Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Now that we know your choices are meaningful, we can't have you jumping off the platform and dying."

Huh?

"Imagine the main character dying senselessly halfway through the story! That story would make no sense at all."

I suppose...

"We just need to get you home as soon as possible, before the narrative contradiction gets any worse. Unfortunately, it seems this place is not well equipped to deal with reality."

Stanley, who had just suddenly snapped into consciousness, was very confused.

He was on the cargo lift, which had some rather conspicuous new fencing on it. As it arrived to its destination, he got off, gingerly stepping down and looking up.

Stanley could not recall being mute until quite recently, so his signing was very limited and mostly learned from online resources he came across while trying to find ways to communicate with the seemingly omniscient voice in his head.

He suspected The Narrator could hear his thoughts just fine, but if he physically communicated things, they had no excuse for ignoring him.

He rather roughly fingerspelled "what now" at the ceiling. The Narrator made a strained noise, akin to a wincing sound.

"Stanley?" The office worker didn't understand the questioning tone. Of course he was Stanley, who else would he be?

He furrowed his brow at the ceiling.

"Oh, oh, Stanley, you're back! I'm glad to have you on board." The voice was oddly enthused about him, which was extremely unusual. "Do hurry back to the room with the two doors, would you, Stanley? We have a story to get back to."

The sheer number of fences erected around the cargo bay was impressive. This was the first time the Narrator had bothered to try and keep him alive.

Stanley shrugged and backtracked through the employee lounge patiently.

"Ahh, there we go! Alright." The Narrator cleared his throat conspicuously. "When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left."

And so he did; the narration seemed more tense than usual, so he decided to humour the non-corporeal being.

Through the meeting room and up the stairs, they stayed almost perfectly on script. Then they came to the manager's office.

"Stepping inside his manager's office, Stanley was once again stunned to discover not an indication of any human life. Shocked, unravelled, Stanley wondered in disbelief who orchestrated this... until he saw the door with a voice receiver next to it."

This was a deviation. And not a very good one for Stanley's attempt to please the Narrator.

"Surely, behind this door lay all the answers to his questions. And beyond all probability, he knew the pass code! He had seen it on his boss's computer just last week - night shark 115."

Stanley was disappointed by the absence of facts about night sharks in the narration.

"Was this the code to open the door? Would it still work? There was only one way to find out. Stanley had been trained never to speak up, but now, he would draw from within himself the courage to face the unknown. He drew a sharp breath and then spoke the code."

He drew a sharp breath and spoke nothing at all. If this was some sadistic bit, he wasn't having it.

A hoarse cough. "Stanley spoke the code. Night shark 1 1 5. He spoke it into the receiver. Right there on the wall."

Stanley stared at the voice receiver in silence, looked up, and gestured at it to indicate he did not need any further clarification as to its location. He then pointed to the ground next to him, using both arms to make a sweeping motion from the ceiling to the floor in what appeared to be broken telephone communication between his brain and his body.

"... No, no, Stanley, I can't come down there, I'm a Narrator, I'm not a-"

Stanley stared down the voice receiver, his silence compounding on itself. This was such a joke he didn't even want to give the Narrator the privilege of a reaction.

The Narrator sighed deeply. "Fine. I'll come up with something. Let me see... hmm, mm, mm..."

The voice suddenly cut out, like a phone call ending abruptly. Stanley's eyes raced around the ceiling, suddenly finding himself struck with fear. There was an absence of something, more so than when the Narrator fell quiet any other time, as though an intercom had been turned off or someone hung up on him.

"Over here, Stanley." The voice came from behind him.

Stanley turned around and was met with the cold eyes of a stern man. This was not one of his coworkers. Nor was it his boss, for that matter. And his voice...

"Right. The receiver. What was the password? Hmm, yes... night shark 1 1 5."

The door opened, but Stanley just kept staring at the Narrator.

The corporeal Narrator, standing there before him. The man who was no longer a voice in his head.

Said man furrowed his brow and stared back.

"Well? The door is open, Stanley. Get a move on. Or do you need someone holding your hand the whole way now?"

Stanley's head was spinning. Cool, stern eyes watched him intently, their sharp glare masking a strange tenderness. There was something almost parental about the softness of-

"STANLEY!" The cry snapped him out of his daze. "My goodness, you are spacey today. Please, how about you proceed instead of ogling me like I'm some kind of museum exhibit."

The Narrator moved a lot while talking. Stanley watched his hands as they erratically accentuated his speech; there was some sort of stylised quality to them, something Stanley couldn't quite name, that gave the man an element of surrealism.

"Stanley. Stanley, look me in the eyes. I opened the door for you, there's no reason why I shouldn't remove this model from the Parable at once. Please just keep movi-" the Narrator's monologue was abruptly cut off when his arm was grabbed and he was pulled down the hall at a breakneck pace.

"S- Stanley- Please, I-" the winded Narrator tried desperately to finish a sentence while Stanley unceremoniously dragged him to the Mind Control Facility, ignoring all elevator safety guidelines his workplace had presumably taught him in a pre-Parable life. "This model is- this model is not made for this kind of- manhandling!!"

Stanley halted abruptly once they reached the Facility, slammed down on the button that lit the screens up, and glared expectantly at the Narrator.

"Oh. Oh, my... Stanley, I don't have my script, I left it in my office. Surely you can't expect- here, I'll get rid of the model and go g-" Once again, his wrist was grabbed violently. Stanley hadn't had any direct human interaction in who knew how long, and he doubted he'd be speaking to Mariella anytime soon.

He was absolutely not letting the only other man present go back to being the voice in his head.

"Stanley, it is honestly unbecoming of a grown man to be this clingy to a stranger."

As usual, the voice was laden with contempt, but the expression behind the man's glasses reflected more concern than irritation.

This was a fascinating change of dynamic. The Narrator, no longer hidden from view, suddenly had a whole range of expressions that he stifled quite well in his voice, but seemingly didn't bother to learn to hide in his face.

Stanley tried not to react so the other man wouldn't notice his own expressiveness.

"Just summon the script here," Stanley signed slowly, looking at his hands as he spelled out each word.

The Narrator sighed. Raising his own hands and speaking as calmly as he could manage, he muttered "I'll need to teach you some actual signs. Remind me to get to that." and reached his arm out, his fingers miming a grip on a stack of papers.

He shook his hand firmly, a script materialising in his hands as he finished the gesture.

He cleared his throat and began to read in his usual patient cadence. "The lights rose on an enormous room packed with television screens."

The lights had in fact been on for a while, but Stanley resisted the urge to comment.

"What horrible secret did this place hold, Stanley thought to himself. Did he have the strength to find out?" Staring daggers at Stanley, the Narrator stopped.

Employee 427 eagerly slammed the button in front of him, and they went through the motions of the Mind Control Facility together.

Now, they came to the controls, and Stanley inspected the Narrator once more. He had already gone down both paths before, but now... now he had the Narrator to watch, not just hear.

After some careful deliberation, he approached the OFF button, watching the Narrator smile softly at the decision... and slammed his hand down on the ON button instead.

The Narrator glanced at his script and turned to Stanley, betrayal and irritation marking his face with defined wrinkles and flooding his eyes with venom.

"Oh, Stanley..." The slow, dark drawl of his words emphasised by a growing smile, "you didn't just activate the controls, did you?"

Oh, Stanley thought to himself, oh wow. As the Narrator continued monologuing, he was filled with an intrigue he hadn't felt since the first time he had provoked such anger.

The shadows on the older-looking man's sharp face emphasised his sadistic grin. "If you want to throw my story off track, you're going to have to do much better than that."

Stanley leaned back on the control panel, waiting for the Narrator to get to the bloody point.

"How long until detonation, then? Hmm...let's say, um...two minutes."

The vibrant red light of the countdown clock flooded the room, the Narrator's face suddenly highlighted by the harsh lighting. Wow.

Stanley felt a slight weakness in his knees. Despite the fact that the other man was shorter than him, this atmosphere and the growing manic calm on his face suddenly made Stanley feel incredibly small.

At that moment, the Narrator's look wavered for a second, and he gave Stanley an odd look before continuing.

"Ooh, this is much better than what I had in mind! What a shame we have so little time left to enjoy it."

Collecting himself a bit, Stanley went back into the other room, ready to mess with the buttons awhile; despite having learned by now that they won't do anything, he still did love buttons.

He immediately regretted this when the Narrator spread out his arms and spoke up in the rounded room, projecting his voice theatrically in the massive chamber.

"I have to say this, though, this version of events has been rather amusing. Watching you try to make sense of everything and take back the control wrested away from you...it's quite rich. I almost hate to see it go!"

Stanley nearly crumpled under his own weight. The echo created by the size of the room caused the Narrator's voice to have far more bass than usual, and something about the rich, dark tones made Stanley feel light-headed.

"How many times will you replay this bit, looking desperately for a solution? Ten? A hundre- STANLEY?!"

Stanley had collapsed to the ground. The Narrator rushed over to the man, his mad ramblings taking the back seat as he shook his protagonist.

"Stanley, are you okay? Answer me at once!!"

Stanley hadn't even passed out or anything – he was trying very hard to raise his hands and stop the Narrator, but unfortunately the man's iron grip and furious shaking were shockingly strong.

Eventually, he decided that his upper body was probably not the best mode of communication and kicked the Narrator in the gut.

"Hffgh- S-Stanley??" The Narrator sounded downright insulted, as though he would be puffing his chest with his arms crossed if he wasn't busy trying to catch his breath. Stanley stared at him in contempt.

"Haaah, right!" Straightening himself out, the Narrator tried his hardest to stare the office worker down. "Let's try not to collapse in the middle of my speeches, how about."

Stanley noticed that the countdown had stopped; the tense, atmospheric ambient noise that always accompanied the Narrator's monologue had ceased as well.

"You okay?" Stanley signed, trying to use his face to indicate that it was a question.

The other man huffed in response. "Stanley, you can't simply drop to the floor and then ask ME if I'm okay. What happened? Or was it out of spite? Was I just having too much fun for you?" His glasses reflected the countdown clock's bright red light, obscuring his expression.

The office worker tried his best to get up, unwilling to let the older fellow look down on him.

He himself had no clue what exactly it was that made him fold over, but the way that voice sounded in this room wasn't helping.

Staggering to his feet, he gestured broadly at the room as a whole, then at his throat; this was mostly because he was struggling to remember the sign for "e" and didn't know the signs for the words he was thinking of.

"What's wrong with my voice?" The Narrator scowled, increasingly irritated. "You're the one who's forcing me to stay here, you know. I'd love to get rid of this-" He shook an arm in moderate disgust, "horribly human body."

Stanley sighed. Snatching a page out of the Narrator's hand, he began furiously scrawling on the back of the sheet before the other man had time to protest.

He thrust it at the Narrator impatiently and waited.

"Too deep? Too deep?! Stanley, my voice is perfectly-" as he raised it, gravelly tones came out, making Stanley feel like he was about to combust.

This cut the Narrator off abruptly - had Employee 427 accidentally shown the emotion on his face?

An exaggerated fury spread across the silent Narrator's face, and the countdown clock flared back to life, the light of the rapidly changing numbers dancing across the walls.

"Stanley had apparently figured out what was going to happen to him, and collapsed in horror as his impending doom dawned upon him!"

This was incorrect, but certainly much more interesting than the previous lines, and the cold, dark glee in the irritated voice was somewhat entertaining, so Stanley accepted his fate and leaned back against a table. "How American", the Narrator muttered with disdain, unaware that he was extremely audible with the lack of ambient noise his protagonist was accustomed to.

"Ahem. Stanley had staggered to his feet, leaning on a table for support, but it was all for nought. The image of his body, torn apart and charred by the flaming burst of metal shrapnel that would soon engulf him, filled his horrified mind."

Stanley, who had been a college student around when sites like LiveLeak were at their most prevalent, was fairly unfazed and enjoying the way the Narrator's smug self-satisfaction paired with the room's acoustics.

This did not deter the other man in the slightest. It was unclear what exactly the Narrator was playing at; he had seemed unusually hostile, but he was presently just carrying on with his modified monologue.

"Despite his awareness of the terrible fate awaiting him, Stanley was apparently too busy drooling over a man to even pretend to care."

The venomous irritation had returned, along with a fresh coat of eager malice.

"Perhaps," the Narrator rather abruptly grabbed Stanley by the collar and leaned in, hovering over him and forcing him to bend unnaturally over the table, "this is his pathetic idea of a happily ever aft-"

And everything cut to black.

Chapter Text

Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, his hands flew to his collar, ready to fix it after the rude assault on his ironed work clothes, only to find that his shirt was back to its usual state. Damned reset.

No matter how often it happened, Stanley always struggled to deal with them; it was as if he blinked and simply appeared at his office door, in whatever state he had begun the day in. It was miserable.


Eventually, he stepped into the hallway.

All of his coworkers were gone. What could it-

Hold on. It's silent. What?


This was unprecedented. The foreboding ambience that followed Stanley as he explored was now the only sound besides his footsteps.

"Quiet," he spelled out, hoping the abstraction would get the Narrator's attention. Would he have reset back to his... well, wherever he usually was when he was being a voice?

Nothing.

Stanley was well and truly alone.


This was incredibly worrying. Despite his protests when accused of being unable to function without his coworkers, genuine solitude made him uneasy.

But maybe... maybe the other man had decided to hold onto his newfound body. Maybe Stanley just had to find him!


With this decided, he went ahead through the office. Past room 417, down the hall, and...

An open door with a wall behind it.

What the hell?


Gingerly stepping into the walled cavity, Stanley inspected the corners. When they reset, sometimes the layout would change. Sometimes there would be a phone call. Occasionally, papers would be strewn across the floor as though a conspiracist detective had a tantrum.

However, those things never prevented Stanley from progressing with the story, other than by distracting him for a while.


With nothing else to do, Stanley began to backtrack, silently fingerspelling "help" over and over as a way to keep his hands occupied and potentially attract the attention of the Narrator, if he was out there.

The door to room 427 was still open. Although he had been thinking of trying to climb out the window into the white void behind it, this made Stanley's life much easier. That being said, it was somehow more unsettling than the absence of the voice that always followed him, or that of the entirety of the office beyond the door that cut his journey short.

Stanley stepped into his office and shut the door.


Silence. Horrible, empty silence.

BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He slammed the door until he was winded, his hand shaking weakly around the handle.


Cold, dead silence.

If the Narrator had been here, he would likely be finishing his monologue right now, but instead, Stanley kneeled at the door in silence, tears slowly trickling down his cheeks as he stared at the fl- 


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, his hands flew to his eyes, wiping them of tears that weren't there. Damned reset.


He didn't want to leave the room. He didn't really want to stay in it either. The terror of solitude had begun to subside, making space for a numbness that Stanley didn't feel like indulging.

Eh, what else was he going to do? Stanley took a step. Then another.

The door behind him creaked.

"All of his coworkers were gone. What could it mean?" Stanley's breath hitched. "Stanley decided to head to the meeting room; Perhaps he had simply missed a memo."

He was back. He was back!!!

Stanley had been kneading his knuckles as he listened, fidgeting excitedly. His excitement boiled over the moment the silence took over again, and he shook out his hands with fingers splayed.

"Stanley?"

There he was again! Dipping his head down in an attempt to hide his smile, he did his best to calm his hands and sign "yes" at the ceiling.

"Stanley, what's wrong?" It seems he had not picked up on the smile after all. "Are your hands okay?"


Stanley pointed up and spelled "here" with shaky hands; at least, he was pretty sure he did. He couldn't quite see if he did it correctly through the thin film of tears.

"Wh- Stanley, it's only been one reset, I'm not coming back there just because!"

He doubled over in laughter. "No, missed you," he spelled in between heaving breaths.

The glee he felt increased tenfold when the stunned Narrator stammered nervously, clearly unsure what to do about the sudden affection.


"Stanley, are you alright? Not to suggest I find you abrasive or anything of the sort, but this is unusually... caring of you."

This was when it hit Stanley that the Narrator had genuinely been absent entirely during the last reset. Just... gone.


And so, he took it upon himself to explain. He opened with "last time," pointing at his office door once he finished signing.

"Last time? Last reset, do you mean?" A vigorous nod. He understood Stanley well now, after all they'd done together.


Now, the office door. He mimed opening it, walked away, and spelled "not closed". Redundant, perhaps, but clear.

"Stanley, it absolutely closed behind you, I made sure of it."

Stanley shook his head. "You were gone", he signed.

"Gone? Stanley, you don't really mean you reset alone, do you?"


Stanley decided to keep going instead of directly responding. Walking to the two doors room as the stunned Narrator muttered to himself, he stopped at the door. "Wall", he signed. "This was a wall."

"What are you on about, Stanley?" There was palpable frustration in the voice. "That is a door. Not a wall. And I awoke right back where I always am, ready to read my script, the moment the countdown ended and we were blown up."


Stanley just shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes again. "You were gone", he repeated.

Stanley did not like the cold silence that was the reaction. All he could do was wait.


"You aren't kidding, are you? Well then..."

And then it returned. The complete silence. Like a microphone being yanked out mid-recording.

He was alone. Again. He couldn't be alone again. Please, not again...


Just then, something brushed against his shoulder and he swung at it in surprise.

"Stanley, I don't appreciate the aggression." A firm hand pushed his down, and a wave of relief washed over him. "Listen."

The austere expression on the Narrator's face, made all the more severe by his stern appearance, brought the unease back.


"If what you say happened truly did happen, then we need to find out why. The only thing that differed was that I was here. We are going to test this once more."

Stanley gulped. This was not preferable as far as he was concerned; he didn't want to be alone again and the Narrator's intense stare was starting to make him feel like he'd done something horrible and was about to be reprimanded.

The Narrator firmly gripped Stanley's hand between his own. "So, Stanley. It's an experiment! You choose where you want to go. Any ending you like. I'm right here with you."

Now brandishing his script, he looked at Stanley expectantly.


Very well then. It's an adventure. Stanley breathed in nervously and entered the room with two doors.

Chapter Text

"Stanley, I know this is a difficult decision but I need you to do something. We can't reach an ending if you just stand there."

This experimental facet of the matter had stumped Stanley, who was now churning every ending he could think of through his feeble mind in an attempt to choose one.

"Countdown?" He spelled absent-mindedly, tilting his head and hoping that effectively conveyed that it was a question.

The Narrator scoffed. "So soon? Please, if you have some sort of masochistic ulterior motives, hold off on them until we iron all this out." He seemed to regret this immediately afterwards, burying his face in his hands.


Stanley laughed quietly. The Narrator's voice was always rather controlled, even when furious or pushed to the point of tears, but his body was comically expressive.

Knowing that the man flustered himself with his own snarky comments was quite possibly the funniest thing he had learned about him so far.


Finally, he settled on the right door. He marched with purpose to the employee lounge, the Narrator keeping up with him with floaty steps while diligently also keeping up with the script.

"You know, Stanley," he mused while they stood in the room, "I've been rather abrasive to you in the past about this room, but it is actually quite nice from here."

No kidding. Stanley honestly didn't see the appeal, but a man who built his physical form to have a blazer and a turtleneck clearly had tastes Stanley couldn't possibly understand, so he just didn't say anything.

The Narrator looked at him with slight contempt, but quickly went back to looking around the room.


"Do you remember the time you passed out on the couch here instead of continuing with the story?" He snickered politely. "I had no idea you could even do that until then."

Stanley did not, in fact, remember this, and was actually somewhat bothered that the Narrator did. He decided to leave at once in order to prevent the Narrator from trudging up any further memories he didn't need to think about.

"My goodness, Stanley, aren't you eager!" The man made broad, excited gestures as he walked alongside Stanley.

In fact, he was beginning to notice that the Narrator's subtly stylised hands and his animated movement of them was actually consistent across the board.


He gestured to stop.

"Oh? What is it, Stanley?" His hands neatly crossed behind his back, the Narrator looked expectantly at the office worker. "Is the cargo bay really the time f- h-huh?"

Stanley had grabbed the man's face and was inspecting it, turning it from side to side like an archeologist confirming the legitimacy of an artefact. The creases and subtle wrinkling in the face was symmetrical and perfectly mapped; every hair out of place was sitting just right.

"S-Stanley, please..." The Narrator croaked helplessly, praying the strange heat in his face wasn't the kind that Stanley would see.


He then moved on to his clothing, his hands gently analysing every fold in the woven mustard yellow turtleneck and taking great care not to actually press against the body underneath.

Eventually, when he was satisfied with his analysis and the poor Narrator was reduced to a stammering mess, he concluded that he was right; the Narrator's proportions and his carefully crafted appearance were undoubtedly stylised for visual appeal.

What a fop.

The Narrator did his best to glare at Stanley, but in his evidently flustered state it looked more like he was pleading for mercy.


He looks like he's had enough, Stanley decided. "Moving on," he signed slowly, trying not to laugh at the Narrator as he fixed his clothing and nervously breathed in.

"Are you done with your... ah... examination?" For someone who was so proud of his work on the model, he was apparently stunned that there was any interest in it.

Stanley nodded enthusiastically and approached the cargo lift, as impatient as ever.


"Stanley, if that thing leaves without me you're not getting any ending at all." Having collected himself a bit, the Narrator once again put on an overly serious expression and did his best to look like he wasn't messing around.

This was lost on Stanley, who was waiting solely because he had a particular ending in mind and didn't feel that losing the Narrator on the way would benefit it in the slightest.


As they crossed the massive warehouse, Stanley eyed the walkway below. For just a moment, he wondered if the other man would follow him down if he-

"Stanley contemplated the risk of breaking not only his legs, but someone else's alongside them, and ultimately decided against it because he realised that the Narrator was not nearly attached enough to him to try and stick a landing with knees and ankles that were made less than five resets ago."

Right.


Stanley stepped off the cargo lift the moment it aligned enough with the platform to do so, but found himself waiting for it to stop anyway, because some people still respected safety protocol. How tedious.


When they got to the phone room, the light was already on and didn't swing. Stanley looked at the Narrator questioningly.

"We both already knew what was here, and dramatic effect is all this had going for it." He looked away sheepishly before adding, "it also hurts my head a tad bit, frankly."


Stanley shrugged and picked up the phone.

His wife, or certainly someone who sounded like her, spoke up behind the apartment door that appeared before them.

"Oh, Stanley! Is that you?"

The Narrator chuckled darkly. "Taking me to meet your wife? How nice!"

"Alright... okay, there we go! Alright now," the voice got closer to the door, and Stanley braced himself for the mannequin to swing in.

He didn't really care about meeting his hypothetical wife at the moment, instead turning his attention to the man beside him and waiting.

"Hahahahaha, gotcha!" The sing-songy delivery and delighted grin that paired with the Narrator's idea of a prank turned what was usually quite a frustrating twist into a somewhat silly event.

He's almost cute, thought Stanley. The Narrator blinked at him in confusion for a split second, then turned back to his script.


"This is a very sad story about the death of a man named Stanley."

Stanley couldn't possibly take this very sad story seriously while taking in the sight of the Narrator and the placeholder for his wife standing next to each other, like a tour guide passionately rambling about a wax figure.


"Look at him there, pushing buttons, doing exactly what he's told to do."

I'm not pushing anyone's buttons yet!

"Now, he's pushing a button."

Now I wish I had buttons to push, this is just cruel.

"Now, he's eating lunch. Now, he's going home. Now, he's coming back to work."

Now, you've lost me.


As the apartment slowly turned into his office, Stanley leaned against a filing cabinet.

The tone of each ending seemed completely different when the faceless Narrator was actually there. This wasn't condescending anymore, it was just the Narrator expressing patient concern.

"But I don't make the rules, I simply play to my intended purpose, the same as Stanley." The furrowed brow of the man conveyed a previously unseen frustration. "We're not so different, I suppose."

How insightful! Stanley strongly disagreed.

"I'll try once more to convey all this to him. I'm compelled to. I must."

No, no, you've made your point.

"Perhaps... well, maybe this time he'll see. Maybe this time."

By now, the Narrator was glaring at Stanley again, his unblinking eyes boring into his skull like a disappointed parent who doesn't want to yell in public.

"And I tried again. And Stanley pushed a button."

Stanley's fingers itched for a button quite badly.

"And I tried again. And Stanley pushed a button."

Stanley began fidgeting with his shirt  buttons as a temporary solution.

"And I tri-"

And everything cut to black.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he tried to re-button the top of his shirt, only for it to already be closed. Damned reset.


Stanley was rather anxious. He wasn't sure what to expect when he stepped out of the room.

If the Narrator was gone, he knew he'd be back next reset, but... that means that he'd probably never see him in person again.

Eh, might as well get it over with. He stepped out if the room.

Silence.

No... not again, please...

Nothing.


Except...

Very faintly, in the distance, he heard something. "Stanley? Stanley!"

Am I imagining it? He pondered as he walked forward. He may well be, considering how lonely he apparently got when the Narrator wasn't th-

"Ah, there you are. Pleased to see you, Stanley, even if I'm stuck here like this again."

"How did you," Stanley paused while trying to remember the sign he needed, "get up there?"


The Narrator jumped down, landing nimbly on the balls of his feet. Apparently, he had somehow settled on "atop the filing cabinet by room 417" as his choice of seating.

He smiled at Stanley, eyes doing more for the expression than his mouth was. "So, Stanley, have I missed anything?"

Stanley shook his head, still a bit appalled by the Narrator's choice of perch. "No reset without you this time," he spelled out, his hands moving a bit more efficiently than they had before.

"That means it might not happen again!" The Narrator was visibly thrilled by this information. "Here, let me make your life a bit easier. The sign for No is just shaking your head, and the sign for Yes is nodding your head twice."

Stanley noted this. It made sense, but the formality of the delivery helped him accept that it was, in fact, as simple as that.


After some thought, the Narrator continued talking, now accompanying his words with hand and head signs where applicable. "So, where to next, Stanley? We do need to check all possible results."

Stanley had a horrible thought. A thought so horrible he didn't want to dwell on it, one that he immediately drowned out with listing off objects in room 417.

Computer, desk, step-ladder, a clock that was ticking backwards...

"Stanley? Stanley, shall we be on our way?" The Narrator's voice didn't falter, but he looked extremely worried. Stanley nodded, hoping to alleviate the concern.

Through the two doors room, the right door, and straight to the cargo bay, Stanley marched stoically.


"Stanley was so bad at following directions it's incredible he wasn't fired years ago," the Narrator quipped, trying to get Stanley's attention again. Stanley just ushered him onto the lift.

"Miss your wife this much already, Stanley?" Stanley almost felt guilty, looking at the Narrator's warm smile as he laughed at his own joke, but it was too late now.


Stanley stepped closer, kneeled down, and lifted the Narrator into a carry. Shockingly, the Narrator did not like this very much.

"STANLEY?! STANLEY, SET ME DOWN RIGHT THIS INSTANT! I REFUSE TO B-"

And Stanley jumped off the lift.


Miraculously, he landed on his feet, although he nearly dropped his unwilling cargo in the process.

"Stanley, WHAT were you thinking?! I could have been injured! YOU could have been injured! Have you never considered how dangerous it is to jump from a moving lift? Do you have NO self-preservation?!"

I'm too old to be lectured like this, Stanley thought. "Relax," he spelled, hoping it would at least slightly appease the man.

"RELAX? Stanley, you could have killed us both!" The ceaseless tirade was beginning to get on Stanley's nerves. "Stanley, Stanley, you can't just leave when I'm trying to explain a meaningful thing to you!"

Stanley went down the hall and waited for the doors to open.

"Oh! Have you decided that you want to visit some other games together, Stanley?" The Narrator was clearly trying to keep a straight face, and struggling quite a bit to do so. "Doesn't that sound fun? What a great idea! Very well, here's the doors."

Stanley walked through the Red door.

"Stanley? Stanley, are you sure? The door is still open!"

Stanley entered the loop with two doors. Unflinching, he stared at the Narrator, who nervously scrambled to catch up with the script.

"The problem is all these choices, the two of us always trying to get somewhere that isn't here, running and running – do you want me to add a door there so we can leave normally? I could probably find a way – and running just the way you're doing now."


Stanley waited patiently for him to get through his script. He felt horrible for making the Narrator do this, as both of them knew what awaited them, but the best he could do now was let him at least say what he has to say.

"Don't you see that it's killing us, Stanley?" The Narrator's voice cracked mid-sentence, something that hadn't happened in hundreds of resets. "I just... I want it to stop. I would, we would both be much happier if we just stopped."

Stanley nodded quietly.

"And I think, well I think I have a solution."


The door opened.

Stanley only hesitated for a second before entering.


"Right... Oh, it's beautiful, isn't it? If we just stay here, right in this moment, with this place... Stanley, please. Please, let's stay here, okay...?"

Stanley stood in the colourful room, watching the lights dance around them. It's strange, he thought, that all of my most brutal deaths involve dark rooms with coloured light.


The Narrator decided that he should keep talking, hoping that new dialogue would keep Stanley in the room for longer.


"So, Stanley, which sequence is your favourite? The blurry lights, the spinning patterns?"

Stanley looked at the door.

"Personally, I quite like the starry pattern. They're just so ethereal, don't you think?"

Stanley took a step.

"Sometimes I wish I could just sit here forever with you."

He looked up at the ceiling, soaking in the ambience. Just sitting there, with Stanley, sharing the soft music and the comforting glow of the lights.

He looked down. Stanley was gone.

"STANLEY, WAIT! STANLEY!"


Stanley approached the stairs with quick steps, trying not to think about what he was doing. And step, and step, and step, and step...

He heard the sharp click of sprinting oxfords behind him and quickened his pace. And step and step and step and step and...

"STANLEY, PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS!! THERE HAS TO BE ANOTHER WAY!!!"


Stanley broke out into a sprint, narrowly dodging railings and flying up the stairs.

"STANLEY, PLEASE!! I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, JUST STAY HERE, PLEASE!!"


Leaping up the final steps, Stanley reached for the last stretch of railing – and was promptly tackled against it.

"GOD DAMN YOU, STANLEY. I'VE WATCHED YOU SLOWLY KILL YOURSELF OVER AND OVER, TIME AND TIME AGAIN, AND I WAS POWERLESS TO STOP YOU. I'M NOT LETTING IT HAPPEN AGAIN."

Stanley had turned around to the best of his abilities, which were significantly limited by the terrifying iron grip of the man pressing him against the railing.

He tried to face the Narrator, but the shaking man refused to make eye contact. He sounded like he was sobbing, but his eyes and cheeks seemed to be dry.


"Please... Stanley, don't do this to yourself, okay...? Don't do this to me..."

The grip on his shoulders weakened, and the Narrator slumped forward, his head resting on Stanley's chest as he shook silently.

"Please..."


For just a moment, Stanley truly reconsidered it. He was terrified of the drop, of course, but he had grown used to it, it had become part of the spectacle. Now, though, he felt the terror anew, the begging and negotiation intensified by the man before him expressing raw emotion in a way that Stanley didn't know how to handle.

But it was only a moment. He shoved the Narrator's hands away so he wouldn't be dragged along, and jumped before he gave himself another moment to think.

"STANLEY!"


The sickening wet crunch of his legs striking cold concrete reverberated through the room.

GOD fucking damn it, ow, Stanley thought as he forced himself onto his feet. By now, he'd learned that ignoring it made it easier. Mind over matter.


The Narrator was unusually quiet, and Stanley hoped he was uninjured. The last thing he wanted, for once, was to hurt him.

Only a few turns left...

"Stanley. I'm not letting you go any further. Please." Still shaking, the Narrator stood with his arms outstretched, gripping the railing and the wall with white knuckles and strained fingers.


Stanley didn't know what to do. He couldn't stop, but... the Narrator was trying so hard to protect him that he had abandoned the script entirely.


He solved this problem by lying to himself. What is it he usually says here? "Don't take this away from me." He clenched his fists and tried to convince himself of a new narrative. This is all for himself.


"Stanley, I... I know, I've been less than kind to you in the past... please, I can't watch you do this to yourself, please..."

Stanley pushed through the blockade that was the Narrator's arm and ran to the platform, swinging himself over the edge by grabbing the railing.


The sound of his body hitting the floor was worse this time, the squelch of flesh on concrete somehow made even more horrible. His entire body stung terribly, but he lifted himself from the floor and limped towards the stairs.

"Is it over yet? Stanley...?" The mournful voice rung out in the echoing hall.

For his own benefit, Stanley repeated to himself like a mantra. Only his own.


As he slowly made his way up, occasionally grabbing the railing for support, he braced himself for the next encounter. Looking down at his feet as he took every infernal step, he tried not to think about the Narrator's efforts to stop him.

Then, on the final turn, his eyes met with the now-familiar polished black oxfords. Stanley looked up and inspected the situation.

The Narrator was just barely blocking the fall, standing on the edge with his back to the empty plummet. He wordlessly stared back, almost as if in challenge.


Stanley's body was in utter agony, the burn of bruises and fractures catching up to him, but he was still a vaguely fit adult man, and the Narrator looked and sounded quite a bit older, so he decided to take his chances on athleticism.

"STANLEY, WHAT??"

Stanley very poorly vaulted the railing, tumbled over it, and once again plummeted to the floor. The Narrator watched in baffled horror from the edge as he once again hit the concrete.


Just one more. One last fall, Stanley dies, they get to reset. He tried his best to push forward, now depending entirely on the railing to keep going.

One final section of stairs. It's almost over.

It looked like the Narrator pieced this together as well; he was now slumped over in the corner of the platform, staring off into the distance.


Stanley limped his way to the edge, lifted his foot over the void... and was shoved off the edge by the body weight of another person.

With Stanley wrapped in the Narrator's arms, the two of them fell together and-

The horrible, wet slap of a body hitting the ground, a miserable groan... and Stanley was still alive. Why was he still alive?


He rolled over slowly and collapsed onto the floor.


The Narrator stood up first, and Stanley felt a pang of guilt seeing his own blood on the older man's clothing. He accepted the hand extended to him, wobbling to his feet.

"Please, Stanley. There has to be another way. Look at the state of you..." Strained sympathy injected the voice with a gravelly dryness.


Stanley nodded and let go of his hand. He had an idea.

"What are you doing, Stanley?" The Narrator spoke slowly and nervously.

Stanley smiled back at him reassuringly and leaned against the wall.

Then he turned around and began slamming his head against it.

"STANLEY!" The scream was dry, quiet, his throat pushed to the brink, as he lunged for Stanley a moment too late.

Stanley slumped over, fresh blood coating the wall and his forehead alike, into the Narrator's arms... and everything cut to black.

Chapter Text

Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, his hands flew to his forehead, ready to clean away the rapidly cooling, sticky fluid, but found that phantom pain was all that remained of his injuries. Damned reset.

Leaving his room, he forced out any and all thoughts of the last reset by fiddling with the keyboards of his co-worker's computers. If his theory was right, the Narrator would be gone this time, and he'd be back by the next reset. He hadn't died on script, exactly, but that shouldn't change the fact that he did die, right?


He arrived at the room with two doors, which was actually present this time around. Normally, he would need the Narrator to actually open the doors, but the right one was ever so slightly ajar.

Stanley made his way to the employee lounge, ever so slightly stunned by the changes.


Entering the blue room, he took it all in; the vending machine, the picture on the wall, the man lying face down on the blue-grey carpet, the inexplicable support pillar – wait, hold on. What?

Stanley tapped the body on the shoulder. The body groaned miserably.

He grabbed the body by the arm and sluggishly flipped it over.

"Ugh... Stanley? Is that you...?" The Narrator furrowed his brow, but kept his eyes closed.

Stanley sat next to him, suddenly feeling significantly more guilt-ridden.

"Stanley, you don't know how long it's been." He was sitting up now, although he left his glasses where they lay on the floor.

The vacant stare and stiff position of the otherwise highly animated fellow was beginning to alarm him, so he tried to get the Narrator's attention and sign him something. Either the Narrator didn't notice, or he chose to disregard it.


"I thought you were dead, Stanley." He paused, a hollow chuckle escaping his lips. "Really dead, I mean."

Stanley didn't even try to respond.

"I ended up just resetting the game. I understand what you meant now." Now, he turned to face Stanley, his eyes infinitely more piercing than they were with polarised lenses to soften their cold, judgemental air. "It's not the same without you."

It's not like I can talk back, Stanley thought. "You could still talk", he signed instead, hoping that came off more gently.


Rather suddenly, the Narrator shifted his weight and leaned in, placing a hand on Stanley's.

"I know you may be thinking it's all the same. That it's always been like that, in a way. I talk, you don't answer." He held his gaze, unblinking, as though he was trying to deliver a message telepathically.

"But it isn't, Stanley. Because I know you can hear me. You react to me. Without you, there's nothing there to prove that I exist. Nothing responds, nobody hears my voice."


Stanley wasn't sure why, but he felt a strange stirring of emotion within himself, as though some part of him understood far more than he could possibly express.

The Narrator looked away now, focusing his eyes on something on the wall. "I guess what I'm trying to say, Stanley, is..." he visibly swallowed, "I'm nothing without you. I need you, and quite frankly, I missed you." He smiled softly.

Stanley wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded, but that was enough.


For a while, the two of them just sat there, on the rough carpet of the employee lounge, in silence.

Then, slowly, Stanley began to spell. "So something else is making one of us disappear," he eventually signed, managing to incorporate a few things he had seen the Narrator when interpreting his own speech.

The Narrator smiled again. His approach worked after all. "Excellent observation, Stanley. It must indeed be something other than my mere presence. The question is if we want to find out what."

"Death is probably part of it," Stanley responded, immediately regretting it when he saw the expression it provoked. The latest Zending was fresh on both their minds, it seemed.


"We've both died before, Stanley." The Narrator mused. "The Countdown Ending kills us both, every time it happens. Do you always end up alone after trying to turn the mind controls on?"

Stanley shook his head vigorously. You'd think I would mention it if that were the case.

Perhaps his face gave his thoughts away; perhaps he was just very understandable. Either way, he was given a nod. "You'd have mentioned it, I suppose."

The Narrator stood up and cleared his throat, extending an arm to help Stanley up. Stanley gripped it gladly and pulled himself up, staggering to his feet.


"You know, Stanley..." The man picked his glasses up and patted the folds out of his sweater, "I think we need a break from the experimenting. Shall we get back to it and find a proper end?"

Chapter Text

Since they were in the Employee Lounge, they currently had access to just about any ending that didn't involve Stanley's office, inputs, or windows.

Stanley took a detour through the maintenance section, the Narrator back to his chipper commentary, but stopped at the lift.

"Stanley, you already know what's down there. Come on now."

Stanley stepped onto the platform and gave the Narrator a smug look. "I know nothing of the sort", he signed, leaning on the railing.

The Narrator figured that no venomous glare would be enough to stop him and silently joined him.


Their descent into – well, wherever this actually was – went smoothly, and out of courtesy the Narrator chose not to slam any doors in Stanley's face.

Just a few resets then, Stanley thought to himself.We could do with a distraction.

"Why exactly are we here, Stanley?" The Narrator frowned. "I'm not resetting all the way until you find the bookshop this time, by the way."


Stanley didn't need him to reset until they reached the bookshop. In fact, there was only one reset he cared about.

With Following Stanley blaring in his mind, he began to forge ahead before being interrupted.

"Stanley. Are you looking for something specific?"

Well, no use denying it. He nodded, continuing to stare ahead and waiting to keep going. After all, he had somewhere to be.


"Riiight..." The Narrator gestured to indicate he could keep going, and began thinking out loud as they talked.

"The YOU WIN message?"

A head shake.

"The Confusion Ending wall?"

A head shake.

"Ooh, I've got it. Is it the Line™?"

A nod! He had, indeed, got it.


As the two of them pre-emptively entered the Mind Control Facility from above, the Narrator picked up his usual speech.

"NO! No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This isn't right at all!" He flung a hand over his forehead like a fainting theater student. "You're not supposed to be here yet! This is all a spoiler! Quick, Stanley, close your eyes!"

Stanley squinted at him sarcastically, then looked around the room, eyes wide open in feigned shock.

The Narrator took this as an invitation to cover his eyes for him.


He tried to protest, but his lack of voice and vision alike severely limited his options. Resorting to flailing his arms, Stanley eventually succeeded in pushing the Narrator away, the latter doubling over in laughter.

It wasn't the stressed laughter of the Zending script, either. Nor was it the manic cackle of the Countdown Ending, not even the smug, self-satisfied cackle when he mocks Stanley about his hypothetical wife.

It was warm, and kind, and it made Stanley feel... well, he felt something.


Finally, they both got a grip on themselves and tried to keep going in between snickers.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay, we just... we just have to get back to, um... oh... " The scripted stammering sounded more like he was trying to catch his breath than like he didn't have a plan this time. This made Stanley start laughing harder.

"How about rather than waste my time trying to salvage this nonsense," the Narrator tried his best to just wrap it up, choking back more laughter, "we'll just restart the game from the beginning. And this time, suppose we don't wander so far off-track, hm?"


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he took a deep breath to try and clear the laughter from his throat, although he found that it wasn't there at all. Damned reset.


Refocusing a little, he looked down and immediately noticed something™ was amiss.This is the Six Doors reset, no?

As if on cue, someone leaned over his shoulder. "You wanted the Line™, so here she™ is!"

Stanley raised an eyebrow questioningly. "She™?" He signed in slight confusion.

"The Stanley Parable Adventure Line™ uses she/her pronouns," the Narrator proclaimed, excessively dramatic, "and I expect that you will respect them."


Stanley might have imagined it, but he thought he saw the Line™ glow with appreciation, just for a moment.

Whatever, he thought, I'll humour him. Them? Well, I'll humour someone.

As they began to follow the Line™, which appeared to begin winding much faster than usual, Stanley decided to ask some more questions.


"Why do you end up scolding the Line™ when we end up in the Mind Control Facility?" He always assumed it was just a bit of some sort, but he couldn't be sure.

The Narrator scoffed indignantly. "Isn't that obvious, Stanley? Because she™ leads you to the wrong place!"

"Aren't you the one drawing her™?"

The Narrator gave him a hurt look, then stopped and whistled loudly.


Stanley barely had time to jump out of the way when the Stanley Parable Adventure Line™ shot past where his feet had been a moment prior.

Another sharp whistle sent her™ back forward, this time choosing to avoid them by taking a detour along the ceiling.


Stanley didn't have an inkling of an idea what to do with this information. In fact, it was kind of terrifying, so he opted to pretend he didn't see anything.

Continuing along the new trail, the Line™ actually led them to the Two Doors room for once.

Through the right door they went – "Really, Line™? You're siding with Stanley?" – before making their way through the employee lounge and taking the first open door on their left.

Through the maintenance section, out the other side, and onto the boss's office they went, to the delight of the Narrator, whose story was so often neglected by both accompanying parties.


"Here's the door, just go!" He said cheerfully, quite happy that the Line™ actually led them down the path he planned so meticulously.

The Line™ appeared to loop around itself infinitely as it waited for the lift, but shot out before it stopped fully.

The smile on the Narrator's face melted away, making room for a puzzled glare.


Stanley found this hilarious and kept going, much to the chagrin of the other man.

"Stanley, we don't have to listen to her™, you know! This is a terrible idea!" Running to catch up, the Narrator protested vehemently. "You know what's going to happen!"

Stanley and the Line™ were having the time of their lives walking through the hallway, so he dismissed the objections.

"I'm sure she™ knows what she's™ doing!" He signed calmly.


"Stanley, I'd like it to be on record that this was by no means my idea!" The protests continued. "I am neither a sadist nor a masochist, unlike you, you... you monsters!"

Stanley laughed and gave a joking pat to the Line™ on the wall, then leapt back in shock when she™ gave a slight shake in response.

"She™ appreciated that." The Narrator huffed, translating for Stanley despite being irritated by the both of them.


Then, they arrived at the drop. The Line™ curled up and retraced her™ path; her™ job here was done.

"Well, Stanley. You chose to go along with your fate, so I welcome you to go first." The Narrator didn't like the escape hallway much, because it was extremely anticlimactic and just came down to a wet squelch and then nothing.

Stanley smiled, stood with his back facing the plummet, and just before he swung his weight back, grabbed the Narrator's hands.

"W- STANLE-" It was a short fall, and the Narrator was interrupted by landing on Stanley, knocking the breath out of him.

"Stanley? Are you hurt??" He helped the younger man up to the best of his abilities, the cage-like device having barely enough space for the both of them.

Stanley shook his head and leaned back, bracing himself for some more company. I wonder if he knows about her, he thought to himself.

The Narrator bit his tongue and hoped Stanley didn't notice him start to ask who he meant.


"Right, let's get the formalities out of the way," said the Narrator, bracing himself for a rapid and probably very painful death, "goodbye, Stanley!"

Then, everything stopped.


"Goodbye, Stanley, cried the Narrator," said the Curator, "as Stanley was led helplessly into the- oh, Stanley, have you brought a co-worker? That isn't Mariella, is it?"

Stanley looked up and signed "this is a friend" at the ceiling.

The Narrator tapped Stanley on the shoulder and mouthed "What? Since when?" at him.

Stanley just shrugged. He had affectionately nicknamed this other entity the Curator, but unlike the Narrator, whose name she affirmed, she'd never been introduced. He wasn't sure where to begin.


She brought the two of them to the museum and kept talking. "So, are you going to introduce your friend? Is he silent as well?"

"No, no I'm not, Curator." The Narrator spoke up, carefully enunciating the name like an incantation. "It's been a while. How's Mariella?"

Stanley had questions. This was not noticed by either of the others.

"Narrator? Have you lost your mind? What are you doing in there with him?" Stanley had never heard the Curator laugh so cheerily before.

"Well, if she had to speak and found herself unable to, you'd help her, wouldn't you?" The Narrator quipped, a tinge of mockery lining his equally cheerful tone.

"Oh, please, Marie can sort herself out." She sounded quite proud. "She's a right, proper protagonist, one who can take care of herself."

Stanley had heard of Mariella, specifically from the Narrator, who described her as the one who finds your body sometimes. This was limited information, but it was something to work with, he supposed.


The Narrator decided it was his turn to show his protagonist off. "Stan has originality, Curie. He's got creativity past the bounds of anything we could possibly have written. I've had to make over twenty individual scripts, just to account for all the paths he makes for himself."

"Well, Narry, sounds like he's kept you busy then."

They continued to bicker, but as Stanley drifted away to mess with the exhibits, they decided to refocus their conversation.

"So, have she™ and the Bucket been getting along?" The Narrator inquired. "Frankly, I'm worried if I introduce it too early, Stanley might replace me with it altogether!"

"The Line™ doesn't mind it, no, but Mariella's been skeptical. It's given me plenty of time to settle on a voice for it."

"Oh? I've been thinking of just giving it a Cockney accent and calling it a day, really."

"You wouldn't."

"Who are you to-"


Stanley had pulled the lever. He and the Narrator were once again in the cage, seconds from their horrible death.

"Oh, is it over? Very well, do visit more often, brother."

"Say hi to Mariella for me, would you?"

The Narrator took Stanley's hand, the jaws slammed together, and everything went black.

Chapter Text

Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he sucked in a deep breath, the remnants of agonising pain searing through him before vanishing altogether. Damned reset.


Stanley left the office and was met with silence. No matter, the Narrator – what did the Curator call him? Narry? Cute. – was probably somewhere else, biding his time, likely on another elevated surface he shouldn't be able to climb onto.

However, passing through the second set of cubicles without so much as a noise ahead of him was still unsettling.

Here he was, in the Two Doors room; two closed doors stood before him, and the one behind him didn't click. He's gone. Damn it.


With nothing else to do, Stanley began to backtrack, stressed out by the silence.

For a moment, he contemplated the window again, but then considered that it would probably never actually end if the Narrator wasn't there to ask him if he'd had enough. The office it was.

Closing the door, he recited the Narrator's usual speech in his head. It wasn't the same at all, but it was something to keep his nerves in check.


He leaned back in the chair. The thing to do now, Stanley thought to himself, is to wait. Nothing will hurt me. Nothing will break me. In here, I can be happy, forever. I will be happy.

He thought about the script as he followed it. Most of these non-standard lines were improvised, but the Narrator always wrote them in later and picked out his favourite drafts for future derails.

Did he really push the man out of his comfort zone that often?


Very soon now, this will end. He will be spoken to. He will be told what to do. Oh, how he wished he would actually have someone telling him what to do about now. Now it's just a little bit closer. Now it's even closer. Here it comes..

And everything cut to black.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he blinked, all thoughts interrupted by the sound of flabbergasted rambling.


"–no reason whatsoever! I hadn't done anything, so how did I end up here again? Every single time, I'm still stuck in that body, so why did I now- Oh, hello, Stanley!"

The office worker laughed to himself. This ranting was exactly what he needed after the silence of the last reset.

"You were gone again, glad to hear you," Stanley signed quickly, hoping he got everything right in the process.


"Oh, I'm sorry, Stanley." He sounded surprisingly grave. "Are you alright?"

Stanley nodded vigorously – it distressed him to be alone, sure, but he knew how it works a bit better now, and he recovered fine.


Suddenly, the distinctive emptiness of a call being hung up – Stanley was beginning to get used to it, too.

"Resilient little bugger, aren't you?" The hand on his shoulder was warm and firm. "Good job."

Stanley grinned at the Narrator. "Do you plan on staying here all the time now?" He signed jokingly.

This provoked a hearty laugh. "Maybe, Stanley, maybe I do! I've been having a good bit of fun with you here, you know."


Stanley tried not to show emotion on his face as he plotted their next ending – time to test the man's resolve. He's gonna hate me.


Walking through the hallway, which for reasons he didn't know was straight and got to the point for once, Stanley made a beeline for the left door.

"My goodness, Stanley, are you okay?" The Narrator sarcastically inquired. "Following my story? Something must clearly be wrong!"


As they left the meeting room, though, he discovered the reason for the sudden obedience. This proved wildly frustrating.

"Stanley, I understand if you decide to spend your time in that room for who knows what reason, but locking me out of the broom closet is frankly just rude!"

Stanley didn't respond. At least, the Narrator didn't get a response; not much direct communication was possible for him, short of tapping the door in morse code.


"Stanley, I will not wait out here forever," mock indignation filling the voice, "so I suggest you either let me in or we keep going."

Yeah? You need me, Narryboy, you're not going anywhere. Stanley swore he heard an insulted scoff.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Stanley, who had been leaning on it, fell out of the room. Landing unceremoniously on his front, he propped himself up to glare at the Narrator.

"Don't forget, you're still in my plot!" He laughed, a tinge of arrogance filling out the sound with confident undertones. 

Oh, are we doing this again? As he stood up, Stanley joined into the laugher. " You have only yourself to blame for that closet being there at all," he signed back.


Once they got to the boss's office, the door was already open. "Here's the door, just go," said the Narrator, only to be immediately ignored.

"I'm waiting," Stanley signed impatiently from inside the elevator in the office.

He was soon joined by the other man, who was clearly quite annoyed by the derail. "But no, apparently Stanley was determined to waste his time in every way imaginable." He sighed. "How inventive."


Stanley pushed the down arrow button. As the doors closed and it began to move, some mild bossa nova music kicked in.

Listening to the Narrator's soft humming, he smiled and closed his eyes. This was nice; he couldn't remember when he started being able to enter the elevator, but he enjoyed it immensely. Spending some time together in a slightly claustrophobic room, nauseatingly repetitive elevator music, and hearing the "will this never end?" in the Narrator's humming were exactly what he was here for.

As funny as this was, Stanley was at least slightly merciful, so he pressed the button.


The doors opened, and the disgruntled Narrator mumbled something under his breath on the way out.

"To the story, right?" Stanley signed, playing up an overly happy expression to really get under the man's skin.

"Stanley." The voice strained with frustration. "Just get on with it."


Down the correct elevator and past the hall labelled "escape", Stanley could hear the Narrator do improvised breathing exercises. Good on you, Narry, he thought; for a second, it sounded like the man's slow breaths stuttered.

As they went through the motions of the Mind Control Facility, Stanley contemplated his options. He had apparently successfully stretched the Narrator's patience thin, and the two paths that lay ahead would probably both be quite interesting now. The question was, which one would be more entertaining to sit through?

"Stanley, the gate is open, you can keep going."

He stood before the elevator, thinking about his options. The megalomaniacal, chaotic Narrator revelling in the chance to kill him again? The appreciative calm of the Narrator who set him free? Man, what a choice.


Then, a gate clicked behind them.

"What? Since when?" The Narrator seemed as surprised as he was.

"Well, back we go," Stanley signed at him as he walked away.

"Stanley hadn't had enough of wasting time, so he decided to backtrack through the Mind Control Facility, just because." The frustration was palpable.


He pressed a button.

Who Likes To Party by Kevin MacLeod blasted through the Facility, bright coloured lights and text synced to the royalty-free music.

To the horror of the Narrator, this gave Stanley an idea.

"Get off that chair, Stanley, you know perfectly well I'm not following you to your death." Clearly, he didn't know Stanley very well.


Resigned, he accepted that his protagonist couldn't care less about his opinion on the matter and jumped after him.

"Wow, good job, you made it to the bottom without breaking your legs." At this point, his delivery was deadpan and cold. "I think I had a song for this somewhere."

As Good Job, You Made It To The Bottom Of The Mind Control Facility. Well Done. played, Stanley delighted in the expression on the other man's face. Not even his newfound sympathy for the Narrator could taint the sheer delight he felt when he just kind of pissed him off.

Eventually, the rock music subsided, and everything faded to black.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he keeled over in silent laughter.

"Stanley, you're a child, you know that?" The Narrator was sitting on his desk this time, and quietly slipped off while talking.


"Well, Narry," he spelled the name very deliberately as they strolled down the hallway, pairing it with a smug wink, "you know perfectly well you love me for it."

The Narrator choked up and stopped moving for just a moment, apparently taken aback by the joke.

"S-Stanley, you can't just-" he stammered, interrupted by the office worker forging ahead. "Hold on! Left door, Stanley!"


Stanley walked through the right door. Once the Narrator caught up to him, he tried to get back on script, still a bit out of it.

The employee lounge was unchanged, so Stanley rushed through it, although he couldn't help but notice the fascinated look the Narrator gave it.

"Having had enough of the amazing room, Stanley took the first open- oh, for crying out loud, Stanley, at least let me talk!"


Stanley invited him onto the lift, jumping on right after him as it left the platform – "Stanley, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" – and waiting for it to rise.

The very instant he could get away with it, though, Stanley leapt off. "Come on, it's not that far," he signed up at the terrified man still on the platform.


"Stanley, I can't really stop you from making poor decisions, but-" He sighed. It was hopeless contesting the choice now. With a strangely floaty hop, he landed delicately on the platform, staring at Stanley like he has just killed his entire family.


They marched on, but this time, Stanley instantly pulled on the blue door's handle. "Right, fine, no use refusing you, is it?" It yielded, and he marched on into the broken room.

"Do you like breaking the game this much, Stanley? Is it just not enough for you? Do you need out that desperately?" The Narrator scowled, feigning frustration. "Fine then. Let's play someone else's game, since you hate this one so much."

Everything went dark for a moment, and then Stanley was in a... cabin? A tower of some sort? There were various surfaces covered in various objects, some of which he struggled to identify.

"Is this any better, Stanley? Is this strange creep tower where you needed to be right now?" The Narrator sat cross-legged on a desk.


"Can I re-roll?" He joked back, trying the door.

This got a laugh of approval. "Well, fine then, if you insist." Then, a snap, and darkness again.


In the dark, Stanley heard the Narrator muttering. "I don't think I want an open world... though he can't jump, I guess he'd be contained... actually, forget that."

Suddenly, he could hear heavily compressed music somewhere nearby, and blinked to adjust his eyes to the clinical white light. It was almost painful.

"There we go!" The Narrator beamed as he got up. "A nice little enclosure for you, some enrichment," he gestured to the radio, "and absolutely nothing else."

This was quite boring for Stanley, who immediately threw the radio at one of the many panes holding them in.

"Stanley, I'll have you know that a very good friend of mine designed your current containment, and I will not tolerate disrespect of it."

"Try and stop me," Stanley signed with some difficulty; he only had one hand, as the other one was rather preoccupied with trying to flip the chamber's bed.


Rather than entertain the chaos, the Narrator reluctantly released him. "Fine, let's go. Follow me, Stanley."

Stanley ignored him and rushed ahead, radio in hand, only to be stopped by a puzzle.

"Ah, you're going to need the cube for this one, aren't you? Here you go." A nondescript cube indeed fell from the ceiling; Stanley placed it on the room's large button, then picked the radio back up and kept going.

"Well, Stanley. You made it." He gestured towards the elevator shaft. " An empty shaft, nothing left to do. What now?"

Stanley tossed the radio into the shaft. The music faded as it fell.

"Stanley, no."

Stanley, yes.


Stanley walked back, then sprinted at the chute at full speed and leapt through, falling in a rather exaggerated arc.

The Narrator jumped down more carefully, and landed on a surface, albeit an unfinished one; Stanley careened into the void, momentum sending him far from the platforms.

Then, he hit the kill plane, and everything went black.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him... but not for long.

A pair of arms pulled him into a tight hug, turning him around in the process. "Oh, Stanley, you're back," exclaimed the Narrator excitedly. "I was afraid a reset wouldn't fix it."

Stanley furrowed his brow. This was getting out of hand.

Chapter Text

The floor of the employee lounge was covered with strewn sheets of A4 printer paper, some with lists, some with notes. While a few had strict and dramatic penmanship, ligature interrupted only by flairs, most of them had a no-nonsense, simple scrawl.

"Could it be something that happens during those resets?" The Narrator shuffled along the floor, thinking out loud. "Does anything change when it happens to you?"

Stanley shook his head, lifting a knee from his cross-legged position on the floor to rest his elbow on it. I don't think so. Looking up, he offered a different angle. "Do you think it has to do with the deaths?"


The Narrator sat down with him, conjuring a paper that Stanley could have sworn was on the floor a moment ago into his hand. "We've been over that. Neither of us used to disappear before, even when we died."

"Let's just go over the most recent deaths again."

The lists were short; on the Narrator's end, there was only their last Countdown and Museum endings. Stanley surpassed him only slightly; "a Countdown, Zending, and a Museum death for you. See? Besides me getting crushed with you, nothing out of the ordinary."


"You missed one." Stanley tapped his unused hand's fingers against his leg in a slightly off-tempo sequence whilst signing. "You missed the one after the games."

"What do you mean? You aren't supposed to die in the games ending. I thought you just finished it faster than I could deliver my monologue."

Stanley shook his head and sat up straight. "I died, I know I did. I fell past the landing, it was dark, and then I died."

"You weren't supposed to die there, and certainly not like that, Stanley." The Narrator scowled.


Stanley considered this for a moment.

Then he jumped to his feet and began scrawling violently on the poor, unfortunate sheet of paper that happened to be in his hand.

"Stanley?" Standing up cautiously, the Narrator tried to get his attention. "Are you alright?"

Stanley thrust the sheet against his chest and inhaled deeply, fidgeting with his pen while waiting for it to be read.


"Stanley, you must be joking," the other man spoke slowly, struggling to process the implications. "That can't possibly be- can it??"

"Well, I'm supposed to die in the Zending," Stanley signed vacantly, "so it may not mean much at all."

The Narrator disagreed with this assessment. "Stanley, don't you understand what you're saying? Do you remember how you died that time?"

Painfully, he thought. "Four stair falls and then the wall."

"That's exactly it, Stanley! You're supposed to die hitting the ground, not hitting the wall. You died, sure, but you died incorrectly."


Stanley's eyes lit up with realisation. "You always die in the Countdown, you say?"

"Yes, but I'm not blown up in this part of the game; this model is usually stored in the recording booth under the map."

"That's it. It's not that we're dying. It happens when something goes wrong."


Simmering in this newfound information, they sat together in silence. There wasn't much they could really do about it now. There was a strange horror to it; the knowledge that there was a reason they'd find themselves alone, that they unwittingly subjected themselves to agonising solitude.

"So, Stanley... what now?"

Stanley didn't know.

Chapter Text

The soft breeze of the outside world hit their faces, a relief they didn't know they needed after breathing musty office air for who knew how long.

"You see, Stanley? There's an upside to actually listening to me sometimes." The Narrator beamed warmly, sunlight lighting up his eyes as it streamed in from the opening exit. "We can trust each other."

The warmth of his smile affected Stanley too; with all this stirring in his chest, his organs may as well be paté by now.


Walking through the gate, the two of them indulged in the refreshing warmth of the sun on their skin and the light smell of greenery.

Stanley kicked a rock, watching it roll away with childlike fascination. There was a genuine delight he felt from it, finally getting to simply take a walk and indulge in the minute details of the outside world.

Their walk was slowly but surely fading to black now, and they looked around to take in the last moments of fleeting freedom – at least, Stanley did.

At the last second, he could have sworn he felt a hand, warm and gentle, grasp his own.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he squeezed his hand together, but whatever fleeting feeling that had been was gone.


The Narrator, once again lounging on his desk, seemingly paid no heed to his confusion. "So, Stanley! What terrible things do you want to subject me to, now that you've finally done what I ask for once?"

"Keep being all snide and I might just go for the mind controls and send you to the shadow realm," Stanley responded, leaning against the doorframe.

"Stanley, if you ever find yourself in the real world, please settle on just one sign language."

"Make me," Stanley spelled, letter by letter, taking great care to switch between ASL and BSL for each one. This earned him a pen thrown in his general direction.


"You know what, Stanley? I have an idea."

Stanley just raised an eyebrow skeptically and waited for him to continue.

"We're going to the Museum – I'll arrange some company for you there, but I need to talk to Curator about something." He was oddly fidgety, tapping his fingertips against his knuckles nervously.

Deciding it was best to go with it and let him calm down, Stanley didn't protest. They proceeded through the left door, and the Narrator went through his script with an edge of gratitude in his voice.


"Stanley and the Narrator were walking willingly towards their brutal and untimely deaths!"

"You sound delighted," Stanley sarcastically prodded.

"I am ecstatic, Stanley, and none of your mockery can change that fact!"


The jaws clanked to life and they slowly moved closer to their end, and Stanley noticed the cage was much less cramped this time around.

"I thought we could do with some breathing room," the Narrator explained helpfully when Stanley started checking his wingspan against the modified enclosure.


As the machine slammed together violently, the Narrator mumbled his script to himself. "eyeballs... blind man... and... goodbye, Stanley!"

The jaws stopped abruptly.


"Goodbye, Stanley, cried the- oh, welcome back, the both of you." The Curator sounded somewhat miffed to be thrown off script.

"Pleasure, Curie. We need to talk." Following Stanley into the dark hall that led to the Museum, he continued. "If you wouldn't mind, please bring Mariella in, would you? I need someone to keep Stanley busy."

In true Parable storyteller nature, she sighed dramatically. "Have you really got nothing better to keep him from the lever with?"

"He's stubborn. And he loves buttons."


Stanley jumped when the woman appeared, seemingly materialising out of absolutely nowhere.

"Hello there," she signed tentatively. Stanley grinned and answered in kind. Absolutely thrilled to have real human company, the two of them promptly got to making fun of their respective southern Britons.

In the meantime, the Narrator presented his predicament.


"So you don't know where either of you vanish off to, do you?" The Curator pondered with him. "We haven't had such an issue, but I suspect that's because Marie is a sensible person."

Her brother snickered at the backhanded comment. "I'm glad Stan isn't, then, because I have an idea. A truly terrible idea."

And he was right in saying this, for as soon he told her what it was, they both fell silent. In hushed tones, they anxiously discussed logistics amongst themselves while their protagonists marvelled at each other's narratives.


"So what you call the Zending is really just walking through snow?"

Mariella nodded. "There's some colourful lights on the ground, but otherwise I just walk in a loop while Curator tells me about space. It's a nice change of pace from the museum I spend all my time in otherwise. Why ask?"

"Mine is a bit more, well, dramatic," Stanley replied, trying to dodge any elaboration.

"We could do with more drama," Mariella laughed quietly, "it gets quite dull just going through the same workplace and museum reset after reset."


According to Mariella, Stanley had learned, her Parable is in a slightly different office; she fills forms, rather than pushing buttons, and it's set on the lower levels of an impressive museum.

Then, suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by an abrupt reset.


Stanley stood before the open office door, staring into the hallway that stretched before him.

As he regained his senses, he grimaced, quite annoyed that he had been torn from his new friend so harshly.

"Stanley, this reset around, I need you to listen to me word for word. And I mean it. No messing around."

Stanley gulped. That can't possibly be good.

Chapter Text

Stanley absolutely loathed the look on the Narrator's face as he practically dragged him to the cargo lift. Despite having conjured himself a well-kempt model and constantly ensuring he was presentable, he now barely even bothered to get dishevelled hair out of his eyes, and his murderous glare was made only more menacing by the dark circles under his sharp eyes.

Eventually, he chanced to ask "where are we going?"

"Either freedom, the end, or death." Despite the dryness of the reply, there was a tinge of sarcasm left over.

Oh no.


The Narrator jumped from the lift the second he could safely do so and glared impatiently at Stanley until he landed as well.

"Come along now, Stanley." The urgency was worrying Stanley quite a bit. His dread intensified when the other man led him to the red and blue doors... and only opened one.


"Why?" He tried desperately to keep his hands stable. "Why??"

The Narrator seemed to stare straight through him. "You need to trust me,  Stanley."

Stanley did not, but he couldn't really do anything besides stand there or keep going, so against his better judgement, keep going he did.


The soft lights danced around in the darkness, dimly illuminating the Narrator as he stared off into the distance.

"It never ceases to be beautiful, really. I've always loved this place." A small smile formed overtop his vacant expression.

Maybe now was a good time to, for the first time since the first, finally stop and look at the lights. Stanley stared at the ceiling, trying to see what the Narrator saw.

The voice that spoke to him was quiet, almost entirely drowned by the room's ambient soundtrack. "These lights are always a good distraction, aren't they, Stanley?"

For once, Stanley agreed. He let his thoughts clear, the dread deep in his chest beginning to subside. The soundtrack was helping a lot – the warm synthesiser and the wave-like motion of the lights combined perfectly.

He was so absorbed, in fact, that he almost didn't notice the clicking of oxford heels against the floor.


Running as fast as he could manage, he breathlessly tried to get to the stairs before it was too late. He heard the sharp clicks intensify and barely swung around the corner when–

BANG.

The door to the stairwell slammed in his face, and he grabbed the handle, yanking at it and shaking the door with feverish urgency.

From behind it, the Narrator spoke quietly, voice cracking ever so slightly; "I'll tell you when, Stanley. I promise."

He shook the door until the very frame began to make sounds akin to some otherworldly creature, but to no avail. Kicking, punching, slamming his entire body against it until he knocked the breath out of his own lungs; nothing yielded any results.

Tears burning in his eyes, he abandoned the fight against the door and instead slumped against it. Despite the grappling, it was as cold and unforgiving as ever.

From behind it, he could just barely make out a noise, like a wet towel flung against cement. Knowing what it probably was made the horrific slapping sound all the worse.


Stanley felt cold, and numb, and empty. He should probably have been crying, or fighting, or something, anything at all... but there wasn't anything left in him. No fight, no flight, no self-pity left to spare. He was alone, and he was still alive, and the door didn't budge.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for anymore. Maybe it was the end; a reset, a chance to break free, anything that would make it stop. Maybe it was the Narrator. Maybe he would come back, it would all be okay, he'd be back in the company of his companion. Maybe there was something that would change. Eventually.

The silence was worse than when he noticed the sounds. It was empty. It was so lonely. So, so lonely.


Then, the door moved. Maybe he had accidentally shifted his weight, or just finally worn it down, but it didn't matter. He jumped to his feet and swung the door open.

Dark stains and smears covered the floor, trailing to the stairs. Stanley choked on air. He couldn't see the Narrator anywhere... so maybe he had time. He hoped he had time.


He ran the fastest he could, but short breaths and the strange sickness that the rapidly drying blood gave him slowed him down.

As it turned out, though, he didn't need the speed much.

His knees locked, his eyes were dry, and his mouth was ever so slightly agape, but he hardly noticed any of it. All he saw was the body, slumped awkwardly over a set of stairs, one arm nearly falling through the gaps of the railing.

In between shallow breaths, Stanley tried to scream, to call out, to cry, anything. Anything at all.


He tried to flip the man over, touching as little as possible, as if he burned to the touch. His hands shook furiously.

Almost any exposed skin on the Narrator seemed battered. Bruises and blunt, bleeding wounds littered his face and stained through his clothing. Stanley couldn't look away, but he desperately wanted to.

When he finally tore his eyes from the body, he knew what he had to do.

And step, and step, and step, and step, and...

The pain didn't set in until the final, horrible impact.

Chapter Text

Stanley woke up with a searing headache. Shaking off the grogginess of his sudden awakening, he smacked his alarm clock with an open palm.

He had told himself that having an alarm set on weekends would help sustain the habit of waking up on time. This was mostly ineffective. However, his horrific head pain forced him to get up, at least to get some painkillers and a glass of water.


In the messy kitchenette, he struggled to find the glass he was looking for and settled on a mug that was sitting out on the counter. It had been nearly a year since he moved from Sheffield into the massive city that was London, but he still hadn't really gotten to organising his place.

Gulping down the tap water, Stanley stared at the floor. I wonder if I'll have to go down to the office for the loop this time. This is a great version of my apartment.

The loop. The loop...

Still half-awake and barely thinking, he tried to wrap his head around what was going on. Narry hasn't pitched in yet. He's not here in person either, though I guess that's... wait. No. I'm in my flat. Why would anyone else be...

The realisation hit him like a wet sack of bricks.


This wasn't the Apartment Ending. This was his flat.

He wasn't in his work clothes. He was in the shirt he had stumbled back home in after watching a 2-point loss to Stockton, last... what was it... Saturday?

He checked his phone. It was a quarter to 9, and it was Sunday. He must have just been asleep and had one hell of a dream... he was amazed that he hadn't forgotten all of it by now.

The strange terror of loss began to lose its bite as he realised the hundreds of resets, what felt like years of repetition, were all a strange dream.


Yawning drowsily, he stretched his arms a little and pulled his shirt down by the hem to fix it. I should probably get dressed.


And then a nagging thought struck him. One with a familiar voice behind it. In clear, memorised cadence, the sound of someone else speaking ran through his mind. The truth is that of course this was not a dream. How could it be?

A cold chill ran down his back as he stared off into the distance, letting himself run through the words he had heard so many times. Was Stanley simply deceiving himself? Believing that if he's asleep, he doesn't have to take responsibility for himself?

He felt sick. The words seemed targeted now, cutting into his theory like a hot knife through butter. He was as awake then as he had ever been in his life, wasn't he.

He remembered everything. The memories weren't fading the slightest bit. Oh god. Narry. He finally snapped out of his daze. Narry died first.


The flood struck fast. This was his plan. He wanted to break us out. Or at least me. He had powers beyond anything I could do in the Parable. He must have been some part of it. I'm free and he's dead. I killed him. I fucking killed him. He's gone. He's gone.

He's gone forever, and it's my fault.

His shoulders shaking imperceptibly, he felt his throat tense up. In the silence broken only by the whir of the air conditioning unit, he let tears stream down his cheeks.

His voice was weak, out of practice, almost painful to use, but he croaked out the best he could to no one in particular. "I'm sorry."


He cried until he felt numb. Then he cried until he almost felt like nothing had happened at all. At that point, he decided he should probably do something with himself, or he'll be thinking about it forever. He needed a distraction.

"Stanley went to his closet and picked out a sensible outfit," he muttered in his best approximation of received pronunciation. He couldn't help but laugh a little at the sound of how ridiculous the posh Southern accent sounded on him, even if he couldn't seem to raise his voice enough to be properly audible.

Then he went quiet again. Tossed haphazardly over the edge of an open drawer, his favourite work shirt seemed to mock him with its presence. He picked it up delicately. Did he know? Is that why it was there..?

With a gentle grip, he shook it ever so lightly to straighten out the folds. He was scared to handle it too much – like it would fall apart if he was too rough.

It was in a state he hadn't seen in a long time; faint creases and wrinkles littered the surface, and it clearly hadn't been ironed properly in months.


If this was the only keepsake he had of his loss, then he had to preserve it. This was something to do.

With a newfound resolve, he got out his tabletop ironing board and lay the shirt down. A memento for the fallen.


Shaking it lightly as he laid it, inside out l, on the small board, he felt a solid patch under his fingers. I should probably empty the pocket, shouldn't I?

He shook it out properly, and a folded note tumbled from the breast pocket. Considering he never used it, it may well have been there since pretty much any time since the last wash.


The sharp folds unravelled to reveal a perfectly square-cut piece of letter paper, with utterly pretentious hand-lettering that reminded Stanley of his grandmother's idea of afternoon tea.

Return to... that's an address. What needs to be returned there? This paper? Stanley turned it over once, then twice, and one more time for good measure, perplexed. He couldn't recall borrowing anything, and certainly not from anywhere that would take a commute to reach. Then again, he couldn't recall ever putting anything more than pens in his shirt pocket, and it had been a while since he'd been home – I'm sorry, Narrator  – and this could have been just about anything.


He set it aside for the time being; the iron was warmed up, and the shirt still desperately needed it.

He drowned all of his emotions in the focus, ironing everything down to the cuffs. Eventually, when he was satisfied and no longer felt his eyes burning, he switched his attention back to the note.


The address was in Uxbridge, a gruelling 40 minutes from where he lived. What the hell could he have possibly been lended that came from that far out of the way?

Then again, it was the weekend, and he couldn't see anything on his calendar. Maybe driving would keep his mind busy a while. He may as well go ask.


Stanley's car was often the subject of mockery among his casual acquaintances, but the Plug-In discount and the subsidy he got for having an electric vehicle was worth it for him, since he mostly just drove in the city. The plucky little Peugeot did the job, and he didn't like driving much anyway.

The drive was dull, but at least it went by quickly once he got out of London's traffic. He had never gone that far out in this part of the country. At least I'll get out of the city awhile...

The neighbourhood was quiet, a small strip of stores reminiscent of the lesser commercial quarters near London's city center. Stanley's eyes darted along the quaint buildings, hunting for an address matching that on the paper.


His stare eventually landed on a building with painted white pillars, display windows stuffed with half-organised stacks of books. It looked like a tornado had swept through a museum, the piles simultaneously meticulously sorted and in a state of complete disarray. A chipped wooden sign hung above it, but the paint was too damaged to make out the text. Oh well. Let's see what I owe.

The door struck a bell when it swung, the  chime echoing through the cavernous shop.

Books were displayed much more nicely inside than they were in the glass; Stanley spotted what looked like a full series displayed on its own pedestal. The furniture felt out of place – light blues and whites, ornamental flourishes and hand-painted forget-me-nots, and sharp, minimal shelves contrasted the vast assortment of dark, clearly aged encyclopedias and novels.

Stanley had yet to to see a single sign of life. The silence was occasionally broken by some faint shuffling, but he couldn't tell where it came from. Man, I hate scavenger hunts.

Eventually, he found his way to a desk. This place is bigger than it looks. A small concierge bell stood on top, which Stanley immediately pressed.


Stanley liked to consider himself a fairly tall guy – he was above average, and flaunted it like a trophy. That being said, he suddenly felt like a kid looking up at his schoolteacher.

The woman that materialised from who knows where looked down at him with the slightest bit of contempt. Jesus, she's got to be at least 40 centimeters over me... He recoiled the slightest bit, intimidated.

"How can I help you?" The woman asked in an even tone, textbook received pronunciation reciting a well-practiced greeting. It reminded him of an audiobook.


Collecting himself, Stanley tried to speak up and not seem worried for his safety. "I found a note... I'm not sure what for, but it says to return something to this address."

The shopkeeper adjusted her glasses with a tinge of scorn in her expression. "Please, if you would let me see it," she prompted.

He passed the note immediately and stepped back, instinctively folding his hands behind his back. For someone dressed like Hyacinth Bucket*, she's proper scary...

"This isn't my handwriting. I'd take it up with my brother in the back." She handed back the note and opened the door in a curt motion. Stanley went through without any further questions.


The back room was a stark contrast to the shop itself; the area was absolutely littered with books, dark-stained wood barely supporting the weight of manuscripts and ancient novels.

Stanley cleared his throat softly. "Excuse me? Is anyone there?" A head popped up from behind one of the many tables covered in books.

"Right over here," a voice called out calmly, "I apologise for the clutter."

Walking around the desk, Stanley found himself looking at the workspace of the most peculiar man he'd ever seen. The clothing on his body made him almost look like he, too, was a cloth-bound old tome, and he appeared to be replacing the cover on a book with a name that couldn't possibly be English. Glasses with golden frames sat on yet another pile of books; the lenses were absurdly thick.

He just stood there for a moment, inspecting the man, but was interrupted with a cough and snapped back to reality. "I... found a note with this address on it. The woman up front told me to ask her brother, I presume that would be you?"

Barely even glancing back up, the other man beckoned for the paper with his hand. "Let me take a look, then."

Stanley scowled as he handed it over; he never cared to listen to southerners talk, especially not these Oxford English ones, and the fact that he was desperately trying to ignore his horrible sinking guilt for killing his favourite southern fop did not help.

"Here you go," he mumbled as he passed the note once again.


The man took a single glance at it and leapt from his seat. "You. You can't possibly-" He turned to snatch his glasses, haphazardly throwing them on. "Oh my gods."

Before Stanley could ask what was wrong with him, his face had been grabbed and he found himself rather tightly pressed against the other man's lips.

What the HELL?

Chapter Text

WHAT? WHAT??

Stanley shoved the man with all the force he could muster, sending him into the chair at full force. It tipped over, and the man and his chair both slammed into a stack of books on the floor, sending loose pages and dust flying.

He took a firm step forward. "Who the hell do you think you are? What was that, you creep?!" He tried his absolute best to keep his voice stable, but anger, fear, and the piercing sting of utter shock made him waver in tearful mania.

The stranger tried to collect himself, and Stanley braced one foot on the edge of the seat, ready to force him back down.

"Good lord, Stanley, I could excuse being so physical before but you can certainly use your words now." The calm and patient cadence infuriated Stanley even more, and he considered beating the guy to a-

He knows my name. Why does he know my name?

He rephrased his earlier question. "Who are you??"


Rather awkwardly readjusting so he wasn't parallel to the ground, the other fellow beamed up at him. "I was actually hoping you could assist with that! You see, I haven't been able to settle on one of your lovely human names yet."

What is he talking about? Who does he think he...

"You've gotta be kidding." There was just no way Stanley could possibly believe that this... this whimsical southern bastard could possibly...

Stanley felt faint.

"Stanley? Are you well?"

He felt weak in the knees.

"Stanley?!"

The next thing Stanley felt was the floor.


It was faint, but Stanley could just barely make out a conversation in the room next to him when he came to.

"What in the world did you do to him?"

"I didn't do a single thing to him that was out of the ordinary, I don't bloody know why the man passed out! Do I look like a blasted doctor to you?"

"Are you two always this bitter in real life?"

"We don't know yet, we're new here."

"Good heavens, no. He may not know but I guarantee I am much better when I'm away from the fool. Please, just go check on your victim, would you?"

Firm footsteps marched in the direction of where Stanley lay, and he chose to keep his eyes closed with the hopes of avoiding the murderous rage of the approaching man.


"Ah, Stanley. You're awake!" A shadow loomed over him.

"Ugh... how did you...?"

A firm arm lifted his back and pulled him up. "I saw you squeeze your eyes shut, you dolt."

Opening his eyes again in shame, Stanley glanced at the man. Soft wrinkles painted concern over the face of the older fellow.

"Oh, Stanley..."


That's when Stanley heard it.

"That's... not your regular voice, is it?"

"Hm? I'm not sure what you mean, Stanley, I can hardly take anyone else's."

Things were starting to make sense. "You don't sound like your narration does, do you."

This provoked a hearty laugh, one that warmed Stanley from the core. "I had to warm up every time we reset, Stanley, what did you think all that was for?"

"Warm up? Are you kidding me? I thought you were always like that!"

He coughed softly. "This is the- Ooh, no, that's not it. This is the story of – there we go – a man named Stanley. Sound familiar?"

It did sound familiar. Stanley chuckled in recognition, a smile creeping onto his face as he realised everything at once.

"I thought you were dead! Really dead, I mean. Were you always just some guy?"

The Narrator scoffed. "I am by no means just some guy, Stanley. And no, I'm not quite used to this place."


Laughing softly, Stanley shifted his weight to brush some hair out of the other man's face, surprised by the soft and heavy strands. "You know, you look older than your model did. In a good way, of course."

This earned him a light smack on the hand. "You're hardly a young man yourself, Stanley, I'd watch your tongue if I were you."

They laughed together, the warmth of reunion finally setting in.


"So, why didn't you ever mention how you felt?" Stanley prodded jokingly.

"What do you mean? I think I've always been quite clear with how I feel about you, Stanley. Especially when it's not good."

Stanley wasn't sure how to explain without risking an awkward resolution. At least, not verbally; he leaned forward and grabbed the Narrator's face along the jaw.

"I mean this," he whispered before leaning in. A sharp breath sucked in by his target brushed past his lips before they locked together.


When they separated, the two of them sat in silence for a moment. The Narrator looked a bit lost, eyes ever so slightly glazed over.

"You know," Stanley finally spoke up, "you were right, I think."

"Mm?"

"In a way, maybe this was my idea of a happily ever after." He smiled. At the time, it was mockery, but that one run was the reason they were here, together, now.


He closed his eyes and leaned on the Narrator gently. In the background, he could faintly hear calm voices.

And Stanley was happy.