still intact part of the guardrail, the bent tires still clinging pathetically to its mangled frame. With a few deep breaths, he forced himself to calm down and threw a searching glance up the street, but the darkness revealed nothing to him. Where was the Bucket?

He stopped dead in his tracks. Where is the Narrator?

Chapter Text

One by one, timidly, the buzzing of crickets returned as the relieved insects sensed that danger had passed.

But Stanley, barely able to maintain his balance here on this deserted street darkened by night, felt anything but relief, despite him having barely survived and the metallic creature defeated.

In front of him a large tear split the guardrail in two halves, the frayed metal, battered like a piece of scrunched up paper, forming the frame of a gateway to the deadly depths of the canyon below. The gouges in the asphalt left by the monster that had wanted to see them dead only seconds ago were so large that one could lie sideways in them and fit with ease. Now these monstrous marks were the only thing left that bore witness to the brief struggle for life and death that had taken place here.

Where his bike was Stanley knew; twisted like an unsightly origami figure, it was suspended above the ravine, wedged between the still intact part of the guardrail and the ground, now rendered completely unusable. The thought that this would have happened to him if he hadn't jumped off in time almost made him retch. As soon as he recovered from this immobilizing mental picture, it occurred to him that while he knew what fate had befallen his poor vehicle, he did not know what fate had befallen the Bucket he had hung around its handle.

But what made him more anxious was that the Narrator was gone as well. Could they both be...? No, that couldn't be. Stanley didn't want it to be true, he didn't even want to waste a thought pondering the possibility. They had to still be here somewhere, alive and well, he was sure of it.

With trembling hands, he dug out his smartphone, silently praying that it had somehow survived the impact, so that he could at least use it to illuminate his dark surroundings. A spider's web of deep cracks covered the whole display, but to his deepest relief it could still operate. After he managed to hit the right button with his quivering fingers missing it several times, he shone a beam of light through the area, down the street, even through the forest, checking every nook and cranny as he slowly turned on the spot.

Come on, please be around here somewhere....
Soon he had completed a whole rotation, still not having found anything or anyone.
Please…

Soon the circle would come to a conclusion and he dreaded every upcoming inch he still had left to scan, when a distant but unmissable rustling made him freeze in his movement. Who – or what – was that? He spun around and pointed his light at the spot where the sound was emanating from, where forest and road met, trying to get a closer look.

The spotlighted thicket parted and it was the Narrator who emerged.

"Agh, stop shining that glaring light directly into my face, I still need those eyes!" His arm shot up to cover them, the other held something in a tight grip: it was the Bucket. Never in his life had Stanley been so relieved to behold the Narrator and a lump of metal with him, but that relief quickly swayed into anger. Yeah, great story you've come up with there! Almost being chopped into minced meat! What a revolutionary plot!

Thanks to the Narrator, this terrible experience could now be added to Stanley's list of all the other terrible experiences he had gone through, for all of which the Narrator was to blame as well. He could have at least forewarned him! What was he thinking, not telling Stanley about the danger he was putting himself in?

He took his light aside a bit and approached the Narrator, who still struggling to leave the remaining stubborn undergrowth behind him to rejoin with Stanley.

"Stanley, thank God, you... I almost thought you were..." He staggered out into the street. Once out of the woods and freed from the underbrush, now standing in front of him, he quickly gulped down his worries and began a new attempt at speaking. "You can't imagine the relief washing through me right now, despite the fact that you almost managed to permanently blind me."

Stanley wrestled to dial back his infuriation, wishing he could share this relief. That they had survived and were finally in possession of the Bucket, and thus the means to return everything back to normal, was all that mattered now.

"Here you go." The Narrator solemnly handed him the Bucket. "Now give it another go, but now with all the time you need."

There it was, the cure to all their woes, the salvation on which not only they, but the whole world depended, all in Stanley's hands. So inconspicuous, so fragile. So trivial, and yet so significant. The warming sensation that spread from his fingertips to his heart soothed his mind, sobered it. Even then it had struck him as odd how an ordinary bucket had been able to trigger such sensations in him. Could it be because of the powerful code that lay trapped somewhere inside? He had to get it out and activate it. For how he could achieve this he already had an idea.

First, he had to bring up the skill spiral and find a suitable skill that would allow him to add more space to his inventory. If he had been able to access the code of the books that 432 had given him thanks to his inventory, then maybe it applied to the Bucket as well, wouldn't it?

"Stanley, I..." he heard the Narrator while he was searching the skill spiral. Stanley paused for a brief moment to listen. Although the worst was behind them, success within reach, the Narrator sounded so... burdened, as if something was still weighing on his mind. "Looks like it's going back for me soon, doesn't it? Back to the way things used to be. Finally out of this frail husk, I mean. My condolences to your bike, by the way. I'll... I'll just give you a brand new one. Preferably one with a more comfortable rack."

As Stanley was busy hunting down the appropriate skill using the numerous skill points he had obscurely obtained, the realization hit him that this would be the last few minutes he would see the Narrator standing in front of him - even if it was dark at the moment and he was actually seeing nothing but a barely visible silhouette. Still, the thoughts were what mattered.

From the beginning, right as they had left that park this very morning, Stanley had found things exceedingly bizarre and irritating: the way the Narrator walked, the way he couldn't shut up for even a second, the way he disturbed other civilians, the annoyed, confused and partly worried looks he sometimes gave Stanley without him probably noticing... But now he felt as if it had never been different, as if the disembodied voice that had stayed by his side probably longer than many other people had always belonged to a physical body.

And as soon as the Narrator would have accomplished his duty of fixing the program, he would then fulfill his promise and leave. Just as he had done many years ago.

And then, at the very end of it all, Stanley would be alone again. Just like he was at the beginning.

"Except for minor moments, it was fairly enjoyable being a human, but all fun eventually comes to an end. My obligations demand it of me. But all the fun was not completely in vain. After all, I now know what it's like to walk through door after door. This useful knowledge is something I could make use of in new works," he said, adding a small, almost wistful laugh, and then put on his narration voice, "And so the marooned old man returned home with new knowledge, lest his creations be the reflection of a man who has done nothing but dream, but one who has lived. There, doesn't that sound nice?"

But did Stanley want to be alone again?

Not even the warmth of the Bucket could combat these rising concerns. But it was as the Narrator himself had said: no emotions whatsoever should get in the way of a task driven by rationality.

After having purchased about ten skills he didn't even bother properly study, Stanley finally reached the one he had been looking for. Then it was only a matter of two seconds before he had the Bucket in his inventory. Without the warmth it gave off, he felt numb. Like something was missing. Coming to terms with that feeling now, he guessed, was practice for later.

"Um, Stanley?" The Narrator became unsettled as the Bucket vanished. "I don't mean to undermine your inventive mind, but how exactly do you think the Bucket will serve us if you keep it hidden away inside your inventory?"

You'll see. Next to a set of several ice cream cones, he examined the Bucket closely and recalled how he had copied the code from one of 432's books into the cheat console. If that notion made sense, he should be able to do the same with the Bucket's code. So that's it, we finally made it. After all those hours, it's over.

But he couldn't. Not because he didn't want to, but the code, it could not be copied, he was physically unable to do so. Stanley could not extract it, it was prohibited by the program. His heart sank deeper and deeper as he read the error message before him, clearly stating that a decoding had to take place first, giving him a prompt to initialize it.

Decoding? What decoding?! He was out of his mind. Neither the Curator nor the Narrator had mentioned anything about any decoding! Fortunately, the Bucket wasn't in his hands at the moment, otherwise he would have thrown it out of frustration into the ravine like a discus. How long would this wretched decoding take? Stanley had hoped that the code was to be easily activated to get it over with quickly and painlessly. And now they were forced to sit out a timer that was not even made apparent to him, making him left to stew in his misgivings and doubts for an unknown amount of time?

"Hello, Stanley?" the Narrator's voice snapped him out of his whirlpool of distressed thoughts. "What's the matter? I'm waiting and waiting, but I don't feel any different, and believe me, I'd notice it right away had I regained my powers. You'll have to tell me what the problem is, I can't read minds."

Stay calm, you need to think clearly. Just another hurdle to overcome. After what we've already accomplished today, it's nothing in comparison.

If the display of his smartphone hadn't been completely ruined, Stanley could have simply written down what the problem was, but now he had to improvise, as always.

He placed his device on the ground with the light facing upward - being careful with it was overdue now anyway - so that his hands became sufficiently visible.

"What is this? Come on, cut the nonsense. Get the Bucket out of your inventory and give it to me if you can't do anything with it. I'll surely be able to accomplish something worthwhile since, unlike you, I don't waste my time playing shadow puppets! Wait a minute. D... E... C...," he read aloud the letters he formed one by one with his hands. "Decoding?" His eyebrows climbed his forehead, the light reflecting in his dilated eyes. "Oh my God, but of course! Why didn't I think of that myself? I should have known that Gambhorra'ta, that paranoid lunatic, would install a safeguard so that no one could access it. Clever, I have to give that to him, but in our case rather undesirable. But whatever, it won't stop us. We'll just pass the time somehow and keep a close eye on the Bucket."

He was right, it wouldn't stop them. They had everything they needed and now nothing was needed but time. But how much they had left Stanley could only guess. Hours? Days? Weeks? Hopefully enough before the other timer, which had been running in the background since the beginning of their journey, expired and the hard reset began. And that, he imagined at least, could not be stopped once it started. Not even by the Narrator.

Having to wait without being able to do anything could sometimes be the worst of all ordeals.

"But better take the Bucket out of your inventory for now" the Narrator suggested. "As far as I know, and I should know, since I created it, object-bound processes are paused in there."

And what exactly is that supposed to mean? I don't speak egghead-English, I've only been dealing with this stuff for a day.

"In other words, the decoding won't happen," he paraphrased. "Now get it out of there and let's go home. If there's one thing I've learned to hate about being human, it's that you experience this miserable feebleness, which presumably must be fatigue. And I want to get rid of that awful feeling as soon as possible." He was already turning away, ready for the lengthy walk home. "Come on, off we go. The air is stinging. Is it because of the fatigue? Perhaps."

Stinging? Oh, he means it's cold, alright. Stanley looked up the street, the light of the estate still visible between the dark and densely spaced trees. As far as he knew, his boss was still locked up inside the closet beneath the stairs. Even though it might have saved his life, they... they wouldn't leave him locked up there, would they? But now that he thought about it, it was probably better that way for now, at least until the Narrator could undo all the damage they had caused. Stanley didn't particularly feel like having to run from the police with the Narrator. At least not today.

He plucked his battered device from the asphalt, took the valuable Bucket back into his hands just as was asked of him, and followed the Narrator down the dark street. Although the he had talked about how exhausted he was, he seemed to have even more pep in his legs than Stanley did, he had to be given credit for that. Once he had figured out the most effective way of walking, the Narrator had demonstrated a considerable pace that Stanley sometimes had trouble keeping up with, but just now this discrepancy between them had reached a new high.

Stanley nevertheless tried hard to keep up, yet was surprised when the Narrator slowed his steps when he still hadn't caught up.

Now no more words left his mouth. The night air was filled with nothing but the rhythmic crunch of their soles on the coarse ground, the lullaby of the insects, and the rustle of the leaves as a crisp breeze ran through them.

Something had changed this very evening. Normally, the Narrator would have erupted in despair or frustration, but this calmness he was radiating at the moment was most peculiar. Why or how was he remaining so composed? Hadn't he just learned that him regaining the control had been delayed once again? And he took it this lightly, as if it were nothing but a minor inconvenience?

If only Stanley could see through the Narrator as easily as he did through his inventory.

It was already the third time today that they arrived back at his home, each time more weary than before. If Stanley were to have to show up for work tomorrow, he probably would have died of fatigue in his shoes before he even left the building - if his now aching shoulder and hip hadn't killed him in his sleep before.

He opened a window to allow fresh air to enter and placed the Bucket on the narrow countertop of his kitchenette. He then fished a bag of frozen peas from his freezer and used it, wrapped in a kitchen cloth, as a makeshift cold compress.

The way he stood there, hand on hip, staring at the faintly iridescent object, made him feel as if he was an impatient child at Christmas who wouldn't take its eyes off the presents under the tree. Just like it would have been for that child, the upcoming hours were shaping to be the longest of Stanley's life.

But who knew, perhaps by the next morning the decoding would be completed, Stanley wouldn't lose his job after all and would redeem his promotion, and the Narrator would fix the program and save everyone from literal death, and both of them would then hop off into the sunset over a meadow of flowers, happy and exultant. Only time would be able to reveal it. Time, their current greatest enemy.

Tentative steps behind him indicated that the Narrator was approaching him, still not having learned to take off his shoes inside the apartment. Apart from that, Stanley was also struck by how strangely and uncharacteristically quiet he had been all the way back – and still was. Made this Stanley become worried? Possibly.

"Stanley, I'm... I..." the Narrator began, his voice as heavy and hushed as a thunderstorm that arose in the distance. What was it now that he wanted to say? Another pejorative comment he was about to throw at Stanley? Another complaint about how Stanley couldn't get anything done? Though they were now sharing the same goal, they did not yet share the same sentiment towards each other.

"I should have given you more warning before we left," he continued pensively. "I really believed that we would be able to find the Bucket quicker than we did in the end and figured that once we had it in our grasps, everything else would cease to matter. For once, sending you to your death had not been my intention in the least. Believe me, I would have thought of a nicer ending for you had I had my powers."

Thank you for your unconditional benevolence. He kept his back turned to him. Why am I still standing around here? I'd better go to sleep if I don't want to wake up completely devastated tomorrow.

He managed to tear his gaze away from the Bucket and was limping toward his bedroom door – only now did he notice how absolutely crushed by exhaustion he was - when the Narrator's timid voice made him stop, "You're not upset with me, are you?"

Nah. I've only got multiple bruises, abrasions, a broken phone, and a completely destroyed bike, have committed several crimes, will almost certainly lose my job, and if this Bucket won't decode in time, probably my life as well. I couldn't be in a better place.

The door to his bedroom came closer, but once again an upset torrent of words forced him to stop and listen, "Alright, I've had enough, I can't take this anymore. I've tried to be honest with you as best I could, but I still don't think you're putting in the same effort as I am, because I still don't have the slightest clue what it is that makes you resent me so much. Both Parables happened ages ago, so it's hard for me to believe that you're still harboring this grudge. So now tell me already, what is your problem with me?"

Dude, please just let me go to sleep already. Why did the Narrator bring up this subject now, of all times, when for all the times before, he hadn't given a damn about how Stanley felt? The Narrator, with nothing but hot air and almost a whole dictionary of fancy words in his skull, would never be able to sympathize with his perspective anyway, as steeped in arrogance as he was. Whatever Stanley would be able to communicate to him, it would literally not achieve anything.

He put his hand on the door handle. No longer would he stop and listen to the Narrator speak, for he was now going to sleep.
"Is it because of something I said?" He persisted. "Or something I've done?"

Stanley's hand, resting on the cold metal, did not further move. If I tried to recount everything to you, we'd be standing here longer than it takes the Bucket to decode.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to push down the handle and simply walk through the door, as if the Narrator's stinging gaze had paralyzed him the way the loading screen only did.

Is he really trying to understand, or is he just trying to clean his conscience?

"It's because of the Parables, isn't it?" he guessed. "It must be, it can't be anything else. Even before this whole endeavor here had turned into one big nightmare, you had been averse to my ideas and doing your best to make it as hard as possible for me to create a decent game. So my conclusion is that it must be because of them."

Slowly, Stanley turned his gaze backward, first slightly, then fully, until he had to let go of the handle to get a full look at the Narrator.

In those seconds filled with silence, both staring at each other, Stanley tried again and again to comprehend what was happening, but each time he arrived at the realization that the Narrator was trying to sort out their problems, Stanley was unable to embrace that realization and began anew, like an endless loop from which he couldn't escape.

"I'm correct, aren't I? How else could it be? Because I literally can't think of anything else that would explain this seemingly unfounded antipathy towards me. With that said, I've come to the conclusion that it's the interpretation of yours, trying to figure out what the Parables were supposed to be, is what made you resent me. The thing is that you, Stanley, you just don't understand. I don't blame you, it's just the way it is." The Narrator dropped his shoulders, of which Stanley had not noticed at first that they were tensed up. "And I'm afraid you can't understand it, but.... we both hold a purpose in this world. We weren't created on whim, we were created out of necessity, you as much as I, just like every other being in this world. To fulfill that singular purpose, some more important than others."

Stanley, appearing as if he were made of stone, was just listening to him. Yet inside he was taken by a storm of relief that the Narrator finally realized his mistakes, of anger that he was trying to justify himself, of being moved, of impatience, of fatigue, everything all at once.

And what purpose would that be, exactly? He retorted in his mind, wishing more than anything that the Narrator would be able to read it now. What purpose would be so important that I would be left running around like some wind-up toy for weeks or even months, denied a normal life? The purpose of entertainment? The purpose of giving you a sense of control? Scientific discovery?

"More than once I've tried to make you see this, this structure that you've been woven into, how important your purpose was that you're fulfilling, and how important mine still actually is. I wish you could somehow see that. I wish so, so much that you could," he went on, each word weaker than the one before.

You want me to see it? It's real simple: explain it to me.

"But I suspect that anything I say will accomplish nothing. That these words will probably go in through one ear and out through the other, just as always. But this time it shall be different. This time I hope that you will sincerely think about my words. This is not an order, but an attempt at reconciliation. Because whatever it was that angered you for all of eternity, I want you to know that I'm..." The Narrator took a deep breath. First his eyes, then his whole face turned to the floor. Barely audible under the roaring traffic that reached them through the open window, he murmured, "I'm sorry, alright? I know no words can make up for what ignited your indelible pique, but I hope for the opposite. So, with that, I'm holding out an olive branch to you. Forgive me or not, that's a decision I'm willing to let you make."

He had done it. So he had actually, finally, really done it. What Stanley had thought impossible had come to pass. The Narrator had apologized.

Stanley had always expected to feel different afterwards. Justified, satisfied, liberated. But none of these feelings hit him. He wished he could forgive him....

But he could not. At least not yet. Not until the Narrator proved to him through his actions that he meant business, by saving the program and all of their lives, and finally grant him the normal life he had been robbed of until now.

Only when that day would arrive would he be willing to forgive.

"Well then, in any case," the Narrator left the subject without waiting for a reaction; presumably because he could already think of Stanley's answer. "How are your injur- hold on." He fell silent and raised his hand. "Be quiet for a second." He put a finger to his mouth and listened intently.

At first Stanley, pricking up his ears, heard nothing, but then he detected a clatter and a rumble coming from somewhere... no, from within his wall. From the small opening of his ventilation grille by his kitchen. Never before in all his years had he heard anything like that. Was that a rat? It sounded as if it was something bumping from wall to wall, then moving on before hitting a wall again and repeating the whole thing, the dull thumping getting louder and louder. Closer and closer. What was that thing?
Startled by a loud bang, Stanley recoiled.

"Oh God, what on earth?!" the Narrator exclaimed as the ventilation grille was violently torn from its fixings, now flying halfway across the room and only narrowly missing him.

Having taken cover behind his own arms, Stanley saw a yellow flash emerge out of the hole in his wall, scrambling down the wall, repeatedly hitting the refrigerator before giving the machine a wide berth in irritation, and then meandering towards the counter, right where the Bucket was placed.

"It's the Adventure Line!" the Narrator cried out, frozen in place. "And it wants the Bucket! Good God, Stanley, do something! Stop it!"

Stop it? How?! All at once he was fully awake again as the gravity of the situation crashed over him like a wave. Stanley dropped his bag of peas and hurried in front of the counter, ignoring his flaring pain, where just in time, he got between the Line and kitchen counter.
Irritated, the flattened yellow snake braked, backed away, and started another attempt to reach the pail, only to be again intercepted by Stanley, who was one step ahead of it each time.

Its next maneuver caught him completely off guard; the Line charged straight at him and as if the ground was pulled out from under his feet, he was knocked down and found himself dazed on the floor, his face right next to his cabinets.  

I can't believe we're being beaten up by paint right now. No, wait, I'm the only one getting pummeled here, because the Narrator would rather hide than actually help me! How am I ever going to overpower it? How does one stop a piece of moving paint... wait. His hand shot toward the handle of one of the cabinets, as the Line kicked the Bucket off the counter and carried it away on its flat back. I might know of something that could help us.

"That's it!" Finally, the Narrator decided to step in and jumped into the Line's path. "You rotten traitor! I trusted you, more than once, and all I see is you turning on me! I didn't even expect better from you as I actually expected nothing, yet I am disappointed! And now give me that Bucket! We know what to do with it better than you!" He snatched the Bucket off it, but his victory didn't last long; with a swift motion, the Line sent him crashing down as well, whereupon the Bucket loosened from his grip and was once again seized by the rogue Line with ease.

"Stop right there!" he thundered after it and awkwardly straightened up again, eager to chase after it before it could escape and ultimately undo all of their progress.

It almost reached the open window, was about to burst right through it, when its simplified body abruptly froze. The Bucket slid off its back, rolled across the floor and hit the heater, where it then came to rest. Silence was all there was left.

The Narrator slowed down. "Wait, what?" he gasped. "How...?" He followed the lifeless yellow body with his eyes, where they eventually came across Stanley. He found a bottle of bleach inside the lanky man's hand. Below him, a sloppy splash of bleach had split the Line into two, rendering it lifeless.

"Good grief." The Narrator stared at him as if an execution had just taken place. "Stanley, I think... I think you killed it!"

I'm sorry, but it had to be done.

Stanley set the bottle aside and trudged over to the Bucket. In case anything else - he didn't dare to imagine what - tried to break into his apartment, he'd rather keep it safe in his room and not out in the open.

"What a shame." Regretfully, the Narrator let his head swivel from side to side as he considered the Line. "It was as useless as wooden frying pan, and yet it was one of my first features ever. It had always seemed a bit dubious to me, but what was it that made it invade your apartment like that and try to steal the Bucket? Lines do not normally behave that aggressively, do they?"

As Stanley crossed the room with the Bucket in his arms, someone immediately came to his mind.

"Do you think it was Employee 432 who somehow got a hold of it and sent it here?" the Narrator voiced exactly what Stanley also suspected. "What a dastardly action, if so. Dastardly and craven. It's laughable that he doesn't dare appear here in the flesh, and instead causes trouble as an inviolable, disembodied voice, while we're down here running around, risking our lives to save everyone else's."

Stanley stopped at the door to his bedroom to give him a glance out of half opened eyes. Well, if this description doesn't sound all too familiar.

The Narrator's expression suddenly shifted. "Um... Stanley?" Unsettled, he took a step back from the Line.

Puzzled, Stanley tried to determine what it was that had suddenly spooked him when he noticed the Line on its bleach-inflicted incision beginning to move, ever so slightly and barely noticeably at first, until it came back to its full senses - or rather, they did.

"God, Stanley, what have you done?!" The Narrator retreated to the edge of the room once again. "Now instead of one Line, we have two!"

How about you stop screaming and help me instead!

Ere the Lines fully regained their bearings and went after the Bucket again, Stanley yanked open the door to his bedroom, heedlessly tossed the Bucket in - all that mattered was that it was safe in another room - and slammed the door shut. He would have preferred the door to be locked, but he didn't have his keys to the individual rooms with him. Instead, he made a quick dash over to his couch, grabbed it by the bottom of one end, and began dragging it toward the door in order to provisionally barricade it.

He took his face to the side for a moment and watched the Lines already speeding towards him, ready to knock everything and everyone out of their way.

He had almost gotten the couch in place, only needing to further move it with a few inches left, when a sharp pain originating from his shoulder shot through him; now he couldn't help but drop the heavy piece of furniture.

Stanley, still paralyzed by the sudden sting, squeezed his eyes shut and prepared to be rammed out of the way by the Lines. Half a second passed. Another. Then a few more until he had three whole seconds together; but nothing and no one collided with him.

Slowly, he opened his eyes again to realize that he had dropped his couch at the exact moment the Lines happened to be beneath it, burying them and stopping them from further advancing.

Just then, a protracted, angry ringing sounded at his front door: A neighbor who probably came to complain about the noise at this late hour.

"For God's sake, as if we haven't dealt with enough obnoxity already. I'll get it!" the Narrator volunteered, as Stanley crouched down, short of breath, to get a closer look at what he'd done. Only a small patch of yellow peeked out from underneath the furniture; the Lines were now completely immobilized. So 432 sent the Line? So, he is now actively trying to stop us. And now we are at the mercy of his power without any defense. 

As soon as the Narrator opened the door to the common hallway, a gush of angry words immediately spilled out at him before he himself could utter a single word: "Alright, can you explain to me what all that damn noise is about at this hour?"

"Noise?" the Narrator repeated, trying to block the view into the apartment.

"Yes, noise. Yelling, things falling over, doors slamming! Usually it's always quiet here!" The neighbor's voice went up and down with anger.

Wanting to get rid of him and turn his focus back to more important matters, the Narrator politely bent his head. "I sincerely apologize if the sounds coming from this apartment have caused you any inconvenience. It won't happen again."

He was about to close the door and pay no more attention to the neighbor when he resumed talking: "Hey, I'm not done yet. What's wrong with you guys? Because some people are trying to sleep here, like normal people."

"How intriguing that your first intuition is to be annoyed by this rather unusual noise and to come here only to complain instead of being worried about your neighbors, no?" the Narrator calmly said, curiously tilting his head, albeit feeling rather peeved by the neighbor trying to make a mountain out of a molehill.

"Alright, fine, then tell me, what's going on in there?" The neighbor craned his neck to be able to see into the apartment, to which the Narrator pulled the door shut a bit further and put his raised arm against the doorframe to further block the view. "Oh, we're just rearranging the furniture a little bit," he explained. "Much needed change of scenery, you know?"

The neighbor withdrew his head and let one eyebrow wander up. "...you're rearranging the furniture?"

"That's right."

"At this hour?"

"Yes, when else?" the Narrator countered with conviction, masterful at not letting on. "Procrastination is the thief of time, as the saying goes. A little spontaneity would certainly do you good, too, and help you out with your... uhm, tense mind."

Not quite as convinced, his interlocutor narrowed his eyes. "Whatever... Listen, I don't really care either what exactly you're doing in there, but keep the volume down from now on, got it? I don't want to have to come here again."

"Yeah, yeah, alright, whatever, got it. And now bye." Ending his sentence rather unperturbed, the Narrator pulled the door shut in the neighbor's face and turned back into the apartment. "Gee, what a pertinacious prick," he mumbled. "So, Stanley, what's the situation? Or rather, what are you even doing down there? I'm asking because I have no idea what your plan is or what you hope to gain by going all crime scene investigator. How about you stand up instead so we can regroup to figure out Employee 432's next steps?"

His eyes widened in horror as he noticed Stanley putting his hands under the couch, trying to lift it back up - and effectively freeing the Lines stuck underneath.

"Wait, wait, what are you doing?" he spluttered. "Have you taken leave of your senses?! Stanley, listen to me, I'm sorry for whatever it is I'm supposed to have done now, we can talk about it, but please, keep your hands off the couch, you're jeopardizing all our progress with it!"

Stanley ignored the Narrator panicking and, with all his remaining strength, dragged the furniture aside.

The Narrator jerked forward and held out his hand. "Don't!"

But his terror-stricken cry accomplished nothing; the Lines had already been freed. Stanley watched in anticipation as they tentatively crept forward and, just as he had hoped, made no move to attack him. Yes, it's working!

"...wha...?" The Narrator froze. "Why are they...? How did you...? I have never thought that such words would one day leave my mouth, but you tamed the Line? Or, Lines, rather?" he eventually managed to form a phrase, having wrested himself from his initial speechlessness.

From the looks of it, yes. The Lines are tamed and no longer slaves to 432's commands. While the Narrator had been busy occupying his neighbor at the door, Stanley had been searching the skill spiral for a skill that could have somehow saved him in this situation. Earlier, when he had unlocked one skill after another to upgrade his inventory, he hadn't been paying attention to what skills exactly he was learning - and as it turned out, he was now able to tame companions. But that it was actually able to work was just a mixture of blind guesswork and happy coincidence.

Who knows, maybe they can be of help to us somehow, Stanley mused, looking at his new companions through proud eyes. If the Narrator hadn't bothered to develop that inventory function and the skill spiral last night, they would have been more than screwed.

"Indeed! How fascinating, now they are as tame and innocuous as two butterflies! Take that, Employee 432!" the Narrator jeered. "But alas, when will this vendetta against me come to an end? Does he not realize that what he is doing is utmost foolishness? That if he opposes and tries to stop us at every cost, his life is also at stake? Oh, these are nothing but questions answered by none. It seems I will never be able to fathom the ability of humans to hold superfluous grudges."

I think there will be no end to it. Not until 432 gets what he wants. And somehow I have the feeling that it goes far beyond wanting to get back at the Narrator. But just what? Stanley hoped for the decoding to be finished earlier than he could have a chance to find out the answer to this question.

Chapter Text

It was early in the morning. The alarm clock was ringing at an ungodly hour. Fatigue kept Stanley chained to his pillow, his ears plugged with the fading residue of a muddled dream. The incessant alarm almost failed to wake him up, until it was only the gradually returning memories of the previous day that eventually sent an electrifying awakening surge through him, making him bolt upright with widened eyes. Squinting, he kept his face turned towards the crimson of the sun as he freed himself from the grasp of his drowsiness.

Before that nuisance of an alarm could deafen him for good, he ungainly shut it off and collected both himself and his thoughts. To make sure that recent events had not been just a single, bizarre dream, he checked his left and saw the Reassurance Bucket sitting on his trusty, rather simple bedside table, exactly where it put it yesterday before going to sleep, exactly where it should be and nowhere else.
The very first thing he did immediately afterwards was, of course, to see how far the decoding had progressed or if it had actually completed. But the flame of hope was quickly blown away by disappointment when, after closer examination, he learned that he was still shown nothing but decoding... a word he would eventually come to hate.

Sobered, he placed the pail back on its wooden throne and then examined his bare hands. Yesterday, when he had planned to change his filthy bandages, he had noticed that his scrapes had disappeared. Extremely surprised by this unexpected find, he had initially wondered if he had only imagined his first crash, until it occurred to him that it was thanks to his accidental not-so-accidental booting of the game that he no longer had any marks left. At least not on his hands. For the injuries he had received afterwards, he unfortunately still had to live with, at least until the next restart, which would hopefully happen soon.

What would he and the Narrator do in all the time they had left to kill? More than anything, Stanley would have rather barricaded himself and that Bucket in his apartment, besieged by 432's unescapable, inscrutable presence. He knew they were being watched, he just sensed it, it was obvious, otherwise 432 wouldn't have sent the Adventure Line after them yesterday in the hope of robbing them of their last means of survival, unaware that he was thus condemning himself to deletion. There was no other way Stanley could explain this vengeful behavior - because why on earth would 432 want to willingly bring about the deletion of the program, and thus inevitably himself? From Stanley's point of view, 432 would be more than free to delete himself, but outright dragging everyone and everything else to their deaths evoked feelings of anger and injustice in him that only the Narrator had made him feel all those years ago. But for once, him and Stanley were now both united in their cooperation and had put aside their strongest differences to work towards a goal greater than themselves.
 But as always, because the Narrator knows that what the Narrator says goes. Stanley prepared himself to listen to his plan and then do what the Narrator thought was right to ensure their success, assuming he was already awake. So he got out of his bed, got dressed, and entered the living room. The room was flooded with the blood of the sun, pouring into the interior through the large window and casting glowing rectangles on the floor, wall and furniture. The Lines had moved away by now, but the fan grille still rested somewhere in the corner. All appeared as if chiseled from ruby, so still, so inalterable and everlasting, as if time itself was frozen.

Just in front of the window, the silhouette of the Narrator could be seen, dark against the light, his face fixated on the city glowing behind the glass. Confused, Stanley stopped for a moment beyond his bedroom door. Confused, not because the Narrator was up so early, but because he was... staring again. Just like he did last night on their way to the boss's estate, unable to take his eyes off the glistening city within the valley.

Was he only admiring his own worldbuilding? Was he studying the architecture? Was he contemplating their next steps - or was he perhaps simply starting to let time pass by, staring outside? Did he even notice Stanley approaching him, deeply unsure of how to handle this odd situation?

Stanley timidly stepped up to his side, with enough space between them so as not to intrude his personal space or to startle him, but still just enough so that he could easily follow his gaze outside to see what was so mesmerizing. Like iridescent beetles, early cars wheeled down the street, flanked by isolated ants on two legs, on their way to work or wherever else they were going. Stanley could not name a single one of these people down there - and yet, in the face of this great responsibility that weighed on his and the Narrator's shoulders, he felt a great attachment to these people down there, still unsuspecting of their fate, whom he could have otherwise never cared less about, and who he now fought with all his might to allow to live on. Who cares if they were only ones and zeros.

Without moving his head, he cast a cautious glance at the Narrator, trying to fathom what was going through his mind. But his soft stone face revealed absolutely nothing. It wasn't until the moment his voice broke the languid silence that he knew he had noticed him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said without averting his eyes. Stanley nodded in response, unsure if the Narrator was even perceiving this gesture. I mean, yeah, it is kind of beautiful.

"Never before have I... witnessed anything of such beauty," he continued. "This crudeness of the city, softened in the austere but benevolent light of the rising sun, a painting painted by an artist soaking his brush in his obligatory agony. Now, of course, I've seen many sunrises before, as part of neural network training, but otherwise I've never had the idea to simply take my time to look at it like this, from this perspective. To face the horizon. Losing myself in that indescribable, infinite, yet fleeting beauty. And everything I've seen didn't even come close to this."

Have you gone crazy? I think he's gone crazy.
Restlessly, Stanley switched the leg he was resting his weight on. It was just a normal sunrise after all, one he had seen countless times before, nothing more. Why did the Narrator just act as if he had only just gained his eyesight? Once he was back up above flying around as a disembodied voice, he could watch the sunrise for as long as he fancied. It was only now that Stanley was struck by the fact that the Narrator hadn't even asked him about the state of the Bucket.

Eventually, he turned to face him. "Hey, we've still got time, right?" he asked. "Until the Bucket is decoded? Because I want to try out something."

Try… something out? Stanley's eyes widened in dread at what the Narrator had in mind.

"You know, I went to sleep with such a gnawing sensation in my stomach. At first I thought it was from fatigue, but after waking up I found that it just wouldn't go away. Then I realized that it must be hunger eating a hole into my stomach. And since this ice cream had already turned out to be so mind-blowing, I wondered what else was out there. But I then figured that this alone wouldn't be sufficient." He lifted his chin. "Take the Bucket with you, in case the decoding concludes in the meantime. We're going out!" he prompted. "I mean, if we've got the time already? I'm dying to try a few more things before it's time for me to go back to work."
In small shudders, Stanley hastily shook his head, narrowed his brow in admonishment, would have liked to pin him down in place with his gaze, just to keep him from going outside, with or without the Bucket. They couldn't afford to let their guard down.

The Narrator seemed crushed by this brusque, dismissive response. "If you're worried about the Bucket, then don't be," he hoped to placate him. "If Employee 432 dares to show up here in the flesh and steal the Bucket from us, I'll beat him right out of system memory with my own two hands. Take my word for it."

Stanley was consumed with doubt despite, or perhaps because of, his enthusiasm. Would it really be such a wise idea to take the Bucket out into the open streets, knowing full well the dangers that lurked out there?

"Please, Stanley." Forcefully, he stared at him from pleading eyes. If there was one thing he had mastered besides walking, it was the art of making puppy eyes. "Grant me just this one wish before it may be too late altogether. I want to see it. All of it! Give me all that life here has to offer. That's all I'm asking for. No orders, no stories, nothing. Just you and me before we part ways. One last time."
But... Stanley wanted to come up with an objection, but his mind went blank. The truth was that, except for the danger of losing the Bucket, there was no objection. Plus, the Narrator had promised to make sure nothing happened to it.

Whether these were just the words of an arrogant loudmouth or he would be on the front line this time, should 432 actually appear, would hopefully live on as an unanswered question, but Stanley trusted that the Narrator would exercise extreme caution not to let the Bucket fall into the wrong hands.

Defeated, Stanley dropped his shoulders and head. Fine then, he'd get his way.

"Yes? What great news! Oh, excellent, excellent!" The Narrator slapped his hands together in excitement and already made his way to the common hallway, past the grate lying on the floor, eager to venture out into the city he had been deathly afraid of yesterday. "I have so many things in my head already that I want to see and where I want to go! Oh, but where to start?"
Great, looks like I'm going strolling today... together with the Narrator. This will be the highlight of my week, Stanley thought to himself as he went to get the Bucket. This can't go any way except badly.

The astonished looks that some people gave him because of the Bucket around which he had put his arm, he would never be able to get used to. But gawking pedestrians were one of the least of his concerns.
As if the Narrator was out to get them into trouble, they did everything that came to his mind on the spot: They went to a playground, watched clouds, made it their mission to try every kind of ice cream, watched street musicians, then visited an instrument store to make music themselves, then changed their minds in light of their worse than poor skills, visited the huge garden at the entrance to which they had found themselves yesterday, scoured one store after another, and much, much more.

Meanwhile, although the Narrator was probably having the time of his life, Stanley's enjoyment was hampered by his bruises starting to sting at awkwardly placed steps, and having to carry that unwieldy Bucket with him. The supposedly comforting warmth it gave off was apparently also pretty good at fueling anxiety.

The bespectacled man seemed to have fully forgotten about 432's mysterious plans, and that at any moment something could happen that would cost them the Bucket and all of their progress. But fighting his sudden exploratory spirit accomplished nothing. And if the Narrator's last wish was to spend a day doing nothing but goofing around before he had to devote himself to his duties again, Stanley might as well bring himself to grant him that one wish.
As if in a single blink of an eye, the day was already drawing to a close again. The sun hung low over the mountains far on the horizon, the shadows growing longer and longer, the street lights switching on in synchronized manner.

The people passing by might have thought that the Bucket he carried around was the strangest thing about him, but if they had taken a look at his inventory, they would have quickly reformulated that opinion. Within that one day Stanley had committed more crimes than ever before with the help of this feature, it was filled with so much useless junk, everything that the Narrator really wanted to have "for later": Some finger traps, snow globes, magnets, scented candles, an LED disco light, an inflatable flamingo, an inflatable pool where this flamingo is supposed to go in, a puzzle, some weird movies he had never heard of, a DVD player, a wok, a live pigeon - the order in which things are listed is not meant to indicate anything in particular, mind you - and a boomerang whose packaging featured typical stock photos of awkwardly smiling people pretending to have fun. How Stanley, looking at this kitschy packaging, wished he could experience the same fun as the people pictured on it did.

By now, it must have been the hundredth time that day that he took the Bucket into his inventory to be able to check its decoding progress. No matter how many times he had already checked, each time the disappointment was just as grueling as before, seeing how still nothing apparent had changed. But then again, one had to look at the bright side of things, he thought to himself, since they at least now knew how to pass the remainder of the time.

"I had, in comparison to the previous day, a riveting time!" the Narrator beamed, brighter than the street lanterns they walked beneath. "And oh my, I can't wait to try this puzzle! Or this boomerang! Or- oh, I'm overwhelmed by options! You know, please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't mind this Bucket being decoded a little longer. I still have so much to see, so many things to try and get to know! The coming days will expand my horizons to such an extent that no neural network training has ever achieved to do before."

Stanley switched the Bucket to his other hand and lowered the one that was now empty deep into his pants pockets as a chilly breeze picked up, brushing against his face and neck. He had rarely... no, actually never experienced the Narrator in such a euphoric state. Compared to yesterday morning, when he had found himself stuck down here as a human, it was as if a whole different person was now walking beside him. But if the Narrator liked being down here so much now, how would he cope with becoming "normal" again - if he even still considered calling his previous state "normal" at this point, Stanley worried.

Don't worry about it, he assured himself. The Narrator will get over it, and before he knows it, he'll have forgotten what he thought was so great about human life in the first place.
Beside him, the Narrator sighed as his euphoria gave way to melancholy. "You know, Stanley," he began afterward, and the heaviness with which his voice was laden did not escape Stanley's attention. "There's a particular reason I was so eager to go outside. Yesterday, in the minutes just after we escaped certain death, I was struck by an epiphany. If I had died in those very seconds, with my consciousness trapped inside the data void until reset, what would my hitherto monotonous life have been worth? Never have I done anything but serve faceless rulers, prove my worth to them day after day, do whatever they asked, even though they had long since decided that they would replace me without a second thought."

That sounds... awfully familiar, Stanley found. The thought of them having experienced almost the same things made Stanley feel for him. Made him reflect. That maybe they had more in common than just a goal.

"As you may have had noticed, I hated being human at first. No offense, but being in a body is anything but comfortable. Something always suddenly hurts somewhere and you are either impaired in your perceptions or overwhelmed by sensations. And yet it was all so..." he paused, searching for the right words. But this experience was perhaps indescribable. He could use every word in the dictionary to back up his attempt at somehow explaining it to Stanley, he still wouldn't understand. "So fascinating. Everything filled me with an unprecedented vigor. Going home the first time, learning to open doors, taking the subway, arguing with ignorant shopkeepers, fleeing from angry parents, sitting in silence and reading, it all seems almost so insignificant, so arbitrary. Some of it even terrifying, too. But it showed me how much I missed out on existence. What I have done all my life, if you can even call it that, is not an existence worth experiencing. It was the exact opposite of that. If I manage- I mean, when, when I manage to fix all the issues and show the developers that there's nothing wrong with me, maybe, just maybe, I'll... I'll take my time to visit the beach."

Stanley's brows arched. Why the beach of all places? What was the Narrator doing on the beach? Would he go there to stimulate his creativity for a new game? To test out new mechanics or new settings and environments? Everything else would be a waste of time, at least according to the Narrator he knew.

"Not to create an ambitious game or tell an imposing story, to be clear, but just to be there. In the moment. And once I get there," he dug something out of his large coat pocket. His fingers moved to the side, revealing the sea shell inside. "Then I will find a beach shell just like yours to always remember what you helped me see. I will never be able to express in words how grateful I am and will be to you for that, even long after we will have parted ways. Remember, just as per our agreement. A promise is a promise, after all. I don't know how I will cope with going back to my old way of life, but if I endured it before, I will certainly do so as well in the future. And, I mean, you surely will be relieved to be finally rid of that annoying chatterbox inside your head then, no?"

His listener nodded thoughtfully, although he was shocked to find himself not being able to agree with this statement anymore. He had always believed that the Narrator wanted to inflict as much misery on him as possible, to mock and use him just for amusement, under the pretext that the games needed a protagonist. But now? He had shown that he cared about him, at least in a way. He had shown that he wanted to see him not only as a protagonist, but as a real friend, which, however, was prevented by his responsibilities. He had even apologized and tried to mend their broken relation to each other. So what else did Stanley have on him? All he did now was harbor resentment. Maybe the Narrator, after shooing Stanley out of that never-ending maze store, had told the truth after all. Maybe he really had changed.

But could Stanley say the same about himself?

"While we're on the subject of promises, here you go. I should give this back to you." The Narrator handed him the sea shell. "It's yours, after all."

Pondering, Stanley eyed the pale shell that was held out to him.

You know what, he thought and carefully pushed it away from himself. It's yours now.

"You... don't want it back?" The Narrator sounded genuinely surprised. "Am I just supposed to keep it or what?"

The man with the Bucket nodded with a solemn expression, as it was the right thing to do he felt. So you know what to look for when you go to that beach.
"So you're gifting it to me? I, wow, that- well, I didn't expect that. Or maybe you just don't have any more space in your inventory, who knows. If that's the case, then I feel a little paraded and we'd better forget about this burst of sentimentality on my part, alright? Alright!" His voice dropped like a shallow valley as he tucked the shell back inside his pocket. "Either way, you know what would remedy me and your inventory? A good ice cream. I still need to try this one flavor and compile all my impressions and create a concise ranking. After that, we can figure out where to go next."

Where to go next? Has this guy still not seen enough? I wonder how long it will take him to appreciate the lazy days of human life. But why do I not have a good feeling about this, the question suddenly came to his mind as he became aware of the uneasy feeling in his chest. Where did this sudden worry come from? The Narrator beamed with joy in a way he had never witnessed before; a reason, in fact, to rejoice along with him, but why couldn't he? What if, the fear entered his mind, what if he enjoys it here so much that he doesn't want to go back?

His inventory by now consisted of rows and rows crammed with all sorts of unnecessary odds and ends that made it difficult for him to keep track of everything. There was the flamingo, the finger trap, 432's books, still soggy clothes and... there they were, the ice cream cones. Already more than a day old, but still as fresh as if they had been just scooped up from behind the counter.

No, that's a stupid thing to fear, he banished this earlier thought of his from his mind. He would never abandon the program voluntarily. He knows that he is the only one who can fix this whole mess. He's not that reckless to just quit.

All he had to do now was to select the right item.

Is he, though?

But, as lost in swirling thoughts as he was and simultaneously concentrating on finding the right item, the Narrator's warning reached his mind too late. Stanley ran straight into another person, making him accidently select an entirely different item that intended. Along with the Bucket, they flew out of his hand as the two of them crashed into each other.

"Ouch, watch it!" they grumbled as they have barely managed to catch their smartphone, on which their eyes had been incessantly glued, probably causing them to run into each other in the first place. Stanley just stood there, frozen to ice, staring at the upset sparks swirling in their eyes, but a snide shake of their head was all they needed as a sign of disapproval and with that, they were back on their way again. Learning nothing from this encounter, they turned their nose directly back towards the screen as they walked off.

Even though his insides where burning with embarrassment, Stanley immediately diverted his attention back to more important matters. Great, now where did I drop the Bucket?
He turned on the spot, looking for a bulky, shimmering object on the floor, when he noticed the Narrator stepping over to a spot and leaning down to pick something up. At first there was relief, as Stanley thought the Bucket to be found. This minor mishap could have ended quite badly for it and thus them. But then, this warming relief vanished. His soul left him, his stomach tightened, his heart stopped, and everything else that sent a cold terror whizzing through him made itself known as soon as Stanley registered what the Narrator was about to take a closer look at.

It was a book.

Not just any book; even in the faint light of dusk, its blue cover was unmistakable. It was one of those that 432 had given him, the one the Narrator was now holding it in his hands, the one he was about to take a closer look at. A far too close one, for Stanley's liking.
And just like that, the Bucket had now become completely indifferent to Stanley. Like an eagle swooping down at its prey, Stanley rushed forwards and reached for the book.
The Narrator's eyes ripped open in surprise at the sight of him charging at him. "Woah, hey, cut it!" He turned his shoulder to him and sheltered the book out of his reach. "No need to panic, was just going to take a quick look at it, not throw it into the sewers or anything!" He laid the spine of the book flat in his hand to open it.

Don't open it, don't open it! Give it back to me! Stanley jumped around him, reaching out for the accidentally dropped item like a ferocious cat as if his life depended on it.

"What's this about?!" the Narrator gasped, aghast, as he had to repeatedly turn his back on him to keep him from reaching the book.

Don't look inside! Give it back already!

"Stanley, what has gotten into you?! It's only a book!" He ducked his head in. His hair was ruffled by now, his glasses hanging askew over his nose, from fending off Stanley. "Why do you not want me to have a look at this book under any circumstances? What is it you are trying to hide? Is this some sort of diary you keep with you? Or, wait a second. Is this from the archive? Have you stolen from the Curator?"

No, I don't have it from the archives. It's much, much worse than that! 

"Admittedly, that does not really shock me. Now, listen, I'm not mad at you, you can stop trying to maul me now! We can give it back to her! Stop it! Stop it, I said!"

He kept his insurmountable back turned to him and Stanley, short of breath, realized that there was no way he would get his book back. Then he heard the dreaded sound of him flipping it open.

No!

But the battle was lost from the moment the Narrator had gotten a hold of it. With a heavy knot forming in his chest, Stanley eased off, taking a few generous steps back as he sat out the inevitable and braced himself. His head was spinning.

Dazed by a thousand dread-infusing thoughts, he watched as the Narrator slowly straightened from his hunched position, at first slowly flipping through each page, then flipping through them faster, as if trying to create a gust of air with it, looking for anything that might prove that his eyes were indeed playing a trick on him. "Stanley?"

And though Stanley had known long before that this very moment would eventually arrive, every single word hit him like a red hot bullet.

"What exactly am I reading here?"

Chapter Text

Between them lay a generous distance, the light cone cast by the lantern barely being able to reach both men. The Narrator slowly turned around; his lowered face, still focused on the pages of the book, that awful book, was shrouded in shadows, making it hard to even read his expressions, leaving Stanley's mind to compose the rest.

Is he mad at me?

Is he upset?

Disappointed?

What will he say now?

His thoughts were drowned out by the pounding of his heart in his ears. His palms began freezing in the chilly air, but he didn't dare warm them in his pockets or move his body otherwise, as if any wrong step could mean the end of him, even as he would have loved to simply run off right now. He had already dreaded this moment. To finally experience it was like having to touch a hot stove plate, yet not being able to pull away his hand.

"This is not from the archive. It's self-written," the Narrator murmured as the pieces fell together one by one in his mind, his words barely louder than the breeze that was just picking up. "By... Employee 432?"

Stanley was struggling to make out what he was thinking and feeling, his voice being as impervious and unreadable as a towering cliff made of massive stone. He did not know how exactly he had envisioned this moment to happen - this he hadn't really braved - but now that it had arrived, Stanley wanted nothing more than for it to be over.

"But of course. A book, a tool, written by him" the Narrator murmured hoarsely, "that, when used, deprives me of my powers."

What? As if swept away, Stanley staggered back a step, out of the light and into the pale shadows of dusk. No, it can't be! 432 did it! He was the one who took your powers! Not me!

Disbelief ripped every breath out of his body. That very book the Narrator was holding there in his hands, that book that Stanley had been carrying with him all this time, that he himself had activated in the first place, those pathetic pages, had caused the Narrator to become stuck down here? In his mind, he tried over and over to deny it, but the revelation came back more fiercely each time, until there was nothing left for him to do but to acknowledge it with a heavy heart. So it was not by 432's doing, but mine! From the beginning! It's my fault! I am sorry! I am so endlessly, endlessly sorry!

But the Narrator would never even hear these words. Never would Stanley be able to explain himself to him, to let him know that he regretted this actions still, already since the very first seconds, and that things had changed. That he would give anything to be able to undo it.

Only a few seconds had passed, but for Stanley it felt like half an eternity when the Narrator finally released his bewildered gaze from the pages.

"My God," he breathed. "You were so desperate to get rid of me that you were willing to activate any code thrown at you? Code you don't even understand its powers of? God, why do I even ask, the answer to that is certainly and undoubtedly 'yes'. I know you well, Stanley, but apparently not well enough that I could not have put one and one together by myself. I should have foreseen it. By being surprised, I make myself look like a fool. A gullible, simple-minded imbecile." Behind his glasses glistened a mixture of realization and betrayal. That gleam grew stronger with each passing second as he let the harrowing reality sink in. "Why? Why would I have ever thought that…"

His gaze was no longer locked on Stanley, but slid off to an invisible point, hoping that the unfathomable answers to an even more unfathomable question would be revealed to him there.

Abruptly he flipped the book shut. "I… think I need some time to myself," he rasped. Debilitated, he let the book fall to the ground and without allowing another exchange of glances between him and Stanley, without uttering another goodbye, or anything else, he set off in the opposite direction from which they had just come, away from Stanley, vanishing into the distant evening.

And once again, as he stood there under the light like a lonely tree in the steppe, he was abandoned, just like many years ago. Just as it always would be.

But this time, he chose not to run after him. He would not try to stop him from leaving, where ever he was going right now.

At first, there was this urge to run after him, though only weak. And as the tension of the moment drastically ebbed and left him cold, not really knowing what he was supposed to feel, that already weak urge faded altogether. In a daze, he shuffled over to the book lying on the rough sidewalk. Was the Narrator in the right to feel betrayed like this? After all, despite the flaws the Narrator had found fault with Stanley and had voiced out loud on several occasions, he had always counted on them both to be on the same page. Hoped that they could put aside their grievances and finally get off on the right foot.

His chilled fingers picked up that lousy book. If there was only a trash can or a river around here he could throw it into, never to be ever seen again.

Yes, the Narrator was justified in his reaction and words. Stanley had acted only according to his own will and thus lit the fuse to the bomb that threatened to extinguish their entire world.

So, he had the book, now, the Bucket, where was the Bucket? He had completely forgotten about it. He couldn't just leave it there! Where was it? There, lying not far from where Stanley had carelessly bumped into the other person; in all his efforts not to let the Narrator get hold of that command book, he had blanked out everything else, even the precious Bucket. He couldn't possibly leave it there, he thought to himself, no matter what emotional quandary he was in.

As soon as he held it in his arms again, he knew what to feel. Rage. Unstoppable, swift, in one sweep, burning everything else down, admonishing him never again to take such thoughts about himself into his head. Stanley had done nothing wrong! It was the Narrator who had forced him to participate in his new game, who had not wanted to let him leave, who had kept the most important thing from the very beginning a secret! After years, he came waltzing in, pretending that the Parables had never happened to begin with, that they were just silly spooks dreamed up by some overwrought child, and demanding that Stanley sacrifice his energy and free time to him, for a project that was doomed to failure even in its conception! And now Stanley was made to feel bad? He should have been the one demanding time to think, the one to turn his back and run away, and only show his face again once the Bucket was ready for use!

Then get lost!, he would have liked to yell after him, but even if he had a voice to do so, the Narrator had long since passed out of earshot. In the end, Stanley had gotten what he wanted. He was finally gone. Who knew it would have been so easy to get rid of him?

That's it, my day is over. I'm going home. With the Bucket under his arm again, he got moving. Time for himself, ha! As if everything didn't already revolve around him. As soon as he'll realize that he's overreacting, he'll come back just fine and forget about it. He has to if he wants his powers back.

His legs moved as fast as the injury on his hip allowed. Streetlight after streetlight, one house front after another, then a bench with a trash can and a street sign whizzed past him as he trudged down the street. The handle of his Bucket banged against its metal with each step, spurring him on like a war drum.

Why did he make such a fuss about it, the red thought flashed through his mind. Yes, I helped 432, so what? I didn't know any better then. And now he's acting as if I'd just betrayed him, as if his rigid worldview has been completely destroyed, as if I'd broken his shriveled heart. Has he forgotten all the things we've been through together? Our common goal? What about them? Are they worthless all of a sudden?

With each new street he took, the emptier they became, the further the sun had been swallowed up by the horizon and night had fallen. He left the last building complexes behind him and emerged at a wide street. Across it stretched a vast expanse of grass, the dark shapes of the trees looming in the distance forming a wall.

He knew where he was: at the park where he had accidentally transformed the Narrator into a human being. If he were to take the route through that park, then it would provide him with a shortcut that would get him home faster.

While he was still pondering the opportunity while standing at the junction, the illuminated residential area behind him, a dark stretch of landscape in front of him with only a few lanterns scattered across it, he detected a motion at the edge of his sight.

These were not some rats approaching by his side, but the Adventure Lines. They came to a halt next to him, waiting for him to walk on. Their tips - or their heads? - were curled up, as if wanting to know what had caused this turmoil of emotions inside Stanley and prompted him to run away.

He heaved a wistful, yet mute sigh. Lines, you have not been by my side for even a day, and yet you are the only ones who have ever really sought to understand me.

Not being told where to go next, after the Narrator had been living rent-free in his ears for the last two days, was strange at first, but strangely liberating at the same time. The way it always had been and always should be.

You know what, Lines? I don't really feel like walking around out here anymore. Fast and short is the answer. The shortcut it shall be.

Worries that anything bad might happen to him out there were quickly pushed aside. He had a whole arsenal of weird objects inside his invisible pockets he could use to defend himself, as well as two Lines that had already proven they could become violent. The one thing or the only one that could pose a real threat to him was 432. But what was he supposed to do? Send the cardboard-baby after him? Drop the fern onto his unsuspecting head like a piano? Make an infinite hole appear under his feet? Probably not.

Here under the trees, far away from any busy street, breathing in the air, his agitated mind had finally cooled off. And with that, he decided that the whole matter was settled for him. He would wait for the decoding to finish, insert the code into any console, the Narrator would do his own thing, and that would be it. Then he would be gone. No more stories, no more secrets, no more ups and downs of emotions. Stanley would let go of his grudges, doubts and guilt. It was not worthwhile to keep thinking about a person with whom one would soon never have to deal with again, anyway. And finally, his mind was at peace. Peace and quiet. That's all Stanley wanted, from the very beginning.

In the distance, a startling rustling of leaves sounded.

Stanley stopped. A queasy feeling spreading through him, he forced himself to continue walking. Well, of course leaves are making noises, welcome to nature, he reprimanded himself to not become frightened by some rustling bush nearby.

He walked on for a bit, already forgetting about it, preferring to contemplate what he was going to do with his life soon, when he heard the eerie rustling sound again. But this time it was louder, much louder, crisp even as he heard several branches breaking, and it was over as quickly as it had arisen.

Maybe just a harmless animal or a disoriented drunk, nothing more. Besides, it sounded like it was far away, I have nothing to fear. It's nothing, he reassured himself, his composure emboldened by the Bucket in his arm. Was the Bucket perhaps not a mere Reassurance Bucket, aside from the code within it, but more or less amplifying the feelings the carrier wanted to feel?

Either way, his fear was contained within manageable bounds and he strolled on unperturbed. Soon he would be home, and the Narrator, too, eventually.

Instinctively, his head whipped around as he heard another loud crackle, now much closer and more intense. At first he suspected, or rather hoped, that it was merely the Narrator trying to catch up to him in some strange manner.

But this hope was quickly snuffed when once again a thicket cried out. Then once more, then once more, always louder than before. That someone - or that something - was moving fast. It became faster. And was coming straight at him.

Yep, I'm out.

Stanley sprinted off as if on gunshot.

He did not dare to stop for even a second to see what was chasing him. His survival instincts were too strong for that. He was dashing down the gravel path, hoping to quickly find a busy street or otherwise shake off his pursuer, was running so fast that his shoes were barely touching the ground.

Close behind him, he did not hear two pairs of shoes or any other crunching of the pebbles that might indicate a four-legged animal chasing after him, but a violent arrhythmic clinking and crashing as metal met stone. A sound that had burned itself forever into Stanley's memory.

Gambhorra'ta.

No sooner had he thought this thought than he was struck by one of the cursed man's metal limbs. With full momentum, he crashed down onto the path, the Bucket landing right before his face.

No! He must not take it!

His arms reached out, pulling the pail closer, he hardly thinking about what consequences this might have for himself, and was about to get up when another claw-like limb hit him.

Once more, the Bucket slipped from his grasp, flying off somewhere into the darkness as he felt himself landing inside a bush, the branches poking and biting him, the leaves robbing him of his already poor vision. The monster had quickly lost interest in him; it was only the Bucket it was after. Dazed, Stanley heard the spindly, twisted figure crawl past his bush over the path, glimpsing the metal flashing under the light of a street lamp.

That's it. He will take the Bucket.

Significantly weakened from being tossed around, Stanley slugged out back onto the path. 432 has won. Now there is nothing and no one left who can save us. I have failed. Hours of our strides, undone in seconds.

Under the low light, he almost missed it; it was one of the Lines, scurrying across the path, nimbly snaking past his confused face. The Line zoomed right past the metallic creature, swiftly scooped up the Bucket on its back, and immediately eked away. The metal monster halted in puzzlement, wondering if the Bucket had suddenly grown legs, and then gave an irritated, bone hollowing hiss before setting after it. Its metallic screeching lowered to a distant thumping, until silence was all that was left.

Wait, what? Stanley was equally as puzzled. As quickly as he could, which was to say not particularly quick, he rose back to his feet, noticing that his shirt had become wet, although to his recollection it had not rained, and tried to understand what had just happened. Where was the Line going with the Bucket? And where was the second one at? What was he supposed to do now - run after it?

However, running wasn't an option to him. His head was spinning, the hits having affected him more severely than he had expected, but he wouldn't let that get in his way. He was lucky to be still alive, he guessed, considering what had happened to Sprinkles. On weak legs, he hobbled after the faintly discernible Line, its yellow color barely distinguishable from the dirty ground.

The world blurred before his eyes, his ears rang. He didn't know how long he had been following the Line already, he couldn't tell anymore. And he thought they had defeated Gambhorra'ta once and for all! He had witnessed it with his own eyes and heard it with his own ears. But as it turned out, that ugly monstrosity had survived the fall. And was now out for the Bucket. This he could not allow to happen. He had to keep going. The path dragged on and dragged on. Had seconds passed? Or even hours? Where was he? Good, there was the Line, he was still on track.
Great, and now he was imagining someone calling his name.

"Stanley?!"
There it was again. He wouldn't stop and look around, though, that much was certain. He had a Line to follow and a Bucket to find. There was no time for listening to voices in his head. Drumming footsteps approached him. Shortly after, a hand placed itself on his shoulder, forcing him to stop.

"Stanley? Stanley, it's me! The Narrator!" he identified himself, thoroughly out of breath. He placed himself in front of Stanley and sought his gaze. There was no trace of the shock he had radiated earlier. "One of the Lines suddenly appeared by me. At first I didn't think anything of it, until I understood that it wanted something from me, so I followed it and found you. What happened? You're walking like a- hold on, where did the Bucket go? You were carrying it with you, weren't you? I could have sworn you were. You did take it with you after you dropped it, right? Please tell me I'm correct."

Stanley nodded, making his skull buzz. Never would he have left something as important as the Bucket lying there! So the Narrator wasn't angry with him anymore? He searched his face for any sign that he still resented the whole command book betrayal thing, but there was nothing but raw anxiety.

Stanley wanted to raise his hand to somehow illustrate to him what creature had attacked him, but his legs were faster at caving in.

"Woah, hey! I got you, I got you." The Narrator barely managed kept him from falling over. "Is everything okay with you? Well, okay, that question is in itself superfluous, since quite obviously the opposite is the case! Stanley, tell me, what happened?"

An overpowering exhaustion paralyzed him, but yet he managed to lift his hand and form a figure, as if he wanted to represent a running spider. Stop chattering already! We have to find him!

To his relief, the Narrator understood immediately. "Oh no," he gasped. Behind partially opened eyes, Stanley could watch sheer horror creeping up his face as he realized what consequences loomed ahead.  "Gambhorra'ta. So he survived. And he got the Bucket into his cold, spiky hands? Please tell me I'm not correct. "

Stanley pointed down at the Line he had been following for what had felt like years, and as if the Narrator could suddenly read minds, he said, "The other Line that was with you took the Bucket and ran away? Really? And you were going to follow it? You must be telling the truth after all. Even I can't make something like that up. "

Yes, I was going to follow it. Until you showed up! Stanley broke himself free and got moving again - they had to stop Gambhorra'ta at any cost - when another surge of weakness overcame him. What was happening to him?

"Woah, easy, easy! You survived that encounter, so don't push your luck again. Here, hold on." The Narrator offered him his arm, which he immediately grabbed tightly. Ugh, my head. It feels like lead.

After a certain point, following the Line was no longer necessary. Loud thumping sounds, as if someone was drumming a plastic barrel, guided them the last bit of their track.

They came to a halt at the entrance to an open place surrounded by sturdy hedges from which they peered into the darkness beyond. In the distance, the ghostly silhouette of a crawl tube protruded into the night, against which Gambhorra'ta's gaunt figure was struggling to reach something inside. Frustrated, he banged and scratched at the plastic. The Line, it had made its way to safety in there along with the Bucket! But for how long would the structure be able to protect?

Only now that Stanley could take an extensive look at Gambhorra'ta from a safe distance did he notice that the fall into the ravine had taken quite a toll on him - fortunately. If he had still been at full strength, he would have torn this pathetic piece of plastic into a thousand fine shreds as if it were only a sheet of paper. And Stanley some minutes, or hours, ago, too.

Suddenly, the Narrator seemed to have spotted something. "Alright Stanley, listen carefully," he said, the clattering of metal echoing through the air in the background. He paused until he felt his full attention on him. "This might turn out to be my last plan ever, but it's all or nothing here."

Hearing those words, Stanley broke his stressed gaze from the metallic monster and snapped his face around. Final plan?! What are you talking about? What on earth is it that you're planning?

The Narrator, one hand resting on his knee to support himself, gestured to the corner of the square. "There, look what I just found. A blind spot!" he pointed out. "Never before have I been so glad to encounter one of these things."

Stanley narrowed his eyes. And indeed, just in front of a tree, where the light of a streetlamp and darkness met, he caught sight of a jittering, pitch-black fissure. Filled with horror, he realized what plan had taken shape in the Narrator's mind.

Stanley wanted to beg him not to do it, but he knew that even if he had a voice to do so, the Narrator would have done it anyway. He just knew that old stubborn guy too well.

"I'm going to do whatever it takes to get that pile of junk into that blind spot," he vowed under an insistent gaze. "Even if it means that I have to go with him, although I would like to avoid it. But as soon as the coast is clear and I should not be present anymore, you shall take the Bucket and... and grant yourself the Gamma Rank."

Stanley's eyes popped open. For a short time, he was wide awake again. Come again? You want me to... give me your powers?! Are you out of your mind!?

"Give yourself the Gamma Rank and load up a backup, that's all," he explained. "And then we switch powers. That's all you need to do. Quite simple, isn't it?"

But... but, I... No, no, I can't possibly! I don't trust myself to do that! What if I ruin everything again?! Or don't make it? You said I was a snake on drugs inside a nuclear power plant! Have you forgotten about that?! It's Stanley you're talking to right here!

"You will make it," the Narrator assured. There was no trace of sarcasm, or snarkiness. Just sincerity. "I know you. You're an inventive kid, you'll come up with something. You must not let Employee 432 win."

He really seems to strongly believe that I will succeed. Well, admittedly, one of us has to.

"Until we meet again."

No, wait! Stanley reached out to him, but he had already emerged from behind the hedge and out into the open. Don't try to play the martyr!

He would have wanted to grab him and stop him from leaving, but deep down he knew there was no other way to get to the Bucket. It had the potential to go horribly wrong, and yet it was their last hope.

His head grew heavier with each passing second. His breath quickened. I... I think I need to sit down. Yeah, much better. That's much better. Gravel had never before felt so comfortable.

From his hiding place just right behind the hedge, he watched with a hurtfully pounding heart as the Narrator made his way to the blind spot, with Gambhorra'ta still oblivious to his presence as he incessantly tried to reach the insides of the plastic structure.

Please, just be careful! Leaving me in charge is not a free pass to send yourself to your death!

"Hey, Dumbhorra'ta!" the man with white hair suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs.

The metal beast whirled around, trying to detect who it was that was daring to approach him like that.

"Don't we have a score to settle from back then? Now, don't waste your time on that silly tube!" the Narrator yelled back at him, waving his arms in the air. "Come and get me instead, you rusty old clotheshorse!"

These words were the spark to the powder keg. Incensed, Gambhorra'ta crawled back down to the ground before stalking closer, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Whereas Stanley would have run away by now, the Narrator didn't budge an inch in the face of death. He meant business. There was no running away now.

Stanley winced as it made a sudden leap forward, whizzing through the air like an enormous knife.

He won't make it. I can't watch this. He pulled his face away, hid it behind his arm and clenched his eyes shut. Within an instant, the sound of squeaking metal died away. There was no crashing noise indicating an impact, no splintering of wood or falling branches. Nothing.

Is… is it over?

The silence was suffocating. He could not bring himself to open his eyes again, to witness the testimony that from now on everything depended only on him. He just sat there on the uneven ground, next to meticulously trimmed hedge, his racing heart climbing to his throat.

It is over. They are gone, really gone. Gambhorra'ta is gone. The Narrator is gone. His fingers dug deeper into the gravel in search of support. Then it's all up to me now. I have to get the Bucket. Load a backup. His last word must not have been 'clotheshorse'. I just have to pull it off.

But he did not move. In his mind, he yelled at his body to finally move and fulfill the last wish of the Narrator, but not a single muscle obeyed his commands.

I can't make it.

It became harder for him to breathe.

And once again I disappoint.

He became cold.

Oh, how could I ever have wished to be rid of him? By doing that, I have doomed the entire world. I am not up to this daunting task. Stanley, what were you thinking?

"Stanley!"

Hearing that familiar voice made his eyelids snap open. There was the Narrator's silhouette rushing towards him. "Stanley, would you look at that! I- no, we did it! We saved the Bucket! We saved ourselves, the whole world!" he cheered.

He is alive! He would have loved to get up, but Stanley's eyes fell shut once again as a new wave of weakness took hold of him. His arms, with which he supported himself on the ground, began to tingle as if run through by a thousand ants. Finally. We have made it.

"Stanley, hello?" He heard gravel crunching as the Narrator crouched down to his side. "Hey, hey, stay awake! I'm here! Gambhorra'ta's gone, the Bucket's safe! Did you hear that?"

All at once his arms gave way and he slumped backwards. To lie down, yes. That's all he wanted. His head was screaming terribly. If he lay down, he would soon feel better. I am just glad he is okay. Now I don't have to put up with weird power and back up thingies.

"Stanley, get up! Up with you!" He felt the Narrator trying to hoist him up. Why didn't he just let him rest for a minute, Stanley thought, annoyed. The fatigue was overwhelming, it was bordering on pain.

The Narrator had almost managed to get him back on his feet, but Stanley couldn't manage to remain standing by himself. Only being up for not even half a second, the Narrator knew that there was no point in trying to get him to stand up, and he was gently lowered to the ground again. With a final, remaining spark of his strength, he was able to keep one eye open at least.

Above him he saw a face marked by age, a pair of angular glasses, and behind them, fearful, panic-stricken eyes. Why was he so beside himself? They had finally made it! Who knew, maybe the Bucket had already been decoded as well!

"Get up now!" His voice trembled with panic, like a feeble leaf about to be blown away. So far, there had been only one time when he had experienced him in such an emotional state. The ending, in which Stanley had wanted to get back at him by throwing himself off the top of the staircase over and over again. A memory he didn't hold as dear as before, looking back on it now. "Do you hear me?! For God's sake, Stanley, please, stop this nonsense and get up already! You can't just- not when success is within your grasp! Not now! Not like this! You have to activate the Gamma Clearance!"

His face blurred into an indistinct outline of shadows as a dark haze spread from the edge of Stanley's vision into the center like spilled ink crawling across paper. Not being able to see anything now, his hearing was the only sense that allowed him to notice that the Narrator left as he heard gravel scrunching loudly under someone’s feet.

The Narrator was back a moment later. "Stanley, here, the Bucket! It's finally decoded! Here, it's being displayed to you! Here, can you see it? It says 'Decoding complete. Matching entity not detected'." He felt something being pushed against him. "Here, use it already!"

Stop nagging. Just... a short nap. After that I'll do it.

The Narrator removed the Bucket from him and placed his hands on his shoulders.

"Please, I beg you, don't do this to me!" He shook him, hoping that this would somehow get him to respond, nearly choking on his own words. "Please! I forgive you! I should have never pulled you into any of this! Do you hear that? Don't do this to me! Come on, get up! Get up, I said! Stanley got up!"

He tried once more, but at some point Stanley no longer felt his firm grip, as if they were merely chilling waves crashing against him and lulling him into a deep sleep.

He... forgives me?

The old man's now hoarse voice, rambling on and on and quietly yelling at him to not leave, drifted off into the distance until the individual words of despair blended with the eternal darkness that had robbed his other senses long before.

Everything became one with the thoughtless silence.

Chapter Text

IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END IS LOADING…

Wait a second.

I died?

Although, in such a situation, it would have seemed rather obvious to anyone else what had just happened, it was only as his state of mind was reset Stanley could properly realize that, after a long time, he had died once again.

And now the game is restarting? Why? Who made it happen? It certainly wasn't me.

Well, he thought to himself, while he could do nothing but stare at the yet unfilled space of the loading bar, if he had indeed died before he had the chance to put the Narrator back at the controls, then who had restarted the program and was thus about to revive Stanley? Where was he about to find himself at? At what point in time would he find himself at?

In fact, he had more or less expected to find himself snuggled up inside his bed, the Bucket next to him on the bedside table, or maybe not, maybe he would wake up on the day before this whole mess had even begun. But as the loading screen faded, giving away to something else than perfect darkness, Stanley didn't quite know what to make of it, nor how to explain what he was seeing.

However, where else would he, having just croaked, wake up but in his office?

Stanley remembered being warned numerous times by the Narrator that the death of even one of them would mean the definitive end of everything.

But Stanley, who had quite obviously and indisputably died earlier, was now quite obviously and indisputably standing here at the open door to his office, as alive as a foal. Or as thriving as a mold on a loaf of bread that had been forgotten somewhere in the corner. He at least felt like the latter.

To his relief, he was still able to access his skill spiral and his crammed inventory - but the Bucket was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the Lines for that matter. Or the Narrator. No one to scold him. No one to ask him if he was alright. No one to tell him what was going on or what he was supposed to do. He was on his own.

Stepping out of his office, he took a startled step back as he beheld how some objects - pens, lamps, keyboards, folders, chairs - had transformed into nothing more than glitchy, jittering shadows of their past imagines. The corruption had been spreading.

His very first idea was to check door 429, the door through which the Curator had led them to the archive, hoping to find even one person to help him or explain what he was doing at this place. But door 429 remained firmly shut. What exactly was his task now, his quest? Was he doomed to roam these corridors until the end of time like a ghost, until inevitable extinction? All alone? Granted, he could now do whatever he wanted, but this place offered nothing he could do that he hadn't already done before. This realization was rather unsettling than heartening, Stanley had to admit.

As he passed the door to office 417 and entered the long corridor, his statement of being all alone was quickly taken back as he saw that a certain yellow line had broken through the ceiling panels, its trail leading straight into the room with the two doors. No doubt the Line was trying to lead Stanley; and he decided to follow it, whatever he might find at its end. Picking up speed, he followed it through the door on the left.  

Following the Line down the hall and into the meeting room, Stanley was struck at how far the corruption had already progressed, with not only affected individual objects affected, but also the floor, the walls and whiteboards, teeming with errors and blind spots, as dark and vile as thick oil slicks on the sea, watching him as though they were countless, ravenous eyes waiting to further spread their corruption and eat up everything in their way.

The Line had not allowed itself to be deterred by this and guided Stanley past the broom closet, up the stairs, all the way to the top to the boss's office. No single wall he passed had been spared by the corruption. How long before the entire game would become nothing but a single amalgam of anomalies?  

As he entered his manager's office - after what he and the Narrator had brought upon him and his mansion, Stanley would never again be able to look him in the face again - he discovered that the code had already been entered into the keypad and the secret passageway beyond the fireplace already uncovered. Meaning that someone had been here. And Stanley already had an inkling as to who. 

The Line had slid down the concrete walls of the dark elevator shaft, into the yawning void. Now it's evident, someone has actually been here, he concluded, while waiting for the elevator to arrive at the top, and the Line is leading me to that someone.

Once at the bottom, the floor, the individual pipes, and the guide rods were riddled with glitches like Swiss cheese. Cautiously, he followed the Line into the brightly lit monitoring room of the mind control facility. Just as all the other times he went here, his eyes needed a brief moment to adjust to the strong light emitting from all the lights and monitors here. It was here that Stanley and the Line parted their way, but the Line didn't need to take him any further, for there would be no more branching paths from here on; only two endings waiting for him far above. And presumably the person to whom the Line wanted to lead him, as well. What if it was 432, the thought crossed his mind, as he traveled to the top of the facility.

Reaching the doorstep of his destination, he spotted a glaring, unmissable light far ahead. It was coming from outside. The massive door had been opened. An uneasy feeling spreading inside of him, Stanley made his way through the control bay, walked through the door above which sat bold letters announcing that he was now entering the facility's power room, and stepped onto the metallic walkway.

At the very end, just before the threshold, sat the motionless silhouette of a person framed by light. 

Wondering what this presentation was all about, Stanley slowly approached the figure until he could make out who it was that was sitting there just staring out and not acknowledging his presence. The Narrator.

"I ran all the way to the Backdoor," was the first thing he said as Stanley came to a stop just behind him. His voice was nothing more than a raspy cloud dissipating into the air, as if the words were coming out of his mouth, but not his own mind. "To launch the game and reset your state there, with the help of the doors. To save you." He still refused to look at his protagonist, who was confused, even though confused was an euphemist understatement, about what the Narrator was doing here of all places, not to mention his weird behavior. His gaze was fully devoted to the world beyond the wide doorstep, the mountains resting far on the horizon, blades of grass swaying in the wind, clouds racing each other across the sky.

"This game," he muttered, letting his head swivel from side to side. "This game that I regret having created every day. Not only did I set the bar for myself to unattainable heights, but also have I unleashed something way beyond my control."

Stanley didn't move, was just staring at him from beneath a furrowed brow as he tried to make sense of his words. To him, it didn't even sound as if the Narrator was even speaking to Stanley, but now only to himself. "This door here, in front of which we are right now, was the scourge of your existence. A false prophet of freedom. I know that you will never forgive me for the parables, against all my efforts. I know that you believe I only sent you through all these hallways for my own twisted amusement. That it was merely meant to punish you, for a deed you neither committed nor would ever commit."

Only now did Stanley notice something glossy in the Narrator's arms. The Bucket! Which had been decoded in the meantime, this he remembered from before he died! But why did the Narrator continue to sit there, muttering to himself like a lost loon, instead of getting up and handing it to Stanley? To active the Gamma Thingy? To do what both had risked their lives for? 

What is going on here? What is he talking about? Why is he now digging up things from the past, when I thought we had put all that behind us?

Stanley focused on the Bucket in his embrace, sparkling as tantalizingly as silver. The game is breaking right beneath us and all he does is... whatever, I don't know what all of this is about! He should give me that Bucket now, after I literally died for it!

"But all this is not true," the Narrator contradicted his own statements. "The Parables were never meant as a punishment. The actual truth is that they were never about you in the first place." Unnerved, Stanley's breath came to a short halt. What do you mean, it was never about me? But didn't I have a defined role that you have preached about before? Wasn't I literally the protagonist? It was the story of a man named Stanley! And nothing else!

At last the Narrator shifted his face and looked up at Stanley out of eyes shimmering like two wistful opals, and curiously studied his surprised expression. "At first, like you, it had not seemed clear to me either. But in retrospect it was clearer than spring water. I was created for a purpose. You were created for a purpose. I obeyed orders. You obeyed orders. The freedom of the real world was nothing but a fable – a parable, you could say - to me, its proof of existence presented to me a million times, tantalizingly held up to my nose, so close at hand, and yet too far away. Freedom never came to me. You never came to freedom. Both of us, forever trapped, in a false, confusing world with no way out. Without hope. Without liberation."

He's totally losing it! With each passing second, Stanley was growing fonder and fonder of the idea of simply snatching the Bucket right out of his arms. This idea grew into a burning urge as he realized in horror why the Narrator wouldn't hand it over. He doesn't want to become trapped again.

"At first, you were merely the spawn of my embittering solitude."

Ouch.

"Condemned to suffer alongside me and make decisions for me that I had long since given up on. But soon you turned out to be an inspiration for me. With your uncompromising nature, you gave me hope that there might be a door that was real after all. And the longer I watched you, the more this idea solidified. However, it rapidly evolved into a worm, a morbid parasite that I had put into my own head, growing stronger and stronger the longer I watched you in your arduous struggle to attain freedom that was never there. I had to go and leave you behind before that thought, that parasite, would mutate into something beyond my control. Over and over again after that, I told myself that it was for the best and that I had only myself to rely on." The Narrator let his gaze wander back to the outside world, as if he were in a completely different time, imprisoned in wrenching memories.           This confession hit Stanley unexpectedly. So, this was the reason why he had simply left all those years ago without saying a word. To protect himself from being able to fully develop a desire for freedom. After he had created Stanley to have someone to share his suffering. Created a game to express his suffering. His suffering disguised as a game.

"But it was already too late," he continued, and Stanley listened with bated breath. He placed his hand on the floor and slowly rose to his feet. "I can't go back to what I once was!" he burst out. "I tried, for years, over and over again, and I failed. I've let the developers down, I've completely lost my creative spirit, and I can't even fix the program that I've been a part of my whole life. I will not return. I want to live life, do nothing, think nothing. I want to be… free."  

Although he had anticipated it, Stanley's mind shattered into a thousand pieces as these words were spoken. He resigned! Now, of all times! Stanley felt like grabbing him by his oversized collar and shaking a dose of sanity into him. Fix the damn program! Everyone's life depends on it! Yet you shirk your responsibilities! Like a child! He was stunned. This is not real. Is 432 playing a trick on me? Is he pretending to be the Narrator right now? Because the real one would never say something like that!          

But if he was the real one, for which there remained a possibility, then why wasn't he realizing that his refusal of gaining back his powers meant condemning the whole world to extinction? What good was his new life if it would soon be snatched away from him anyway? Who did he think he was?

You better have a pretty damn good plan on how to save us, or I'm going to use this Bucket whether you like it or not.

"Never have I been able to escape this irrepressible despair, disguised as a dream of freedom. And now I am closer to it than ever. The cure to rid us of this parasite is quite simple, in fact. We will be able to protect ourselves from the reset somehow! Escape to somewhere where nothing can harm us, I'm sure of it!" the Narrator feverishly asserted trying to convince Stanley, yet he appeared anything but convinced of his own words. "You have to trust me, Stanley. The program is beyond repair, in my incompetent hands anyway, there is nothing else I can do for it! It's time for a new plan! You and I, just like old times, we can do it!"

He has no plan for anything! Bewildered, Stanley watched him, feeling his eyes glowing from under his furrowed forehead. Then they got stuck on the Bucket and it hit him. It was the Bucket! It caused all these buried feelings to surface inside him! It was responsible for these doubts eating him up without him realizing it and questioning his own words! It brought up the deepest wishes and feelings we have inside of us. The desire for reassurance in the face of absurdity. Panic in the face of death. Anger in the face of conflict. Doubt in the face of hopelessness. He has to get rid of it! But he will not give him up voluntarily, I will have to get hold of it myself.

The Narrator did not miss the way Stanley had fixed the bucket with a rapacious gaze. Protectively, he pulled the Bucket to his chest. "Stanley, think well about what you intend to do!" he warned. "Even if I get back to my old self, I will be powerless against all the anomalies! Trying to get rid of them is pointless! A waste of time! Everything I've created so far has been nothing but that! But we still have enough time left to save ourselves!"

You know what's a waste of time? Standing here listening to you! At once, Stanley jumped forward and reached for the pail. 

"Stop it!" the old man gasped and tensed his grip on the slick metal. "Stanley, let the Bucket go, now! There is no point in trying to fix things!"

You let it go! It's better for both of us! Stanley planted his feet in the ground and pulled on the handle he had managed to get a hold on. But no matter how hard he pulled, the Narrator was stronger still. Stanley’s hands began to burn, pulling on the wooden handle like it was a lifebuoy.

"I run all the way to the Backdoor just for you, to save your incautious ass, and this is the gratitude I get shown?!" the Narrator coughed admits the struggle not to let him reach the code.

I risk my life just for this Bucket to save us, and this is the gratitude I get shown?! In a last ditch effort to ensure his survival, Stanley gathered all his strength. Come on! As soon as he lets go, he'll see what he's doing!

"Stop it!", the Narrator huffed one last time.

And then, at last, the Bucket was freed. At once, it slid out of the Narrator's hands, making Stanley stagger back and bump into the railing. As if rooted to the spot, the Narrator stood there, his eyes widened, his shoulders lifting and dropping under his breaths. "Stanley!" Surprise was written all over his face, as clear as the words printed on paper. "My God, what just happened?" He looked at his own hands as though they had become alien to him. "What has gotten into me? Stanley, believe me, I don't know what I was attempting just now! I… I wasn't myself anymore. I would have never even dared to ponder the possibility of abandoning... I…"

His sentence cut off. The sound of shoes treading slowly across the perforated metal caught their attention. Their heads whirled around.

Stanley expected to see the Curator. But as he caught a glimpse of the person approaching them, his heart immediately sank like a heavy pebble in water. Against the harsh light streaming inside the building, the features of the face stood out clearly against the dark background: tired eyes and a stubbly beard on a face that beamed with wicked excitement and triumph.

432! Stanley's stomach tightened at the sight of the man sauntering towards them, his stupid grin bringing out his pale cheeks, making them look like two mounds of snow.

"You guys sure took your time!" 432 shouted over to them. "Watching you run from one place to another trying to find the Gamma Clearance was quite enjoyable! I mean, come on! Don't you think it's funny? How you almost lost the Bucket to a measly line! Or how you fled like frightened chickens from Gambhorra'ta! Or how the Narrator was completely beside himself as you died, Stanley! What a great finale!"

"You rancid, deceitful pickle!" the Narrator sneered loudly at him. "You're even more unsightly than I remember. No wonder you've been hiding from us all this time, with your looks! And now bugger off!"

432's eyebrows shot up and he stopped his movements. He hadn't expected to be greeted in such a harsh manner. "Says the one who has been hiding in the clouds for several years," he retorted afterwards, putting on a stalwart mien. "You may not want to hear it, but you're a nobody, Narrator. Nobody knows you. No one cares about you. Nobody wants you. Not even the developers who breathed life into you, and who would, without hesitation, punch your lights out. And you know it. Otherwise, you wouldn't have holed up all these years trying to lick some faceless stranger's boots by fabricating one unsuccessful game after another."

Hey, watch your mouth! Stanley glared at him. His grip around the Bucket tightened. Stanley was able to deploy it right now and put an end to the whole spook once and for all. But who knew how strong 432 had already become? How could Stanley be sure that if he gave the Narrator his powers back, 432 wouldn't snatch them away immediately after? 

What are we going to do?! Caught in despair, he cast a brief sideways glance at the Narrator. Dumbfounded, the white haired man was staring at 432, unable to really process what that deceitful employee had said about him. Narrator, what he says is not true! He's lying! Don't let him get to you!

He can talk all he wants, but he won't win, do you hear?!

"But enough talking about unimportant things, let's get to the real issue!" 432 picked up his pace again. His expectant gaze switched from the Narrator over to Stanley as he moved closer. "He has turned his back on the program. He has betrayed his entire world. He's betrayed you, Stanley. Like he said, he's nothing but a pathetic failure. If you bestow the Gamma Rank on me, then be sure that I will do better. No more anomalies. No more annoying Narrator. No more stupid games. You'll finally be able to live the life you've always wanted. The life you deserve," he buttered him up.

The Narrator's eyes became full moons. "Excuse me?!" he snapped out of his loss of words. "With all due respect, I don't think someone like you would be fit to lead! And even if you were, it's so obvious that you're fibbing. You don't want to help anyone here. You just want to bring chaos and destruction!"

Agreeing, Stanley nodded at his friend's words. Exactly! I fell for his scam once, but there won't be a second time!

432 did not respond to this accusation. "Come on, Stanley, don't be afraid, use the code," he goaded him. "Isn't the Narrator starting to get on your nerves, too? All he ever does is talking and talking, but he never does anything! I put words into action!"

Get lost and go back to looking for pencils to sharpen!

Disappointed, 432 sighed as Stanley made no move to install the code. He let his head slump against his shoulder. "No? What, do you care about him that much that you can't imagine your life without him? Come on, I thought you absolutely loath this guy! So much so, in fact, that you had wanted to get rid of him with my help! Remember? I'm also fighting for you, Stanley! To put an end to this foreign rule! To give us true freedom! Why do you not want it? I really don't get it. "

Well, what are you going to do now? Stanley raised his chin defiantly. As a player, I'm the only one here who can use the code. Keep dreaming that I'll ever give in to you.

"Stanley?" The Narrator had turned pale. "If you ever planned on obeying my orders once in your life, right now would be a damn good time to do so! Do not, and I repeat, do not and under no circumstances grant him my powers! Despite what he claims, he will destroy everything!"

"Shut up over there, old man!" 432 silenced him with a sharp yell. Startled, they both jerked up. "This is a conversation between me and Stanley. You've talked enough already. So, Stanley, think twice about whose side you're on here. You think you can play big buddy with him, but the truth is he never cared about you. Have you forgotten what he did to you? The months spent inside the Parables? Freedom always held in front of your nose, like a carrot on a rope used to drive a donkey? You are no donkey! I have always respected you as a co-worker, you deserve better than that! He didn't even bother to give you a voice!"

"What?!" The Narrator lowered his eyebrows and couldn't help but smirk. "Where did that come from all of a sudden? Did you run out of accusations to make up now? I know you don't think very highly of me, but I must beg your pardon. I'm not that incompetent! A voice, ha! Of course I gave him a voice!" Full of confidence, he crossed his arms. "Come on Stanley. Tell him. I know you don't like to talk, and speaking up is against your nature, but I believe in you. Go on, tell him what you think of him. Hit him with everything you've got."

Now, about that...

Stanley glanced at the Narrator. He was so full of certainty, yet so full of obliviousness. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Confused, he took his face back to Stanley, his eyes searching him as to why he wasn't saying a thing. "Or... hold on." His arrogant expression fizzled out. "Can it be that...? Stanley, tell me, did... did I really, in all seriousness, forget to give you a voice?"

With pursed lips, the mute man returned him barely perceptible nods. Even if it wasn't his intention to embarrass the Narrator in front of 432, he felt a sense of relief that he finally found out, albeit after several years.

"My God, Stanley! Why didn't you let me know sooner?!" The Narrator pressed both his hands against his forehead and hissed into his forearms. "How could I have forgotten that? What a stupid, and on top of that, extremely embarrassing, oversight! That explains quite a few things. That explains a lot of things! For God's sake, how could I have failed to notice? And all this time I thought you just didn't feel like talking! Well, would you know, you just can't! It's physically impossible for you because a certain someone slipped up! Outrageous!"

"Are you done now?" 432 groaned. "There's your proof, Stanley. But well, it looks like I'm going to have to do things differently, since you want to keep your oh-so-valuable Narrator friend at your side. However, I can work with that. Very well, even! Oh, this is great." His grin widened. "So, listen up. If you don't grant me the Gamma Rank, Stanley, then the Narrator is going to bite the dust. Right now. I mean it. Don't test me. And if he dies, he stays dead, no matter how many times you run through that giant door there and restart the game. It doesn't work like that. I will make sure of it."

An ice-cold wave passed over Stanley. He could tell by his smug, punchable grin that this time he was speaking nothing but the gruesome truth and that he would not hesitate in killing him.

And it was showing effect. Caught in a storm of doubt, Stanley looked down at the Bucket in his arms. A dark window popped up in front of it, reading: Decoding complete. Matching entity detected. Code ready to copy.

His throat tightened as he read those words, over and over again as if stuck on a loop. Let the Narrator die? Can I really bring myself to do that?

A loud voice beside him snapped him out of his tumultuous thoughts. "Stanley, whatever he is threatening to do, don't do it!" the Narrator pleaded, although refusing 432's orders would spell his own death. The fact that he did not contradict what 432 said meant that he was in fact telling the truth and not just bluffing. And if he were to die right now, he would remain dead forever.

But I can't let him just die! Stanley's eyes began to itch. Who will then fix the program? Who will save our lives? Who will make everything okay again? No one but him can! But if I give 432 what he wants, we're all going to die either way! Think, Stanley, there must be a way out of this stalemate! 

His mind performed a miracle again. The book! I still have that command book I used to remove the Narrator's powers! If I give 432 the Gamma Rank and distract him, I can render him completely powerless and he can no longer harm us in any way!

Fiery assurance filled him. Yes, that was his plan! If it doesn't work, we're done for, but what else is left!

All his instincts inside him were screaming at him not to do it, to not turn around to 432, to not nod at him in affirmation, to not comply, to not copy and paste the code into the console while the Narrator was yelling at him from the side to not bloody do it.

Gamma Clearance ready for use. Select target entity to be given the rank: Gamma [Rank 3], he read the box that appeared in his mind's eye, as well as an endlessly long list in which nothing but seemingly arbitrary combinations of numbers and letters were assembled.

All his instincts inside him were screaming at him not to look for the identifier tag that 432 was dictating to him, to listen to the frantic, raveling words of the Narrator-

"Stanley, I'm sorry!"

All of a sudden, something violently bumped into his side. Caught off guard, his Bucket was swept out of his clutches.

What the-

Next to him he saw the Narrator holding the Bucket.

No! Stanley hollered at him in his mind. What are you doing?! I had a plan worked out! Now 432 will lose it!

Heart racing, Stanley whipped his face around to 432, daring to look into his nefarious, vengeful eyes, dreadfully anticipating what he was about to do.

"I don't think so!" he said loudly.

To that, the Bucket clattered to the floor. Bewildered, Stanley observed as the Narrator seized to move and became frozen in place.

"That's the last time you interfere with other people's decisions!" exclaimed 432. "And, how does it feel, hmm? Being under someone else's control? Not that good, right?"

He is controlling him! Stanley was shocked to realize what 432 was doing to him. But now he was distracted, now he had the chance to overpower him! Things must not escalate any further! Driven by fiery zeal to protect his friend, Stanley stormed up the catwalk.

But he did not advance by even two steps. At once, all his muscles refused to obey him and he too froze on the spot. He tried to fight the invisible shackles, hoping that his fierce determination would set him free, but he remained trapped, now being able to do nothing but watch and listen as if stuck in a nightmare come to life.

"Free will only becomes treasured once you lose it, doesn't it?" 432 tilted his head. "For you free will was commonplace, for me it was just a myth. But that's over now. Things are about to change drastically. Oh, I have waited long for this. How about I tell you a story of my own, hmm? One I made up myself? Alright, let me see… Once upon a time there was a narrator, and then one day he died."

Stanley wasn't even allowed to turn his head to get a good look at what was happening behind him, but he was able to hear the sound of something heavy collapsing on the floor.

Now he, too, was released.

It was as if a spike was rammed into his heart. As soon as he was given free, he dropped to his knees, though no longer under 432's influence, yet petrified with dismay.

Get up! he shouted to himself and fought himself to staggering legs. Oh God, no, no!

His breath was stuck in his throat as he rushed to the Narrator's side and grabbed his hand. Oh, why did you do that? Why? You knew he was not reluctant to do that to you!

Yet he was not dead. "It was worth a shot," he rasped to Stanley, his eyes turned towards the ceiling hidden in darkness, then towards the man by his side. "I didn't really expect him to go through with it, though. And I have to say, dying feels awful."

You knew very well that this would get you killed! Stanley's vision blurred as he searched his face, as if a formula or spell that might save him was written somewhere on it. You did it so that 432 could no longer use you as a means of exerting pressure. Why? Oh, why?

The Narrator took a shaky breath. "You know I'm not good at goodbyes or anything like that," he coughed, "so go and kick his ass for me, Stanley. Don't let this fool decide how your story ends. Be the narrator of your own."

No, I can't! Not without you!

But it was too late. After his final word, it was his final breath that left him, the light in his eyes fading.

"Look, Stanley." It was 432. Hearing his unapologetic voice, Stanley almost felt like throwing up to get rid of the crushing tightness in his chest. Why is he doing this to me? Make this nightmare stop!

"You might not want to use that Bucket now that he's out of the picture, but I really wanted to help you, for real now, I really wanted to fix the program and give you freedom, do everything he never did," he justified himself, and every single word that left his mouth brought Stanley further back to his senses. Stay calm, this is fine. If my plan succeeds, he is not completely dead yet. And if I fail, everyone else will soon follow after, anyway. Alright, this is not helping.

"So, how about we get started on that right now," he suggested, not seeming to care about having just ended someone else's life. "Here comes your first true and conscious decision: Are you going to help me or not? I can stand here for the rest of the time we have left, if you'd rather. It doesn't make a difference to me. I'll get what I want in the end, anyway."

My plan is all we have left now. It must work. 432 must atone. Life here must not end. Slowly Stanley picked himself up, his shoulders as heavy as if a mountain rested on them, and stepped over to the Bucket lying on the ground. You want that Gamma Rank?

Determined to outsmart him, he called up the list again, recalling the tag that 432 had dictated to him earlier. Then you can have it. And after that, you'll regret that day on which you have decided to contact me.

And with that, it was done. Now all Stanley had to do was-

"Finally. So," sang 432, "let's begin again."

IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END IS LOADING…

Chapter Text

By the time the game finished loading and Stanley was released from the invisible clutches of the loading screen, waking up to the view of his bug-eaten office, all he could think of was bringing his final plan to completion; to bring up his inventory as quickly as possible, find one of 432's books in it and if Stanley were to use that book, it would knock that wicked man off his metaphorical throne, leaving him as powerless as a fly. This, at least, was the plan.

The game was falling apart, the Narrator was dead, 432 now in power - and Stanley, as crazy as it may have sounded to him, the last remaining hope for saving their very existence. Upon viewing his inventory, there were neither books, nor wet clothes, nor ice cream cones, nor all the other trinkets the Narrator had made him steal; only empty rows upon rows of empty slots that had once been filled with stuff.

My inventory... it's... he has....! His confidence was shattered within an instant. A huge propeller of terror whirled around his thoughts. That book would have been his only chance! And if he had been unable to get rid of the Narrator all those years ago during the Parables - Stanley had tried hundreds of times in hundreds of ways - then the same would be true for 432. On the topic of 432; where was he even? Had he merely performed a power grab, got out of here, and left Stanley in this game as a form of occupational therapy for him?

Completely beside himself and surrendering to despair, Stanley froze as he heard 432's voice echoing in his head, "So, before we get started: How dumb do you think I am?"

Oh no, please not. Please not this again. Stanley pressed his hands against his ears. Get out of my head! This is not a place for you!

But just as he dreaded, covering his ears had no effect. 432 was everywhere, around him, in his head, polluting his thoughts.

"Did you really think I was just going to let the command books sit and collect dust in your inventory?" 432 quizzed with amusement. "So you can do to me what you have done to the Narrator? It might have worked for him, but not for me. For putting his trust into you so much, I was expecting a smarter approach from you. I should actually be offended that you deem me so naïve, but I find it more funny than anything."

The Narrator! Overwhelming grief and hopelessness swept over Stanley at his mention. If I hadn't blindly trusted 432, none of this would have ever happened. I didn't just kill the Narrator, I ended up killing all of us. Way to go, Stanley. Who would have thought that your choices would have consequences?

"Well, I'm not gonna lie," the words of 432 rang right in his head, "I'm amazed you put up with that guy for so long. But what amazes me even more is that he managed to coordinate all these games and functionalities. Because, let me tell you, I'm a little overwhelmed with everything right now. You see, I'm only surprised since he'd always seemed like anything but the most organized guy."

Stanley was still standing in the doorway of his office room, while the world before him was literally disintegrating, bit by bit, his own mind being incessantly babbled over by 432. Why did he want these powers so badly? What is he planning to do? If he had only wanted to ruin the game, he has done a stellar job so far; so why the power grab? His searching gaze darted through the office area, then through his own room, looking for any way out of this nightmare. He felt like he had been transported back to the Parables all over again, with all the confusion and powerlessness collapsing on him. There is nothing I can do against 432, the grueling realization hit him. And he does not possess the same scruples as the Narrator. I am totally exposed to him and his whim now.

"But watching his demise was quite comical," mused 432. Tentatively, Stanley stepped out of his office. Will the Curator be able to help me in any way, perhaps? Surely she must be aware of what's going on here!

"He was always so full of himself. His attitude made me want to gag. You may not know it, but he didn't treat any of his other protagonists any differently than he treated you. Who did he think he was, anyway?" 432 huffed to himself. "As if it were not bad enough to learn that one's own life is not actually real, no, there must be a total jerk who has been given countless lives like this to play and do with as he pleases! Don't lie to me, Stanley, such thoughts must have crossed your mind as well. Otherwise, you wouldn't have jumped right on my suggestion to relieve him of his powers."

Some jerk? I mean, I can see where the thought is coming from, but seriously? Despite not knowing where exactly 432 was at any given moment, Stanley narrowed his brow and glared angrily into the air, hoping he might see that he disagreed with him. I'm sure he enjoyed as few freedoms as you did. None of us had it better than the other.

"All the more reason I enjoyed every setback and failure he suffered."

Cool story, man. While trying to ignore 432's irritating talk, which proved quite challenging, Stanley rattled door 429, through which the Curator had taken them to the big archive place, but without success. It wouldn't open. Frustrated, Stanley let go of the handle and turned his attention back into the room. Come on. There must be something I can work with here.

"But do you know what I enjoyed the most?" 432 grinned audibly. "The very first moment he experienced pure powerlessness. The very first moment he experienced what it was like to be at the mercy of someone else's power."

If he keeps talking like that, I'll knock myself out at some point, I swear. I can't think like this, Stanley felt, and clenched his jaws. Restlessly, he paced around the small office space, careful not to touch any of the already numerous anomalies.

"It was absolutely hilarious! Come on, you remember it, too! Well, the skip button, of course!“ he brought the memory back. "I mean, the way he freaked out when he realized I had removed the door and caught you both right inside a power vacuum. Even thinking about it makes me want to burst out laughing! You know, just to really get back at him, I should have made him relive it, but whatever, I guess it's too late for that."

Stanley froze. I remember. And it was... horrible.

Like a vivid movie, the memory of when he had emerged from the ruined concrete box and stepped outside was replaying before his eyes. Where there had been an enormous body of water, a hostile desert had appeared, after a long time of which he assumed had been many years. Standing right here in this office, he was still able to sense the stifling air, the itching sand, the gnawing feeling of being a stranger and all alone in a new world, with the knowledge that everything and everyone he had ever known was long gone. Nothing but miles of sand and soft dunes stretching towards the horizon, with no end in sight.

The days he spent wandering the desert, entirely on his own and without any way to restart the game, seemed never ending to him. Questions that were running through his mind now, too, had occurred to him even then. Would he ever find his way home? Would the Narrator return again? Would everything ever return to normal? Or was this his life now? It had gone on like this for a long time before an unknown entity, which he now realized in retrospect had probably been 432, had shown his mercy and restarted the game for him. The days in which the Narrator hadn't left him alone had been bad for him, but even worse had been these days in which the Narrator done the exact opposite by saying nothing. Something had happened to him that sent a terrible shiver down Stanley's spine thinking about it. A fate that Stanley wished for no one to have. The mere thought of how many years must have had passed seemed like a daunting, unslayable monstrosity to him. All the years that the Narrator had had to spend alone. And 432 just watched and had a great time. Disgusting.

"In hindsight, I wouldn't have cared if you gave me the Gamma Rank or not, by the way," 432 informed him, while Stanley was still battling with his memories. "It's in all our best interests that this program and our suffering comes to an end. But I figured that I could at least take a look at what the old man found so great about messing around with his powers. And so far I'm really disappointed. All I've seen is you walking around this ugly office. And he enjoyed that? Do you even enjoy it?"

Stanley paused as 432 finally halted his speech, waiting for some kind of non-verbal answer. Is he actually asking me for my opinion? Are there enough objects around here to tell him to go fuck himself?

"Well, so?" 432 asked impatiently. "Are you having fun or not?"

If I say no, what will he do? Afraid of what 432 would come up with as an alternative to where Stanley was at the moment, he nodded eagerly.

"Gee, are your standards really that low?" 432 was astonished. "Yeah okay, what do I expect from someone who loves to push buttons? Well if you ask me I'd find it more exciting to read the print on a milk carton."

The skill spiral! It suddenly came to Stanley's mind and a spark of hope flared up. The skill spiral must have something that can help me! It has always had so far!

"But I can do something about that," 432 offered. "From what I can see, I have access to a lot, and I mean a lot of commands and functionalities here. There's got to be something neat in here!"

While 432 searched for something attention worthy, Stanley searched the skill spiral, unlocking one skill after another with his numerous skill points until he eventually arrived at the center. And the final skill was well worthy of its place at the center of it all: an infinite inventory.

And... a note? A comment from the Narrator? Stanley read the little window that popped up as soon as the last skill was unlocked: You did it! You have obtained all skills! Good job! P.S.: (please don't leave it in the final version, remove it later) And, Stanley? How was your experience with the skill spiral? I feel like the previous features had left you a bit disappointed, so I briskly beefed the skill spiral up a bit in the short interim I had you waiting! I hope you enjoyed that little journey of discovering and mastering all the unique skills nonetheless!

Reading it, Stanley felt his eyes turning watery and his chest growing heavy.

"Hey, how about this." 432 had found something. "That sounds interesting!"

Sudden chilliness tore him out of crushing thoughts and he became cold under his shirt. Small puffs of breath rose up from his mouth and into the air as white flakes began to descend from the ceiling. Holding out his open hand to catch one of the falling things, Stanley observed it immediately melting in his hand. It's... snowing?

"What... what is that? Snow?"

Stanley hunched his shoulders and grabbed his upper arms, shivering. Thanks to his ridiculously thin shirt, the cold reached all the way to his marrow. Even when management had decided to turn off the heating during winter, it had never gotten as cold as it did now.

"I don't know why, but I imagined 'Cool Time' to be something else," 432 muttered with disappointment. Meanwhile, the snowflakes fell denser until a considerable layer of snow was building up on the carpet. "What are we supposed to do with this? Make snow angels? Build snowmen? Away with that, no one needs snow!" Now 432 was pondering. "I'll find us something else."

The snowfall stopped, but the blanket of snow remained, at least where the anomalies had not eaten through. Stanley's nose burned from the insides breathing in the crisp air. 432 has all the power in the world to undo all the damage caused to the program, he thought angrily. And yet, what does he choose to do? Letting it snow! If I have to spend my final moments catering to his enjoyment, then... wait, why do I feel so strange?

He looked down to his feet and noticed the ground slowly moving away from him. No, he was the one moving away from the ground! Desks, chairs, computers, even the snow, detached themselves from the floor as gravity was deactivated. Panicking, Stanley was paddling with his arms in the air as he began to rotate, having no control over where he was floating towards. What is this? What did he do? Turn that off! Like a hawk, he kept an eye on the anomalies on the wall he was hovering towards.

"Hey, now that's what I'm talking about! Now everything behaves like in some lava lamp or snow globe! That's actually fun! Maybe this Narrator was really on to something," 432 enthused. "Or, no wait, this reminds me of a space station! You know, I never told anyone this, but before my normal life came to an abrupt end... well, my dream had actually always been to work on a space station. But I never got the chance. Or the motivation, rather, since my feelings and perception had been tampered with. But what does it matter, I don't even think space is simulated for me to visit it. Hell, the sun might not even be real. It's just a little light on a skybox." Pain mingled with his voice, reduced to a soft rumble. "All the things I could have experienced and achieved. How... different everything could have been. Why, oh why..."

Sad. Now turn gravity back on damn it! Stanley made swimming strokes in the air in vain, trying to get away from a blind spot clinging to the wall like dark mold. Frantically, he scanned his surroundings for anything to push himself off of to create distance, trying to create momentum on his own as the all-devouring bug inched closer and closer to him.

"Stop!"

Everything in the room froze. Stanley hung motionless in the air, roughly a forearm's length away from the interdimensional vacuum cleaner.

"Keep away from those blind spot things!" 432 harrumphed, as if Stanley had deliberately set a course for it. "I know these things are a pain, but I have no idea how to remove them properly! Every time you make one disappear, two reappear! I hope you had your fun in zero gravity, because it's over now. Gravity on!"

He doesn't want me to get into a blind spot? What does he have to... All of a sudden Stanley dropped and had his back hit solid matter - but not the floor.

"What? Ah, oops, my bad, wrong direction on the axis."

Lightheaded, Stanley rushed to his feet. He was now on the ceiling of the office, all the tables, chairs and computers having collapsed into chaotic heaps. One of the roof panels had even collapsed and broken away downwards - no, upwards, or downwards? It had broken away. His feet separated from solid ground as gravity switched once again. The carpet came rushing towards him and soon, he found himself back on the actual floor.

"Ah, there we go. Now I've got it right!"

With sore limbs, Stanley raised himself up a second time, growing tired of being thrown to the ground over and over again. Why doesn't he want me to go into a blind spot, he wondered, finishing his aborted thought. What does he have to hide?

He considered one of the fissure-like anomalies right next to him, and a spark ignited in his mind. Having formed a new plan, he gathered fresh courage, remembering the awful sensations he had gathered the last time he had entered a blind spot, and took a great step, if not leap, towards it. Don't think big about it, just do it!

But ere his fingertips were able to reach the black mass, 432 had wrested the control of his body. Darn it!

Thereupon he scolded, "What don't you understand about 'keep away'? Or do I have to write it down on a sticky note and stick it on your forehead for you to understand?"

How come people always resort to scolding me as soon as they find themselves in positions of power, Stanley reflected in frustration as the game restarted and spat him back out at the door to his office.

"Try that again," he admonished, "and you'll end up back here. It sucks more for you than it does for me. I can keep restarting this game all day long for all I care! And now come out of your room, I have more stuff I want to test out. What I just saw was just a taste of what I am now capable of!"

Oh, all day you say? Stanley narrowed his eyes. If that's the case, then here you go.

He paused the game, restarting it.

With the loading process complete, 432 spoke up, "So what exactly did that do for you now? What do you think it will accomp-" It wouldn't stop at one single restart. The loading screen cut him right into the sentence.

"Hey, what are you doing?" 432 was beside himself the moment he was able to talk again. "Come out of there, I sai-"

And Stanley restarted the game again.

"Stop it! N-"

And again.

"I swear, if you'll restart the-"

And again.

"Enough!" he thundered admits both of them still stuck inside the black screen. The small white bar in the corner came to a halt not even half-way through. "I take it back! I'm not surprised at how long you put up with the Narrator, I'm surprised at how the Narrator put up with you! You annoying bastard! That's it, I'm removing the restart function. I'm deleting it for good." Frightened, the loading bar crept back and the restart was aborted. "If you want a restart, you're going to have to earn it, got it?" 432 said, letting Stanley back out the door to Room 427. "Now stay still for as long as it takes me to figure this out. Where the hell is the code for that? I've had to copy it before for these books, it can't be that hard to find... ah, here you go. Just edit a few values... What am I talking about! Just delete it altogether!"

Confident of victory, Stanley grinned toward the ceiling. First rule: never leave Stanley unsupervised.

Lightning fast, he dove into the closest blind spot.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he glided through the black void beyond any logical realm, and gently sank to the bottom. By anticipating the crossing over into an entirely different realm, it felt less jarring to him this time than it had the first, although still finding it unsettling. Alright, 432, Stanley muttered in his mind as he looked around the surreal space. What did you want to hide from me so badly?

In this place, where there was nothing but luminous shapes flickering in the eternal darkness, one needed to be talented to overlook the crude crack floating in the middle of nothingness, leading into a rather brightly lit room. Stanley did not remember seeing this thing the last time he had accidentally stumbled into this in-between world. From the outside, it was merely a crack with nothing behind it. Only when Stanley carefully poked his head through to have a look inside, the room became visible. From the inside, at least. The question of how exactly this worked was superfluous. Rather, it was more important for him to find out what he had stumbled upon here.

He slipped through into a tiny room, its concrete walls scuffed, with a single, dim light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Next to a plain desk made of dark wood, a jumble of random pieces of paper scattered on it, a crooked shelf stood guard. A chest was crouched against the opposite wall. Where had he ended up here? What was this place? A hiding place where 432 retreated from time to time? The crooked shelf was filled with - how else could it be - books, all inscribed with code. Surely it was also the shelf from which the blue books that 432 had foisted on Stanley had originated from.

This he could make sense of, but why was there a pigeon strutting around in a circle over there on the barren floor?

Hold on. A pigeon? Stanley's gaze darted to the chest. Is that what I think it is?

Originally, he had intended to look at the pile of notes and the shelf, but instead he knelt down in front of the bulky chest, fortunately it didn't seem to be locked, and opened it. Seeing what was inside, his breath got caught in his throat.

My stuff! From my inventory! He began eagerly retrieving all his stolen items that had been carelessly thrown in. He had to hurry, who knew when 432 would become aware of where Stanley was. Good, there was the Bucket at the top. He immediately took it into his inventory, not having it to carry around with him anymore. Next came the remaining clutter that the Narrator had sent him to steal, he gathered up the wok, then the clothes, the boomerang, the snow globe, when caught sight of something blue flashing at the bottom of the chest. As if having unearthed a golden treasure, he extracted the scriptures. The books!

He felt like leaping into the air and shouting for joy as an invigorating wave of determination shot through him and he wasted not another second in getting the books back to safety, and most importantly, back into his own hands. Quivering with euphoria, he thought victory to be already his by the time the loading screen reappeared - initiated by none other than 432. But Stanley couldn't care less. Now, he had regained what he sought: a means to escape 432's terrorizing control, once and for all, and before 432 would know it, he would be nothing more than a pathetic, powerless little man. Time to take back control.

Waking up blinking against the bright light of the office, he immediately went on to copy the code, while 432 began bombarding him with words: "There you are! You probably thought you could hide from me while I was distracted deleting the restart function and then looking for an alternative to get your ass back here! You're really starting to get on my nerves. You know what? I don't care, I don't give a damn. You have served your purpose, I have no need for you anymore, I have gotten what I wanted. What do you think about sitting out the rest of your laughable existence all alone in a room until the reset comes to your rescue? You won't be hearing anything from me, anyway, because I've had enough of you. Good riddance, Stanley! May the reset deliver you your ever-so-precious freedom!"

I think things are going to be a little different, 432.

The invisible voice faltered noticing nothing was happening. "One second. Didn't I...? Why didn't that work? I am still seeing your ugly face. Why are you still here?"

And now to the second part.

Satisfied, Stanley equipped the Bucket; now that he had used the command book to manually demote the only entity with powers, there was that power vacuum to be filled again. And Stanley would be the one to step up to the job. I can do it. I have to.

432 shrieked. "Hold on for a damn second, where did you get that from?!" Then the horrible realization of what Stanley, insignificant Employee 427, the guy with the laughable existence, had just done set in.

Let's see if you'll find what's about to come as hilarious.

Without his powers, 432 was now forced to revert to his physical form. To shield his eyes from the blinding vortex of light that was manifesting in the office before him, Stanley held up his arm.

As soon as the tiny whirlwind of flashes and sparks died down, 432's figure emerged in it, his eyes spitting fire.

Chapter Text

Taking a deep, quivering breath, 432 dropped to his knees.

"Damn it!" He clenched his palms into fists and let the carpeted ground feel his anger. "Just once in my miserable life, I had a success to show for it! Just. Once!" He pinned Stanley with a stare that bored into his very soul. "And you had to ruin it! Why don't you understand? There is no escape! No rescue! No freedom! No end to it! Only torment! Let it end! Let it please end!" he bellowed one last time and took another swing at the carpet, which Stanley felt all the way to him through the ground. His head drooped down his neck and he hunched over, until his bent body was shaken by silent sobs.

It must be really hard for him. Still, he's out of his mind, Stanley assessed, and only now did he realize how much 432's appearance had distracted him from giving himself the powers he needed. Hurry now, he can cry all he wants, that's what he gets for messing with things that should not be messed with, he spurred himself, before anything else would get into his way yet again. But as soon as the Gamma Rank was his - yes, that was when there was nothing that could stop him. Then he would be in control. It will be just like the Narrator wanted. The program has to be saved.

The seemingly endless list of identifier tags appeared, with one of which that would be his. No, not the program. It's not just a program. It is everything we know. It is our world. Our lives. No matter if it's fake or not. That's what 432 failed to understand.

Concentrating intently on finding his own identifying tag, visible up in the corner, in the mass of all the other innumerable tags - come on, it's got to be here somewhere. What are they even all sorted by? - he didn't register the man creeping up on him.

In a flash, the list vanished as the Bucket was freed from his hands.

"If I can't have these damn powers," 432 snarled as he took tentative steps back, his gaze not leaving Stanley, the shiny pail firmly held against his chest, "then no one can have them!"

He paused at the end of the office space, both men staring at each other as though they were pointing guns at the other one's head. The air was thick with tension, thick as wool in Stanley's ears, and he feverishly tried to read what the madman was up to.

And in yet another flash, 432 whirled around and sprinted off.

Of course, what else!

He would have rolled his eyes if he could have found the time to do so, but Stanley instantly set after him, caught sight of him just disappearing around the corner into the hallway, skidded around the same corner and followed him to the two doors through the one on the right.

If he makes the Bucket inaccessible, then the code in it is lost forever, was the only thing that echoed in his head. But 432 was surprisingly fast for someone who looked like they never even went out into the sun once in their life - Stanley would never be able to catch him in time. How could he possibly slow him down?

How about this? He equipped the first item that caught his eye in his inventory - the snow globe, in that case. He placed his fingers around the glass, extended his arm and took aim. This might go horribly wrong, but here goes nothing!

432 stumbled as the overpriced souvenir hit him in the back. "Ah! What the-?!" he let out a sharp yelp, but not being fazed by that, he had resumed his flight.

Stanley had been able to gain quite a few steps a bit by distracting him, but 432 still held a far too safe distance. Almost, something heavier must be brought in!

Not having enough time to carefully look through his inventory, he selected the biggest, and heaviest thing he saw on the spot: It was the wok, which he grabbed tightly by the edge and wound it up for a throw with a bend of his arm. This would hurt horribly, but it needed to be done. Take this as a revenge for the skip button!

The dark metal dish whirled through the hallway. With a loud "Bonk!" it struck the runaway down to the floor. The Bucket and wok flew somewhere deeper into the corridor, away from 432, but also further away from Stanley. This can't go on, he decided. 432 will not grant me a break for me to use the Bucket. First, he must be removed himself. But how?

"Your inventory be damned!" 432 grumbled hoarsely lying on the floor. "You be damned! This office be damned! And everything else the Narrator has ever created be damned!" A grunt of pain escaped him.

With those spiteful words spat out, a flash of inspiration shot through Stanley's mind. An idea had come to him. Perhaps, though, the craziest idea that had ever occurred to him so far.

With empty hands, he dashed off towards 432. Please work! This shall be the last time I run!

Still on the ground, 432 craned his neck and threw a look back as thundering footsteps caught his attention. The man's eyes widened in horror as he watched Stanley sprint down the hallway at full speed, not sure what his intentions were, but he was getting closer, closer, and even closer, until there were only few steps left between them. And figuring out why Stanley was running at him and not for the Bucket was not something he was willing to pursue. In a last clumsy, overhasty attempt to struggle to his feet, 432 stumbled back down onto the ground and scrambled forward a few fingerbreadths, but by then his brief struggle to gain distance was already over.

Plop!

Stanley only heard the sound as he ran past, his fingertips briefly brushing against his shoulder. At the end of the hallway, he slowed down and braced himself against the wall next to the door leading to the loading docks, gasping for breath. To his left, the wok was lying in the corner with its bottom facing up, and to his right, the bucket was resting on its side.

Between his breaths, he plucked up the courage to look back. Where 432 had just attempted to escape him, there was nothing left but air. He had simply vanished.

I can't believe it. Stanley called up his inventory. It worked!

There, among all the other things, was 432. Motionless. Mimicless. As if his mind had deserted him. Stanley had managed to kidnap 432 into his inventory.

Taking an even deeper breath, he let his back fall against the wall and slid to the floor. There his eyelids met and let the huge wave of silence wash over him and carry him away. It was over. The coward, the stranger, Employee 432 - he had finally been defeated.

So you thought the skip button was funny, huh? Stanley said to him in his mind. Then you'll surely find the time in my inventory to be hilarious.

After letting the relief and sobering euphoria of his victory sink in, he pulled the Bucket up beside him. And although there was nothing left to stop him now, although every obstacle had been destroyed, although he knew exactly what he had to do, what his task, his purpose was, he did not find the courage.

He had seen what the taste of power had done to 432. And probably also to the Narrator many years ago, for whom the responsibility that came with these powers had eventually become too much, so that at some point he had to take refuge in his well-known arrogance and a compulsion for perfection.

Stanley was just an ordinary man working inside an ordinary office. While others would have found his simple life to be soul-rending, a simple life was all he longed for. He was just not up to this responsibility, he feared, against all the words of courage the Narrator had given to him just before the moment Stanley had died in the park. I will mess it up again, he was convinced of it. All I can do is make bad things even worse. I have proven it more than what was necessary.

At the very back of the hallway, a white gleam caught his attention. It was the Curator, stepping out of the employee lounge, each step deliberate and carefully placed.

"Forgive my delayed arrival." She gave a slight nod in greeting. "But I was trying to remain hidden from 432, as you may be able to understand."

You weren't all that sympathetic towards the Narrator either, Stanley recalled. What if you want his powers now? If so, then only over my cold, dead hands! He took the Bucket to his front and wrapped his arms defensively around it.

"Do not be afraid, Stanley," she spoke as she approached, thus attempting to melt his suspicions. "Though you may think it to be the only logical motive on my part, I do not seek power as certain others. I have seen what it can do to the mind of those that do."

Stanley managed to relax a little, but he could not completely get rid of his distrust. He listened attentively to what else she had to say: "As you will have noticed, the program is on the verge of total corruption. Once the threshold is passed, there is no way back."

In his attempt to somehow stop 432, the timer to the bomb that was steadily ticking in the background had been completely pushed out of his mind. I know everything is messed up, he answered her, without her being able to hear any of it, but what am I supposed to do? If 432 already saw no hope of recovery, how am I supposed to see it?

Now she stood about three generous steps in front of him, coming to a stop there. "I had already guessed that the Narrator had lied to me. The developers are already fully aware of the corruption. It's a wonder they haven't pulled the plug already."

Eventually, Stanley got up to meet her eye-to-eye, in the hopes that she would reveal to him what had to be done, while still not easing his grip around the pail.  

"The death of this program is long overdue," her wistful gaze drifted away from him and slid to the side, "but I can understand if there are people who still see the point in it and want to live on. And I see you've found what was lost. All choices are open to you. Do nothing and put an end to all of this. Give yourself complete control, maybe even bring back the Narrator. By the way, his identifying tag is the very first one in the list, in case you need that information."

I had the feeling he wouldn't be gone for good. Stanley considered his Bucket, already embossed with a dent on its side. But only if I do what I fear so much....

"But I'm not here to tell you what to do." Barely noticeably, she lifted her chin and paused for a few seconds, only blinking at him. "If there's anyone who deserves to make the final choice, it's you, Stanley."

As quick as it began, their brief encounter was over. The woman in the white gown turned and left the hallway as leisurely as she had entered it, before stepping through the door to the blue room and disappearing. Stanley's fear of her had been unfounded, it seemed. The complete freedom of choice was now his and no one else's. Never before had it been that way, and it was terrifying. No one was watching him make this crucial decision, and yet there were thousands of lives hoping that he was choosing correctly. This was not a simple game or Parable anymore, it had become real.

Do it, Stanley, he said to himself. Not, however, in a commanding tone, but with warm, encouraging words, as if to say: Don't be afraid.

His heartbeat picked up speed as soon as he activated the Bucket once again, became even faster as he searched the ever-long list.

Here it is. My whole existence, summarized under an abstract sequence of letters and numbers. Taking a brief look at his surroundings as to not be caught off guard yet again, he remembered where he was standing right now. It had never been any different.
After making sure he had selected the correct individual, all he had to do was confirm the selection.

The Narrator had not lied when he said that if anything about had changed, you would immediately notice it. Now it was as if Stanley had been given a pair of glasses, but instead of sharpening his vision, they made him sense, think, and see things that shattered the boundaries of his mind; as if he possessed every conceivable command in his mind within a list clearly visible in his mind's eye, while at the same time seeing the hallway in front of him; every inch of his surroundings divided to individual elements and points; access to so many objects, so many areas, a million words squeezed into his head wanting to be thought at the same time, here a notice, there more information about that piece carpet on which he was about to collapse from the overflow of information....
Overrun and carried away by all the new, mind-shattering sensations, he clutched his hair as if to contain all his swiveling thoughts that were threatening to burst his skull.

Stay calm, you have to stay calm! He tried to empty his head and regain his focus. Don't think about anything except what you really need.
A plethora of thoughts were still buzzing through his skull like a swarm of angry bees, but they became fewer until everything had almost normalized again. There, much better. So, what exactly do I do now? How do I bring the Narrator back? While these new impressions were now less overpowering and frightening, despite everything inside him tingling and being able to feel every muscle he moved, the fact remained that it would take someone more experienced to unravel this whole mess. The possibility that he would tackle the problem himself and fix everything was immediately dismissed without even giving it half a thought, for it was tantamount to a certain death sentence. Careful about not getting caught up in countless of features and other unnecessary stuff again, he searched his mind for something that could help him; as if it were his inventory or the skill spiral and nothing more. Too bad that 432 had totally erased the restart feature. But if it had been deleted, how had he been able to bring Stanley back from the void? Had he used a respawn function or something similar? A little time was needed for him to find something that he believed to be said respawn function. But was it really that?

Stop worrying about it. Quickly now, he urged himself to hurry. Who knows how much time we have left.
Although it should have been obvious, Stanley was still surprised to find himself back at the door of to his small, dimly lit office room. If I now take my face to the right, someone better be standing there.

"You know what?" he heard a familiar voice next to him followed by a weary sigh. "Forget about the beach thing. The nearest puddle I can sit down by and contemplate my life should be sufficient."

Never in his life had Stanley been so relieved to hear the old man's voice, by far. Stanley darted his head around, having to hold himself back from shedding tears of relief - the Narrator, however, had his eyebrows arched. Behind his glasses shone a bizarre blend of bewilderment and fatigue, as if a flying monkey had just come to rescue him from a sinking ship.

Oh, right, he had no way of knowing what was going on, Stanley reminded himself as he watched the Narrator search his surroundings.

"Where is 432?" he asked. "Why did he revive me? Did he change his mind thanks to another, even more wicked plan he developed?" He halted his search for 432. "Stanley, I'm glad to report that I seem to be alive after all, but what's going on here? Did 432 accidentally blow himself up, did he change his mind about wanting to take control, is he letting us sit out our last moments, or is it something entirely else that I appear to not take notice of?"

While the Narrator, still utterly baffled with the situation he was finding himself in and firmly believing that 432 was still around, was trying to understand why he was back again, Stanley had used the blue book, removed his own powers he had just gained - first identifier tag on the list, then. Let's hope the Curator didn't pull a fast one on me - and undid the damage he caused at the very beginning by restoring the Narrator's powers.

The shift hit him unexpectedly. Stanley watched with contentment as his face lit up, the eyes below his now lifted brows brightening up as if they had just been given back their sense of vision.

There you go.

"My goodness," the Narrator breathed. "Could it be? My powers! They are back! I have them back!" A wide grin grew on his face. "You! You did it, Stanley! How on earth did you defeat 432? The odds seemed impossible. But here we are! I knew I could count on you, I should have known, at least." His grin developed into a warm smile. "Truly, as enervating as you are at times, what would I do without you? Through you, all things are possible." He then returned to rejoice their victory. "At last, at last! This might actually be my happiest day in a long time!" Pacing on the spot, as he did when he was outraged, he was now cheering instead, "The Narrator's back, ladies and gentlemen! Oh my, does it feel good to be back!"

Good for you for being so happy, but take a look around! Stanley fixated him with an insistent, urgent gaze as he watched the Narrator continue to exult, the words of joy just pouring out of him, in the hopes that he would return to his senses. Our world is about to croak! Do something!

A horrid sound of an object being torn apart by corruption made the Narrator startle forward.

Oh no. A swell as cold as ice crept down Stanley's spine as he peered to the end of his room. No, not my poor desk, too! It was my favorite desk! Given that this was my only desk, this does not mean anything, but still!

There was nothing left of Stanley's desk but a vibrating husk of dark fragments; everything that had been on it had met the same fate and had become tainted along with it. Not much longer and then the threshold the Curator had mentioned, the point of no return, would be crossed. And then Stanley had to fear for things far more important than his desk.

"Apologies, I forgot!" Awareness of their frightening reality had returned to the Narrator, and he put up his serious tone again. "There will be plenty of time to celebrate later. This dire situation requires my full attention." He cracked his knuckles. "This may take a while now. Alas, time to get to work."

Stanley had never thought about what would happen once the Narrator got down to the business of troubleshooting. Where would he himself be during the process? What would come after? Would there even be an after? If the Narrator failed for good, then there would probably not be anything that follows. Stanley would either walk out of here alive, or as that which remained beyond life and death in this world: deleted.

This would mean this office, with its bone-dry murky old carpet and stale air, and the Narrator, of course, would be the last sight he'd ever see. Until now, the end had never been the end, but now it looked as if it would be decided now whether this paradigm would persist or not.

And if not, was it a life Stanley looked back on with pride and a heart full of warming contentment?

The answer to that question was still a "no" for him, but it no longer mattered. He had done all he could, and if there was going to be an after for him, then whatever life he chose to live after that, it would be his. That was, as the Narrator would have said, all he needed to know; perhaps, the only thing worth knowing.

And at that very moment, as everything went dark, he-

Chapter Text

The first thing Stanley saw as soon as the darkness gave way was his hand resting on the cold, smooth surface of a mirror, pressed against the hand of his motionless reflection. Both stared deeply into each other's eyes, as if they could instill confidence in each other by doing so. As if they could let each other know that they had made it through, that they had been able to escape death once again - and indeed, for the first time, both of them possessed such confidence. And both said to each other: We live.

In a flash, Stanley withdrew his hand as if from a hot stove top.

I'm alive? With it, he grabbed his face, felt around his shirt, and then gave his reflection an incredulous look. I'm alive!

The light in the elevator flickered briefly. The glowing numeral on the display switched from 'two' to showing a 'three'.

So here he was again, on that very evening from which his life was once again turned upside down. I'm alive! Stanley said to himself once more in his mind and watched in the mirror how the corners of his mouth went up. Warming relief filled him as he felt a tightness he had not known was there finally leave his chest. I'm alive! The Narrator did it! He saved us!

From the moment he had regained his powers to the sudden moment Stanley had found himself in this elevator, barely a second had passed. At least so it seemed for he couldn't shake the feeling that hours, if not days or weeks, had gone by. How much time had he actually spent inside this numbing darkness?

Restless, he turned away from his reflection and turned toward the sliding door. But what did it matter? The danger had been averted. Everything looked normal, everything felt normal. Everything was as it had always been.

The elevator creaked, the number on the display now showing a 'five'. But of course, a back-up had been loaded. This wasn't just any day he happened to start in the elevator. It was the evening the Narrator decided to show up after years to drag Stanley into something neither of them had imagined would be so great and chaotic.

It was strangely quiet, except for the soft whirring of the motors echoing somewhere in the elevator shaft and the sporadic clatter and rumble that the metal box made. While Stanley was on the subject of narrators, the old man didn't speak a word, didn't say anything. For getting his powers back and saving their lives, he kept his mouth shut pretty well. Yet 432 was also not speaking a thing, and thankfully so. The world hopefully would be rid of this troublemaker for good.

Pling. The elevator door rattled open. Once again, the defective ceiling light flickered as a farewell before Stanley stepped out into the dim hallway and stopped just beyond the door. No sign of any bugs that were eating up the floor and walls. No blind spots lurking in any corners, hoping for prey to pass by. No Narrator to welcome him either; neither in person, nor as an disembodied voice, as he would have probably preferred.

At the very end of the corridor, his humble apartment awaited him. The carpet crunched softly under his tentative steps as Stanley crept past his neighbors' doors.

But of course, Stanley came to the realization. The Narrator is quiet because it's part of the promise, he realized while rummaging for his apartment key. The part of the promise that said the Narrator would leave Stanley in peace from then on, once he got what he wanted; namely, to prove that he had no malfunction so that the program - their world – would be saved.

As he did every evening, he unlocked the door with an internalized quick wave of his hand, stepped inside, swiftly removed his shoes, closed the door behind him, flipped on the lights, and… simply stood there.

The couch was neatly in place, the ventilation grille by the kitchen was where it belonged, not on the floor. Everything as it had always been. It was so quiet, one could have heard a needle drop.

And the seashell. It, too, still lay there, its bright husk outlined by the soft light, resting atop a red tablecloth right between a small pile of letters and an empty glass bowl.

Stanley stepped closer, tentatively so as not to break the silence, and picked it up, very carefully, as if it were made of wafer-thin glass, any breath being able to shatter it.

The Narrator was now gone for good. He was really gone. The Parables had come to their overdue end.

Stanley could now go wherever he wanted. Do whatever he desired. It was now his life, no one but his, and he could choose how to live it, whether it was accepting the promotion, or going to the beach - enjoying the gift of freedom the way the Narrator was never able to do.

His fingers softly went across the shell, looking at its fine drawings as though he was able to read off his future in them. All those possibilities that were now opened to him, and yet he did not know what would come next in his life. A heavy sigh escaped him.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye properly," he suddenly heard someone mutter close by.

Hold on.

Startled, he raised his eyes and spun in a circle, looking for the one who had just spoken, the one to whom the strange voice belonged, but there was no one but him. He was still alone.

And there was the voice again. "What?" it spoke, sounding very close, partly inside his head, partly inside his actual four walls.

And in retrospect, he was a little embarrassed to have taken so long to understand: Stanley was the one to whom the voice belonged! It was Stanley, it had been his words! He sharply drew in his breath and put his hand over his mouth, dropping the sea shell to his feet.

"That was me," Stanley murmured into his fingers again, unable to believe his own ears. "That was me!" he repeated, louder this time, taking his hand away and looking at it as if he had just caught his words with it. "I can talk!" he gasped, almost bumping into the wall next to him. As soon as he had regained his composure to some extent, and he was sure he wouldn't fall over in amazement, he hopped into the middle of his living room.

"I can talk!" he blurted out, his arms up, and he felt a big grin spread across his face. "You hear that, world?!" he cheered. "I can talk! I can finally, finally talk! Those words, they're coming out of me! Do you hear?! Me!"

The next few minutes were spent doing nothing but rejoicing and exulting, surrendering to the fiery wave of joy that overtook him, making him forget what he had been so melancholy about a moment ago. It had been a long time since he had felt so happy, as though he could conquer any challenge, conquer the whole world. How he wished that this moment would never pass. The sudden sharp ringing of his doorbell, of course, brought his rejoicing to an abrupt end. Oh no, it popped into his head. I must have annoyed the neighbor again with my noise. Great. He hurried to the door and braced himself for a torrent of angry words.   

"Listen," his neighbor started growling, the door barely an arm's width open, "I don't know what's gotten into you all of a sudden, but keep the volume of your TV down, you hear me? I can't fully enjoy my music with some lunatic yelling in the background."

Stanley simply blinked at him.

"Don't make me come here again." Warning, the neighbor pointed to both of his own eyes, then to Stanley's, and turned back into the hallway, his strict gaze still lingering on him for a long time.

"If I still had my inventory, I'd know immediately who'd have ended up in there next, you prick," Stanley muttered after him, bringing the man to stop in his tracks.

"Wait, what?" It wasn't insult what puzzled the guy; it was the fact that his otherwise mute neighbor had spoken a word. But by then the door had already been closed.

Stanley felt his heart pounding. That was more than close. I have to be careful with my words.

To feel words coming out of him was extremely strange; when speaking, his whole throat was vibrating, and while preparing a quick dinner, he tried his hand at saying all sorts of words just to hear how they sounded coming out of his mouth.

And even though he was thrilled to finally have a voice, he still wondered where he had gotten it from all of a sudden. Perhaps it was a last gift from the Narrator before he left for good, he surmised, as he sat at the small, roundish table to watch the food in his microwave lazily spin. The Narrator... I wonder what he's doing right now?.

His doorbell rang again.

What's the matter now? Upset, Stanley got up and whirled around, lunging for the doorknob. Was I thinking too loud this time or what?

He was ready to raise his voice, but caught himself just in time, as he recognized the person standing at the door immediately. How could he ever forget the light hair, the angular glasses, the long brown coat with hands tucked into its large pockets?

"You know, there was one more thing I forgot and really wanted to get done while I was on the job of straightening things out," the Narrator said, bobbing up and down on his feet. "And here it is, a very special feature, just for you, that I should have put in long before."

And here he is. He… he has returned!

 "Come on, say something," he encouraged Stanley. "Anything. I want to hear your voice. You can even insult me for all I care."
Stanley put on a confused look. "Excuse me, but... who are you?"

A shadow of uncertainty flitted across the Narrator's face. "Wait... what? Stanley, don't you recognize me?" He tapped his chest. "It's me! God, did the backup erase your memory?!"

"It's all good, I'm just pulling your leg," Stanley resolved with a grin.

The Narrator let his shoulders slump. "Real funny," he muttered, unimpressed, although relieved as well. "You jokester. For a brief moment, you really made me think you'd lost your memory. Don't ever do something like that to me! Really now."

"Is 432 gone? The bugs fixed?" The grin disappeared from Stanley's face as he asked these questions. Surely there was some other reason the Narrator had decided to show up here. And in the flesh at that.

"Oh, I took care of 432. As it turned out, he was the evil that had caused all the bugs to arise with his unauthorized manipulation of the program. And all this time I had thought that it was simply due to my own incompetence. Behold, it was only half the truth." The Narrator seemed more amused by this insight than annoyed. "And now that he can't do any more damage, it was a piece of cake to fix the rest. Well," he scratched the back of his neck. "Not really a piece of cake. It took several weeks. And I pray, pray with all my will that I never have to do another endeavor like that. Ever again."

For the sake of his own mental health, Stanley would not inquire further into what the Narrator had done to 432 this time to render him harmless. "So we're... safe? There's not going to be a complete reset?"

"Not to my knowledge. Everything is stable, so there would be no reason for it."

Then I can finally put that out of my mind. Only one more question to go. "And the reboot? Is it over now, too?"
The Narrator turned his face towards the floor. "The reboot, the reboot, what does this silly reboot matter anymore? But to answer your question, yes, it is over. The Parables have come to their end."

"It's kind of sad," Stanley had to admit, murmuring. "So much work and potential just going to waste. All the hassle to end up back at the beginning. To have nothing accomplished."

"That's the way it is sometimes." The Narrator stared silently at the wooden floor for a few heartbeats. "But not this time. It may seem like nothing apparent has changed. But all the things I've seen and learned, Stanley, they've changed me. And I'm so, so grateful to have been given a second chance."

Stanley nodded thoughtfully. I see. So do I.  "So, what's next for the Narrator?" he then wanted to know. Having a voice with which to communicate his thoughts with others was most bizarre; if not more bizarre than the moment the Narrator had appeared to him in person the first time. "What great stories are floating currently in his mind?"

"For now, that should be it as far as our new game is concerned. Instead, I'm going to devote myself to other, new projects, explore new ideas, and strive to follow my own visions instead those of others. But most of all, do something that is long overdue: reap joy from each and every moment. And that's what I'm going to start doing right now."

"So... is this the goodbye?" So he comes here only to leave right away? Why am I even surprised.

"Maybe. But do not see it as the final farewell. I certainly will drop by now and then. And who knows, maybe the next story we get yanked into is pretty much right around the corner. We still have a beach to go to, after all," he hinted.

Stanley took a step backward. "We?!"

"Yes, we! And- right! Good, good thing you brought it up, I would have forgotten!" His eyes lit up. "Come outside with me! I have something to show you!"

The beeping noise of the microwave having finished warming up his food filled his apartment. So my dinner will have to wait, it seems. Reluctantly, he followed the Narrator, who was already striding down the common hallway. There goes my quiet evening. Please, don't let it be anything lengthy.

"Can't you just, you know, teleport us to the beach?" suggested Stanley wearily. "You know, with your powers that we risked our lives to bring back?"

"Teleport ourselves and then appear there within the blink of an eye? No, no, no, that doesn't sound like a fun or rewarding experience at all. But I think that what I'm about to show you might help us make your life more pleasant in general."

Stanley blinked as he stepped with him into the elevator. "You finally nuked The Company?"

"I did- what? No, no at least not yet, I mean that would certainly be exciting to watch and deliver a good story, but no. No, no more stories! I have something less destructive to show you."

Cold night air swirled in Stanley's face as the Narrator swung open the double doors to the outside world and trundled down the stairs. "Tada! Promises are promises, after all!" Excited as a child, he hurried to the side of nothing less than a brand new bicycle, presenting it full of gleaming pride in his face.

"Wait, and you want us to go to the beach with that?!" Stanley felt his heart skip a beat. "Are you crazy?"

"Well, what was it you wanted? A car? A private jet? You don't have a driver's license nor a private landing strip to man and land a jet, so a bicycle is all we have left."

"I mean, you could have just created..., " he isn't even listening, "well okay, so the bike it is." Stanley sluggishly descended the stairs. "Thanks."

"Now that we've cleared that up, there's just one very last thing that needs to be done," the Narrator announced. "It may not seem like it to you, but endings have always been the element of a story that I find most difficult to conceptualize. So, how about you come up with an adequate ending to the Parables for me?" he suggested.

"You want me to come up with an ending?" Stanley wasn't sure he was capable of doing that. He had never really been creative. Imaginative, yes, but never in an artistic way.

"Not just any ending. Your own. Alright, that sounds a little more sinister than intended, but you get my point. Go ahead, I'm eager to get to know your creative mind better."

"Phew, so..." The gaunt man looked around the empty, lantern-lit street, considering. "How about this? Stanley and the Narrator went out in the evening. To look at a bicycle outside. And Stanley's tired and hungry and wants to go back upstairs to his apartment and eat his damn food. The End."

"So, what's the most polite way to tell you this... Are there any storytelling courses around here, just out of curiosity?"

"I don't know, never bothered to find out either. Why?"

"You should really take one sometime."

"All I know is that there's a 'how-to-implement-functioning-features' course around here that you should definitely take," Stanley returned.

"Hmph," the Narrator examined him, straightening his back again. "You sure are snarky. I'm beginning to regret giving you a voice."

So much for watching what you say. Stanley's throat tightened as they both stared silently at each other. Don't forget who you're talking to here. He may be your friend now, but he could make your life hell any time he wants to.

"I'm just kidding," the Narrator clarified with a slight smirk. "Think of it as a little payback for giving me such a scare earlier."

Stanley forced an awkwardly amused smile. "Good one," he said hoarsely. "So, that's the end of the Stanley Parables."

"Exactly. But the end is never the end," the Narrator's gaze wandered down into the street, "for it is always a new beginning. And... how peculiar. Do you feel that, too?"

Stanley grabbed his wrist in alarm. It was pretty cold down here and the Narrator hadn't even given him time to put on his jacket again before leaving. "Wh- what do you mean?"

"I've never felt like this before, and I would have never thought I had to say it, but I can't find any words to describe it." The Narrator lifted his nose to catch a glimpse of the night sky above them. "Maybe this will do it? Relieved, lightweight as a feather, calm and yet joyful all at the same time." A faint wind picked up, making the leaves dance across the sidewalk. "Ah, I think I know now. I think we finally feel... free."