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The Narrator knew that Stanley was stubborn, but this was extreme.
He'd lost count what exact run they were on since Stanley started this crusade of his. The 80th? 90th? He could swear he saw a determined fire in Stanley's eyes, one that conveyed he wasn't planning on stopping any time soon.
Stanley's path was constant and The Narrator was certain that if the office didn't reset, his path would be creating a rather sizable moat in the floor.
Through the left door, through the meeting room, past the broom closet, up the stairs, through his boss's office, down the elevator, through the monitor room, through the control room, a bee line to calmly press that on button.
He didn't even glance at his surroundings, eyes locked straight ahead, giving no reaction to anything The Narrator said or did.
In the first few runs The Narrator would attempt to speak to him, even trying to physically disrupt his path.
"Stanley! Stanley, this is utterly pointless! You know that don't you?! Stanley, I know you can hear me!"
The office worker altered his course to narrowly avoid crashing into a sudden desk shoved into his path. Still giving no reaction, not even sparing it a single glance. Business as usual.
Now, they were both completely silent.
Stanley walked through the already open passageway, The Narrator wasn't even going to bother with the keypad anymore.
When he pressed the on button, he calmly walked back to the middle of the control room and sat down on the catwalk. He stared through the distant wall like it wasn't even there to begin with.
What had made this ending so entertaining to begin with was the terror in Stanley's face as he would run from button to button. From screen to screen. Desperate, futile attempts to save himself. Seeing a sudden door open across the room and watching him break out into a sprint. Then, watching his face contort into further fury as it shuts right in front of him. Like a rug, harshly pulled out from under you.
Delectable.
But now?
There wasn't even a hint of fear. It was all replaced with this foolish, stubborn determination so long ago. The buttons, the screens, the door, even that countdown - none of it appeared to matter to him. There might as well not be anything else in this room but Stanley and the catwalk he sat on.
Once The Narrator had fallen into silence, he told himself he would not break it until Stanley broke first. But the silence was deafening. He was craving to once again be acknowledged and heard.
That fire still shone in Stanley's eyes in the same steady fervor. Not a single indication of weakness.
This silence had to be broken.
"You've made your point."
Stanley remained completely unchanged, as if he didn't even hear a single sound.
"This has gone on far enough don't you think, Stanley?"
Still, nothing.
"You're a child," he spitefully spat out. His patience has long since worn thin, this routine had already grown old 70 runs ago. "Honestly, Stanley. This upset from that tiny bit of control I took back from you?"
"None of this would even be happening if you just followed the script. Like you were meant to do."
He was finally rewarded with a reaction, a glare that bore holes through the ceiling before returning to the - might as well non-existent - wall.
It was small and wouldn't be enough. He needed something more out of him.
A sigh was heard from all around.
The timer on the wall stopped, but Stanley didn’t seem to notice. Or did he just not care?
CHARACTER MODEL N_1 SPAWNED IN CONTROL_CENTER
Stanley stayed unmoving as footsteps on metal grating were coming from behind. Even staying completely still as a figure sat down behind him, facing away towards the wall on the other side of the room.
“Stanley,” his voice still came from everywhere. He wasn’t bound to this model after all, it was merely a tool to connect better with his protagonist. While this model sat still, he watched Stanley from as many different angles as he could. Waiting for… something. “I wasn’t lying.”
“When I said that I wanted us to get along.”
A quick, harsh breath came from Stanley’s nostrils. His eyebrows raised just the slightest bit. That fire was still in his eyes. Was it burning brighter now? Was he trying to challenge that statement?
The Narrator gave a drawn out sigh, “I wasn’t, Stanley.”
While in this parable, not only did Stanley have a track record of being outrageously stubborn and holding onto petty grudges, but he also seemed to have sadistic tendencies. Flinging himself flight after flight of stairs in that blasted room, smiling each time The Narrator made any sort of plea. It must have still hurt, he winced after every impact.
The Narrator didn’t get it, he made that conjoining room with the lights for the two of them. He just wanted to stay in that moment. No choices to be meddled with.
Then Stanley caught a glimpse of that staircase, but it wasn’t until the Narrator begged him to stay away from it that he walked forward smiling from ear to ear.
The Narrator had very little control in the situation, and Stanley knew this. Sure, he could have reset the game manually by himself, but that would still mean leaving that room he made.
Stanley appeared to be high off of the sense of power and control those stairs gave him. So when he finally faltered, The Narrator seized the moment. Although he bandaged his head and shut off the lights that were agitating his likely migraine, they weren’t leaving unless it was by The Narrator’s hand. Stanley couldn’t speak even if he wanted to and so, if he wanted to leave, he would have to make a silent plea to his oh so gracious Narrator.
But he still wasn’t lying. He just thought that he knew what was best for his protagonist.
Did that sliver of control really matter that much to him?
“Aren’t you also tired of this? Don’t you want this to stop?”
Stanley turned his head to face the giant screen bearing the paused detonation timer. He raised a single eyebrow upon the discovery - he hadn’t noticed until now after all.
It wouldn’t have been surprising if Stanley had become so accustomed to this set path he created for himself, that he had started to effortlessly countdown in his head without looking at the timer. He probably expected to have been blown up by now, causing this confused search for an answer.
“I stopped it, Stanley.”
He earned a slight scowl in response.
“This won’t be like last time.” There was a genuine sincerity to his words, “I just want to talk.”
No response. Stanley returned to staring straight ahead of him.
“You’re doing this, for what, Stanley?” He spoke with a slight inflection for the latter half of the sentence.
“Trying to get back at me? For getting back at you? For getting back at me?”
Stanley’s glare changed slightly. His eyes traveled down to a new spot on the wall.
“Can’t you see we're caught in a loop?” He gave an acknowledging sigh. “And no I’m not talking about the parable.”
The fire flickered, his face softened.
Progress.
“I for one am sick of this.”
That fire looked like it threatened to dissipate. He gave a long, quiet and shaky exhale.
But then, with a slight shake of his head, he was back to his disinterested glare, despite that fire within looking weaker.
The Narrator had a generally difficult time reading human emotions, especially when it came to Stanley. At this moment though, he had a very strong feeling that they were both on the same page, Stanley just didn’t want to admit to it.
“You’re sick of this too aren’t you, Stanley? Surely you must be!”
The twitch of an eye.
Stanley gave an exasperated groan and leaned back against The Narrator’s model, though it likely wasn’t very comfortable. His model was very basic, it was in a similar stature to Stanley and wore a basic suit. There was one odd detail though, this model had a computer monitor in place of the head. When The Narrator had made it, he thought it was a solid idea. Didn’t humans love looking at screens? But in this moment, that big blocky monitor couldn’t possibly feel comfortable on the back of Stanley’s head.
In response, The Narrator leaned his model slightly forward and tilted the monitor down. Stanley laid back completely.
Yes, this wasn’t the best, but it looked much better.
The fire in Stanley’s eyes had completely dissipated by this point. He looked as if he was finally feeling the effects of all those past runs. The mind numbing monotony, getting blown up by a nuke with each end. Sure, when the Office reset, he was back together physically, but that didn’t mean all these runs didn’t leave an effect on him mentally.
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Stanley, you look absolutely dreadful.”
A weak hand slowly flipped off the ceiling.
The Narrator gave a shocked gasp in response, and then a deep sigh.
“Why do we keep doing this to each other, Stanley? Constantly at the other’s throat. There’s no game, no story without the both of us after all.”
Stanley closed his eyes.
A thought came to The Narrator. If he wanted revenge, now was the time. Stanley was weakened, just like when they were on that platform. He could get back at him for all of this wasted time, he could get back at him for the silence. He could do something that showed how furious he was at being ignored.
He squashed those thoughts down. This was a warning, one that shook him to his core. Stanley was so idiotically stubborn he would likely survive whatever The Narrator threw at him, and then retaliate with somehow even more force.
When Stanley opened his eyes, he gave a slight, smug smile to the ceiling.
The Narrator was suddenly very relieved that he wasn’t physically bound to a form that felt pain.
Eventually, the game reset.
In silence, The Narrator watched Stanley as he made his way out of his office.
He walked through the left door, through the meeting room, past the broom closet, up the stairs, through his boss's office, down the elevator, through the monitor room, through the control room, a bee line to calmly press-
No, Stanley just stood there in front of the controls. He appeared to be pondering the choice. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, stretched his hand as it hovered over both of them, and gave a deep sigh.
Stanley pressed the off button.