Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Narrator had just woken up from a bountiful and refreshing comatose. He wasn’t quite sure why he needed sleep in the first place, or how he slept, or if he really was sleeping peacefully every night. If he wasn’t just shut off or unconscious, blacked out for a short period of time. But then again, what is sleeping other than blacking out for a short period of time? The fact of the matter is, he was awake, which meant it was time for work. He settled before his monitors and retrieved the scripts he’d written the other night from a filing cabinet next to his desk. The nebulous man grumbled as he flicked through all of the various storylines he’d concocted, cursing his past self out for poorly utilizing his stapler when some of the pages became loose and left the rest of their paper pals to flutter to the dusty floor.

“Oh, to hell with it…” He muttered, booting up his monitors. He had decided to pick the least arduous storyline for this first run, one he was sure would be easy for Stanley to follow. That is, if the incorrigible man decided to go easy on him today, for whatever reason.

The office began to load in, and The Narrator made work of changing and loading in assets to fit the story’s narrative before Stanley would have a chance to interfere. He gave the map one more look-around just to be sure. Everything seemed to be ship-shape. He’d fixed a few bugs he found muddling up the code, which weren’t too hard to work around, but he’d spent at least 30 minutes reprogramming light boxes and special effects that he could have used to actually tell his story, so he was desperate to get the show on the road.

And so, he began the game.

“This is the story of a man named Stanley. Stanley worked for a company in a big building where he was Employee 427. Employee 427’s job was simple: he sat at his desk in room 427 and pushed buttons on a keyboard. Orders came to him through a monitor on his desk, telling him what buttons to push, how long to push them, and in what order.”
The Narrator took a sip from his mug of tea conveniently prepared at his desk before he had arrived there before continuing.

“This is what Employee 427 did every day of every month of every year, and although others might have considered it soul rending, Stanley relished every moment that the orders came in, as though he had been made exactly for this job. And Stanley was happy.” He’d had to repeat this monologue so many times that he didn’t even have to think about it while reciting it. He could do it with his eyes closed, or while reading the paper, or while gargling a cup of water and still capture the same cadence as the first time he’d ever had to read it out loud.

“And then one day, something very peculiar happened. Something that would forever change Stanley; something he would never quite forget. He had been at his desk for nearly an hour when he realized that not one single order had arrived on the monitor for him to follow. No one had shown up to give him instructions, call a meeting, or even say ‘hi’. Never in all his years at the company had this happened, this complete isolation. Something was very clearly wrong. Shocked, frozen solid, Stanley found himself unable to move for the longest time, but as he came to his wits and regained his senses, he got up from his desk and stepped out of his office.”

Stanley finally spawned in, looking around the office as if it was the first time he’d ever seen it. Perhaps he was just displaced with being woken up from the only rest he got in the endless cycle The Narrator put him through.

“All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room, perhaps he had simply missed a memo.”

Instead, Stanley stood still. The Narrator’s heart dropped with the thought that he may have crowded the map with too many assets and caused him to lag, or that perhaps Stanley had finally broken after being thrown about and bossed around so many times. He had a cautious finger on the reset button, when Stanley finally made a move.

Back to Room 427, that was.

“What, Stanley! Just what do you think you’re doing?” The man behind the monitors asked, disheartened that his test subject was starting to disobey this early in the run. Stanley proceeded to close the door behind him and lock it.

“What on Earth are you-! Get out of there Stanley, right this instant!” A quick button press switched the camera that his monitor was receiving footage from to the camera within Room 427, where Stanley sat in his swivel chair, resting his arms upon the surface of his desk with his head buried into his button-up. 

“Are you sleeping, Stanley? Are you that tired of my story already? I’m boring you, am I?! I’ve barely even said a word, and you’ve decided to ignore me completely! Astonishing, truly.” Stanley nestled his chin on his folded arms and stuck his tongue up towards the ceiling, blowing a raspberry. The Narrator squawked in frustration.

“Oh, how mature of you! If you’re going to be difficult this early on, then I’m not going to play nice either.” He toggled off the door to Room 427 within the code and dragged Stanley out onto the beige-carpeted hallways.

“There we go, now you have no choice but to obey me.” Stanley smirked knowingly. “And I’ve blocked off the broom closet, so don’t even think of hiding there.”
Stanley’s smug expression was wiped clean off his face in an instant, and The Narrator forced himself not to smile himself as he cleared his throat.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Ahem. All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean? Stanley decided to go to the meeting room, perhaps he had simply missed a memo.” Stanley sighed and walked down the corridors leading to the meeting room. The empty desks that greeted him with every turn weren’t even jarring anymore. “When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his-”

Stanley immediately entered the door on his right. “Wh-! Come on, Stanley! You didn’t even let me finish. Perhaps that was the door I wanted you to go through all along, hmm?”

Stanley flipped him off and continued down the path he had set his mind on.

“Whatever. This was not the correct way to the meeting room, and Stanley knew it perfectly. But he was such an ass that he couldn’t be bothered to follow simple directions for once in his meaningless life.”

The man in question snickered as he finally arrived at the Employee Lounge. He’d never gotten to spend much time in it, despite its loveliness. (Honestly,The Narrator was most proud of his work in that room. He’d done a bang-up job designing it, all things considered, and he didn’t want the man messing about in it.)
Stanley found the cool tones of the room refreshing, opposed to the orange and tan in the rest of the office. He made his way over to the drink machine and knelt on the floor on his hands and knees, reaching underneath the machine.

“What are you doing now? If that machine topples over and crushes you, I wont reset you until tomorrow.” Despite this, the loud brit quickly set a lock on the drink machine anyways. He didn’t do much else but mess with Stanley, and he didn’t want to ruin that. Stanley finally got off of the floor and dusted himself off, two very crumpled dollars clutched in his hand. He smoothed them out and fed them into the machine before pressing a key that The Narrator couldn’t discern from the slightly blurry feed of his cameras. Stanley bent down to receive his drink through the machine’s flap and pulled a bottle of orange liquid from within its depths.
The label read “The Adventure Line™️ Citrus Soda”.

The protagonist cast a questioning look at the ceiling. The Narrator shrugged, not that Stanley could see it.

“What? I was trying to branch out. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.” Stanley unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He spat it out immediately, coughing and spluttering. It tasted like copper and sawdust, the carbonation felt as though it was burning his mouth. “But oranges do, and you don’t see many orange trees around here now do you, Stanley? I had to adapt to my environment. You should take a note.”

Stanley rubbed at his sore throat, he turned the bottle over to read the ingredients.

“CARBONATED WATER, CITRIC ACID, CEMENT, PAPER CLIPS, SHREDDED FILES, THE ENTIRE WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY, TRANSGLUTAMINASE, COFFEE, CORN STARCH, PENCIL SHAVINGS, ANTI-MATTER, YELLOW 6, RED 40.”

He poured the rest of the contents onto the Lounge carpet.

“Stanley! What is wrong with you?! Throwing away a man’s hard work like that-- do you know how much that bottle was worth? For all you know, that bottle could have ended world hunger! Not to mention, that you are currently ruining company property!”

[Doubtful.]

Stanley tossed the empty plastic bottle onto the floor behind him and strolled out of the room.

“Oh, what a mess…” He made a mental note to clean the Lounge up before the next run, hurriedly flipping through the cameras to follow the little nuisance.

“After throwing a fit like a child, Stanley took the first open door on his left.”

[I don’t think so.] Stanley continued forward into the industrial room.

“Stanley, seriously. After all we’ve been through, is it really so hard to believe that I only want the best for you? Do you think I take pleasure in your torment, Stanley? So much that I would go out of my way to make your life a living hell?” The Narrator paused, “Maybe a little.”

Stanley huffed, lifting a leg over the cargo lift threateningly.

“Wait! But- But this time, I want nothing but to make you happy. I’m being completely honest! I have a surprise for you, Stanley. I think that given our circumstances, you’ll enjoy it very much.” The protagonist seemed to perk up at the mention of a surprise. He didn’t have high hopes for whatever this “surprise” was that his Narrator had whipped up, but he was the tiniest bit curious of what it could be.

“Ah, I’ve piqued your interest haven’t I? Then why don’t you be a good lad and turn around, you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Stanley folded his arms. He reluctantly dragged himself back through the door he’d entered and shuffled into the dark corridor. The lights shut off as he crossed the threshold to the meeting room, and Stanley prepared for the worst. For all he knew, he could be walking into a torture dungeon; with swinging axes and saws coming from every direction possible, maces and chains that could wrap around him and choke him within a matter of seconds. Most frighteningly of all, his Narrator could revive him over and over again just to inflict even more painful injuries upon the poor man. Stanley couldn’t really think of a possibility worse than that.

The shrill sound of a party blower emitted from somewhere in the room, and the lights flickered on again.

“Happy Birthday, Stanley!” Stanley’s co-workers greeted him cheerfully. Yellow confetti and balloons fell from a hatch in the ceiling, fluttering around the room.

“Ah, that’s right! It was Stanley’s birthday! He had been so caught up in his work lately, that he had completely forgotten the day of his own birth. Luckily, his lovely co-workers had remembered, and they had set up a wonderful surprise party; just for him. And Stanley was happy.”

Stanley had a look of mild shock on his face. The sight was a bit humorous; his mouth gaping like a fish while his work attire was covered in colorful pieces of glossy paper. He cautiously stepped in front of his co-worker, Employee 456; Beatrice.
He waved his hand in front of her face. She made no movement, staring blankly into the distance. Her eyes were glossed over. It unnerved him in ways he didn’t want to think of right now.

[Is it really my birthday?]

The Narrator scoffed.

“Of course not, Stanley. I have not the slightest clue of when your actual birthday is, or if you even have one. This is just a quick drabble I wrote up.”

[Oh.]

The omnipotent man’s heart sunk a little at that.

“But, perhaps… Perhaps, today can be your birthday? Today, September 19th, is your birthday. Would you like that?”

[I guess.]

“Well, Stanley? Are you going to blow out your candles?” The Narrator asked.
A black forest gateau cake was set on the board room table. The warm glow of the candles instilled a nostalgic feeling into the man, though he didn’t know why. He had realized, at this very moment, that he had never had a surprise birthday party before. In fact, he couldn’t remember celebrating his birthday at all. How old was he? Could he even age? Stanley grumbled and slid into the chair at the end of the table before he could let his thoughts lead him astray.

“If you hadn’t pulled that little stunt in the Employee Lounge earlier, you could have washed down your cake with a refreshing bottle of The Adventure Line™ Citrus Soda. Luckily, your devilishly handsome Narrator has everything covered,”

A large 2 liter bottle of The Adventure Line™ Citrus Soda manifested next to Stanley, along with a small paper cup. “Cha-Ching!” Stanley responded by tapping his fingers on the tabletop in annoyance. “Ah, yes! I almost forgot. Your displeased expression has reminded me of something, give me just a moment.”

The impatient man heard a small snapping sound, and his chin stung ever so slightly, as if he had been flicked by a rubber band. Something rested upon his head, matting his hair to his forehead. His reflection in the pristine and glossy table revealed that he had a party hat reading “birthday boy” strapped to him. Stanley glared at the ceiling.

“Don’t give me that look, Stanley. Just be glad I didn’t sing to you. Now, blow out your candles and make a wish.”

Stanley inhaled a big gulp of air, leant in, and cast it upon the candles. The flames were out in an instant, leaving only the pleasant smell of waxy smoke to waft in the air. The Narrator clapped from behind his monitors.

“Good job, Stanley. Truly splendid. I think I shed a tear for a second there.” Stanley rolled his eyes, “What did you wish for?”

[I wish I had all my friends back.]

This took The Narrator by surprise. Stanley seemed to have a complete shift in character. Perhaps he had turned Stanley’s edge up by accident? That would surely explain his more bothersome antics this run. He spawned in a knife for Stanley to cut the cake with to make up for his stunned silence.

“What do you mean? All of your friends are here, celebrating this joyous occasion with you.” Stanley huffed indignantly as he transferred a gigantic slice of cake from the platter and onto his paper plate. He stabbed a dislodged cherry with his fork and popped it into his mouth. He didn’t bother to stop chewing before answering The Narrator’s query. He couldn’t speak with his mouth anyways, the amorphous man kept all of his thoughts tracked. Stanley had brought up feeling as though it was an invasion of privacy on multiple occasions, but The Narrator insisted he keep tabs on his brain waves at all times-- For science, of course.

[These aren’t my friends. They’re just holograms.]

“NPC’s actually…” The Narrator muttered, “But yes, more or less they are ‘just holograms’. Why does that matter? It’s your birthday, Stanley. Why not just enjoy it with the false pretense of company?”
Stanley shoved a huge bite of cake into his mouth.

[You really don’t understand the human race, do you? We’re social creatures, we need constant interaction with each other to stay sane. And I thought you’d understand the most, always fawning over me. You’re very clingy, you know that?]

The Narrator spluttered at the younger man’s words.

“Fawning?! Clingy??! I’m not clingy! And I certainly don’t fawn over you either! Just who do you think I am, Stanley?!”

Stanley swallowed the last bit of cake left on his plate.

[I think you’re just a lonely guy looking for a friend.]

“Lonely? That’s preposterous. I’ll have you know, I have many friends. Like… like…”

Every being he’d ever known could be counted on one hand. He and The Curator cohabited a space together-- albeit separated by a wall-- They could be considered friends, but The Curator rarely came around to see him, and it was only to criticize his script-writing or inform him of an issue relating to Mariella or Employee 432. Speaking of Mariella and Employee 432, he’d only met Mariella once. He and 432 had history, but not... ideal history. So his options were limited. Except for…

“Alright, you’ve got me there.” He said, defeated. “But… surely, I’m your friend, right Stanley?”

Stanley stayed silent. He dabbed the edge of his mouth with the stiff party napkins.

[I think you already know the answer to that.]

Stanley stood up, his chair scraping across the floor with such abrasiveness that it would’ve made his ears bleed, if he had ears. His party hat was discarded by the door frame as he walked into the hallway and back to his room. The Narrator sighed, and the office faded to black as he reset the game. He went to drink from his mug again, but it was ice cold.

Stanley obeyed his every command the next few runs, and he found himself digging up old scripts he’d thrown in the trash just to keep up with how fast Stanley was completing every narrative.
Eventually, Stanley finished the very last story of the day.

“He had finally done it! Stanley had defeated the evil swarm of robots that replaced his co-workers one by one until their wiry remains covered every hall in the office, all of his friends were avenged. Stanley escaped through the fire exit as the building crumbled to the ground, stepping onto the green grass that awaited him outside. And Stanley was happy.”

“Aaaand, fade to black!” The Narrator said, unplugging his microphone. He turned all of his monitors off and slipped most of the scripts he’d used into the ‘revise’ filing cabinet, to be used for when Stanley felt a little better. As much as he’d hate to admit it to himself, Stanley’s shenanigans provided great gag opportunities within the story. He wondered if all humans were as antagonizing.

There was still a pit in his stomach as he settled into bed.

'I truly don’t have a single friend, do I?' He thought. It haunted him for at least two hours, lying awake and staring at the ceiling. He sighed, flipping over, and he slipped slowly, steadily into a state of rest.

Chapter Text

He got very little sleep that night. Sure, falling asleep was a breeze, but staying asleep? Even though he was a near-divine entity who probably didn’t even need to sleep, he’d wake up to find himself staring at the ceiling in a cold sweat. Stanley’s words haunted his mind.

“I think you’re just a lonely guy looking for a friend.” It echoed in his head over and over as he tossed and turned in his bed in agony. He had absolutely no plans on executing any narratives in the morning. It felt as though his brain was simultaneously melting and ice cold at the same time. It’d take nearly 5 cups of coffee to rectify that, and that was a commitment he was simply unwilling to go through with. He’d have to find something else to occupy Stanley with. Perhaps he’d look through the game catalog tomorrow.

***

Stanley awoke in his swivel chair. He rubbed at his eyes groggily, resting his head on his folded elbows. He had approximately 6 seconds to peacefully enjoy his morning until it occurred to him just then that this was out of the norm. He wasn’t greeted by The Narrator’s laxed and monotone script-readings like usual. In fact, he never truly “woke up”. Everyday, he felt as though he just became conscious, as though he had been turned on like some sort of machine, or as if he was just now being born. Except for today.

“Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, Stanley.” The Narrator acknowledged his presence in a sing-songy tone. Stanley found his optimism disturbing.

[I don’t get it. What’s going on?]

“Well, I know this feels a bit different from our usual romps, but you’ve been doing such a good job lately that I decided to let you have fun today.” The posh man answered, “How do you feel about playing some games today? I perused through my catalog and found a few I think you’d find simply riveting!” Stanley raised an eyebrow.

[Really? What’s the catch?]

“Catch? There’s no catch! And frankly, I’m quite insulted that you would think such a thing. If you must know, Stanley, I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I don’t feel much like starting new narratives just to have you screw them up! You seem awfully mistrusting for someone who’s constantly ruining my game. I figured I would let you play someone else’s, just like old times.”

[You sleep? I thought you were like, a god.]

“Really, Stanley? That’s what you’re taking away from this? That I sleep? Yes, of course I sleep! Like anyone else does! What does it matter?”

[Do you need to? Or do you just sleep ‘cause you can?]

“I don’t know! Does anyone, really? Do you think people who take naps take them because they “need to” or just because they “can”?”

[No need to get defensive. I was just asking.]

“I’m not-!” The Narrator’s words died in his throat. He felt a strange sensation creeping up his form, felt where his face would’ve heated up in embarrassment. He’d never experienced anything like that before. Stanley smiled smugly from within the office confines on his monitor. He cleared his throat.

“Let’s just get on with it?”

[Yeah, sure.]

“Yes, erm. I did a quick playtest of this one before you woke up. Personally, I found the gameplay excessively repetitive. But I’m sure you’ll find some way to be entertained by it.”

He booted up the game, clicking his tongue absentmindedly. Stanley’s vision went blank. For an ethereal moment, he felt as though he was flying through space. His entire body felt cold and tingly, like he was walking through a nest of cobwebs, or being poked by needles and tickled by feathers at the same time.
When his vision came back to him, he was sitting in an office chair, like before. Except, this was not Stanley’s office. Stanley’s office was sleek, modern. This office looked dingy and run-down, as if it was rotting from the inside. In contrast to the decaying walls surrounding him, there were colorful posters and children’s drawings hung over the desk he sat at. There were two large doors on either side of him, filling him with a sense of unease.
He felt completely exposed and at the mercy of the darkness that idled just outside of the dimly lit space. He didn’t know if there was a gas leak in the room, maybe mold, or maybe fumes from the rotten-looking slice of half eaten pizza he could see in the trash can under the desk, but he felt extremely dizzy. The only thing keeping him from passing out under the sweltering heat of the office was the fan sitting on the desk that squeaked with every rotation of the blades. A rotary phone rang. Though, the sound seemed organic, as though someone were making it with their mouth.

“Brrring! Brrring!” It chirped. Stanley did nothing.

“Stanley, it’s me you dolt! Pick up the phone!” A familiar voice hissed in a hushed but urgent tone.
Stanley rolled his eyes and scooted his chair closer to the desk, picking up the phone.

“Took you long enough.” The Narrator grumbled, “Now, you must be curious about what we’re meant to do here, yes?” Stanley shrugged. “Well, we are currently in a run-down pizza establishment called “Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza”. You have been hired as a night guard here. This particular establishment utilizes animatronic animals to act as entertainers for their young clientele, yada-yada-yada— these cuddly robots have been set loose in the building to prevent rusting, so your job is to keep them at bay until 6 AM. Believe me, I know it’s extremely dodgy. But I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle.”

Quite ironically, Stanley looked as though he were going to have a nervous breakdown, glancing between the two-- wide open-- doors wildly as his breath became labored. He tried to hop to his feet to run the hell away from whatever this was, but he was shocked to find that the chair was still attached to him. He pried and pulled and flailed himself around in an attempt to escape its grasp.

“Good luck getting out of that chair, that’s Delo Monopox you’re sitting on.”

Stanley gulped. He stood up, chair still stuck to his rear, and ran to one of the doors. It closed with a loud metallic thud before he could escape.

“Oh come now, Stanley. It’s just a game! If it gets too intense, we’ll shut it off. Alright?” 

The young man was quite surprised at The Narrator’s concern over the role he had to play in this, he almost always had little to no care in the world if Stanley disliked anything he put him through. He’d never offered to stop when he was laughing over Stanley’s panicked actions while 2 minutes away from nuclear annihilation, or when he urged Stanley to leap to his death, or really anything that had to do with his untimely demise. Why did he care now?
He nodded anyway, and the door slid open.

[Alright…]

“Good, very good. Now, as you just saw, I closed one of the office doors. There are panels next to both doors that can close them, as well as switching on the light outside of your office.”

[Oh, thank god. That makes me feel a lot better about this whole thing.]

Stanley used his feet to propel the swivel chair towards the panel. He was just about to press down onto the large red button marked “door” when The Narrator piped up.

“Ah, ah, ah, Stanley,” He tutted, “If you keep the doors shut, you’ll drain all your power. Only use them when absolutely necessary.”

Stanley made an odd-sounding squeak through his teeth as a bead of sweat ran down his brow, and he shuffled back to the center of the room.

“Not to worry though! You won’t be left completely in the dark. Pick up the tablet that’s lying on your desk, will you?”
Stanley did as told, peering down at the static image of the stage in the party room and its three eerie-looking performers.

"Yes, yes. That tablet is connected to several cameras located outside of the office. That is how you’ll monitor those fuzzy troublemakers. All in all, don’t run out of power. And don’t let them catch you. Understood?”

[Yeah, I think.]

“Wonderful. Well, I suppose I’ll continue to monitor-- oh! Oh dear.”

[What?]

“I do believe the purple one has gone missing.”

There was a lingering moment of silence.

[WHAT?!]

“Well, don’t look at me! Pull up your monitor to see where the little bugger went off to!”
Stanley nearly dropped the thing in his rush to switch the cameras. Sure enough, the large rabbit-y thing was gone. He kept flipping through the cameras until he spotted the large animatronic in camera 1B, half bathed in the darkness of the area.

“Oh, thank heavens. That’s just the dining area, he’s still relatively far away.” Stanley breathed a sigh of relief. “Right, I forgot to mention. Keep an eye on camera 1C, the one with the ‘out of order’ sign. That’s where the fox is.”
The button-pusher observed the stage curtains through the monitor, faintly catching sight of a silvery hook gripping the edge where the curtains parted. As well as a beady eye peeking out, its line of sight perfectly aligning with the camera. His heart dropped.

“Now, now, Stanley. Don’t panic! Remember, you can shut your doors if they get too close.”

Flipping through the cameras, Stanley took note that the rabbit had changed places, and was now in the maintenance room. His spot had been taken by the chicken. The massive hulk of wires and machinery twitched ever so often, emitting a deep mechanical buzz; a metal hymn. She had a lifeless stare in her eyes that gave Stanley a sinking feeling in his chest. He felt like he was going to lose his lunch.

“How do they move so fast?” The Narrator pondered out-loud before taking note of Stanley’s pale appearance. “Wait a tic, I’ve got an idea. I’ll cause a distraction, sit tight and keep watch of the others.”
The young man nodded and switched his focus onto the maintenance room. But he couldn’t see anything. The large, hollow heads of the beasts he’d once seen before were completely out of sight. Had the camera broken? Fallen over, perhaps? Run out of power? No, that couldn’t be. There was a small sliver of light in the feed that he could just make out through the grain of the screen. But it hadn’t been dimmed.

It was just being blocked by something.

A weak groan escaped the rabbit’s throat, sounding crackly and dry. It nearly blasted Stanley’s ear drums with its proximity to the camera’s speakers. He was starting to think these beings weren’t entirely as artificial as he once thought. The low rumbling ambience of the creature was broken by a loud, repetitive clashing sound that Stanley could faintly hear from within his office, the sound echoed over the cameras, albeit delayed. This was followed up by the distinct sound of whistling.

“Hellooo! Over here! Come get some, you heartless bastards!” A familiar disembodied voice shouted from the kitchen. Stanley now recognized the ceaseless noise as pots and pans being banged together. The one in the dining hall clearly took interest, if the loud footstep-like thuds growing fainter and fainter were to be considered.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Something in his mind felt a semblance of gratitude towards The Narrator, but he refused to let the notion linger. He couldn’t trust that the man was too far away to read his mind, let alone admit to himself the presence of such a thought.

The rabbit was nowhere to be found when he turned to the monitor. And yet; the faint, eidolic wails continued to ring in his ears. This time, he knew he wasn’t hearing it through a camera. It was standing right outside of his office. The moment he shakily peeked his head around the door and illuminated the area to confirm his suspicions, the ginormous lagomorph came barreling towards him. In all his years pushing buttons, he’d never pressed one so fast in his entire life. It slammed into the door as it shut, leaving a remarkably small dent in the metal from the other side. Stanley was seriously impressed by the durability of these things. The rabbit lingered for a moment, but made no further efforts to intrude, trudging off as its joints fizzled and sparked. The impact must have done a number on it.

“Stanley, I’m back!” The Narrator said, sounding exasperated, “Oh thank goodness, you’re alright. I think I managed to hold that one off for a while. Blasted machines… did anything happen while I was gone?”

[The bunny almost got in. I have a feeling he won’t be coming back anytime soon though.]

“Good job, Stanley! Oh-- what’s that behind you?”
The office worker spun around in his chair. A furry arm laid just outside of the threshold, missing its owner. Its fingers twitched and spasmed as Stanley picked up the disconnected limb.

“My, my! You really taught that thing a lesson, didn’t you? Looks like he’ll have to make a detour BACK to the parts and services room, eh?”

The younger of the two stared blankly up at the ceiling for a moment.
The Narrator wasn’t too offended, he knew the man couldn’t speak after all, and he always had a snooty quip or monologue prepared for whatever situation he saw fit. But to his surprise, his lip curled and his neutral expression gave way to that of contained amusement.

“Pfft-!” Stanley began to laugh with such wholeheartedness that it was hard to think of it as anything but earnest. The other had heard him snicker, even scoff, but he had never laughed with such sincerity. Perhaps it was from relief, or a coping mechanism for being so shaken up. Nonetheless, The Narrator would be lying if he said it wasn’t a pleasant laugh, or that it didn’t make something within him flutter in excitement. He had an unconventional, but charming voice. It was nasally, ever so slightly above the medium range for his age and sex, even a bit rough -- ironically enough, given that he wasn’t even able to wear out his voice. He sounded almost weasley, tired, pathetic, maybe a tad manic.
The Narrator chuckled back, somewhat nervously. Part of him was afraid he’d reveal too much if even a little of his internal warmth felt by the predicament came through in his voice.

Just then, everything went black. The sudden lack of light was accompanied by a low hum that echoed throughout the office threateningly. The two stopped laughing.

“Oh my,” The Narrator said timidly, “I think the power’s gone off.” 

A beat passed.

[HOW?? I ONLY CLOSED THE DOORS ONCE! I DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH THE LIGHTS!!]

“I don’t know, Stanley! I- Wait. You didn’t have the desk fan turned on, did you?”

[YES???]

“Good lord, Stanley! That’s what drained all of the power!”

[THE- THE FAN?? THE GOD DAMN FAN???]

“Yes, you dimwit! What, did you think electricity is just free? This establishment has the budget of a shoestring, Stanley!”

[It’s like a sauna in here! How did you expect me to NOT have it on?!]

“I can’t feel temperature, you git! I’m literally just a disembodied voice, I don’t have anything to feel with!”
Stanley could hear the man squawk incoherently, as he often did when he was overwhelmed. The human usually found it hilarious, but he was honestly too confused and bewildered to find the humor in it now. He fiddled with the fabric on his shirt anxiously, his heart beating so loud he thought it might burst out of his chest. He felt completely surrounded, the fan’s meek attempts at cooling down the office were wearing off and he was left with a suffocating feeling sinking into him.

[I’m scared...] He thought. It wasn’t for The Narrator, wasn’t something he was meant to hear. The transcendental man paused in his eccentric ramblings anyway. For whatever reason, The Narrator’s mind drifted back to the countdown incident. He had remembered listening to Stanley’s disjointed, panicked thoughts with great jubilation. More so, it amused him to no end that he had turned this smug and defiant pest into a sniveling, trembling coward. An ant that he took delight in setting aflame with a magnifying glass. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel pity for him, perhaps even remorse.

“Stanley…” He said softly, “I’m… not very good at being a reassuring presence, but...”

Stanley jumped as he felt something touch him, a heavy force from above pressing down on him. The invisible mass of energy rested atop his head, ruffling his hair. It felt like being submerged in a tub full of dry ice or putting your face in front of a fog machine; cold, misty. It raised from his body, only to return once more, albeit for a shorter amount of time.

“It’s going to be okay, Stanley.”

The office worker covered his head, bemused. Did he just pet him?

[Okay…]
He reddened with embarrassment. He hoped The Narrator couldn’t see him. With the stuffy temperature of the office and his befuddlement, he imagined he looked akin to a freshly ripened tomato. The surprisingly tender moment was ruined, however, when a joyful-sounding tune began to float in the air. Though clearly composed for a full orchestra, it sounded as though it were coming from an old, worn music box. Which, in all honesty, nullified any exuberant feelings he could’ve had by listening to it. If anything, it reminded him of winding up a jack-in-the-box. He had a hunch that the situation he was in wasn’t all that different.

“Oh no! Stanley, this is George Bizet’s Les Toreadors from Carmen Suite No.1! He’s here!” The Narrator cried dramatically.

[Who’s here?!]

“Freddy Fazbear! Look!”

Stanley yelped as he saw a cold pair of eyes staring back at him from the entrance of the left door. The harsh glow that came from its optics flickered, but illuminated the gaping maw of the creature. He could see the outline of its teeth, and slipping in between the crevices where its gums would be, a dark liquid that seeped down its lower jaw and hit the checkered floor with a harsh “splat”. Suddenly, a stench like no other flooded his senses. He recognized it instantly as the scent of rotting meat. Or rather, decaying flesh.
He kicked his chair backwards frantically, aiming for the corner of the office farthest away from the thing, before the wheels caught on a stray cord in the room and sent him toppling backwards. He hit the floor with such strength that it would have knocked him out if not for the padded headrest on the chair, his legs kicking wildly like a turtle stuck on its back. The Narrator could do nothing but sit back anxiously, unable to see anything on his monitors. He hoped that the animatronic at least had the decency to not make a huge mess for him to clean up.

Stanley knew that this was just a game. Whatever happened to him wouldn’t matter, at the end of the day he’d be reset, safe and sound. And yet, the thought of potentially being mauled by a robotic bear didn’t seem too appealing, shockingly. How could children be around these things without having nightmares? On second thought, that might have explained the decrepit state of the place.
Snapping out of his panicked stream of thoughts, he realized that the music had stopped.

“Ohh, I can’t bear to watch!” The Narrator squeaked. There was a brief pause in the room before Stanley could hear a quiet giggle come from the man. “Hehe, bear.”

Stanley glared at him, not that he could see. He had a pretty good idea at how he felt anyways, given that his brain readings had practically flatlined.  

“Right, sorry.”

Besides Stanley’s shallow breaths and whimpers, the office was completely silent. He’d curled up in the chair with his eyes squeezed shut, his arms sheltering his head. This so-called “Freddy Fazbear” looked large enough to swallow him whole, and he’d rather go out ducking and covering than kicking and screaming. He could feel the vibrations of footsteps from his position on the floor, but they stopped as soon as they had gotten their loudest. A loud chime rang in his ears, it rattled his ribcage with the intensity of the sound. He likened the feeling to bassy speakers at a concert, though he knew in his right mind that he’d never been to one. At least that he knew.
Nothing came. No monsters, no robots, not even the poor janitor that must have worked there. Though it was doubtful that any of the staff who worked after hours would even live to see their first paycheck. He opened his eyes.

“My god, Stanley! I think… I think you did it! You survived until 6 AM!” The Narrator cheered.
Stanley lifted himself onto his arms, blinking rapidly as he processed his surroundings.

[I did?]

“Yes! Great work, Stanley.”

[Well. We did it, didn’t we?]

“Pardon me?” The pompous storyteller sputtered.

[I mean, you told me what to do. And you sorta helped.]

Needless to say, he was caught off guard. This wasn’t the Stanley he knew! This wasn’t the complacent fiend he’d spent years directing!

“Why, how uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to say! I say, where’s Stanley and what did you do to him?”
Stanley was regretting expressing the sentiment instantaneously.

[No! I meant-! You know, technically you helped!]

“Oh come off it, Stanley. I know how you really feel, no need to beat around the bush. You secretly appreciate my presence, don’t you?”

Stanley faltered, the extended finger he’d pointed at the ceiling in conviction fell limp to his side. He stuck his hands into his pockets and grumbled.

[Shut up before I come up there and make you.]

The Narrator nearly choked on his earl gray tea. He would’ve teased Stanley about the fact he really had no way to get to him or even ‘shut him up’ if the statement hadn’t bewildered him as much as it had. It must have been the scowl the younger man gave him, the glaring eyes beneath the shadow his curled hair cast that surprised him. Then why did it make him feel…? Odd? Peculiar? He supposed any other word he could come up with would just mean “strange”. He couldn’t deny that he found thrill in getting a rise out of the man, but he’d never gotten a reaction like that before, except for… Yesterday. But he hadn’t felt odd or peculiar yesterday, he’d just felt… sad. He and Stanley weren’t friends. He had to remind himself that. This was just the game the two of them played. They bickered and poked fun at each other, it was just that and nothing else. As much as something within him felt pained to acknowledge it. The Narrator swallowed thickly.

“R-Right. Point taken.” He muttered meekly, regaining composure, “Now, onto the next game! I was planning on having you run through a different one, but I think that after all that, you deserve a little bit of relaxation. Although, to be honest, I found this one extremely time-consuming. Nevertheless, shall we?”

Stanley was a tad relieved at the prospect of relaxation. Apprehensive, but relieved.

[Alright.]

***

After another quick caper through space and time itself, Stanley came to on what looked to be some sort of train or subway. The seats were arranged as a train’s seats would be, and yet the view through the windows was dim, safe for the outlines of bricks and the occasional industrial light. Perhaps they were just passing through a tunnel? A dark, continuous-- possibly even infinite-- tunnel.

“Ah, here we are!” The Narrator chirped, “See? Isn’t this relaxing already?”

Stanley was a little uneasy, but he nodded anyway.

“Yes, I think you’ll be pleased to know that it only gets better from here! Now, where do you think this train is going off to, hm?”

[Uh. I don’t know.] Stanley thought, examining his hands. His fingers seemed to have fused into a singular unit. In fact, his whole palm had conjoined with his digits. It was more of a spherical nub than a hand, and Stanley would be horrified if he didn’t think it was sort of cute. It reminded him of simplistic cartoons he used to watch when he was younger.

“Well, you get to choose! Here Stanley, enter a town name into this database doohickey.” A floating panel resembling a keyboard appeared in front of him. He thought for a moment, remembering the bucket; which The Narrator had taken away and “locked up” somewhere after the sequel incident happened. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had just wiped its code and rid the game of it completely, but a small part of him hoped that the man was too proud of his bucket craftsmanship to delete it. Smiling to himself, he typed “Bucketville” into the keyboard. The Narrator hummed skeptically.

“Stanley, don’t take too much offense to this, but that is without a doubt the worst title I have ever heard. I mean seriously, ‘Bucketville’? What a lazy portmanteau! Here’s a suggestion; how about Narratropolis? Hm?”

Stanley frowned and shook his head.

“Oh, fine. To… erm, ‘Bucketville’, we go.”
The human shimmied in his seat happily. He rested his arms behind his head and let his eyes flutter shut, images of buckets floating in lazy rivers and resting in flower patches dancing in his mind.

“Oh, but first. Which one of these maps looks the most like ‘Bucketville’ to you?”
Interrupting his train of thought, 3 new panels approached him. He picked one with an interesting river, one that wrapped around one half of the land in a squiggly roundabout. He didn’t put much thought into the decision, only noticing the little house icons populating a small portion of the panel once he’d already picked.

“Ah, excellent choice, Stanley! The name had me doubtful, but I can tell ‘Bucketville’ will be a grand place. And just in time, too. I believe we’ve arrived at the train station.”

The train emerged from whatever rift in the universe it had previously been in, and the sun was almost blinding compared to the dark, cold surroundings Stanley had been experiencing up to this point. He could observe the beautiful foliage that stood beside the train’s path, the sandy, almost pinkish rocks that had been carved out for the train to pass through. He opened his window and took a whiff of the surrounding air. Heavenly. It was almost as though the crisp air cut into his skin, while the sweet smell of falling leaves soothed the burn. It occurred to him then, that he had never been outside of the office besides the whole ‘new content’ fiasco and when he turned the mind control facility machine off. But that felt different, as though he were merely looking through a screen. He didn’t feel alive quite like this. This was a much needed break from bright fluorescent lights and endless doors and complete desolation. Stanley didn’t know much of his life before this all started, but he knew that Autumn must have been his favorite season at some point in time. Or perhaps, he was simply deciding it now. The train rocked as it slowed and pulled to a stop inside the train station.

“Here we are, Stanley! Make sure to check your pockets before you get off, just in case you may have dropped something.” He was absolutely sure he hadn’t brought anything on the train to begin with, but he dug into the pockets of his slacks anyways. Nestled in his pockets, he discovered a small, rolled-up paper copy of the map he’d chosen. Cheeky Narrator.

“Are we all set?”

[Yep, good to go.]

“Wonderful! Come along, Stanley. We have work to do.”
The office worker felt the gentle, but insistent force from before pressing against his back, urging him off of the train as though he were being pushed. He huffed.

[I thought you said this was a relaxing game.]

“It is, Stanley! In any other situation, all of the endless tasks would be maddening. It’s almost as if this game makes it fun through its usage of bright colors and cute characters! Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

The hovering energy let off as he exited the train station and stepped outside. If merely opening the train window was exhilarating, this was like a tidal wave of emotions and sensations to Stanley. But he barely had any time to appreciate the world around him, when 4 small figures who had previously been standing off to the side came towards his direction. It took Stanley a moment of blind confusion to realize that these beings rushing towards him were… animals! Cute, soft-looking critters who he would pay no mind to if they were sitting motionless in a child’s bedroom, not rushing at him in full speed. It took him another second to realize that these creatures were talking to him, and that he was just staring into space as they yapped away. He snapped back to attention quickly, but the words that they uttered sounded like complete gibberish.

The animals-- a bear, a dog, a bunny, and a frog-- looked at him expectantly.

“Oh dear, I forgot about that. I found the voices dreadful to listen to, so I just turned the sound off when I was playtesting it. I’ll see if I can slow the audio track down…” Stanley could hear the sound of a tape recorder rewinding in the distance. When the dog went to speak again, all that came out were a mix of miscellaneous barks and yips.

“I’m not quite sure what I was expecting.” The Narrator deadpanned, “Here, let me just…”
He meddled with the language settings until he found what he was looking for.

Stanley jumped at the sound of a female voice speaking to him.

“Um… Mayor? Are you alright?” The dog asked again, a worried expression plastered across her tiny muzzle.
He nodded in a daze, before coming to his senses.

[Wait, ‘Mayor?’] He asked, gesturing to himself. The vaguely shih-tzu looking pup beamed. The other animals behind her seemed to whisper amongst themselves excitedly, all expressing the same sentiment.

“Yes, of Bucketville!”

[Uh, I think there’s been a mistake…]

“There’s no mistake, Stanley. You decided this role for yourself the moment you gave this place such a moronic title.” His Narrator weighed in. It had a hint of venom in it that made Stanley shiver with the recollection of the countdown.

[Ah.]

“Is something wrong, sir?” The dog yipped. She didn’t seem to be aware of The Narrator’s presence, at least that he could tell of.

[No, you’re right. I just got a little confused.]

“Great! Why don’t we talk more in the Town Hall?”


Stanley could have enjoyed his walk to the Town Hall, listening to the chirping of birds and crunching of leaves beneath his feet, if not for this mysterious dog’s chattering. She introduced herself as “Isabelle”, dumped a massive stack of paperwork into his arms once they arrived, going on about house permits and liabilities and the integrity of neighborhoods, or something like that. What happened to this being a relaxing experience? This was not what he signed up for. He rushed through all of the papers, sending some flying to the ground as he hurriedly signed his name and ticked boxes. The Narrator chided him for his poor penmanship. He really couldn’t care less though, practically throwing the finished stack onto Isabelle’s desk as she let out a startled yelp. She called out to him as he was heading out the door.

“W-Wait! Don’t forget to visit Nook’s Homes! It’s on Main Street!”
He merely raised a thumbs up in reply.

She sighed and shook her head as she began looking over the paperwork.


“You seem chipper,” The Narrator commented. Stanley paused in his absentminded whistling, noticing the bouncy, joyful gait he’d taken on.

[It’s beautiful out.]

“It is, isn’t it? Although it’s merely a simulation, everything is so vibrant! I’m a bit envious that you get to experience it.”

Stanley frowned at the reminder of this game’s inevitable nature. His pace slowed to a halt as he reached the stoney terrain that encompassed the heart of the town.

[If you like it so much, why don’t you come down here?]

He thought semi-bitterly. The other, less smarmy half of him had thought such a thing many times before. The very existence of The Narrator had boggled his mind at first, if he could remember whenever “at first'' was at all. Was he a god? An angel? A demon? A ghost? Did he exist within his conscience? Clearly not, as he seemed to have a real impact on the world around him. But what if he had been hallucinating his influence this whole time? What if this was merely a dream that he couldn’t wake up from? Maybe this was his afterlife. Stanley could not think of a single thing he could have done in his life to earn him a spot in this personal hell; stuck with this stuffy, disgruntled storyteller. Nevertheless, it haunted him sometimes, in the moments he remembered that this wasn’t normal. He may not remember his life before all of this began, but he was pretty damn sure the purpose of mankind wasn’t to spend every waking, breathing moment of one’s life narrated by a pompous disembodied man with a British accent. Despite this, he had adjusted to his presence quite well. He knew what made him tick, how to set him off, what triggered his long winded rants. He’d come to see him as… a coworker of sorts. A cohabitant in this world that they shared. It was when he considered the creation of this world that he saw differently.

“As much as I’d love to, my being just isn’t comprehensible to the human eye. I don’t even think the fabric of reality would be able to withstand me simply standing in the same room as you without a vessel to contain my energy. That is, if you didn’t drop dead at the first sight of me.”

So much for answers.

[So, you’re just ugly?]

Stanley snickered as The Narrator stammered quite humorously.

“Well, I never!” He griped, “I’ll have you know, for a mass of indescribable nothingness and abundance at the same time, I’ve got quite the track record amongst the ‘hot singles’ in my area!”

The button-pusher burst out laughing, nearly falling over. A few of the plush-like animals walking by glanced at him with concern as he keeled over with his hands on his knees, cackling his way into a coughing fit. The Narrator proceeded to brood in embarrassment while Stanley chuckled the rest of the journey to Nook’s homes at the concept of a near godlike entity falling for a pop-up ad.


It had been approximately 5 hours since Stanley had begun playing. The Narrator was more than just impressed with how much the man had been able to accomplish within that time, he was flat-out flabbergasted. Stanley had already built a house on a lovely little spot of land in the town, bonded with every animal, dug up numerous fossils, caught bugs and fish, and had enough money to buy three swimming pools. Now, he had at least four of the villagers harping him for items, a massive loan to pay, and was standing in the middle of the town hall with three sea bass cradled in his arms, still very much alive and flopping wildly. This game’s rejuvenating premise had no meaning to him anymore.

[I want to leave.] Stanley thought, with almost no expression on his face. It was almost comical, if not a little sad.

“Fair enough,” His Narrator replied, “Well, that’s really all the games I had to offer… would you like to call it a day, Stanley?”

The human nodded and yawned quite adorably, like a kitten waking up from a nap.

“Yes, yes. I’ll admit, I’m growing a bit tired myself.”

[You didn’t even do anything.] Stanley rubbed at his eyes.

“Is that so? What happened to Mr. Stanley ‘We-Did-It’ Parable, hm?”

[That was different.]

“Sure it was,” The older of the two chuckled, “Off we go then, I suppose.”

He reset the game. 

***

Despite his best efforts, The Narrator still couldn’t get to sleep. On all accounts, having gotten very little the day prior, it should have been an easy task. Perhaps he was still stuck on that “having no friends” thing, it wouldn’t be too far-fetched. After laying awake, staring at the ceiling of his office -- and occasionally the blackened screens of his monitors-- he figured he may as well make himself useful. And so, he got up, and began to look through his filing cabinets. He’d been looking for a chance to whip up some new adventure concepts, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. He often liked to reread and annotate his old scripts, anyhow, just to admire his older work. He had been doing just that, when he felt a shift of energy within the room. As if it had gotten colder, numbing more refined. He would have shivered if he was physically able to.

“Narrator,” He heard being called at him from a reasonable distance. He turned, and The Curator stood at the door to his office, leaning against the frame with a heeled toe tapping against the floor. She had taken a different form today, as she usually did when she felt as though she needed a change; each corporeal appearance based on the art movement that depicted most vividly how she felt that particular instance. Though, what she was feeling right now, The Narrator couldn’t discern. Her figure was built on winding, melting geometric structures that sliced through her appendages like a bonesaw, random orifices and limbs sprouting wherever they saw fit. He couldn’t tell if his vision was merely playing a trick on him, or if she really had two faces. Though, if there were anything for your eyes to grasp hold onto in the first place, you would have something new to ponder the second it entered your mind.

“Are you done gawking? I would like to have a word with you.” She said simply.
It hadn’t been said with malice, but The Narrator felt a chord of fear being struck within him nevertheless.

“Err… Yes! My apologies,” He spluttered and tucked his scripts back in their folder. The omnipotent man hurried to her side to avoid getting on her nerves, only recalling how much she towered over him once she was looming right in his path. She spun around and beckoned him along. He was none the wiser, practically toddling behind her. Her heels clacked against the floor with every long stride she took, the only thing standing against the deafening silence surrounding them. The Narrator might have been practically immortal, but something about the loud, rhythmic clicks still made him wrack with worry.

“Yes, erm. What is this about?” He asked nervously.
The Curator clapped her hands twice in quick succession, and the hallway they had been trudging gave way to a pitch-black void that ebbed away at the surroundings with every step they took forward. It was almost as though the hall peeled itself back, like a layer of skin, a pesky hangnail. The Narrator stumbled as he reached the edge of the winding corridor, where from there it was a steep dive into nothingness. But his cohort simply passed him, her feet appearing suspended, as if no change had just transpired. He found himself missing the ominous sound her presence made, as her heels produced no sound at all within the nothingness. The silence was daunting.

“I’m hosting an event of sorts in my art gallery tomorrow,” She informed him. “a little ‘get-together’, if you will.”

They steadily approached a door, or at least a hole amongst the ever-looming black that surrounded them. Perhaps it was the black that was the hole, a tear in reality. The Narrator supposed it was more of a wrinkle, if it allowed them to get from one place to another in a matter of seconds. Whatever it was, they were entering it, and it seemed to lead to The Curator’s museum.
A soothing chime filled the new space and echoed as they crossed the threshold into her gallery, and the incessant ‘click, clack, click’ was back. Her gaze seemed to wander about the place, surveying the area as the pieces hung on walls and placed on pedestals warped and changed with every blink of the eye. A smile-- or something resembling a smile-- on her face as she admired these works, their use of color vibrant against the blank walls. The Narrator was pretty sure he was seeing some with colors that hadn’t even been invented yet.

A gasp cut through the sense of wonderment as something had caught The Curator’s attention. She strutted powerfully towards a certain corner of the room, circling in on an unremarkable vase resting on a plain-looking column. She picked up the thing, setting it to reside on the center of the column instead of the edge, where it had previously been. The Narrator came beside her, watching as she fawned over the pottery like a newborn child. On closer inspection, he could see the lights in the area catch on slight ripples of water from within the vase. And looking up, a bundle of wilted flowers hung above, kept together by a flimsy-looking string.

“What’s this?” He asked. The Curator looked delighted to answer.

“This is ‘Late Desperation’ by… well, I’m not quite sure who, all of my pieces just sort of appear. What it’s about can be interpreted in many, many ways,” She chirped, “but its main themes rely on a feeling of yearning, of something being so close, but just out of reach.”

“I see…”

“Personally, I like to think it’s about a craving for validation. The vase waits, ready for the bouquet to be rejuvenated by its water, but the flowers have long been wilted. Of course, that opens up another can of worms based on what you could construe that longing as, but that’s just what I love about it.” She plucked at the petals of a rotting flower absentmindedly. “What do you see, Narrator?”

The posh man squinted.

“A vase with water in it.”

She laughed, and the shapes that comprised her entirety shifted, thrummed in amusement.

“That’s just you, isn’t it? Always seeing the big picture, never the smaller details.” She mused, turning away from him and continuing down the wide halls of the gallery. The Narrator rushed to catch up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t take it too harshly, Narrator. You’re a storyteller, a weaver of tales. You care too much about the completion of the narrative, not enough about the journey. The steps along the way.”
The previous sentiment was lost as the nebulous man proceeded to take this more personally than was originally intended.

“I do too care about that- that thing you just said!” He squawked, “My stories aren’t just “tales”, they’re odysseys! Oracles that I pay the highest amount of care and attention to! Do you know how hard it is to write a tangible character arc?!”

The Curator chuckled as the shorter of the two continued to rant, fuming.

“No wonder that human of yours is so disobedient, you’re too busy rushing him along! His choices are what make your Parable special, are they not?” He paused, whatever point he was going to make next disappearing from his mind entirely.

Stanley… Stanley’s antics were what kept him busy, they provided him with ceaseless ideas for endings and paradoxes and everything non-demigod writers merely dreamed of at night, when The Narrator didn’t even need to sleep. Probably. Physically speaking, if Stanley were the perfect subject, he could force him to run along his narratives all day, every day, until the end of time. But… would it be the same? Would he truly enjoy his Parable if his Stanley were to be replaced with someone more compliant? His Stanley? What on earth was he thinking? He was probably tired. Yes, that’s it. Such a fantasy wouldn’t even be possible, because he does need to sleep. Why even bother thinking about it any longer?

“I… suppose…”

“Humans are born within this existence to experience, to make their own decisions. They digest the world around them in every way you could possibly imagine. Why, any human would adore to be in his situation. The ability to make an infinite amount of choices, fixing ones they regret, indulging in those that go well for them. It’d be akin to heaven on earth, but-!” She chuckled again, “You’ve practically made it a living hell!”

The Curator laughed hysterically, stopping at a door blocked off with a brass stanchion. The Narrator stared at her, at a loss for words.

“What on Earth are you laughing at?” He finally cried, as her boisterous guffaws began to soften to a mild snicker.

“My sincerest apologies, it’s just-! Ohoho! It’s so bitterly tragic!” She wiped a tear from her eyes. “But, I'm sure you’ve been wondering where all of this is leading to, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and it’d be nice if you could hurry it along.”

“But of course,” The Curator smiled. She unhooked the velvet rope from the barricade and ushered the short-tempered man inside. The lights flickered on as they entered, revealing the room to be massive. In the center of the area was a large, golden imitation of Michelangelo’s David.

“Tomorrow, I will be hosting a gallery to honor human art! Just imagine, these walls filled to the brim with opuses made with the full, undying devotion from a being of flesh and bone. Creatures with blood, tears, heart and soul poured into their work!” She twirled, gesturing wildly at the blank, dull walls that enclosed them.

“Pests, more like it.” The Narrator grumbled.

“Oh come now, lift your spirits! You don’t have any work to do tomorrow! All you need to do is,” The Curator snapped, and two small slips of paper appeared in between her thumb and forefinger, ''Give Stanley this.”

She handed him the slips, and he examined them closer. They appeared to be tickets.

“Who else is coming?”

“Mariella-- you’ve met her, lovely woman-- and Employee #432. I couldn’t find many others, especially since you erased all of that poor boy’s co-workers.”

The Narrator felt a pang of guilt. He shook it off instantly.

“Will that be all, then?” He asked.

“Yes, you’re free to go,” She replied, turning to face the walls, envisioning her soon-to-be masterpiece. “I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps you’ll learn a thing or two.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The Narrator waved her off, heading towards the door. He wondered if he could also make those time wrinkles, he didn’t feel much like retreading the museum’s lengthy halls and maze-like structure.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I would like you to arrive corporally as a human tomorrow, consider it like dressing up.”

As a… human? He merely nodded, too mentally drained to object. A door-shaped hole appeared in front of him, leading back to the void.

“Until next time.”

Chapter Text

 The Narrator awoke the next morning in a mood he couldn’t place. He couldn’t determine whether he had gotten 9 hours or 9 minutes of sleep, or remember anything that had occurred after he’d entered that rift in the museum. Had he simply been teleported back to bed? Had he stumbled back to his office and swiftly passed out, or had he lied awake for a couple more hours; his psyche so tired that he couldn’t even remember? Whatever the case, he was exceedingly tired. It must have been the latter.

 He nearly went back to sleep, being so used to a time constraint-free schedule-- this was his parable after all-- when he remembered the anticipated art presentation. 

He supposed he hadn’t properly RSVP’d with details surrounding the time of his arrival, but then again, there wasn’t anything stopping The Curator from dragging him there herself if he happened to be late. He got out of bed despite himself, having spotted the gallery tickets on his desk. As he waited for his monitors to turn on, he wondered how Stanley would respond to the invitation.

 It wasn’t a matter of “if”, of course. The Narrator could make Stanley do anything he wanted, and had been doing just that for countless years. His mind focused more on the “why” spectrum of things, whether the prospect would excite Stanley upon introduction, or if he would reject right out of the gate. 

Perhaps it was that the invitation felt questionable in nature, especially with his reputation.
Almost… intimate.  

He hoped that the protagonist wouldn’t pick up on that, or The Narrator’s anxiety surrounding the thought. This was, after all, only because Stanley was the sole person he regularly involved himself with, and absolutely nothing else. 

Yes, definitely nothing else. He thought, “ I think you’re just a lonely guy looking for a friend,” looming in the corner of his subconscious. He batted the passing snippit away with a huff. 

The office’s beige walls flickered across the monitors in a wave as his security cameras turned on one by one, and Stanley woke just as before; in his polished, postmodern office. 

The omnipotent writer’s mind raced as Employee 427 sleepily sat up and looked at the ceiling, awaiting his narration. Only for there to be none. 

He nearly jumped when Stanley piped up.

[Okay, what’s going on here?]

The Narrator swallowed nervously. 

“Well, I-” 

Stanley didn’t let him finish.
Unfortunately for The Narrator and his wishes, the protagonist had awoken on this particular day with a distilled desire to be especially irritating, to create mischief. That was who he was, after all. 

If The Curator was a conservator of art, he was the harbinger of chaos. This world was made for him, and everyone was just living in it. He wasn’t about to let The Narrator forget that. 

[This is the second time I’ve been woken up like this, and I’m too tired to play anymore of your games. Just get the beginning over with and I’ll run through your stupid story, or whatever.] 

The deity stammered in shock at the unexpected hostility, but snapped back with a quickness. Always eager to defend his work. 

That was his achilles heel, and Stanley was aiming right for it. 

“Oh please, like you have the hard part! I slave away, day after day to write these stories. All I ask of you is that you follow my directions, and you can’t even do that! I try to do something nice for you, and this is the thanks I get? Unbelievable! Unappreciative is what it is-”

Stanley sat back in his chair with his arms folded as The Narrator rambled on. If only he saw the slight curl in his lips, a warning of the trap he had laid out. He loved to mess with him, to hear the posh bastard sink to his level after giving him the tiniest ounce of bait. The Narrator couldn’t help himself from playing right into his hands. He had said it himself during the sequel fiasco; the merest mention of his imperfections and he becomes as impetulant as a child. 

[Well, I don’t appreciate being a tool for your procrastination.] 

The unbelievable pettiness should have given him away instantly. 

“Oh sure, but you’ll appreciate being a tool for anything else.” 

Perhaps not.


[I never said that.]

“You push buttons for a living, Stanley!” The Narrator cried in exasperation. 

Bingo! 

Stanley’s eyes widened in surprise, mouth agape. He had expected a blowup, but he never could have expected that. It was impressive, and would have been much more so if Stanley hadn’t recognized his hypocrisy. The man had literally dedicated his life to this button-pusher. It sounded more and more pathetic the longer he thought about it.

 His lips curled into a smile, recalling the mannequin-wife incident. The Narrator had surely caught on to this, if his fuming silence indicated anything. 

[Woah!] Stanley laughed. The earnest laugh The Narrator had heard the day prior. It bewildered the godlike entity just as thoroughly as before. [Damn, tell me how you really feel!]

The Narrator groaned in annoyance as he snickered. 

“Oh, harr harr. Laugh it up, why don’t you? Provoking someone until you get a reaction out of them, how mature of you! Honestly, you’re an insufferable brat if I’ve ever seen one.” He mumbled. It was quieter than usual, as though he were leaning away from the microphone in indignation. 

[So, you could say I’ve... pushed your buttons?] 

He thought, enunciating his joke with the smarmiest tone he could think of (literally). The office went dead silent. After 30 seconds of nothing but office ambience, Stanley’s smile faded. Had he gone too far? He was just kidding around…
He opened his mouth to apologize, when he heard a snort from above.
The Narrator chuckled, nearly breathless in his amusement. Perhaps it was a stress response. 

He made a strangled noise when Stanley began to laugh alongside him, nearly gasping at the revelation that he hadn’t turned his microphone off.

[No, no! Keep going!] 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” 

[You were laughing!]

“Of course not! You must be hearing things.” 

[But-]

“Stanley, if you say anything more on this, I will reconstruct your DNA until you’re merely a talking head.” 

Stanley gulped.

[Point taken.]

All of this excitement this early in the morning was making The Narrator’s mind spin. Stanley truly was an enigma. He decided to get straight to work before any further dillydallying could take place. 

“Now, Stanley. As to why I’ve woken you up like this-- Would you mind taking a little walk around the office? I’ll be just a moment.” The Narrator didn’t illuminate the reason as to why he’d given this oddly vague instruction, but luckily Stanley felt as though it was easy to comply with, and didn’t pry further. He stepped out of his office and into the brightly lit hallways, feet shuffling along the beige carpet. He assumed that The Narrator simply needed time to do-- well, whatever he does up there-- and so he wandered around aimlessly, rattling doorknobs.

When he was sure he had touched and rattled every single doorknob available to him, he decided to retrace his steps and count the number of potted plants he saw. After counting 16, The Narrator still had not returned, so he turned back to count how many were fake. 

9 plastic potted plants and 7 real ones. 

He wondered how the organic plants had gone without water for so long. Or sun for that matter. Perhaps The Narrator was keeping them alive. 

He smiled at the image of a watering can floating around the office, kept upright by an invisible force as it tended lovingly to the potted peace lilies and ferns. He had been making tiny origami cranes from sticky notes when The Narrator finally returned. He perked up at the gruff mumblings the being made to himself. 

“Stanley, I’m back!” He greeted, “Oh, look at you. I half expected you to set the office on fire while I was away.”

Stanley shook his head, feigning a look of disappointment.

[It was hard to resist, but I managed.] He lifted the tiny paper bird to the ceiling for The Narrator to see.

“Oh! How intricate, Stanley! I didn’t know you could do origami!” He said, delighted. Stanley shrugged. 

[I didn’t either.] The human lifted it further into the air, nudging his hand insistently.

“Wha- For me?” He nodded. “Well-! That’s certainly thoughtful of you, Stanley, but I don’t have any way of…” 

The Narrator trailed off, remembering what he had just been doing the whole time his protagonist had just spent walking around the office. He figured he may as well spill the beans, lest he waste anymore time. 

“Right. Err- Now could you go to the room with the two doors? Yes, yes, thank you. Tell me, Stanley, do you remember finding a museum in this office?” 

Stanley pondered this while he made his way through the winding halls of filing cabinets. Come to think of it, he did remember seeing something sort of like a museum in one of his runs through the parable. Entering an elevator, approaching the Mind Control Facility, taking a sharp left once he saw a sign sloppily marked “ESCAPE”... being caught in the clutches of a seemingly inescapable machine, before it was turned off. A voice speaking to him, but it wasn’t The Narrator’s; it was a woman's voice, dignified and soothing to listen to. Walking through a marbled palace with elaborate and confusing art pieces, things he couldn’t understand. Yes, it was very clear now. 

[Yeah, I think.]

“And you remember-- when you were in that crushing-machine, and it stopped-- do you remember who saved you?” 

Stanley entered the double-doored room and paused in the center, as he usually did, staring at the ceiling curiously. 

[Yeah? Some lady came and turned the machine off, and then I went into this weird museum-- but when I left, she just turned it back on again.] 

“Ah, yes. That’s Madam Curator for you; gets your hopes high before crushing them- literally. ” 

[Who?]

“That’s who saved you, Stanley! The ‘lady’, that was her!” 

[Again, who?]

“The Curator, she’s-” He paused. Were he and The Curator friends? They had coexisted with each other for quite some time, even longer than The Narrator and Stanley had. In fact, it had been so long since they’d both simultaneously spawned into the universe, that he couldn’t remember if it was before the Earth had formed or after. They never quite fully got along. 

The two could tolerate each other, yes, but their relationship bordered on rivalry when it came to their work. The Narrator thought she was prissy, and The Curator could say the same about him. It’d be more accurate to relate them to roommates.
Not the kind you see in sitcoms, of course. 

Perhaps it really was that they saw the deepest things they despised about themselves in each other. Or it could’ve been that one instance, back in the 1600s, when the two drunkenly got into an argument over Shakespeare. Maybe calling Raphael an uninspired hack was a bit too far. 

“A friend of mine.” He decided. It didn’t matter anyways, she wasn’t here to say otherwise. “She wanted me to give you a message. There’s a party of sorts- err. An event? She said it was a gallery showcase, to appreciate human art. And so, you’re… you know, humanlike…
He’d never worded something so unprofessionally, and it was beginning to get embarrassing.

“I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me there…”

Stanley pretended to have been looking elsewhere. 

[Oh sorry, I wasn’t listening.]

The Narrator made a sound like a record being jerked back and forth upon a turntable. This time, Stanley failed to contain his laughter. 

“God dammit, Stanley! I’m asking you to go with me!!” The protagonist hushed himself, standing to attention with a hand clasped over his mouth. The other fumed as he quirked an eyebrow.

[Oh? Narrator~] He thought, smirking. [If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were asking me on a date.]

His prurient tone threatened to bring The Narrator’s mind elsewhere, but he knew better than to give Stanley the satisfaction of knowing that. He merely sat back in his chair, huffing, but not saying much else.

“Shut it,” He mumbled, “What do you say, Stanley?” 

[I don’t really have a choice, do I?] 

“Not really, no.”

[Then why didn’t you say so? You could have just directed me and we’d be there already.] 

“Would you really have listened?” 

[Nah.]

“Didn’t think so. Besides, there’s one more thing… she instructed me to, um… ‘appear human’.” Stanley glanced up towards the ceiling, interest piqued. “Just wait right there.” 

Following this were the soft sounds of rustling, a desk creaking under weight. And then there was nothing. Stanley hadn’t noticed the quiet ambience that the speakers in the office emitted until they had been turned off. All that remained was the deafening silence of this one room; no desk fans, no air conditioning, not even the faint ticking of a clock. 

He was beginning to get nervous. He was already lonely within their circumstances, but he felt especially desolate now. He stood there diffidently, hoping The Narrator really was coming back, and that this wasn’t some sick joke.

Maybe he depended on him more than he once thought…

He perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. 

A short, stout man emerged from the left door. 
It took Stanley a minute of staring blankly at the man to realize that this, he, was his Narrator. This human being was the disembodied director he’d lived with for as long as he could remember. He breathed a sigh of relief, just quiet enough so that the man wouldn’t hear. 

He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. Not that that was a bad thing, he found this man quite the intriguing figure.

He was pale. Far paler than Stanley at least, with an aged face and square spectacles. His hair was a warm peanut color with occasional gray strands that streaked through the neat, workplace appropriate style. He wore a mahogany sweater vest with a munsell yellow tie and cream colored dress shirt, dark brown dress pants clung tight around his waist under a belt (Stanley could expect no less). 

The pant  legs hung just above his ankle, which revealed a pair of argyle socks under adorably small wingtip shoes. The Narrator cleared his throat as Stanley’s mouth hung open, awestruck. 

“What do you think, Stanley? Is it what you were expecting?” 

It was surreal to hear his voice so close, mingling within the confines of the room instead of overcoming every sound with the mass of his vocal presence. Stanley almost thought his ears had been waterlogged.

The younger man slowly stepped towards him, raised an arm, holding his palm flat above The Narrator’s head. The bespectacled man squirmed nervously under Stanley’s towering figure. 

He felt as though he’d been put under a microscope, every little thing about his new form being scrutinized under beady eyes-- which wasn’t entirely false.

“Is something wrong?” 

Stanley smirked. He wasn’t the only one learning new things about the other. 

The Narrator was shocked at how… real Stanley looked up close; tiny features he couldn’t notice from the distance of his monitors. The way Stanley’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, tiny freckles that dotted his cheeks, a mole just below one of his eyes, dark stubble on his chin…

His eyes were brown, gentle and relaxed. 

[You’re short.] The taller of the two said, snapping The Narrator out of his trance. 

“Oh! Oh my, are humans supposed to be bigger than this?” He asked, before adding quietly, “You always looked so small from my monitors…” 

[No, no. You’re just a little below average.]

The Narrator pursed his lips, perplexed.

“Well, that seems like a rude way of putting it.”

[Relax. I just meant that you’re shorter than the average guy. It’s not a bad thing.] Stanley chuckled, dug up the pocketed paper crane from behind his back and wrapped a hand around The Narrator’s wrist. He positioned his arm so that his palm faced the ceiling and gently placed the bird into his hand. [I think it suits you.] 

The Narrator’s face grew warm. His fingers curled around the folded paper.
Strange… He hadn’t experienced anything like that, except for yesterday. And even then, the newly corporeal man had been incorporeal when it had happened. It felt as though his face was mere inches away from an oven. His simulated heart beated a tad faster.
What was this feeling? He’d felt something similar before, albeit to a lesser extent. A flutter, warmth, excitement…  

Yes, excitement, that must be it! 

Wait, why was he excited? 

Damn this new vessel, making him feel pitiful human emotions. What confusing things these creatures were! He tugged at his collar dismissively. 

“Ah, yes. Erm, thank you…” He stuttered. He nearly cringed at his poorly-worded gratitude.

Something occurred to the taller of the two.

[Should I change? I feel a little underdressed.] Stanley thought semi-sarcastically, gesturing to The Narrator’s prim and professional appearance. 

“Well, that’s just how I made myself look…” The latter felt a tad self-conscious, uncharacteristically so. Even a bit childish, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I don’t recall there being an established dress code, but if you insist…”
He snapped his fingers, and Stanley felt the weight of the clothing on his skin grow heavier. A floor length mirror appeared next to him, and he examined his state of dress. Instead of his plaid shirt and black jeans, he was wearing a crimson 3 piece suit. 

He whistled, astounded, and turned in the mirror to observe how the fabric clung to his body. He’d never worn a suit, he’d never looked so… distinguished! It made him feel powerful, in a way. The bowtie and lapels were both a darker shade of red than the rest of the suit; the lapels significantly less so. The tie was a deep scarlett, quite literally tying the whole ensemble together. 

He was playing with the cuffs absentmindedly when he felt a cold sensation brush against his fingertips. He pulled the sleeve down ever so slightly, eyes widening at the very expensive-looking watch wrapped around his wrist. 

[Hot damn!] He thought, and The Narrator chortled in amusement. 

“Like it? The suit model itself is supposed to be your boss’s, I just tweaked it a bit and recolored the textures.” 

[No way.]

“Yes way, Stanley.” The mirror popped out of existence, and Stanley pouted a little. “Now, we really must get going. We don’t want to keep Madam Curator waiting.”
The Narrator was just about to leave through the door on the left, when the office worker audibly cleared his throat.

[Hold it.] He dug up the gallery ticket from his pockets, pointing at something written on the slip. [It says ‘Admission for one patron AND a plus one.’] 

The Narrator looked dumbfounded.

“Have you lost it, Stanley? There’s nobody else here!”

Stanley quirked an eyebrow. The older of the two stared at him questioningly before it dawned on him, groaning and burying his head in his hands.

“Dear lord, Stanley. No.”

He peered in between a gap in his fingers after a moment of silence had passed. Stanley looked at him pleadingly with big, puppy-dog eyes and a quivering lip, hands clasped as though he were ready to fall to his knees and beg.

“No, no, no! Absolutely not , Stanley! I am putting my foot down!” 

[Please?] Stanley whined, his eyes watering. How was he so good at that? 

“You know what it does to us Stanley!

[You mean, what it does to you. ] The younger man pointed out, [Pretty please?] 

The bespectacled man grumbled, the sound droning on as a crocodile tear rolled down Stanley’s cheek, and he threw his hands up in frustration. 

“God dammit! Fine, fine! You win!” The Reassurance Bucket suddenly  appeared out of nowhere, falling into Stanley’s outstretched arms. All traces of sadness left his face as he grinned and held it close. “How the hell do you do that?!” 

[A trickster never tells his secrets.] Stanley thought, petting the rim of the bucket as though it were a cat. He tried to pin the flower broach on his suit to it, and settled for simply dropping it inside when he couldn’t pierce the hard metal. The Narrator sighed in exasperation. Stanley really had lost it, hadn’t he? 

“Well, since you get to have a plus one, I don’t see why I can’t have one too.” The shorter man positioned his fingers at his mouth and whistled, pointing towards the ceiling. “Wait for it,”
The building rumbled, only a little at first. The vibrations grew in intensity as Stanley clung to the bucket protectively. 

Sooner than he could say “The Adventure Line™”, The Adventure Line™ had burst through the tiles in the ceiling and was running excited laps around the room. 

“Ah, ah, ah! Sit Line™, sit!” 

The Line™ slithered to a halt in front of The Narrator. It™ peeled itself off of the floor like a snake readying to attack, but simply remained in place, wiggling back and forth happily. The disgruntled writer hummed in satisfaction and patted It™ on Its™ arrow. 

“There we are,” He scratched The Line™ on the underside of  Its™ point and smiled as the delighted wagging continued, “Who’s a good Line™? Who’s a good Line™? You™ are!” 

The Narrator pulled a tennis ball from his pockets, waving it in front of The Line™. It™ wriggled wildly with excitement.

“You™ want the ball? Oh yes, yes You™ do. Go on, go fetch!” He hurled the ball into the corridors of the door on the left, where the sound of its bouncing grew fainter and fainter with every beat. The Line™ zipped after it, trailing all over the walls in Its™ haste. The Narrator suavely gestured for Stanley to enter first. “Come now, Stanley. Our chariot awaits.” 

***

It had occurred to Stanley halfway through the walk that he wasn’t sure how they were meant to find The Curator’s museum. More so, it worried him that he might have to enter the hard way, as he’d learned the first time he tried entering the escape door. He could remember the death machine, the trembling fear he’d felt as he was edged closer and closer into its jaws, only to be saved by Madam Curator herself. He’d remembered walking the lavish, marble halls of her museum feeling more disorientation than wonder, which he was sure wasn’t the effect she was aiming for. Knowing that hadn’t made him feel any better. He felt as though her eyes bore into his skull as he seemed so entirely small in the moment, contrast to the suffocating nature of the office. He had wondered if it was all a ruse, and he was right, in the bitter instant that his body was crushed between the cruel metal pincers afterwards. 

He probably should have felt resentment towards her for that, but he didn’t care much. Obviously, it hurt like hell, but he had woken up near instantaneously. Perhaps it was just that he had partial favoritism for her and the soothing nature of her voice, even if he didn’t get what she meant when she told him that he and The Narrator needed each other. He would have much preferred having her around, if he had to choose. Although, tormenting her wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

He only had a moment to be fearful of what resided at the end of the “escape” corridors, before realizing that instead of the large Stanley-crushing machine, a rather calm-looking hallway of deep nothingness marked the threshold. The leap into another world, if taking ‘The Hero’s Journey’ into account. He knew quite a lot about it, much to his chagrin, having sat through many of The Narrator’s rants about storytelling.

The Narrator stepped forward as The Line™ lingered behind the duo, his tiny wing-tip shoes maintaining a sense of level despite the lack of, well, any sort of floor or wall or anything in the “room”. Stanley did the same.

Instead of securely landing on an invisible force, his foot proceeded to plummet straight off of the edge, and he could only muster a shocked yelp.
“Oh-! Stanley!” The Narrator unconsciously went to reach for the human’s hand, for lack of a better thought. Stanley’s foot would have dragged him down with it, falling infinitely into the rift, had The Line™ not raced after him with a near-frightening speed and coiled around his waist, forming a tight loop around the bucket as well. It™ hoisted him and his metal friend back to the ledge and gave the rattled Stanley a pat on the head with It’s™ arrow. 

Now here Stanley stood, safe and sound.

Holding The Narrator’s hand.

The two stood there for a moment, the Narrator flushing bright pink while Stanley said nothing.

“O-Oh my! I didn’t mean-- I was just trying to--!” He stammered, before settling for repeating ‘sorry’ quietly. He felt an immense wash of warmth pervade his form. It wasn’t the pleasant, tingly warmth you get while cozied up next to a fire, it felt clammy and hot and unbearable. He had an immeasurable desire to curl up into a ball and disappear entirely. 

Oh goody, he thought, this must be another one of those strange heightened human emotions. He couldn’t imagine humans were much else but living water balloons filled with unstable emotions and unexplainable ambitions just waiting to pop. What a dreadful existence to have to live! 

[You’re still holding my hand.] Stanley reminded, though it lacked any negative tone that The Narrator could discern. The office worker gave his hand a squeeze and wiggled his intertwined fingers, observing the two’s locked palms as though it were nothing more than a moderately amusing sight, contrast to The Narrator; who was nearly jumping out of his skin in embarrassment. He smiled faintly.

[They’re so small…] Echoed softly in his brain readings just loud enough for the other to hear. Usually, in between the direct brain readings Stanley either directed at him or to himself, he could hear faint key words that indicated a sliver of what the man was thinking. Blurbs that slipped in and out, like ‘go left’, ‘go right’, ‘turn around’, ‘stop’. Never anything as clear as that one passing thought. As small as it was, it had The Narrator’s face growing hotter with every second. He yanked his hand away and held it as though it might escape once more.

“I really think we should get a move on!” 

An expression that he couldn’t quite place flashed across the human’s face for a brief moment. He decided to ignore it, anymore unauthorized thoughts or movements would only prove to stall the mission at hand. 

[How exactly do you expect me to cross?] 

That was a good question.
The Narrator poised a quirked finger at his chin thoughtfully, and Stanley could hear him ponder over the logistics regarding the length of the void and the approximate amount of time it would take to cross to himself. He considered carrying both Stanley and The Adventure Line™ across, but something told him his new form was most likely incapable of achieving such a feat. He tapped his foot against the floor, lost in thought.
Stanley merely stood still, tracing a fingertip along his other hand. The Narrator’s comparatively cold skin had left a lingering feeling along his palm. He swiped his thumb over the grooves in his skin, remembering the rough texture. 

“I’ve got it!” The Narrator exclaimed, and Stanley dropped his hands back to his sides. 

The bespectacled man took hold of The Adventure Line™ a few feet or so underneath It’s™ point, to which It™ made a small squeak in surprise. He whipped It™ around in circles above his head like a lasso as it squirmed excitedly, and after a few loops around, he reeled back and sent It™ flying headfirst over the void like a ribbon wand following its leaping dancer. It connected to the plain white floors on the other side with a splat. The rest of  Its™ body thrummed wildly over the gap like a plucked guitar string, stilling after a few moments. 

Stanley cringed and held the bucket close.

“Line™? Are you alright?” 

The Line™ peeled itself from the floor to nod, before speeding off into The Museum. 

“Ah, good! We’re back on track! The adventure resumes.” The Narrator mused to himself, whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets as he stepped forward into the void once more. Stanley peered over the ledge hesitantly.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a klutz. That was, at any other point when he wasn’t purposefully messing things up for The Narrator. The man could admittedly tell that there was the tiniest bit of truth in his words all those times he’d say “Stanley was so bad at following directions, it’s incredible he wasn’t fired years ago.”  He doubted that he had any experience in gymnastics or using a circus tightrope, so any misstep he made could send him plummeting downwards into an endless eternity. That certainly was not the way he wanted to live out the rest of his life, if it could even end. 

He whimpered helplessly. 

“Stanley, we don’t have all day.” The Narrator bit. 

Stanley drew in a sharp breath, and the feeling of his chest deflating once it was let go seemed to calm him, if only a little. Holding onto the ledge as he slowly, ever-so-carefully eased his foot onto The Line™. 

His shoe was immediately dragged downwards, but the elasticity of The Line™ caught it and bounced. He shook like a dog as It™ wobbled, his legs felt as though they could give out. The Narrator groaned and paced back until he was by Stanley’s side.

“Well? Go on.” 

He gave him a small shove, and the trembling man managed to get 3 steps forward before nearly falling. He stared daggers into The Narrator, a look of comical desperation and fear that the latter struggled not to laugh at. The younger of the two reached out a shaky hand. 

“I- erm!” The Narrator pulled away. He wasn’t falling for that a second time. If he had to experience another embarrassing human revelation he was sure he would go insane. He cleared his throat, setting a firmer tone, 

“You’re not a child, Stanley. Just keep walking and don’t look down-”

Before he could even finish, Stanley had just done so and was nearly crying hysterically. The Narrator huffed.

Yet, observing Stanley clutching the bucket gave him an idea.

“Here,” He took the bucket, pocketed the broach, and placed it atop Stanley’s head until the bottom rested snuggly upon his dark brown curls. The man seemed to still ever so slightly. “Now you can’t look down. Truly genius, if I do say so myself.” 

Oddly enough, Stanley was filled with a strange sense of serenity at this new predicament. Perhaps it really was the bucket’s reassuring powers, or the effect of being blinded, but the thin Line™ had become more stable underneath his sneakers. He braced his arms out and took an experimental step forwards. He teetered to a lesser extent as waves of calming energy coursed through him, every step pushing The Narrator’s voice farther and farther away. 

But then it happened.

“Great job, Stanley! I knew you could do it!” He heard the older of the two call out. He chuckled, the sound rattling throughout the bucket. 

In a flash, he was somewhere else entirely. It was as though he had somehow transported himself to another world, simply by blinking. The bucket was gone, and cold air caressed his cheeks, nipped at the tips of his fingers. He was so much smaller, and the world more wondrous; lush greenery speckling the corners of his vision from every direction, the sound of rushing water.

The thin, outstretched Line™ ahead was  more… thick, rough, organic. He toddled, wobbling like a newborn giraffe. This new, smaller figure seemed all the more inexperienced, what little knowledge he had of the world beforehand completely wiped and replaced by something else entirely. The feeling that this is how it was meant to be. 

A strange comfort and security in the bleary past drifting farther with every movement he took, every tick of the clock uncontrollably unsynchronized, every moment he would later wish had lasted was spent barrelling into the unavoidable future. 

But he had no innate knowledge of this, so he didn’t fret over semantics that inherently weren’t built for him. Let someone else carry the weight of the world while he enjoyed this singular, intrinsically beautiful instant. In which he felt; for once, that he truly belonged.
And then his shoe caught on something.

Stanley’s little heart lurched as he slipped off of the path, which he could now determine was a cylinder of some sort, judging by the way his foot dipped downwards but never dangled in the open air. Jagged bark snagged onto his pants. A woman gasped.

“Careful!” 

It was quiet, dipping in and out. Like static cutting into a radio’s melody, ruining the only song you wanted to hear. He felt something dig underneath both of his arms, lift him like he barely weighed more than a throw pillow, and place him back atop the log. With his feet secured, he took a step. And then another, and another, coming easier to him every time his shoe reconnected with the rough texture of the fallen tree. Everything seemed clearer.

Nothing mattered but this moment. 

“Great job, Stanley! I knew you could do it!” The woman cheered, clapping enthusiastically. 

And Stanley was happy. 

But the log lost its bark, and the woman lost her voice. The vines, moss, the beautiful, fairytale-like shrubbery wilted. The sky overcast, blocking the sun’s rays and the warmth that ebbed into the wrath of unrelenting winds slicing into his skin. Everything was blinding, piercing, buzzing. Louder, louder, until- 

Stanley gasped as though he were just emerging from water, nearly lost his footing. He felt like he had just been electrocuted, yet everything was far too silent. His hand caught the smooth surface of marble flooring, and he hoisted himself up and off of The Line™. The Narrator sauntered past him.

“Splendid.” 

A million thoughts raced through his head at overwhelming speeds. What was that? Deja vu? A dream? Why did it feel so… real? He quickly tore the bucket from his head. 

The chilled temperature of the museum soothed his burning skin as he followed The Narrator into the museum, and he tried his best to straighten out his disheveled appearance in the small amount of time they had just walking through the corridors, following The Line’s™ incoherent path throughout the place. Finally, they approached the same blocked off door that The Narrator had been taken to the previous day, the stanchion unhooked invitingly and classical music flowed freely from within. A banner had been spread across the top of the entrance, reading “HUMANITY’S REVOLUTIONARY ART GALLERY”. Multicolored balloons decorated the surrounding space, and tiny bits of stick-figure shaped confetti were strewn across the floor. The Narrator rolled his eyes.

“I’ll say, she really knows how to set a fitting atmosphere.” He muttered underneath his breath. The two could just hear the sound of three voices under a flute’s uplifting melody coming from-- well, somewhere. They were accompanied by The Line™, which slithered around their legs and wagged playfully at the amount of attention they were receiving from the three mysterious individuals as they chattered away. “Madam Curator! We’re here!” 

The Curator turned, grinning with a warmth unlike her. She passed the sparkling drink in her hand to someone else before she made her way towards the duo. As she approached, The Narrator was enormously taken aback by just how different she looked.
There wasn’t much confusion as to who she really was, she had answered to her name after all, The Narrator supposed it just wasn’t what he was expecting. Well, he hadn’t known what to expect in the first place.

She had a defined face; narrow, piercing eyes with pointed eyelashes. An upturned nose, small round glasses resting on the bridge, supported in part by a silvery chain. Her lips were thick and concealed with two shades of lipstick; black on her upper lip, a muted baby blue on her bottom lip. The Curator’s skin was darker than The Narrator’s, and unlike his hair--- which was mostly light brown with occasional gray streaks--- her hair was entirely porpoise gray and worn in a neat bun, with swirls of flint in her bangs. Just to spice things up a bit. 

She wore a white dress shirt underneath a gray blazer and skirt combo, long black stockings and heels. The woman definitely had fun designing her corporeal form, if the tiny jingles of larimar bejeweled necklaces and pearl earrings as she hurried towards them had anything to say about that.  

“Stanley! Narrator!” She chirped. Her steps slowed as her eyes caught the glint of the bucket in Stanley’s arms. “Oh, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Stanley held the bucket in front of him as though this were completely normal, offering its’ handle. She hesitantly grasped the handle’s wooden grip and shook up and down. 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, bucket.” 

She smiled gently, uncharacteristically shy. There was a pause, as both Stanley and The Curator’s attention remained fully on the pail, with The Narrator observing in perplexity. Her lips suddenly drew tight.

“O-Oh my! What a charmer…” She blushed, manicured hand plastered on her chest in surprise at the bucket’s flattery. 

The Narrator looked on, horrified. This was the most utterly ridiculous display he had ever seen. It was literally-- literally , just a bucket! 

And he definitely, absolutely was not jealous that this inanimate piece of scrap-metal was getting more attention than him.
He sharply cleared his throat. 

“Yes, erm… we aren’t too late, are we? We got a bit lost on the way here.”

The Curator’s face grew red with embarrassment. She let go of the bucket’s handle. 

“Not at all,” She said, stepping aside and gesturing for the two to pass her.  “We’ve just been chatting, the main event will start in a few minutes. So, do come in and get some refreshments before the show.”

The ceiling seemed so much taller, The Narrator noted as the two entered the gallery. As it stretched, the lights lining the walls grew dimmer and dimmer until their illuminations were merely futile. It reminded him of the (mostly) infinite hole, and it was a neat sight indeed; feeling suspended mid-air above a chasm deeper than you could possibly imagine. 

But it made him nauseous, so he looked away and made a beeline for the shrimp cocktail laid out on a snack table.

Meanwhile, Stanley stood awkwardly to the side with his bucket. He watched from afar as The Narrator enlightened Mariella on the many wonders of shrimp (where it wasn’t asked) and The Curator looked over her notecards for the event. He felt like a third wheel, to say the least. The man had not the slightest clue of who any of these people were-- hell, he hadn’t even known there were other humans in this place besides him. Had he always been this socially inept? The bucket comforted him, complimenting his tie, and Stanley gave it an appreciative squeeze in return.

“Stanley!” A voice called. It wasn’t one he was familiar with. 

But the voice sounded nice. Light and friendly, good-natured. So he turned around. 

He nearly jumped at the figure before him; a black, pixelated mass in the shape of a human. The only defining details he could make out amongst the vague outline of the figure were its blank eyes and nametag.

‘432’ 

On all accounts, Stanley knew he should have known this person. Hell, their room or desk wouldn’t have been too far from his own, according to their numbered status. And yet, he had no idea who this being was. He could slightly recall seeing the name on a few papers strewn across the office floors, poking out of filing cabinets, but not much else. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person!” Employee 432 said cheerfully. Their voice clipped and distorted certain words, and their form warped to match. It was like watching TV static; if it were a living, breathing person. Stanley found it hard to believe that they were human at all. Not anymore, at least.

He was confused-- more so anxious-- and a little guilty at that, having completely forgotten this person. 

[Do I know you?]

The figure looked disheartened.

“You don’t recognize me?” They frowned, their shoulders slumping in dejection. He shook his head hesitantly. The mysterious individual hummed to themselves in contemplation, slouched and fidgeting with their nimble fingers nervously. Stanley tried his hardest to remember, but he just couldn’t. It had only occurred to him while furiously wracking his brain that it was useless. If only he were back in that lush forest with the log, and not trapped in this horribly awkward moment.
Suddenly, the being perked up.

“How about…” They trailed off. Stanley watched as their eyes seemingly slid shut. It was akin to closing the shutters on a window, blocking out any glimpse of light that could pass through. He almost thought their eyes had completely disappeared.

Something flickered where those deep sockets had been, buzzed like a neon sign outside of a dingy gas station; reading ‘12:00 AM-PM’. 

Stanley wasn’t oblivious to the formatting, it resembled that of a digital clock. He had one in his office, and even on his nightstand back at his apartment. But it was especially familiar to him for a specific reason he was trying to figure out. The 0’s had diagonal slashes down the middle, there were arrows above and below each digit. Presumably to change the numbers. If so, it suggested a somewhat more modern approach, closer to setting the time on a computer.

 Where had he seen that imagery before? 

<<PLEASE ENTER THE CURRENT TIME>>

It was said in a voice different from what he’d heard previously, more… sinister and robotic.

It hit him.

[Settings guy??]

432 grinned, opening their eyes.

“Aha! I knew you remembered me! You had me worried for a second.” They exclaimed. Stanley grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well anyhow, it’s nice to see you again.”

Employee 432 eagerly extended a bandaged hand. A polite gesture on their part, but Stanley observed their boney fingers and broad palm for the briefest of moments. They were much bigger than The Narrator’s.

Stanley took their outstretched hand. The contact alone sent a jolt of pain through their arm, a short electric current passed between the two. It stung like hell, and he let go immediately. 

Yes, much unlike The Narrator’s…

The settings person was extremely apologetic, insisting that it was just something that happened sometimes. 

Stanley waved them off, a waft of smoke emanating from the burn, and made in the other to sneakily scoop out an ice cube from the punch bowl to soothe it. Luckily, they hadn’t seemed to notice; sidling up to The Adventure Line™ to give it much deserved attention. 

The Curator tucked her notecards into her blazer.

“Attention! Attention, everyone!” She spoke after clearing her throat, “The show is about to begin! Now, if you would hold your attention for just a moment.” 

She stood in between a lever that was embedded into the wall and a mysterious veiled mass. 

“As I was arranging this event, I found myself wondering; how can I make this special? How can I make this experience unforgettable for years and years to come? And, with a little help from some friends, I believe I’ve found the answer.”
In one graceful sweep of her hands, she removed the pristine cloth from the massive object. It appeared to be a modified vehicle of some sort, much smaller and without a roof. It was wrapped chrome, similar to the rest of the museum, and there were 3 rows of seats, with a large bar in place of a seatbelt.

“432, if you would do the honors.” 

The settings person obliged, flashing out of existence for a fleeting moment before appearing next to The Curator and the lever. They clasped their hands together and rubbed until a surge of electricity grew from the friction, pulling the lever.

The vehicle’s engine sputtered to life, whirring. The course rippled through it and proceeded to illuminate an outstretched path, a spiraling railroad that rose high above their heads as it lined the impossibly high museum walls. Every crack of the lights grew fainter and fainter until they careened into the deep chasm. Mariella was the first to clap, smiling softly, so everyone else did. 

“I’d like to thank the academy,” Employee 432 bowed with a lopsided smile.

“As you can see, we’ve turned this attraction into a ride! After all, what’s more fun than amusement parks, refreshments, and high-class art? Why not put them together!” The Curator said, “Though, I can’t take credit for all of the work. 432 made the models and Mariella prepared the snack table, I merely offered emotional support.”

Mariella blushed and looked away shyly.

“You give me too much credit, ma’am…”  

“Oh hush,” The art collector stepped beside the coaster and opened a compartment on the side, to which a caged watchtower sprung free. She climbed aboard, pressing a button that sat amongst a dozen others on the dashboard. The coaster’s door opened. 

Mariella led the way, smoothed down her skirt as she sat in the middle row. 432 went for the seats in the very rear, reclining and taking up the entire line of seats, while Stanley and The Narrator sat in the front. 

Stanley sat the bucket on his lap, and The Narrator shot it a passing glare.

“Now, I must ask that you please refrain from eating, drinking, altering reality in any way, shape or form, or sticking your hands out of the vehicle while in motion. Thank you.”

“Aw, damn.” Stanley heard 432 say under their breath, snapping their fingers.
He could spot a shrimp tail poking out of The Narrator’s slack pockets, which seemed to contain an entire handful of the tiny crustaceans.  

He just hoped he hadn’t put cocktail sauce in there as well. 

The coaster took off, rolling along the tracks as they descended into the darkness; the only indication of their path were the small lights dotting along the railway. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity spent sitting there with only the low rumble of the cart and the faint slithering of The Adventure Line™ following close behind to accompany them, it decelerated until it had come to a full stop. A light bulb illuminated the bumper of the cart and a set of blue velvet curtains that hung on the wall. 

“This painting is one I’m sure you’ll all be familiar with, though controversial in its time.” The curtains drew back, revealing a faded turquoise painting of a nude woman with flowing ginger hair, standing in front of an oceanic horizon. “The Birth of Venus, painted by a ‘Sandro Botticelli’ in the Italian Renaissance, features the Greek goddess Venus as she is born within a gigantic scallop shell. Because of her lack of dress, the painting was seen as blasphemous to the more conservative. The piece was meant to represent the approach of spring through the image of an idealistic woman; see Zephyr blowing Venus to shore with Chloris by his side. I find the ripples in the water especially pleasing. Yes, a marvelous painting, indeed.”

Stanley found the picture mildly familiar, though it might have just been Venus’ delicate position, the way her wispy auburn tresses curled around her figure. It was a perfectly fine painting, but he couldn’t help but feel as though it was too crowded, and couldn’t really translate well to people who didn't understand the subject matter. He didn’t much enjoy the sickly green color palette either. 

Stanley cringed as he realized how pompous his inner-monologue sounded. Since when had he become such an expert on this? He started to worry that The Narrator might be rubbing off on him. 

The bespectacled man beside him scoffed, as though he’d heard Stanley. He wouldn’t be too surprised if he had. 

“I always thought it was overrated.” He whispered to the other. 

Stanley barely had time to be puzzled by this before the coaster was taking off again. He wondered if the short amount of time spent in front of that painting was because The Curator wanted to hurry things along, or if it was one she didn’t feel as particularly strong about. All along the way to her museum, The Narrator had grumbled about her tendency to subject him to prolonged discussions about certain pieces. 

Stanley hoped this wouldn’t become one of those, he was already getting restless. 

The cart stopped at another set of curtains that, when drawn, revealed a pleasant painting of a shoreside; Dozens of expressionless people culminating on warm green grass that shone brilliantly in the sun and was cast dark emerald under the shade of lush trees. A lake lay beyond a strip of pearly sand that separated the greenery and the water, tiny boats bobbing and reflecting upon the waves, pushed by gentle breeze. 

He squinted. This couldn’t be right. Why could he see the boats moving? 

“This here is George Seurat’s ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’, painted in 1884. It was his largest painting, and utilized an art method called ‘pointillism’, the hypothesis that by painting numerous dots extremely close to each other, you could create the illusion of a singular image. If you look close enough, you can spot the grain of the dots, but at a first glance you would merely think it’s an ordinary painting.” 

Yes, it must have been an illusion. But the longer his eyes scanned the painting, he couldn’t shake the slow crash of waves upon the shore growing increasingly louder within his ears. He rubbed at his eyes.

He opened them to a large expanse of blue. Wind pelted his face and tugged at his arms, rustling the air around him. His eyes frantically scanned the area. Reflecting off of the sky, a silvery sea stretched outwards over the horizon; large ripples glinted under the sun’s rays. The rolling drone of the water and the caw of seagulls above him, hot sand warming his feet and burying between his toes. Sailboats drifting about in the distance, the sound of laughter.

His fist curled around an object, a polished handle with grooves carved into its base. Noticing that the handle seemed to be attached to a string, his gaze traced up the line and ended at a papery diamond, thrashing amongst the ocean’s cold wind. 

“Stanley,” He heard being called to him. 

It was the woman from before. 

She lay beside him on a blanket, and he could see her much clearer now. She wore a floral print sundress and sandals, brown curly hair splayed elegantly like a crown around her scalp. As though she were the perfect image of a goddess. Her skin was far darker than Stanley’s, deepened in part by the blazing sun, and she tilted her straw hat above her head, where it once rested over her face. 

But she didn’t have a face.

Stanley should have felt unnerved by this. But it was as though his brain filled in the gaps for him, as though it were completely normal. She spoke to him in a language he couldn’t discern, yet he understood exactly what she had said. He raised the handle further into the air as requested, but the kite continued to flail about, crumpling under the wind’s force. The woman sat up and crawled beside him, taking the handle from his tiny hands. He watched as she rolled the wooden cylinder forward, readjusting her palms once her wrists became uncomfortably twisted. Her hands were much bigger, veiny with manicured nails. A golden band sat nestled upon her left ring-finger. As she rolled, the string wrapped around the object and pulled taut as the kite finally caught the wind at the right angle, soaring through the sky proudly. The handle was placed back into his palms, and though her face was emotionless, something told him that she was happy.
He smiled, and she playfully covered his eyes with the sunhat. 

He was back in the museum again. 

Eyes wide, a bead of sweat ran down his temple. His gaze frantically switched between everyone in the room. Surely, they must have all seen that as well, right? 

His labored breaths went unnoticed as The Curator continued her illuminations on the piece while Mariella patiently listened and 432 nodded off in the back seat, The Narrator discreetly pulling a pocket shrimp from his pocket to snack on. Even the bucket seemed indifferent, its usual calming aura failed to comfort Stanley as his grip on the handle tightened. As simple as the vision had been, it left a pit in his stomach.  Why was this being shown to him? Why did it feel so right?
Why was he here now? 

A sharp arrow of panic struck his heart as his eyes caught on the painting again, so he looked away.
He tried desperately to forget everything he’d seen as the cart dragged along the tracks.

“This next one is a piece that I painted myself! I wanted to compose something that incorporated the most notable art movements in human history. ” She beamed. The coaster harshly came to a stop, the light above the piece flickering on.  “Here is-- GOODNESS!!” 

The piece was centered with a large, exquisite frame; a painting of a scarcely clad woman with light brown hair, posing on a blue-cushioned loveseat. The background comprised of chrome pillars, marble ceilings, pedestals and sculptures.

Everyone turned to look at the only woman in the room with light brown hair, Mariella.
Her face turned red. 

“My word! This is-- This wasn’t supposed to be--” The Curator stuttered, quite noticeably flustered, “Who put this one up here?!” 

The Narrator chuckled as Stanley quickly covered the bucket’s eyes. 432 held their hands up in defense of their participation, or lack thereof.

“I don’t mind much, Ma’am…” Mariella said quietly, “It is a nice painting after all…” 

The Curator simply sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Good heavens, moving on…” She pulled the coaster lever again, stopping in front of a different, wider piece. “Oh, yes! Here, we have a Vincent Vangogh piece! The Starry Night, painted in 1889 during his stay at the Saint-Paul asylum. Notice the curl of the brushstrokes, rolling like the sea’s raging waves during a storm. Isn’t it splendid? You can just forget that last one.” 

This painting was one that Stanley recognized, much more than the previous paintings. Perhaps he’d seen it in the office, or perhaps its infamy was of such greatness that he could instantly tell what it was upon first sighting. It was a beautiful picture, indeed, but something about it left the human deeply unsatisfied. Though the cool, muted colors pleased his eyes, brown and gray streaks made themselves more apparent with each second he stared, dampening his overall enjoyment of the piece. No… there was something else. An association? Whatever it was, it marred his view of the royal blue facade. 

The stars. 

They pulsated, their light growing stronger. 

Stanley shook his head in disbelief. The Curator’s soothing voice became nothing but white noise.

His heart skipped a beat, then another, faster and faster until it was as though he were running a marathon. He pinched his arm futility, hoping to delay whatever was about to happen. Whatever awful, awful thing he was about to see. He was sure of it. 

Flashes of black and blue and white beneath his eyelids, so bright he was sure it would burn his retinas. But with open eyes, his vision grew fainter. Every blink left his surroundings dimmer.

The hard press of leather against his forehead. Dancing curls of smoke that filled his lungs.

 Wait, what? 

Stanley shot upright with a gasp. His chest and legs were completely constricted, bound by polyester straps. His hands clutched a leather wheel, and he nearly screamed with the revelation that every single thing in sight-- his hands, arms, and the mechanic confines he found himself in-- all of it, was splattered with glossy crimson and shimmering glass. Such visceral imagery would have been stunning, if not for the implication. He’d never seen as much blood in his life. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen himself bleed before. Every exhale ripped from his throat sounded as though he were being strangled, the taste of copper prevalent on his tongue. As though having a mind of their own, his hands scrambled for clasp by his side, and the belts that restrained him loosened. He slipped through the tangle of glass and cables, the deflated airbag that rested on his lap, opened a latch to his side and threw himself onto the ground. Smoke unfurled from his lips as he hacked into the numbingly cold air, syrupy blood splattering upon gravel. A vehicle not unlike the museum coaster lay wrecked before him. The hunk of metal curled around a tree, impaled. 

Nature prevailing man-made efforts. 

From the ground, 6 or so feet from the burning wreckage, he could see just how close he would have been to meeting the same fate. Red soon clouded his vision, a wound seeping into his open eyes. He couldn’t tell from where. 

He simultaneously felt nothing and everything at once, crushing pain outweighing any other sensation he could have been feeling. 

I need to be somewhere else , he decided amongst the torrent of dizziness plaguing his brain, a nywhere else but this.

He hadn’t known how long he had been walking until he found a clearing. Frankly, he couldn’t care less. The moon stared down at him disapprovingly, bright and yellow. Its hue reminded him of a big wheel of cheese, floating around in the deep blue sea. The stars made each cloud rolling by look like a nebula, or maybe he just had a concussion. There was a buzzing in his back pocket, and he instinctively dug around for the object. 

A mobile phone; he flipped it open.

The faceless woman, too, stared at him disapprovingly. 

Stanley should have been relieved to find himself back in the museum, safe and sound. But with every moment he sat dormant, another wave of dread seeped into his core.

[CURATOR!] He thought suddenly, in a volume louder than intended, raising his hand as though he were a schoolboy. The Curator abruptly halted in her ramblings, startled. Everyone turned their heads toward him in confusion. He merely sat there, hand still foolishly raised, the hanging atmosphere so thick that you could slice it with a butter knife.

[Can I use the restroom?] He stammered pathetically. It was the only excuse he had to get the hell out of this place, lest he see any more of these confusing and frightening images. The Curator raised a brow, and he half expected her to correct his use of the word “can”, before she waved him off.

“Line™, show him to the restroom.” She ordered. 

The Adventure Line™ popped free from the wall, coiling around Stanley’s waist and lifting him from the coaster. He was carefully carried to the floor, led around the corner by the twisting, turning Line™. Madam Curator pulled the lever again, moving the group along. 

The Narrator couldn’t help but notice how the reassurance bucket had been left idle on Stanley’s seat. 

Whereas it would usually bring him joy to see the bucket being sidelined, he furrowed his brow with worry. Stanley’s bewildered expression lingered in the back of his mind, pupils contracted in a manner he’d never seen before. Or perhaps he was merely noticing it up close for the first time. His attention was pulled away by a tapping on his shoulder.

“What’s eating him?” 432 whispered. 

The Narrator couldn’t think of a response. 

***

Stanley felt as if his lungs were going to explode as he sprinted after The Adventure Line™. He thanked whatever being more powerful than The Narrator that It™ sensed his uneasiness and picked the fastest possible route to the bathroom. He didn’t have time to recognize the irony in the unruly Line™ proving to be a more thoughtful companion than the bucket, as the two were steadily approaching a door marked “bathroom” in cursive. Harsh puffs of air escaped his lips, every breath stolen from the air scraped his throat raw and sparked fire in his chest. The Line™ hovered over his hunched body until his panting had somewhat ceased, gently nudged his shoulder in silent reassurance. Stanley patted Its™ arrowhead, sighing in exasperation. 

[I’m alright,] He directed towards it softly, [I just want a little privacy, okay?] 

The Adventure Line™ nodded, slinking off around the bend with notably less enthusiasm than was normal. Stanley twisted the freshly polished diamond doorknob and swiftly shut the door behind him as he entered, locking it with the chain latch on the side of the frame. 

Tremors shook through his bones like rattling a steel cage. The bathroom was just as ornate as the rest of the museum; sparkly and clean, embroidered hand towels hung to the side of the sink, a small bowl of breath mints on the sink counter. 

The interior of the room changed with every alternate blink, decaying right before his eyes. The lights dimmed to a sickening green hue, grime coating the walls, the sound of ear-piercing music just outside of the threshold. 

He collapsed forward onto his knees as bile surged up his throat, retching into the open toilet.

The flashing images of broken toilet lids, graffitied mirrors, and unrecognizable faces continued to assault his psyche-- a vehicle speared by mossy bark, a kite floating by itself amongst the night sky as the moon kept its accusatory glare. A faceless woman standing before him--  until there was nothing left to evacuate his body.

With a choked sob, he ran a hand through his sweaty curls and flushed.
His legs nearly gave out as he rose and gained purchase on the pristine sink counter.

There were no blemishes staining the glass to blur the look of disdain his reflection gave him, and his heart dropped once he noticed a line that grew from one of his eyebrows, lighter than his tanned skin. He traced it with a finger, finding that it was distended from the rest of  his forehead. When the static image grew fainter and fainter, he prepared to fall to his knees and heave once again. 

The Stanley behind the glass grew smaller, face round and pudgy. He dragged a toothbrush back and forth across his mouth, spat into the sink-- different from the one in front of him, and gave the other an innocent grin. 

The eyebrow mark was missing.

It hit him like a ton of bricks.

These weren’t visions.

These were memories.

The gallery showcase had ended no less than an hour after Stanley had rushed off. As an encore, The Curator had decided to pay tribute to the musical arts. She, Mariella, and Employee 432 proceeded to bless The Narrator’s ears with a classic ensemble-- 432 playing the piano with surprising elegance while The Curator and Mariella accompanied them on violin and clarinet. And boy, if The Narrator didn’t love himself some classic music. He let the fluttery tunes carry him away and distract him from his growing worry at Stanley's absence, listening politely, until he felt something poke at his leg. The Adventure Line™ greeted him as he looked to the floor, curling around his trousers urgently.

“What is it, Line™?” He asked quietly. It™ frantically pointed behind him, and The Narrator followed the direction of Its™ arrow to the ominous corridor Stanley had been led down. A look of pensive understanding crossed his face, and he nodded at The Line™, standing up.

“I’ll be back in just a moment, I just have to…” He trailed off, wringing his hands anxiously after interrupting their lovely performance, and The Curator smiled gently. 

“No worries,” She reassured. 

The bespectacled man thanked her hurriedly, before making off towards Stanley’s direction. 

432 and Mariella were motioned to continue, despite The Narrator’s absence. 

The Narrator navigated through the convoluted hallways in a panic, no Line™ to guide him. 

“Stanley!” He called, over and over. After a short period of running around to no avail, he keeled over to catch his breath. “This human form is such a pain in the ass…” 

He heard a door close amidst his exasperated wheezing, and suddenly Stanley was right in front of him.

“Ah, Stanley! There you are, I was looking all over for you,” The Narrator sighed in relief. He chuckled, and immediately regretted doing so, as he was still in the middle of catching his breath. Stanley merely stood still, fists clenched. His eyes remained on the polished marble floor, a scowl plastered on his face, and the bespectacled man swallowed thickly. “Stanley? Are you alright?” 

The Narrator couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. The quiet commands the back of his brain gave him when doing simple tasks were now blocked by unwavering TV static. He picked at his fingertips anxiously. Did he do something wrong? He didn’t know what he could’ve done, or remember doing anything at all. This new body was a truly, truly awful thing. If he were back to normal, he wouldn’t be questioning the validity of his memory. He wouldn’t even care about any of this. Humans were such frustratingly worrisome characters.
Stanley stepped forward.

“Stanley?” 

The harsh lights cast a shadow over his face, but the glint of his dark eyes just barely seen made him feel a sickly emotion worse than just fear. The Narrator’s own thoughts raced faster than the speed of light, taking a few precautionary steps back as Stanley persisted. His heart jumped with every thud against the floor, piercing the air and ebbing away like waves lapping at the shore as they echoed throughout the museum’s walls.

[What did you do to me?] Stanley’s thoughts cut into the quavering din of his brainwaves, a low growl. Something dug into The Narrator’s back, and he felt around for it blindly; a quartz island top. He gripped the edge as leverage to get away, but the taller man grabbed at his collar with white-knuckles and tugged until they were nose-to-nose. [Answer me, what did you do?!]

The Narrator’s breath was slightly cut off by the restricting pull of his dress shirt. He wheezed, pushing at Stanley’s chest, to no avail. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He cried, and Stanley’s grip tightened.

[Oh yeah? Then why am I seeing things, huh? Why do I remember things I’ve never experienced? Who am I? What the fuck did you do to me?!]

The Narrator’s eyes widened.
This couldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be possible. Something must have happened, a glitch in his code, a bug. Stanley’s mind should have been wiped completely, he had done it himself. How was he remembering things that, to him, had never existed in the first place? Yes, this must be an error. He couldn’t possibly let the man know of his previous life. Who knows what could happen? 

The stout man smiled nervously, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Stanley, are you sure you’re feeling okay? I think you’re sick, we should head back.” He patted Stanley’s arm passively. He grit his teeth. 

[Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! ] 

The man snarled and shoved him against the island with enough force to knock a house down, and the both of them heard a loud, booming crash. Stanley let go in surprise, allowing The Narrator the range to peer around, and--

Uh oh. 

A slab with egyptian-looking hieroglyphs and engravings lay cracked in a million pieces, a stain on the otherwise plain and pristine floor. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the ear splitting screech of The Curator’s violin bow snapping the strings in twain, followed by Mariella nearly choking on her reed and 432 slamming the piano’s keys in surprise. A discordant display of unpleasant discomfort, then heartstopping silence. 

Oh no. 

“What was that?” Employee 432 asked. The art collector shakily set the broken violin and frayed bow down, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply with her palms clasped together. Mariella cleared her throat nervously. 

“I’m sure it was just Stanley’s bucket, he must have dropped it! I’ll go check-” 

The Curator silenced her with an upturned palm.

“That won’t be necessary.” She said nonchalantly, “It sounded like a stone to me, given the weight of the sound and its hollow nature. Like someone smashing a woodblock instrument. If I had to guess, I’d say it were a Egyptian piece dating from… let’s say, the third millennium. BC of course. A priceless artifact that one could not afford to lose, let alone me.” 

Mariella and 432 glanced at each other, part impressed, part unnerved. She seemed unnaturally calm given the situation; the two could recall multiple instances where she’d shrieked and wailed over finding blemishes in her lovely museum, wreaking havoc on the office. 

“But now it’s on the ground, shattered to pieces. Which could only mean that whoever did such a thing is not currently in the room with us.” 

She took another deep breath, holding it-- almost comically exaggerated with the way her chest heaved outwards. Her lips were drawn tight in a thin line, and she held her hands in her lap, as though keeping them to herself. Mariella was the first to speak. 

“Are you okay, miss?” She lightly brushed her fingertips across the sleeve of her blazer in concern. The other emptied her lungs, exhaling harshly.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m…” The two humans watched as the threads keeping her together struggled to maintain her true form, an eye twitching, the way her nails dug into her skin hard enough to draw blood.. Her outline trembled as though it were a plucked tightrope, pulsating violently until finally giving way to a mass of sharp, red abstract shapes that twisted and grew. She had become nearly as big as the room itself, newly sprouted limbs clawing at the marbled floors and walls.  “JUST FINE.”

 She lunged for the closest door, and the two quickly restrained her like a dog on a leash. The Adventure Line™ coiled around her legs, binding them together and leaving her to writhe on the floor in anger. 

“Miss, no! We talked about this, you have to control your temper!” Mariella shouted.

“Find your happy place!” 432 added. 

The unstable horde of furiousness simply ripped The Line™ off of her with a clawed grasp, sending it flying in the opposite direction She escaped the trio’s grasp in favor of prowling the halls viciously on all eight limbs like an arachnid. 

“NARRATOR!” She howled, “WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, I’M GOING TO DISASSEMBLE YOUR MOLECULES!” 

The bewildered humans pursued her as fast as they could, The Line™ slithering close behind. She finally spotted the other two through a corridor, frozen in place, as well as the broken stone tablet. She hastily approached them, but came to a screeching halt when she realized that she wouldn’t fit in through the comparatively small passageway. She gripped onto the top of the door so hard that cracks began to stretch outwards from her talons, peering her head inside. 

“THERE YOU ARE,” She snarled, nearly drooling like a rabid animal. 

But she paused. Something wasn’t right. 

Stanley, usually quite the lax fellow, was in a stance unlike his character. He was hunched, fists balled. Not only that, but he looked a disheveled mess; sweaty, tie hanging loose around his neck. He didn’t seem to have his Reassurance Bucket. Perhaps that was why. And The Narrator-- Well, honestly, he looked as though he were about to cry. He shook like a small dog with an iron-knuckled grip on the quartz island. Her piercing, ever-changing eyes stared at the two blankly for a moment. She shrunk back to normal, atoms slowing in their angered buzz, and she returned to corporeal stability. 432, Mariella, and The Adventure Line™ finally caught up with her. 

“Oh sure, now she decides to calm down.” 432 said, huffing from exhaustion. A sizable chunk of the passageway toppled down from the web of cracked drywall, to which they hopped out of the way quickly. The Adventure Line™ wasn’t so lucky, and was flattened by the dislodged rubble. It squirmed momentarily in discomfort from being plastered to the floor, before the drained settings-person rolled the piece of debris off of It™.

 It™ rose once again, bent out of shape. 

“Oh…” The Curator covered her mouth dramatically, kneeling in front of the shattered stone, “My beautiful, beautiful art…” She lamented. She ran a hand through the crumbled bits and pieces and let them slip through her fingers sorrowfully. She turned to the culprits.

“Just what is going on with you two?! Was it worth this? ”
The Narrator and Stanley looked at each other with conflicted eyes. 

Employee 432 tried vainly to straighten Line’s™ crooked arrow as The Curator sobbed into her hands. Mariella sidled up beside her, rubbing soothing circles on the small of her back. 

“Oh, it’s ruined!” The older woman bemoaned into the open air. 

“Hey, I think the party’s over. You should probably get going, just in case she freaks out again.” 432 said to Stanley, who stood with his arms folded and said nothing. “Line™, take him back to the office.”
The Adventure Line™ slithered towards the exit sadly, and Stanley followed soon after, shooting a strained glance towards The Narrator as he left. 

“You, stay here. I want to talk with you,” 432 halted The Narrator as he went to slink off in the opposite direction and get away from this nightmare, to sleep it off and apologize to The Curator in the morning. 

He froze like a deer in headlights. Although he knew that the being could do him no harm, their power was extremely limited compared to The Narrator’s after all, being confronted so suddenly added to the swarm of confusing emotions bouncing around in his head. He nodded, and wordlessly followed the settings person deeper into the museum, until The Curator’s wailing became distant ambience. 432 peered around the opened entrance to the dark corridor they’d entered, as though checking for any wandering eavesdroppers, before facing the frazzled Narrator. 

“What happened in there, man?” They asked. The Narrator calmed at their troubled expression, breathing a small relieved sigh. Usually he’d chide such unprofessional language, but he much preferred small talk over being interrogated, especially now. 

“You think I know? I didn’t do anything, everything was fine until I went to go look for Stanley! How could I not be worried, he’d been gone for ages-- I was trying to do something kind, for god’s sake! And what do I get?” He gestured to his disheveled sweater vest, rumpled by the force of Stanley’s shove. “Attacked! He attacked me, 432! Can you believe it?”

432 rubbed at their temples with waning patience. 

“Yes, but why?” 

The Narrator opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came.

Who am I? What did you do to me?

“I… oh dear…” He slumped against a marble pillar, sliding down to his knees. Employee #432 peered down at him in concern, and he covered his eyes to spare himself the embarrassment. Stinging warmth tickled his eyes and trailed down his cheeks. He’d never felt so vulnerable, it was humiliating. “432, I think he knows…” 

The other’s eyes widened. 

The proposed situation didn’t come too much as a shock, knowing their own experiences, it might as well have been bound to happen. A tingling wave of anxiety trailed down their being. 

Knowing their own experiences, they could only imagine how Stanley felt. The sense of reliability in everything they knew had shriveled up and died, decaying as they went through every stage of grief. It was anything but a slow descent into madness, more akin to being hurled at the speed of light into a never ending hole. Every wave of confused terror crashed into them harder than the last.
But they’d been there, done that. Learned to spit in the face of god rather than lie down and take it. Would such a realization lead Stanley to the same conclusion, or would he crush under the pressure?
They bit at their nails in hopes that they’d ward off a panic attack, lest they let their crumbling composure make things worse. 

432 was drawn from the rampant, overlapping thoughts of “how do I fix this?” and “what do I do?” by The Narrator’s stifled sniffles. They sighed, kneeling to his level.
The moistened sleeves of his dress shirt clung to the skin underneath, he curled further into himself to hide it. 

“Don’t look at me,” He begged, “It’s all my fault. I must have done something wrong in the erasing process, or…”

“You think? I mean, look at me.” 432 tried, and The Narrator frowned. “Tough crowd.” 

“That’s precisely why I tried so hard to get things right this time.” 

The settings person tried to ignore how much that stung, but it chipped away at their sympathy for the man. Though they’d long since forgiven him for what happened between the two, admittedly, his lack of understanding dug into old grudges. They shoved harsher words they could’ve said back down their throat and tried a different approach. 

“Well… have you considered that maybe it’s the erasing itself that’s the issue? I mean-- I didn’t ask to look like this. Something tells me you didn’t ask 427 if he wanted to be your puppet for all of eternity either.”

“I didn’t ask you because you wouldn’t have listened. I only wanted the best for you, I would have made you a hero!  If it weren’t for me, you and Stanley would have rotted away in that office for the rest of your sorry lives. And you went and ruined all of it. Any human would fall to their knees and beg for the opportunity that the two of you had.” 432 huffed. 

“Well, I didn’t!” They snapped, “I didn’t want any of that! It was my life, it was all I had! Honestly, it’s pathetic how oblivious you are to your own hypocrisy! If my life was so meaningless, why didn’t you just mind your goddamn business? It’s because you’re so unsatisfied with your own existence that you feel the need to distract yourself anyway you can-- what’s a few lives ruined as long as you can fuel your own ego? I should just leave you here, knowing everything you’ve done to me. But I’m not. So the least you could do is have a little empathy.” 

The two sat in silence for what seemed like eons. The Narrator could feel the raging energy building within 432 subside with each exasperated breath they took. It was far more than he deserved, and they both knew it. Guilt hung heavy in his heart as 432 continued.

“Look,” They said, “What’s done cannot be undone. All you can do now is apologize and explain everything to him, maybe over a candle-lit dinner or something. Lord knows you didn’t give me that privilege.”

“But… what if he wants to leave?” 

Both knew that leaving the Parable was physically impossible. Dread seeped into The Narrator’s soul. What if Stanley never spoke to him again? They had just been getting closer…

432 put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Just hope that he doesn’t.” 

Chapter Text

The Narrator had no excuses. He had millions of things to say, none of which would ever matter to Stanley. It was mind-bogglingly frustrating. When words were once his strong suit, not knowing how to use them irritated him endlessly.
For the past few days, he’d let Stanley wander around the office unrestricted. No locked doors, no endings.
No annoying voice to drive him mad.
The Narrator hadn’t switched back from his new corporeal form, he found no reason to. So he spent these wordless, mind-numbingly dull days mulling over the predicament; suffering for his irreversible blunder. Hours spent at his desk, scrawling his thoughts into a journal he’d never used after teaching himself to wield a pen.

He left his monitors on as he worked. He couldn’t bear to sit in silence and be left alone with his ponderings, even if Stanley wouldn’t talk to him. Even if that was how they had been existing together this whole time. A part of him feared that the human would hurt himself trying to find a way out of the office, that the confusion and narrative contradiction would corrode him.
He didn’t want another 432 on his hands.
So he kept a watchful eye while brainstorming. To his surprise, Stanley spent the first few days sitting in his office, completely silent. Sometimes he’d shift in his seat, spin around a couple times, rest his feet on the desk.
After his two-day bout of contemplative silence elapsed, he had gotten up and walked around, entering the locked offices he had never been able to enter and snooping around. The Narrator could see him in the corner of his eye, traversing each camera through the hallways; picking up every paper he found, meddling with computers. He took these stray files back to his office and perused through them, setting aside the ones he deemed as ‘inane business drivel’. He shoved the others into a filing cabinet. The Narrator even thought he might have seen Stanley glance up at the ceiling once or twice. Though that may have just been wishful thinking.

As The Narrator spent hours lobbing page after page into his trash can until they spilled over, mug stains collecting on his desk, Stanley explored the rest of The Parable. He took the cargo lift to the phone room, curious to see if it would still transport him to his apartment, only to find that the phone wouldn’t even ring. Unplugging it proved useless as well.
Stanley slept on the couches in the Employee Lounge at night, busted open the vending machines, flipped through magazines composed entirely of lipsums as reading material.
He popped into the Mind Control Facility every now and then, easing his anxiety by pushing the countless buttons.

Buttons were familiar, buttons made him feel safe. In a world so terrifying, buttons made him feel grounded. Each was unique in its color or number, its purpose, the sound and how it clicked back into place. Buttons don’t speak unless you want them too, buttons aren’t bossy and commanding. Buttons don’t lie.

Narrator felt sharp daggers of guilt spear into his simulated heart as Stanley obsessively pushed these buttons, and the realization that Stanley had tried to activate the escape pod several times, each pursuit growing more and more frantic. In between these attempts, Stanley slunk down the “ESCAPE” corridor and disappeared from The Narrator’s monitors completely.
Nothing he did mattered, not without The Narrator keeping the story running.
The storyteller sat with his head on his desk. Only one page left in his journal.

It had been left this way for hours, and he could barely summon a coherent thought to write down, despite the amount of drafts he’d written up. He was drained, ready to give up. So what if Stanley hated him? He could learn to live with that, couldn’t he? Besides, it couldn’t be worse than the eons he spent alone, before and after he created this Parable. If he decided to speak once more, at least he’d know that Stanley could hear.
He tried his hardest to convince himself that this was the truth, but his head hung somberly nevertheless.
He rubbed his eyes. They stung from fatigue.
The Narrator settled his cheek upon his forearm, gradually tuning out the ambience of the security cameras as he figured a catnap was in order; just to reset his mind for a bit.
He was just about to slip into unconsciousness when he registered the faint rapping of knuckles on his office door.

“Tis some visitor,” The Narrator mumbled to himself, stirring and shifting into a more comfortable position for rest. It was probably just a trick of the brain-- that or it had occurred down in the office, therefore not important to him. He smiled deliriously, amused at his poetic citations.
“Narrator,” Came muffled from outside of the room.

“Tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more.”

An exasperated sigh.

“Narrator!”

The man startled and abruptly shot up in his seat. He scanned his surroundings in confusion; mugs and cups covering every corner of his desk, ink smudges all over his hands, crumpled balls of paper that rustled about when he moved his desk chair. Like a twisted ball pit of sorts. He’d been thinking of incorporating something like that into The Parable, after reading up on popular office pranks, perhaps he’d be able to fit that into a story? Maybe the amount of assets would harm the stability of the environment, but surely he could find a way to work around that? Not that it mattered anymore, he recalled with a frown. Hm…
Another harsh knock came at the door, and he flinched.

“Oh, for- I’ll be right there!” He yelled.
The Narrator fumbled to fix his disheveled appearance; running fingers through his hair to return it to its coiffed neatness, plucking his glasses from his forehead, smoothing out his tie. The bespectacled man glanced at his reflection in a blacked out monitor and cringed with the realization that it was not nearly enough to disguise his slovenly appearance, but it’d have to do. In a last moment of panic, he kicked the paper ball pit underneath his desk and rushed to the door.

A familiar pair of blank eyes stared back at him when he opened it; 432. Madam Curator as well.

“Took you long enough,” The settings person mumbled.

The two of them seemed… out of the ordinary.

432--who usually had a cheeky grin on their face-- wore a furrowed brow, and The Curator’s cheery but powerful disposition had deflated, now she couldn’t bring herself to look The Narrator in the eye. Though, upon him initially opening the door, she had given his appearance a once over. One could only presume that she noticed he hadn’t changed from his human vessel. But she hadn’t either. Since then, her eyes remained glued to the floor, as though it were the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. She stood behind Employee 432 like a terrified child clinging to their mother’s leg.
She’d brought the reassurance bucket as well.

“Yes, my apologies. I’ve been… busy.” The Narrator cast a glance at the room behind him, looking as though a tornado had swept through the area. He politely gestured for the duo to enter, despite this. “Please, make yourselves at home. Don’t mind the… err, mess. At least try not to.”

The two filed into the room, standing aloof in the angled shadows that striped his office. All three of them remained in collective silence. An embarrassed flush came to The Narrator’s face as he noticed The Curator raise a hand to her mouth while her eyes wandered about the messy room, whispering “My goodness…” under her breath.
He cleared his throat.

“Yes, um. Why are you…?” He trailed off, gesturing to convey the rest of his question.

“We came to see if you needed help. Seems like we came right in time, too.”

“Help?”

“You know, with the whole… Stanley situation?” 432 said, their voice growing quieter. As if Stanley were in the room with them. Their eyes widened, recalling something important, and glanced at Madam Curator. They held each other's gaze for a moment, seemingly passing a message. Whatever it was was unbeknownst to The Narrator, who raised a brow at this odd exchange.
The Curator sheepishly stepped towards him. She halted, and Employee 432 gave her a reassuring pat on the back, urging her to say what was on her mind. Taking a deep breath, she willed the words out of her throat.

“I’d like to apologize… for my outburst. I know I’m not very good at it, but in hindsight it was highly unprofessional of me, quite frankly shameful…” She muttered, “Oh, and I’m so embarrassed…”
The Narrator sputtered in perplexion. The Curator had never apologized, at least not that he had seen, or experienced firsthand. Whenever they’d gotten in arguments, it’d always ended with one of them storming away. The Narrator held onto his grudges, mulled over them long after they’d been made. He was sure he could create an infinitely long list of things the conservator had done to spite him; the bulletin right at the top being that she, on the other hand, never held onto grudges. Not that he could tell. Her careless disposition infuriated The Narrator to no end. He never understood how you could just… move on so quickly. But she never said ‘sorry’. So neither did he.
There was no room for apologies, not when there were stories to be told and marvels to behold.
But as it was, Madam Curator stood in front of him. Her towering stature, usually frightening in nature, was hunched in dejection. She hid her apprehensive expression behind the bucket.

“You’re apologizing to me? Am I missing something?” When he received only confused looks from the two, his mouth gaped in astonishment. “It was my fault in the first place! I ruined a priceless piece of art-- Believe me, I would’ve done worse if I was in your place.”

“It wasn’t entirely your fault.” She looked away and fidgeted with the bucket’s handle, “Besides, I may have… overreacted a little.”
Employee 432 laughed.

“A little?” They repeated, raising a brow.
The Curator’s face grew bright red. They snickered as she hushed them, flustered.

“Perhaps… more than a little. I couldn’t help it, I was still strung-up from the exhibit showcase! B-But I’ve forgiven you now. Mariella’s taking care of it, so there’s no need to fret over it any longer.”
432 nodded in agreement.

“She’s already halfway done, too. It’s crazy what a little tile adhesive can do.”

“Oh, and!” The Curator presented the bucket to him, “Stanley forgot this. He came back to the museum the other day, but he didn’t take it. Bring it to him for me, will you?”

The stout man received the bucket with clammy palms, and was just about to toss it in whichever direction he saw fit, when the art collector’s words reached his brain. The pit that had been dwelling within his stomach for weeks grew, it hit him hard like a gut punch, breath losing its steady pace.
So that’s where Stanley went, when he would disappear.
But why? What did he mean to accomplish?
Did he seek out The Curator to spite him? Or because he truly favored her over him?
Did he go on a vengeful rampage, taking his anger out on Madam’s art collection? Perhaps that would explain why she seemed so stressed, here before him.
If the other two noticed or saw the color draining from his face, neither said anything. He swallowed and regained his composure.

“H-He did?”

“That’s what Mariella told me, yes.”

“Mariella?”

“Well, I was busy in my studio when she said he’d arrived. Drowning my sorrows with wine and refined art-- you know how it is. ” Madam Curator explained, “She was in the middle of fixing the Egyptian limestone piece, and then Stanley appeared. She said it was as if he’d appeared from thin air! Meanwhile, I was snacking on the tastiest cheese board in the whole multiverse, honestly! I had some brie and salmon, some crackers, and- oh! It was divine! You have to try it sometime-”

“What did he say?” The Narrator interrupted. 432 had taken a seat by the edge of The Narrator’s bed, their chin resting on their palm. They gave The Curator an endeared smile, and she went red once again; embarrassed at how easily she’d let herself get carried away. That was another first to The Narrator. On all previous accounts, she’d never had a problem prattling his ear off about the complexities of composition or color theory.

“Oh, yes. Ahem. He asked where I was, and then told Mariella to pass on to me that he was just as much to blame for the whole ‘breaking-of-the-stone’ incident as you were, and that he wanted to apologize.”

The bindings in The Narrator’s chest unwinded as he sighed with relief. That was a start, he supposed.

“Of course, I already knew all of that. Dearest 432 told me, as well as…”

She went quiet.
The trio existed there, in that moment, amongst the scrapped drawling statements The Narrator had written out and the silk sheets covered in dust from their stay on his office floor, half-drunk tea. His desk lamp had been knocked over, with no lightbulb inside. He didn’t need light, not when he had the constant glare and buzz of the monitors to keep him company. An empty bottle of scotch poked out from the top of the trash can.
The Narrator initially had it in his possession simply to test how it affected the human body, contrast to his natural form, but over the days, he found himself unable to keep away from it. He was desperate for anything to distract him from the situation, his own responsibilities. The Narrator wanted to shrivel up with guilt as he caught 432 staring at it.

“Yeah.” Said someone. None of the three knew whom, or if it had come from their own mouth.

“So um, what have you been planning to say to Stanley?” Employee 432 inquired suddenly, squirming amidst the tension in the room. The Narrator groaned and collapsed into his desk chair, releasing weeks worth of frustration and anxiety in one single exhale.

“Nothing.” He let his head fall forward onto the desk with a harsh thud, “I have absolutely nothing, and it’s been days.”

“Oh, come on! You have to have something! You’re telling me you’ve done nothing this whole time?”
432 was met with a crumpled notebook page to the face.

“Go ahead, see for yourself.”

They raised a brow. Madam Curator peeked over their shoulder as they peeled open the balled up paper.

“My dearest friend Stanley, (No.) 

Stan the man, (No.) 

Stanley, mi amigo (Absolutely not.) 

Stanley, we’ve known each other for quite some time now. Although we’ve had our ups and downs (Too cliche) Although our relationship has been strained, I’ve always admired (Too forward.)-- respected you. I feel terrible for the things I’ve done, and I’m willing to explain everything to you, if you’ll take me back (Way too forward.)-- if you’ll listen. Also, have I mentioned that you look very handsome today? (Irrelevant.)-- Please meet me in your apartment (Too personal.)-- the museum. (Not personal enough.)-- your apartment (??) So I can properly apologize. Please talk to me, I can’t bear to be alone any longer. If i have to live like this again I’ll surely die. (Too desperate.) 

Sincerely, The Narrator

The end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never…”

The last sentence had been rewritten several times, over and over until it trailed off the edge of the page. It was followed by an abnormally large blot of ink. As though The Narrator had been pressing down so hard that the pen had fully exploded. The whole letter was littered with dark black and blue smudges, aggressive scribbling over certain words.

The Curator and Employee 432 simultaneously sucked in a harsh breath between their teeth, exchanging looks of concern for the third.

“Ah, but that’s merely volume.1. Go on, read some more ‘brilliant ideas’, if you’re so inclined.”

“No, I think ‘m good…” said 432, who made the page disappear from the threads of time in a mere instant with a wave of the hand. They sidled behind him, as coordinated as he could with the mess covering the floor, and placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “Listen, I can tell you’re trying really hard, but I don’t think approaching this so logically is what Stanley needs right now.”

Madam Curator nodded in agreement, “It could come off as ingenuine, especially if the two of you have had issues with trust in the past.”

“Issues with trust” was putting it a tad lightly.

The Narrator threw his hands in the air with exasperation.

“Then what am I supposed to do?! I can’t not plan these things, then I wouldn’t know what to say! I’m a writer, for god’s sake, it’s the only way I can express myself without sounding like a bumbling idiot! And I haven’t even been doing that right.” He let his head fall back against the mahogany surface, “It’s hopeless. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Well, first…” 432 hesitated. It was hard for them not to feel awkward while someone was falling apart in front of him, and they’d never been good with comforting people, at least not intentionally. They closed their eyes to think more clearly. “I think you should skip the whole letter angle and just say what you mean to Stanley directly. You clearly already established a meeting place to apologize face-to-face, so what were you planning to say to him then?”

The shortest of the three buried his face in his hands. His ears tinged red with embarrassment.

“I was… going to try the idea you gave me,” He said quietly, “About explaining everything over food.”

The Curator’s eyes lit up, but she neglected to say anything.

“That was a pretty great idea,” 432 said with a grin, “I think it’d make the mood less stressful for you two. Not to mention, I’m pretty sure I saw Stanley eating an expired bag of chips the other day, so real food could be a strong incentive.”

Madam Curator shot up from her seat on the bed in excitement.
“I could help!” She said, different charcuterie board arrangements popping into her mind one after the other. After all, what else could better solve a rift torn between friends than an artistic assortment of cheeses, meats and fruit?

“It… feels a tad deceitful to think of it as an ‘incentive’, as if I’m laying a trap out for him. Stanley is anything but obedient, and after all of this… I’m not sure he would trust me to not lay out a trap for him.” The Narrator bemoaned.
The other two remained silent, unable to think of something reassuring to say. It was true.
Stanley was stubborn and rebellious, he wasn’t the type to forgive and forget.

Over the past few days, The Narrator had begun to realize that Stanley’s disobedience most likely came from an angle of revenge for all of the things he’d done to him. This thought made him feel even more hopeless.
What was the point in apologizing if Stanley wouldn’t listen? Would his apology even mean anything?
His radio silence over the weeks might even have further proved this to Stanley. It was entirely possible that the protagonist thought the bespectacled man was just as stubborn about apologizing as he was about hearing him out.
His brain had spun into a series of endless logic loops, each circling back to one underlying fact that he couldn’t ignore;
He didn’t deserve to be forgiven.
Stanley knew this.
The Curator and Employee 432 knew this as well.
So one could only say what needed to be heard at the moment.

“Just… don’t worry about that right now,” 432 squeezed The Narrator’s shoulder. The action caused a small electrical spark to erupt from their contact, but the other gave them an appreciative smile anyways. The settings person removed his journal from his desk, as well as a pen, and moved to the center of the room.

“What are you doing?” He asked skeptically. 432 plopped themself down onto the floor with their legs crossed. They wordlessly patted the spot next to them.

“Well, I was just thinking that we could brainstorm some points for you to make.”

“Why on the floor?”

432 shrugged. “Makes it more fun.”
The other two had no reason to decline, and so they both slid to the floor on either side of them. They winced in pain as their muscles strained to seat them properly, restrictive business attire only strengthening their plight. 432 thought they might have heard a joint pop.

“You two are so old,” They giggled.
The Narrator rolled his eyes.

“Oh please, we’re hardly older than 2 million. That’s not much longer than when your species began, you know. Besides, Madam Curator is 7.25 seconds older than me.”

“Sure, but whenever I say that, you insist that we were born at the same time.” The Curator rebutted.

“Ah, see! I meant the same general time era. If you were as intelligent as your age would imply, you would know that--”

“Okay, okay, settle down.” 432 interrupted before an argument could take place. “We have to focus.”

The bickering omnipotent entities went quiet and turned to the lankier of the three, gazing at him with big, curious eyes. 432 nervously tapped the pen against the journal, staring deeply into the page and pretending to be deep in thought.
Nothing good came out of curious otherworldly creatures.

“Say… Employee 432,” Madam Curator began slowly, “How old are you?”

The settings person’s mouth hung open, hesitant to answer after the initial shock of the inquiry wore off. They avoided eye contact with the troublesome duo, who continued to stare expectantly.

“34 years, 6 months, and 21 days.” They mumbled. The Curator’s eyebrows raised, impressed.

“Fascinating! How on Earth have you kept track so long? I can hardly remember how long it’s been since you arrived here!”

432 frowned and fought the urge to sigh deeply in annoyance, even if it might’ve gotten the two of them off their back. Eyes sliding shut, the bright digits separated by dashes and colons appeared once more, ticking up by the seconds. They pointed at the amount of time elapsed as though it were obvious.
The passage of time was forced knowledge to them; though they preferred to ignore it, it always came back to haunt them. It began with a repetitive clicking in their brain, a chime with every minute, a dull boom with every hour passed. It had driven them near insanity once it began.
Days spent underneath their desk pleading for the noise to stop as they slowly became less and less real; The Parable eating away at their physicality.
The worst part was knowing how long they’d spent spiraling.

But that was all water under the bridge now. All they had to do was be relieved that the worst of it was over, and now that it was out of the way, they could move on.

“Why does it matter?” They huffed.

“Well, since Stanley’s going through a similar situation as you went through, it might be helpful for The Narrator to know what questions you would’ve wanted answered back then.” The Curator said with a hopeful smile. 432 froze, and she began to backpedal. “Only if you feel comfortable sharing that with us, of course.”

432 hated stuff like this. They weren’t a recluse by any means, but they didn’t exactly want to be an open book either. Sharing the depths of their mind, their past, would only serve to make other’s pity them. Either that, or they’d be setting themselves up for betrayal later on. It was a two way street; open up and make yourself vulnerable, or bottle it all up and feel completely isolated.
But The Narrator stared at the floor, so dejected and sorrowful. Madam Curator looked at them with pleading eyes.
They were just as vulnerable as them.
They sighed.

“Fine.”

The Curator smiled appreciatively, placing a hand on their thigh.

“Thank you,” She said quietly, “I know it’s not easy.”
Embarrassed, 432 pouted and looked in the other direction.

“Yeah, yeah,” they said, batting her hand away, “Don’t mention it. Seriously.”

She nodded her understanding. There was a sense of comfort in the gentle look she gave them as their breathing grew unsteady, trying to muster up the courage to speak. They would have never agreed to do it if she hadn’t been there, reassuring them wordlessly with her presence.

“I guess…” They began, “The first thing I would wanna know is what this place even is.”

The other two glanced at each other, and The Narrator swallowed hesitantly.

“Well, I’ve always been enamored with storytelling, of course. It’s in my atomic structure. Eventually, I wanted to make something of my own, and Madam Curator offered to help, so we made this place.” He explained. He paused with the realization that he hadn’t fully answered 432’s question. “It’s not an entirely new dimension than yours, it’s more of a… rift. A tiny pocket in the universe, if you will.”

The Curator hummed in recollection.
“Took us a while to complete, didn’t it? By the time we had finished, your species had already vastly advanced in technology! We had to scrap our previous ideas to adapt.”

“It wasn’t too far of a setback, of course. When we observed the changes the world had made, I found myself quite enjoying the mind-numbing capitalist dystopia you’d turned the place into.”

The Curator elbowed the shorter of the two with a snort, and the two began to discuss their previous ideas for the Parable as though they were merely chatting over coffee and recounting old memories, before 432 butted in.

“Not to interrupt your ‘bonding’ time, but I already kinda know all this stuff. Are you writing this down?” They asked. The Narrator’s mouth snapped shut, and he sheepishly jotted the notes into the journal.

“Right, my apologies.” He mumbled, “I suppose we could consult our scrapped concepts later… what’s another question you would have liked answered?”
The proctor exhaled through gritted teeth, closed their eyes to think better.

“I dunno. Maybe like… ‘how did I get here’? That’s one I still don’t know.”

The Curator turned to her uptight counterpart with a smug look.

“Welll…” She began. The Narrator buried his face in his hands with a groan. “Our dearest Narrator likes to believe he’s good at handling the interdimensional side of these things, but when we first tried to transport the office here, you wouldn’t believe the mess we had on our hands! It was practically inconceivable to the human mind, your brain simply wouldn’t have been able to handle the image!”

“Alright, alright! No need to rub it in…”
Madam Curator ignored him.

“And so he came to me, going on and on about how his story simply couldn’t be told in such a chaotic environment. When I decided to take a look, it turns out that he got the dimensions all wrong, replacing the building’s length with its width! Thank goodness we had made the rift bigger than expected in the first place, or else we would’ve had a real problem.”
The shortest of the three hid his flustered face behind the journal, printing The Curator’s words-- albeit, less embarrassing-- onto the last page. 432 opened their mouth to interrupt, before the art collector pushed a finger to their lips.

“Be patient with me, I’m getting there.” She said,
432 would have felt sheepish, or even insulted, if her amused smile weren’t still plastered on her face. It was all in good fun. “The two of us made a decision to kill two birds with one stone; reset the timeline to start anew, and wipe all knowledge of the office and its workers from existence. All except…”

She poked her finger into Employee 432’s chest.
“You.”

The timekeeper looked down at where her manicured nails had poked into their dress shirt, met her gaze with a raised brow.

“And Stanley.” They clarified.

“Yes, but you already know all about that. We’re talking about you right now.”
The Narrator scribbled down their notes into his journal as The Curator and 432 maintained eye contact.

“You’ve been left in the dark for far too long,” She said, “Ask us anything, and we’ll answer.”
432’s mouth gaped like a fish, their eyes flickering between the two.
They shut it before they could say something stupid, so their racing mind could catch up with their tongue. For a moment, they had forgotten the vast nature of such a preposition. The fear of wasting this seemingly fleeting chance to have all of their questions answered had them calculating the weight of each question they could ask. This must have been how The Narrator felt, writing endless paths for his narratives, pondering which ones were best fit to tell his grand story. Madame Curator squeezed 432’s shoulder in an attempt to ease their anxiety.

“Don’t think, just go for it.”

They breathed in deeply and avoided eye contact, settling with staring down at their hands.

“I…only really have a few questions.”

The Curator nodded, casting a glance towards their disheveled third wheel. The patient, welcoming look painted on her face spurred Employee 432 to continue, despite their hesitation.
They were safe now. It was okay.

“Why me? Why did you pick me first?”

The Narrator looked up from the pages, and the color drained from his face.
There wasn’t much to say that he thought wasn’t evident enough throughout the time he and the settings person had known each other. Repeating such things would only add to the tension between the two, or at least add another thing to fret over at the top of the pile of problems weighing down his subconscious. He cleared his throat awkwardly, pushed the pen away from himself.

“Well, I…” He tried to spell everything out in his head so as to not fumble over his words.
When words ceased to come to his brain naturally, he shook his head, batting away all efforts of planning his sentences out.
“When I came back to Earth, I spent quite a while exploring the perfect environment for my… your story to take place in. I spent even longer narrowing down my options before I came upon this office. When I first discovered it, it was like a dream come true. A plain building for a plain company with plain workers in a city that cared little to none about it. I could turn its mundanity on its head and tell a subversive story about breaking free of a dull cycle. I did a lot of research, watching company manuals and studying training tapes.”
The Narrator paused, seeming to recall something.

“To be completely frank, I don’t think I ever knew what it was you were even doing in that office.”

“I believe that’s evident enough. What kind of job is a “button pusher” anyways?” The Curator teased.

“That’s all I ever saw when I would observe the building from the inside!”
He turned back to 432.
“I have to say, your species is quite the confusing one. I will never gain back the hours I spent surveillancing your kind, clicking away at keyboards or taking phone calls, over and over and over again. It was practically torture-- and I was only watching it! How do humans do that every single day? It’s hardly worth the pay, in my opinion. That’s when I found you.”

432 perked up.

“The first time I saw you, you were in the boss’ office. You had begged him for a promotion, which he denied, and he cited every single clumsy action you’d taken since working there; from accidentally spilling coffee on wealthy clients, getting your tie stuck in the copying machine, emailing the wrong files. You captured my attention instantly. It sounds strange, but that interesting encounter had me on the edge of my seat, wanting to know more. So I dug deeper.”
The Curator listened with baited breath, taking occasional glances at 432’s expression, to see how they were receiving this knowledge. They hadn’t gotten angry yet, which was a good sign. Instead, 432 merely sat, mouth slightly open as though entranced, as The Narrator spun this tale.

“You had worked at the company from the day you were able to get a decent job, and somehow you’d only advanced 3 times. You’d started as a janitor, then you were promoted to the mailroom, and then as a… ‘button pusher’ I suppose. It upset me that your boss took advantage of your good-natured attitude to berate you and keep you under his control. I’d watch you come home to your apartment each night falling apart at the seams, eating the same TV dinner and watching the same mind-numbing channels each night before you fell asleep and suffered the same abuse the next day, over and over again. I wanted to give you a better life, give you purpose in the world you inhabited. You know the rest of course, but… I think you deserve to know what was previously taken from you. ”

432 decided to shove down the disgust they felt imagining being watched all those years, the pathetic life they lived being no more than entertainment for some otherworldly monster. Instead, intense anticipation washed over them, and they leant in to hear more.

“When I wiped your mind... I erased everything but the company. Ignoring… all that, it was foolish of me to assume that you would adapt to my story so quickly. That you’d bow down to me and praise me for saving you from a dull, boring life. But when I had dug even deeper, the things I saw only made me want to help more.” He continued, “You had lived in an orphanage as a child, for reasons I never found the answers for, and you never found a home. I observed you in your adolescence, watching you continuously fall into bad crowds. You lost every friend you’d had when you decided to clean yourself up, get a proper office job. Part of me wanted to protect you, so no one would ever harm you again. Not your boss, not your parents, not your friends. I thought you’d be safe here, but… perhaps not.”

432 was in shock.
It wasn’t as if this were a tough pill to swallow, of course.
Mourning the death of their parents or pondering why they hadn’t wanted them was like a walk in the park compared to being stuck in a dimensional rift until the end of time. If they hadn’t known their parents back then, they especially didn’t know them now.
Really, all of their life, they’d never had an expectation of who they had been. As far as they could remember, it never mattered. They didn’t know how to feel.
They supposed that the ‘rebellious’ phase came somewhat as a surprise, as they’d always been somewhat of a pacifist. Mumbling apologies after bumping into someone, taking orders with a “yes, sir!”, making runs to the coffee shop across the street per their boss’ want--- that was what got them here. They had become a tad more anarchistic in light of The Narrator’s surveillance and their arrival in The Parable. Old habits die hard, they supposed. They nodded after great consideration.

“Thank you. For all that. It makes me feel… better, I guess… but…” They chewed their bottom lip. Dissatisfaction gnawed away at their brain. None of this really felt like closure. It didn’t make up for the years they spent alone and confused, belittled.
Nothing ever would.
Despite this, despite all of the questions they could ask that the all-knowing entities would have mind-shattering answers to, there was only one they cared about. It was a grievance they’d never spoken, even though it made their heart ache so.

“Of all the things to erase from Stanley, why did you pick me as well?”

The Narrator looked away. The answer was clear, but saying it was harder.

“I couldn’t take any liberties that time. I had to get it right, and right meant erasing everything.”

He paused, and the three of them were left in the outstretching, unyielding silence. Words once left unspoken now left them silent, when they’d been all too eager to say them. Yet, each could feel their respective auras hanging heavy in the atmosphere; grief, regret, apprehension. It was enough to suffocate a person. It certainly felt as though it was suffocating The Narrator, who’s throat tightened with the weight of his guilt.
So he said, voice breaking;

“I’m sorry, Jim.”

It almost felt too good to be true, yet 432’s heart broke at the same time.
He’d finally said their name.

432 hadn’t felt that they were crying until a tear rolled down their cheek, fizzled and burnt the tips of wool on the carpet where it had landed.

“Thank you,” They said, quietly, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The settings person caught The Narrator’s gaze and smiled wearily, to which he smiled back.
As long as they had known each other, there was tension. Two negative poles, the ever-looming torrent of tongues held back and apologies left unspoken, pushing them farther back with every step they took closer to one another. 432’s wall had been torn down, but so had his. Now, there was nothing between them. No superiority, no resistance, no hostility. Just faults, insecurities bare for all to see.
Yet, the two had never felt so free.
The Curator was unbelievably happy, though it wasn’t nearly as evident physically. She gave a long, exasperated sigh.

“That was a lot, wasn’t it?”
As if she was a couples’ therapist.
Suddenly, her shorter counterparts felt unyielding embarrassment all over again, opting to look anywhere else but each other.

“I guess,” 432 said passively, scratching the back of their neck.

“Oh, come now!” She looped an arm around them and drew them close, to which The Narrator yelped in protest. “I’m so very proud of you two.”
Neither could particularly understand why. Perhaps The Curator’s excessively artistic portrayal of the pair’s relationship that she’d built over the countless years of knowing the two was lost on them. She found it deeply ironic that The Narrator, a writer, was so averse to talking about his feelings. Her affection and praise seemed to spur the same embarrassment from him; though deep down, she knew he enjoyed it.
He’d have to remember to thank her properly later, for all she’d done. It was far more than he deserved, from both of them, no less.

“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat, pulling away once a sufficient amount of time had passed, “Is that everything?”

“I think so. I mean, they’re only supposed to be guidelines. I’m sure you can improvise if Stanley brings anything else up.”

“Right…”
The Narrator’s chest ached with anxiety as he stared down at his journal, all of the words in the world couldn’t prepare him for what came next.
On the other hand, The Curator was nearly bursting with excitement;

“We must get started on dinner preparations at once!”