Chapter Text
At first, Stanley was but a simple plaything for The Narrator, an unfeeling brute picked from his average office cubicle job and placed in The Narrator's isolated story. Yes, Stanley made a point to never express himself, apart from a moronic smirk he'd plaster on his face when he purposely disregarded The Narrator's instructions. Even on the brink of death, Stanley did his best to remain calm and collected, attempting to show he was still in control of his body, his feelings. Perhaps that's what drove The Narrator to create horrific alternate endings to his story where Stanley would die brutally.
It wasn't his fault the office worker refused to show fear or sadness or anything that would tell The Narrator he was distressed. Maybe if he was given Sarah from accounting or Johnathan, the boss' secretary, he'd be getting an actually entertaining tale. Stanley was just too stubborn to give The Narrator the reactions he was looking for. That is, until he broke.
The Narrator began to view Stanley differently after the "incident" (Stanley referred to it as an incident, The Narrator preferred to call it an eye opener) of the 437th run. Stanley, being the froward he'd always been, sat himself on the grimy broom closet floor, blocking out The Narrator's repeated speech of complaints and insults while he stared intently at the blank wall. At first, he had been slightly offended by The Narrator's mocking tone or him calling Stanley dead. Now, it was just another one of the many things in his line of barbs.
Of course, as much as he detested to admit it, The Narrator couldn't talk forever. After he reached the end of his thread, he wished Stanley farewell, that he'd be back later. Stanley remained balled up in the broom closet, sitting in the silence of his own breath. The fluorescent lights hummed powerfully and he swore he could hear the buzzing of a fly. He considered calling The Narrator a liar after he had told Stanley that he was the only truly living thing in this liminal nightmare. Then he reconsidered, enjoying the sound of a living bug. Perhaps The Narrator was being honest and Stanley was simply delusional, making up sounds to feel less alone.
Truth be told, the obnoxious consistency of The Narrator's voice kept his mind from forming the troubling thoughts that clawed at his brain since the beginning of this whole ordeal. He began to miss his job, yearning for the annoyingly early morning shifts that made him feel like a successful member of society, even if that resulted in him passing out by 7:30 in the afternoon. He even missed his coworkers who would try to make conversation with him, even after they had been informed that he hated it. He missed his associates who would stop him in the break room while he tried to refill his coffee mug to make small talk, asking about wives and kids, which Stanley had none of the sort. He thought about his position at the workplace, how he had his own section of employees assigned to him, the manager position winning him his secluded office, something he was grateful for.
The thought of his lowlife job made his eyes wet. He hadn't cried once since he was abducted. He wondered if his colleagues missed him or if they were thankful their strange, quiet, bastardly manager had been removed from their lives. He began to sob, quietly at first. His memories flashed before his eyes. Was this what it was like to die? Yes, maybe Stanley was finally dying, withering and rotting away in a broom closet of all places.
He didn't know how long he had been stuck here. He never seemed to age. For all he knew, years could've passed while he was trapped here. He mourned over the evocation of his birthdays. Though, after he graduated college, parties turned to a mimic of a dietitian's cheat day. His office put some effort into acknowledging someone's birthday; Stanley had vivid memories of looking through cheap, cheesy birthday cards the day before. The Narrator tried to make Stanley's birthday special as well, directing him to the employee lounge only to do a poor job of acting surprised when he opened the door to be greeted by a model of a tiered cake. Stanley somewhat appreciated the work to code a stolen model into the game, though it was truly for nothing as he couldn't eat it anyways. He had no desire to. He'd just flash an obviously faux smile to the ceiling and walk out.
He let ugly sounds release from his throat. He realised he had spent a whole ten minutes reminiscing about moments that weren't even his best. They were average, he supposed. The Narrator would think so as well.
"Stanley? Stanley, are you finally out of that damn closet? We must move-"
This far in, The Narrator had lost all expectations of seeing Stanley cry. Now, he had walked in on him sobbing on the floor of a dirty room. How classy, Stanley, The Narrator almost remarked, holding his snarky tongue as he watched this middle aged man break down in the middle of a closet.
"My…are you alright, Stanley?" What a silly question. Did he look alright?
Trying to keep his snide dignity, The Narrator continued. "I swear to god…don't make me come down there."
Stanley's curiosity overpowered his now passed nostalgia, uncurling his body and quirking his brow. Now that was something interesting. According to everything Stanley had been told, The Narrator was simply a disembodied voice to him, a being digging into his every thought, the furthest thing from human.
"While you are correct, Stanley, it's quite easy to create a model I could use to represent myself. I could simply import it into the game's files and walk around the map like you can."
He wanted to laugh. This was something Stanley just had to see.
"I mean, I suppose I could drop in for a few seconds, but the model is very unfinished. It's all untextured and mostly shapes and colours. It's like…have you ever seen low poly character models, Stanley?"
Was that even a question? Stanley stared at the ceiling expectantly.
"Oh, don't get like that with me. You know, you're looking better already! Yes, I think I'll go work on that character model while you pull yourself together." With that, The Narrator began to hum a tune Stanley didn't recognize, supposedly shifting his focus from the man to his own creation.
Stanley glared as he rolled his eyes. All he had to do was cry again, right? Yeah, he could do that. His tears were weapons now, fighting for his curiosity and eagerness to see this low-quality model The Narrator spoke of. Now, what was he thinking of again? Oh yes, his regular life.
"Hm? What was that, Stanley?" Turning his attention back to the worker, he sighed deeply. "Oh for…is this some sort of ploy for you to get back at me? If it is, I'll be rightfully mad. I hope you understand that."
Stanley heard him loud and clear. He mumbled something along the lines of "Alright, Stanley" in a breathy tone, as if whatever the hell he was needed to stretch. The clicking of computer keys bounced off the inside of Stanley's skull. Before long, he noticed heavy footsteps that paused right outside the broom closet's door.
It went silent. "...Are you sure I can come in, Stanley?"
The tone was genuine, soft, so caring that Stanley almost felt bad for everything he's done. Then he realised this was the first stage of Stockholm Syndrome. Yeah, Stanley supposed he could open the door.
There was a shaky breath before the doorknob turned. It creaked open to reveal…
Oh.
Oh wow.
"I told you Stanley. I'm nothing but shapes and colours."
No shit. The Narrator's movements were stiff. Obviously, there was more time put into looks than perfecting the movement of the joints and muscles. At the thought, the pixelated expression on the model's face contorted to something…less joyful.
"Oh please, I needed a break from all that fiddly stuff."
Stanley was still frozen on the ground, tears running down his flushed face. If he was being honest, the thought of trying to strangle The Narrator crossed his mind for only a split second, which was received with a scoff. He decided against it, shakily rising from where he sat. He stumbled over, legs asleep as he collapsed onto The Narrator's shoulder.
"Wh- Stanley?" The Narrator pushed the other slightly. "Stanley, what's wrong? To my understanding, you seemed to have stopped crying."
Unexpectedly, a wail left Stanley's deflated body as his shoulders jerked upwards. The Narrator was right, he had stopped crying as soon as he saw the horrifying sentient body model. He wasn't sure what this excess was. Confusion coursing through The Narrator's sharp corpse, he slowly lowered the two of them back to the ground, kneeling.
To tell the truth, The Narrator would've released Stanley back into his regular life long ago but he was simply a weaker pawn in the line of this storytelling business. He had no say in who became trapped in his parable, if he did, he'd surely have chosen Johnathan. The Narrator was just as stuck as Stanley. To be fair, he had less limitations than Stanley. He could leave his room, laying in the nothingness of the universe as he waited to return to his story, to Stanley. He never told Stanley this, of course, his feeble mind not powerful enough to withhold the secrets of his plane of existence. Sure, he was manager of his office, but that didn't mean he was capable of understanding everything.
Stanley began to glare again once he calmed his breathing and wiped his eyes.
The Narrator patted his back in a comradery type of way. "See, Stanley? It doesn't hurt to be vulnerable with your feelings."
He wasn't being vulnerable, The Narrator had simply caught him at a bad time. Stanley was never meant to be vulnerable.
Stanley was affected by toxic masculinity and, frankly, The Narrator found it absolutely hilarious. He refrained from laughing in his face, however, enjoying the moment they were sharing. Stanley quickly pulled away from the pointed model, requesting a reset immediately. The Narrator complied.
Yes, that was a nice moment in The Narrator's memory, much unlike his current situation. Stanley was absentmindedly walking through every single wrong door he could. The Narrator, rightfully pissed, wished to spawn in his still unfinished model and…
He didn't know…
Gently hold Stanley's hand, guiding him to the story's end?