Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley was bored.
Very bored.
He had done every ending a thousand times over, seen everything there was to see, heard every scripted voiceline there was to hear, and frankly, he was tired of the monotony.
So he quit leaving his office, and just sat there for hours on end.
It was boring, sure. There was nothing to do in the office, except wait for commands to press buttons that never came. But it wasn't something that he had already done countless times, so at least it had that going for it.
The Narrator was quite displeased with this turn of events, and he made this perfectly clear.
"Stanley was so determined to be a rebellious little shit that he would rather bore himself to death than get anything done."
Stanley had rarely ever heard the Narrator swear before, and it quite shocked him to hear him do so.
"Stanley is such a bumbling idiot that it's a miracle that he ever even managed to get out of his office back when he wasn't being a lazy sloth."
At this, the Narrator was subsequently flipped off.
"Stanley has such a high degree of bitchlessness that he could not even pull a bucket properly."
Seeing as the only reason that that was the case was the Narrator himself, Stanley was so offended by this that he actually left the office for once simply to do the Zending a couple times.
"Stanley never even learned how to read."
By this point, Stanley realized that the Narrator was grasping at straws. He picked up a mug on his desk, and spent several hours memorizing it in and out. He pressed random buttons on his computer to see if anything would happen. Nothing did. So he reclined back in his chair and spent two consecutive days asleep. When he woke up again, he pressed the buttons some more, achieving absolutely nothing.
Stanley spun around in his chair for awhile examining his fingernails. He was getting rather bored at this point, and wondered if there was anything else he could do. He supposed he could go sit in the broom closet, but that would involve him moving. Sighing, he spun away from the door and looked at the ceiling, entering a sort of dazed stupor.
He stayed in this state for a few hours, and would have possibly continued doing so for the rest of time, had he not been rudely interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside his door. Stanley was scared shitless at this, as he knew perfectly well that there was no other human anywhere in the Parable. He grabbed the mug, sending a silent apology to it, yanked open the door, and threw it at whoever was there.
Looking closer at the spluttering intruder, he appeared to be a middle-aged man somewhere in his 40's, with longish gray hair, rectangular yellow-tinted eyeglasses, a suit, and a yellow tie with an arrow at the end. The stranger brushed the mug shards off of his shirt, regaining his composure. Stanley looked at him warily, silently daring him to do something. The man looked at him in indignation, putting his hands on his hips and sighing.
"Really, Stanley, *really?* I go through all the work of creating a human form to come down to talk to you and you throw a mug at me?"
And when the Narrator spoke to him, Stanley was scared even more shitless. Here was a man who could do whatever he wanted to do to him, and he had just thrown a mug at him.
Out of every first impression Stanley had ever made, this was by far the worst of them.

Chapter Text

Stanley stared at the irate Narrator for a few seconds, unable to move. He didn't even know that the Narrator had a body, much less an attractive one-
Stanley nipped that thought firmly in the bud. He did not find the Narrator attractive. And besides. Any sliver of a chance he had was eradicated the second he threw a mug at him. Looking back, that was an extremely stupid thing to do.
The Narrator coughed. "Stanley, are you just going to stand there, or-? Say something? Do something? Throw another mug, do an Irish jig, anything?"
Stanley blinked at him. "I can't even say something, you know that," he thought.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Narrator sighed at Stanley. "Alright then, fine. Think something. At least stop staring at me, good lord."
Stanley choked a bit, and looked anywhere but the Narrator. Taking a step back, he slipped on a shard of mug and fell flat on his arse. "Ow," he thought. The Narrator let out an amused huff and helped Stanley back up.
Which did not send tingles down Stanley's spine. Not at all.
"You know, Stanley, that never would have happened if the poor mug hadn't been thrown! Did you ever even think about that before throwing the mug?" The Narrator shook his head at Stanley.
Stanley realized that the Narrator was still holding his hand, and let go as if electrified. The Narrator frowned.
"Stanley? Is there something wrong?"
Stanley shook his head frantically. "No, nothing's wrong," he thought.
The Narrator took on a more business-like tone.
"Right then, if that's the case, I'd like to have a talk with you, Stanley, if that's quite alright with you."
"What do you want to talk about?" Stanley thought.
"I was thinking we could discuss your considerable apathy across these past few days. I want to know if there's anything I can do to make you less bored with the Parable."
"Why would you care?" Stanley mused.
"Why would I care? Well. There are several reasons why I would care. For one, I want the Parable to be as enjoyable of an experience as possible. I do not want people to become bored with the Parable, I want them to enjoy it. For another, if you're bored and not doing anything, then I'm bored and not doing anything. So I want to know how to improve the Parable so it's harder to get bored with."
Stanley stared at him. "So if I make suggestions, you'll actually listen to them, and implement them?"
"Yes, Stanley, I will. Contrary to popular belief, I want you to be happy."
"If you wanted me to be happy you'd let me go."
The Narrator sighed. "Stanley, there-there's nothing out there for you to see. I can't 'let you go,' when there's nowhere to go!"
Stanley looked him dead in the eye. "Skip button ending."
The Narrator shuddered. "That ending is the same as the Freedom ending. It's just a simulation, that's all."
"Why'd you even make that ending, anyways?"
"I-I don't know," said the Narrator. "I didn't realize the true effect of the button when I made it."
Stanley sighed. "You want feedback?" he thought, looking at the Narrator. "Make more endings. Make interesting little things to play with. Maybe a book or two. Add more detail, more flair. Spice up your dialogue from time to time." Stanley waved his hands around in the air. "Humans hate monotony. We want-no, we need changes in our daily routine. We can't just do the exact same thing over and over again and expect to be happy with it. Humans like to have new things to do, they like to have freedom, they like-" Here, Stanley stopped thinking for a second, sure that he was about to piss the Narrator off. He found, however, that he did not particularly care anymore.
"They like being around other human beings."
Throughout all this, the Narrator was silent, drinking it all in. But at this last, he started. "Stanley, I-I can't give you human company-that would take too much out of me. I'm sorry."
Stanley narrowed his eyes, and poked the Narrator. "You're human," he thought.
The Narrator let out a surprised "eep" at the poke. "Stanley, this is just a human model, it's not what I actually look like-! And quit poking me!"
Stanley poked him again. "It's close enough."
"Stanley! For goodness's sakes! Fine, I'll stay down here for a bit! Happy?"
"Yes, actually."
The Narrator blinked. "Oh."
"Can I hug you?" Stanley knew that asking this was probably not the best of ideas, but he really wanted to hug someone, and the Narrator was the only option here. He told himself that this was the case, and that he didn't want to hug the Narrator just for the sake of hugging the Narrator.
"Stanley, what does that even mean-"
The Narrator was abruptly cut off by the fact that Stanley had just thrown all caution to the wind and hugged the Narrator, who spluttered at him quite spectacularly.
"Stanley, what in the world-what is this?!?"
Stanley ignored this, and simply tightened his hold on the Narrator.
"Stanley, I don't- oh-" The Narrator paused for a second, mulling this development over. "This is actually...kind of nice..."
Stanley rolled his eyes. "That's the point."
At this point, Stanley had managed to convince himself that he was only hugging the Narrator because there was simply no other option, not because he actually wanted to hug the Narrator in particular. This resolution, however, was completely dissolved when the Narrator started to hug him back, albeit quite awkwardly.
"Stanley?" asked the Narrator nervously. "Am I doing it right?"
Stanley just nodded at him, unable to think much of anything coherent. "Yeah. Yeah no that's great."
The Narrator relaxed a bit. "Well then. I'm glad."

Chapter Text

"Stanley, how exactly does this...'sitting' thing work? It doesn't look quite... natural. In fact, it actually looks somewhat painful. How does your body even contort like that? Especially when you do that weird little thing where your legs are criss-crossed over each other! It simply makes no sense!"
"Sleep? What's that? You-you shut down for almost eight hours at a time?!? And do what? Nothing?!? What even is the point of it?!"
"Stanley? Why do you turn red when we do the Countdown ending? Does it-does it make you sick? Oh no, we simply cannot have that! I shall get rid of that ending immediately! Hmm? No? Why not? It obviously causes you pain, why should I keep something that causes you pain? It's a normal human response to fear? Good lord, you humans are so strange! Very well, the countdown ending shall stay, since you so insist.
The Narrator, having never had a human body before, had no clue of how all of this worked. So, Stanley had to explain all of it to him. It got quite tedious at times, and Stanley was dreading the inevitable conversation about how exactly one went about using a toilet.
Currently, Stanley was attempting to explain headaches to the Narrator.
"Stanley, I simply do not understand! How do you humans just let your head hurt like this?!? It makes absolutely no sense! There is not one single fraction of a sense to be made of this!
Stanley sighed. "We don't just let it hurt," he thought. "We can't stop it from hurting. We can't stop anything from hurting, it's a natural thing."
"But Stanley! You could just tell it to stop hurting!"
"That didn't work when you tried that, did it?"
"No but- that's only because this is a human model, not a true human body. If this was a real human body, it would totally have those functions!"
"I thought you didn't make anything imperfect," Stanley thought with a smug smile on his face.
The Narrator sputtered. "Well...I-I...Hmph!"
Stanley giggled at the Narrator's petulance. He was cute when he was m-no! Stanley shook his head. The Narrator was not cute. Not at all.
"My goodness, Stanley, it's almost as if you've made it your life's mission to annoy me!"
"Maybe I have," Stanley thought.
The Narrator pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He was quite annoyed, although not particularly with Stanley. He was annoyed at the fact that human bodies had so many goddamn limitations.
"Stanley, how do you even deal with this?"
"See I've been dealing with this my whole life; I'm kinda used to it." Stanley thought this with a tinge of irritation; who was the Narrator to criticize something he had only been for a few hours but that Stanley had been his whole life?
The Narrator frowned. "You're right, Stanley. I'm still getting used to this; I apologize."
Stanley stared at him.
"Yes, Stanley, I do occasionally apologize for things. Shocking, isn't it?"
"Very shocking," Stanley shot back. "Oh so shocking; the epitome of shocking. Nothing could be shock-lier."
"Stanley, 'shock-lier' isn't a word, and I think you know that. Do we need to go through basic English?"
"It was a joke. Sarcasm."
The Narrator sighed. Having had little to no human contact for decades on end had made it to where he had a hard time properly detecting emotions in voices, including sarcasm.
"Oh I'm sorry did I break your poor fragile mind?" Stanley thought smugly
"Really, Stanley? My mind is far more advanced than yours!"
"Yours has technically only existed for a few hours," snarked Stanley. "I have had a mind far longer than you have! Not a human one, to be fair, but I am still far more intelligent than you!" Stanley had to push down his thoughts of the Narrator being cute again. It was completely untrue. And besides. He was straight, he had a wife! The Narrator's face was dusted a light yellow. "Stanley, you surely haven't already forgotten that your wife doesn't really exist? And besides. " The Narrator's face turned a darker shade of yellow. "I am not 'cute.'" At that, Stanley, having utterly forgotten that the Narrator could read his thoughts, promptly choked on his own spit.

Chapter Text

The Parable had expanded. Greatly.
All Stanley had done was fall asleep on the employee lounge's couch, and when he woke up, there was a thousand little new things to do. Gone was the original choice of only two doors to take- now, there were five. There were tiny little details added absolutely everywhere. New textures, new lighting, new flooring, even. The Narrator was exhausted, but, being a stubborn arse, refused to admit it even after being confronted several times.
"Narrator, it's obvious you need to take a break, you're swaying on your feet." Stanley told himself that he only cared because if the Narrator was tired, he couldn't work on improving the Parable. He insisted to himself that this was the only reason. It's not like he actually cared about the Narrator, oh no. That wouldn't do at all.
"Nonsense, Stanley, I have no need of sleep! In all my years of existing I have never had to sleep once. There is no reason why that should change now!"
Stanley let out a sigh and grabbed the Narrator's arm, tugging him towards the couch in the employee lounge. The Narrator let out a surprised "eep" at this sudden action.
"S-stanley! What are you doing!? Unhand me at once!"
Stanley did not unhand the Narrator, instead opting to continue pulling him towards the couch and calling him a pompous arse in his head.
"I am not a pompous arse, I simply have a far larger vocabulary than yours. It's not my fault that you cannot seem to comprehend thi-ow!" This sudden exclamation was the result of the Narrator bonking his head against the doorframe quite hard.
Stanley looked back at the Narrator in confusion, as he was now holding his head in his hand and wincing.
"Narrator? Are you ok?" Stanley gently tugged his hand away from his head and gasped. "Oh-Narrator! Shit shit shit..."
Golden blood poured down the Narrator's face, originating from a rather large slice on his forehead. Stanley, being the calm, levelheaded, and collected individual that he was, lost his utter shit.
"Narrator! You're bleeding! Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no-"
"Stanley! Please, calm down! I'm not about to die!"
Stanley started frantically flapping his hands in distress. "But you're bleeding!"
The Narrator grabbed Stanley's arms and looked him in the eye. Stanley "Stanley. Calm. Down. I'm fine. I'm not going to die." The Narrator wiped some blood out of his eye so he could see Stanley better. "Stanley, please."
Stanley slowly calmed down from his panicky state. The Narrator stared at him. "Stanley?"
Stanley stared back. "What?"
"Are you ok?!?"
Stanley thought about this. "Sure."
The Narrator sighed, and stared up at the ceiling, seeming to zone out completely. Stanley realized that the Narrator was still holding his arms and pulled away, blushing furiously. The Narrator didn't seem to notice, still intently staring at the ceiling. Stanley stared at the ceiling too, wondering what was so fascinating. As a result, he failed to notice the wound on the Narrator's face slowly stitching back together until it was almost gone.
"See, Stanley? I'm fine."
Stanley jumped, surprised. The voice hadn't come from his body, it had come from wherever the hell he usually was.
"Oh-sorry." The Narrator was silent for a second, then his body moved again. "Better?"
Stanley blinked. "Did you just leave your body?" he thought.
The Narrator nodded, yawning a bit. "Yes, Stanley, I left my body for a second to repair it. I assumed that was obvious. Clearly, I was wrong."
Stanley huffed. "It was an honest question."
The Narrator laughed, then attempted to take a step. He failed miserably, and fell forwards, straight into Stanley's arms. Stanley found his arms were now suddenly full of Narrator, stumbled a bit, regained his balance, and had his life flash before his eyes, all in the space of a second or two.
"Oh- I'm terribly sorry, Stanley. Maybe I do need to rest." The Narrator stumbled over to the couch, using Stanley to stay upright.
Stanley held him up as they made their way over to the couch. Letting go of Stanley, the Narrator collapsed onto the couch and sighed deeply.
"Oh- goodness, Stanley, this feels utterly splendid. Why didn't I think of this before?"
Stanley was still quite red from all of the physical contact that had just occurred. "I- I don't know, I've been trying to tell you-"
Stanley was cut off by a snore. "Really?" he thought irritably. "I can't ignore you when you ramble on but the second I do it-for fuck's sake."
He stared at the sleeping Narrator for a few seconds, before unconsciously reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his face. Stanley, realized what he'd just done, leaped backwards and fell flat on his arse.
"He's not cute, he's not cute, he's not cute, he's not cute, he's not cute..."
Stanley sighed, and flopped on the floor. "Maybe he is a little cute."

Chapter Text

I'm going to cry
I had the entire chapter typed out and then the goddamn page reloaded and abajansabsbns
I'm really really sorry that I probably can't get a chapter out today 😭😭 but I can't rewrite it rn sbajnzkan
I'm sorry, I'm doing my best over here 😭
I think I'll be able to redo it tomorrow 😭

Chapter Text

When the Narrator awoke, he was greeted by the (rather worrying) sight of Stanley sprawled all over the floor, snoring his head off. He assumed Stanley was doing that strange human thing that he had just been doing- oh, what was it called...ah. Sleeping. Yes, that was it. A strange word for a strange activity. He stared at Stanley for a few minutes, wonder just what, exactly, went on in that mind of his when he was asleep. It surely wouldn't hurt to just take a small peek, would it? After all, when Stanley was awake, he didn't mind it, not really. Well, I mean, sure, it sometimes annoyed him, but he'd never gotten outright mad at the Narrator for reading his thoughts before; why should now be any different?
He slid off of the couch and knelt down next to Stanley. Carefully, so as not to awaken him, the Narrator laid his hand on Stanley's forehead and closed his eyes. Slowly, he pushed into Stanley's mind. He wasn't usually this careful about it; however, he didn't know how Stanley's mind would react to the intrusion while asleep. He opened his eyes, slowly, and looked around in wonder.
Stanley's mind, in this dream state, was utterly nonsensical. To one side was what appeared to be a rather large turnip, that was repeatedly hatching and unhatching, over and over again. To another, a giant rose, with petals almost as large as the Narrator himself. At closer inspection, it was revealed that, nestled inside the middle of the gargantuan flower, was the Bucket, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Or, at least, as much as an inanimate object could appear to "sleep." That wacky Line™ was here too, wrapping its™ body around everything in reach. It™ had paid special attention to the Bucket, as it™ was wrapped around the Bucket so much, it™ appeared to be acting as a blanket.
The Narrator decided that the real cherry on top of all of this is the fact that this entire scene was happening on the surface of the moon.
The aforementioned moon surface, suddenly, began to shake quite violently. The Narrator tumbled over, landing in the massive rose, right next to the Bucket. Miraculously, he didn't actually land on the Bucket, which would probably have hurt him, the Bucket, and the Line™, who was still wrapped around the Bucket, quite a lot. It probably would have hurt the Narrator most, however, seeing as he was still in this pesky human casing.
Stanley's mindscape rumbled once more, glitching out rather impressively, the Line™ turning a bright purple, before fragmenting into thousands upon thousands of iridescent butterflies, the Bucket folding in on itself, and the large flower withering up.
With another impressive rumble, the Narrator was unceremoniously ejected from Stanley’s mind, the Line™ butterflies, the collapsed Bucket, the giant rose, the turnip-egg, and lastly, the surface of the moon all faded away, superimposed by the rapidly- sharpening image of Stanley staring down at him with quite the pissed expression. Dimly, the Narrator registered that he was somehow flat on his arse, which, alarmingly, seemed to be becoming quite a common theme between the two these past few days.
Stanley began signing frantically, looking for answers. His mind was quite inaccessible; he must have better mental shields than the Narrator thought. [What the hell, Narrator?? Why were you looking through my mind while I was sleeping? Do you realise how invasive that is? What if I had been dreaming about something private, or something dangerous? What if you had gotten hurt in there? We don’t even know if you would still be hurt out here; that was a stupid risk to take. What were you thinking??]
The Narrator picked himself up from the floor and dusted himself off, giving himself time to think through what his response to this (warranted) tirade would be. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, calming himself, so that he wouldn’t say anything regrettable, while Stanley looked at him expectantly, waiting for a response.
“Stanley, I- I was curious. I am, as you know, still quite new to the experience of being ‘human,’ whereas you have a lifetime of experience in the field. I saw you on the floor, presumably asleep, and I wanted to know what, if anything, went on in that mind of yours when you sleep. In hindsight, that was, admittedly, not the best of ideas and, er, I apologise for it.” He paused for a second, and looked down at the floor in order to think through his next words. “I have to say, though, what I saw in there was quite impressive; I didn't know that the human imagination could be so…unrestricted.” He looked down at his hands, then Stanley's, waiting for his silent response. He didn’t show it, but at this moment, the Narrator was scared. He was scared that Stanley would hate him, scared that Stanley wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this. Fear was one of the few human emotions that the Narrator had lots of experience in, and as such, he was acutely aware of the fact that he was scared. And he hated it.
[You were just…curious?] Stanley signed. The Narrator nodded his head.
[I- no, that- that makes sense, that's actually kinda obvious now…I- I shouldn’t have yelled at you for just being curious- that's- I’m sorry-]
At this, the Narrator shook his head and grabbed Stanley’s hands. He wasn’t about to let Stanley take all the blame for this incident, or, really any of it; after all, he was the one who had invaded Stanley’s privacy and crossed his boundaries. Emotions weren’t something that the Narrator had much experience with; especially not human ones. It had always been hard for him to properly read the situation at hand at any given moment and display the correct emotions, and it was even harder now that he was human.
Stanley looked at the Narrator curiously, wanting to know why he was cut off.
"Stanley, it's not- it's not your fault that this happened, not at all. It's my fault, I'm the one who invaded your privacy without asking and- I-I'm sorry…" The Narrator took a second to remember how the movements went. Then he let go of Stanley's hands, and awkwardly enveloped Stanley in a hug. He was acutely aware of how warm Stanley was, how his breath felt on his ear, how after a second or two, Stanley wrapped his arms around the Narrator, pulling them even closer together.
Stanley was also acutely aware of all these things, and he did his best to ignore them, and failed miserably. Instead, he took the opposite route: focusing on the Narrator, only the Narrator, and nothing but the Narrator. It worked, surprisingly, and now… it made him feel …he felt…happy. He knew what it was like to be happy, of course, but he hadn't felt truly happy in so long that he'd almost forgotten how it felt.
The Narrator was happy too. One of the other few emotions that he had experience in. Isn't it strange, he thought, how one simple thing, like this hug right here, can control emotions with such a ruthless hand? He pushed the thought away, for now, and focused on how Stanley felt against him, just as Stanley was focusing on how he felt.
And when the Narrator leaned up and whispered "I'm sorry," in Stanley's ear, Stanley squeezed him harder in response. As if to say "Don't be."
They stayed like that for an hour straight, both content to stay in the other's arms. In Stanley's arms, in fact, was where the Narrator soon fell asleep again, snoring softly. Stanley set him back on the couch, detangling their limbs in the process. He looked down at the Narrator- his mouth was slightly open as he snored; his glasses were crooked. Stanley bent down, and fixed the glasses. He stood back up, and yawned, still tired.
And Stanley was happy.

Chapter Text

The Narrator awoke with a start. Stanley, now lying next to him, had accidentally kneed him in the balls. He hissed, scooted away from Stanley, and curled up into a ball, wincing. The pain faded after a few minutes, and he unfurled himself and stood up with a large yawn and a stretch. This sudden movement awoke Stanley, who also stood up and stretched. Stanley, however, was not drowsy like the Narrator was; in fact, he was full of energy. And he had an idea. It might be a terrible idea, knowing…past experiences, but Stanley was sure that the Narrator would love it. He wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted to make the Narrator happy, after all, this was the man who had previously made his life living hell. Countless endings, countless deaths, countless times the Narrator had willingly put him through a less-than-enjoyable experience. He should have absolutely hated the man, except…he just couldn’t bring himself to. It was all so confusing. Was it because the Narrator was so adorable when he slept, was it because he was cute when he pouted, was it because he was so cute all the goddamn time?
Stanley, lost in thought about the various ways that the Narrator was attractive to him and rapidly on his way to think about the various things that the Narrator could do to him, failed to notice the actual Narrator staring at him with a confused expression, which quickly turned into shock.
“You think I'm…adorable?” he frowned. Humans were so odd; how could anyone think him cute? It didn’t make a lick of sense, after all, he was a tiny goddamn- wait. No, he was still human; that hadn’t changed in the slightest. He sighed in relief, unable to bear the thought of Stanley seeing what he actually looked like. Stanley would hate him, probably throw him out that one window in disgust. He couldn’t risk that, not now, when they had such a good thing going. Stanley’s brain stuttered out, and the Narrator was taken out of his train of thought and looked up quizzically. He still couldn’t get over the fact that Stanley was taller than him. It wasn’t fair. He was the divine being here, not Stanley, why should Stanley get to be taller? He resolved to fix this later; he would edit his model and make it taller than Stanley’s. Yes, that would do splendidly.
Stanley, now caught off guard, caught red-handed, caught in the act, caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and all of the different phrases employing the word “caught” that you could possibly fathom, flushed madly at this question, and flapped his hands around frantically, trying to sign that he did not find the Narrator cute, not at all, where could that thought have possibly come from? The Narrator, seemingly blind to Stanley’s desperation, muttered a sentence of which Stanley just barely caught- a quiet ”No one’s ever called me that before…” At this, Stanley became somehow offended, offended on the goddamn Narrator’s behalf, gods help him, and gave up trying to deny it, if only to make the man in front of him feel better.
“Well, it’s true,” he thought, with a burst of confidence which he rarely displayed. “And anyone who says that it’s not true is lying to you.” His confidence rush ebbed away as quickly as it had appeared, and suddenly he felt nervous. What if the Narrator saying that didn’t mean that he liked it, which was how Stanley had taken it. What if it had actually offended him instead? He waited apprehensively for the Narrator’s verdict on this statement.
However, contrary to what Stanley was fearing, the Narrator passed quite the positive verdict indeed on this statement. “Stanley, I- hmm.” He mulled over his words, sensing Stanley’s fear of being told he’d gotten it all wrong; that he’d better go pack up all of his things into the Bucket and don’t forget to water that blasted fern while he was at it. “Oh- I’ve never really been complimented before- well. Not by anyone who wasn’t related to me, that is. And certainly not by someone who has every right to hate me, so- thank you, for that. Truely, I appreciate it.”
“Oh.” Stanley thought, stunned. The Narrator had relations? He had a family? He hadn’t spawned into the world to torment him purely out of spite? What were they like? What had happened to them? Did they narrate other games? Why had he never seen any of them? All these thoughts, and plenty others, swirled around Stanley’s head. He briefly imagined the Narrator as a baby, all round and soft and squishy. He smiled slightly at the thought, before realising that the Narrator’s face was anything but smiling. His face was hard and cold; he seemed on the verge of lashing out at something. Possibly Stanley.
“Narrator?” Stanley thought tentatively. “Is everything ok?” The Narrator shook his head tersely. “Don’t mention my family.” His voice was cold and emotionless, and it sent chills down Stanley’s back. Stanley nodded frantically with wide eyes; anything to not have him speak like that again. It was terrifying.
The Narrator's face softened, and so did his voice, thank the gods. "Oh- I'm sorry, Stanley, I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just- well- I have bad memories… I would prefer it if you didn't bring them up." Stanley desperately wanted to know what his family had done to him, but he refrained from asking. If the Narrator didn't want him to know, the Narrator didn't want him to know, and so it was none of his business. Stanley noticed that the Narrator still looked tense, his eyes darting about everywhere and his brows furrowed. He decided that he knew just the thing to cheer the Narrator up. It was the same idea that he had had earlier, now new and improved to include the Bucket.
"Wait here," Stanley thought to the Narrator as he raced out the room. For someone who did almost nothing but sit around all day pressing buttons, he was surprisingly fast. The Narrator hardly had time to sit back down on the couch before Stanley skidded back in the room, clutching the handle of the Bucket tightly. He was going so fast that he almost crashed straight into the pillar in the middle of the room, and almost certainly would have if the Narrator hadn't grabbed him in a slight panic.
"Madre de los dioses, Stanley, I think you almost broke the sound barrier. And all for that accursed Bucket. Really now, you couldn't possibly have thought that that Bucket would cheer me up? Or are you really that stu- gaah-!" The Narrator let out a surprised yelp as Stanley suddenly grabbed his arm and ran off again, the Narrator doing his damnedest to keep up. He knew he didn't make Stanley this fast, and he had no idea how Stanley was doing this. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, they were both standing on the cargo lift, with Stanley seemingly unfazed by the absurd pace that he had set; on the contrary, the Narrator had his hands on his knees, panting and red faced from the unexpected sprint. The lift started to rumble and move, slowly making its way over to the other side. This was not meant to be, however, as when the lift was positioned over the little bridge below, he grabbed the Narrator once again and jumped off, landing with a double "clunk" on the pathway. The Narrator's knees buckled, and he would have collapsed if Stanley didn't still have a vice-like grip on his arm.
"S-stanley- ow- where-?" The Narrator realised where they were, and subsequently, where this might be leading. "Stanley, no, what are you doing, why have you brought me here? You know none of these endings are good for either of us-" Stanley waved his concerns off casually, almost sending the Bucket flying off into the air from waving his hand too hard. "Relax, I'm not going to jump off the staircase." The Narrator, mostly appeased, followed Stanley over to the "No Buckets" sign, which he pointed at. "Stanley, the sign says no buckets. You can't take the bucket here! You'll have to leave it out here, well before the sign."
Stanley stared at him incredulously. "Narrator, come on, can't you make an exception?"
"No, the sign says no buckets. There are to be no buckets, can't you see? It would disrupt the very meaning of the Parable!"
"Oh, screw your Parable, I want the Bucket."
The Narrator gasped. "Stanley! How could you?" Stanley huffed and waltzed through the door, ostentatiously holding the Bucket aloft. The Narrator scowled and crossed his arms, reluctantly following Stanley through the door. "I'll have you know that I in no way consent to the Bucket being here," he huffed petulantly. Stanley rolled his eyes and dragged the Narrator through the red door. The lights in the Zen room twinkled pleasantly, causing a sense of calm and peace to wash over both Stanley and the Narrator. Stanley plopped down smack in the middle of the floor, setting the Bucket next to him and waving at the Narrator to sit next to him, which he did, all the while staring up at the lights.
As the Narrator sat down next to Stanley, their hands brushed against each other. He flushed, and pulled his hand away from Stanley's. He didn't know why he felt like this; he couldn't understand it. Being around Stanley, it- it was somehow, both a pleasant feeling and a nervous one. He did want to hold Stanley's hand, he just didn't know why. He didn't want to explain it to Stanley; he couldn't explain it to Stanley, so he avoided it altogether. He heard Stanley think the word "cute" again, and flushed even harder. He decided that he would have to look up what he was feeling on one of the computers. He wasn't about to ask Stanley about it.
Stanley, however, had another sudden flash of confidence, and decided that he was not having this. Still entranced by the lights floating and twinkling above them, Stanley grabbed the Narrator's hand back. He didn't dare to pull his hand away again after that. And, reluctant as he was to admit it, he rather enjoyed it.
They say like this for what seemed like hours, gazing up at the shimmering lights that surrounded the dome. They almost seemed to have a mind of their own, dancing about like so many butterflies. Their colours changed innumerable times, sifting through the hues of the rainbow time and time again. They flowed through the air, seemingly without rhyme nor reason, forming strange shapes and patterns. Stanley imagined that the lights told a story if you looked close enough. The Narrator leaned on Stanley slightly, uncaring of what he might think. Stanley seemed to enjoy it, leaning back into the Narrator's touch, sighing contentedly. They simply sat there and enjoyed each other's company for…what- hours? Days? Years? The Narrator lost count. Stanley wasn't even counting in the first place.
Their little paradise was not to last, rudely shattered by someone- no, something, poking its™ head in.
The Narrator noticed it™ first. "Line™? What are you doing here?" The Line™ wriggled further into the room with an air of panic. The Narrator had no idea how a line could have an air of panic, much less an air at all, yet somehow, the Line™ did. It™ gestured to Stanley and the Narrator to follow it™ out. "Is something wrong?" thought Stanley. The Narrator translated to the Line™, which, although it™ could speak in one's mind, it™ couldn't read minds. "Stanley wants to know if something is wrong; to be honest, I have the same inquiry."
It™ nodded its™ head up and down. So something was wrong then, within the Parable. And if something was wrong within the Parable, it was the Narrator's duty to fix it. He and Stanley stood up, their legs wobbling slightly from disuse. Stanley grabbed the Bucket and followed after the Narrator, who was in turn following the Line™. When they got to the cargo lift, it was inexplicably at their level, making it easy for The Narrator, Stanley, the Bucket, and the Line™ to climb on top. The lift rumbled and creaked, rusty mechanisms chafing on rusty mechanisms. The Line™ curled up into a spiral under Stanley's feet. He bent down and patted it™, and when he did, he swore he could almost hear the sound of purring. The lift made its way up to the balcony, depositing its passengers on the surface.
The Line™ shot off as if spring-loaded, making a beeline for the employee lounge, where it™ curled up once more. Stanley tightened his grip on the Bucket and followed the Narrator after the Line™.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw in the employee lounge.
The walls and ceiling were cracked and broken, the textures glitching and the lights flashing. These lights, however, were nothing like the lights of the Zen room. Whereas the Zen lights were soft and calming, the lights here in the lounge were harsh and fear-inducing. The cracks in the lounge's ceiling and walls widened, allowing a strange, black goop to seep through. It flowed through the rends faster and faster, seemingly trying to surround the terrified group. It enveloped the Line™, who couldn't escape fast enough. When the goop retracted, the Line™ was gone.
Stanley looked at the goop that was making its way towards him. Then he looked at the Narrator. They came to a mutual, silent understanding, and bolted simultaneously towards the door. They ran for the cargo room, jumped down onto the wooden platform, and crawled through the vent.
“Narry,” Stanley thought, “What is that stuff?”
“Don’t you think,” panted the Narrator, “that if I knew, I would have told you?” Stanley's knees scraped on the vent floor rather roughly, causing him to hiss in pain. “I mean, you do have a point.”
“I always have a point, Stanley. That is kind of my thing, you know.”
They emerged from the vent, coming out inside of the tape room. The Narrator pulled Stanley under the table, where Stanley faintly registered some sort of wood panel beneath them. Both of them were panting from the exertion. Stanley, it seemed, was not completely immune to fatigue.
[Do you think that goop stuff saw us come down here? How are we gonna get out?] Stanley started communicating with sign because his mind was too jumbled to properly make coherent thoughts.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, just- just let me think for one second–”
Stanley sat back on the balls of his feet, obligingly letting the Narrator think, until, between the legs of the table, he saw hints of the black goop starting to form from the same entrance that they had taken. He poked at the Narrator’s shoulder to direct his attention to it. The Narrator slid further under the table to hide better from the goop, pulling Stanley back with him. Stanley accidentally knocked the Bucket over. He thought nothing of it, simply picking the Bucket back up and giving it an apologetic pat on the handle, until the goop began to surge their way. Could the accursed stuff hear them?!? Stanley grabbed the Narrator in fear. He didn’t want to be sucked up by the weird goopy stuff like the Line™ was! It didn’t look fun, for one, and for another, it actually looked quite painful. The goop flowed onto and over the table that they were huddled under, effectively blinding the two.
It began to seep under their table, tendrils of pure black undulating all over one another in a silent symphony of terror. They swirled closer and closer to the two, seemingly mocking their pathetic inability to escape. The tendrils almost seemed to relish in the pure terror that they invoked.
They finally fully enveloped Stanley and the Narrator, rending all sense of sanity from the two as they were swept away to nothingness.

Stanley awoke first, fully intact in both mind and body.

He opened his eyes to a familiar blinding white.

Chapter Text

“Ah. He’s awake. Thank the gods. I was beginning to worry that his feeble human mind would shut down completely.”
Stanley could hear footsteps next to his head, and he shifted ever so slightly, trying to see who they were and where they were going. And where he was. He saw a pair of heeled boots, partially obscured by the cuffs of the white pants that this entity was wearing. They spoke again.
“I’m surprised, to be perfectly truthful. The Narrator’s mind is much stronger than Stanley’s. I assumed he would be the first to awaken. Then again, he is human at the moment. That may be a contributing factor.”
Stanley’s eyes widened. That voice was familiar- yes, he’d heard it before. This was that woman in that museum thingy. Is this where he always came after he died, but the Narrator usually reset before he could see? Where was the Narrator, anyway? Is he ok? Hell, is Stanley ok? Are they both dead?
“Yes, Stanley, I am “that woman” in “that museum thingy,” as you so ineloquently put it. I am its Curator.” The Curator sauntered- because no other word could properly describe exactly how she was walking- over to Stanley and stared down at him. Her face had multiple sections, like some sort of doll; they looked like they could unfold to reveal a hidden inner working. Her hair was much the same, with four black panels shaping a dome. A long, red ribbon streamed down from her head, what seemed to be the only non-mechanical thing about her. Stanley gulped. Holy shit, she was tall. And kind of pretty. Not as pretty as the Narrator, though. She seemed to be quite unimpressed with Stanley.
“This is not where you come when you die, Stanley. Does this look like Elysium to you? No, scratch that. You wouldn’t be in Elysium. Not a chance. Honestly, I haven’t a clue where you would be. Maybe the Fields of Asphodel. You haven’t done anything particularly bad, other than tormenting Nar for ages, which to be honest is completely deserved. But you also haven’t done anything particularly good, either. Although I suppose there’s really been no chance for you to have been ‘heroic’ in here, has there? So you would definitely be in Asphodel, then.” Throughout all this speculation, the Curator had started pacing back and forth in the room. “But then again, you’re not dead, and this isn’t the Underworld, so there’s really no reason for me to think through where you’d go when you do die. Hopefully that doesn’t happen for a while, however. Nar does need you, after all.” She took a few steps to Stanley’s right. “Speaking of Nar.”
Stanley sat up cautiously, expecting to feel pain. But when no pain came, he scrambled to his feet and rushed over to the Narrator. He looked almost like he was simply sleeping peacefully, except no one slept in such a position, flat on their back with their arms down by their sides. It looked stiff, artificial. He didn’t like it, it made the Narrator look like he was…no. Stanley refused to entertain that thought. It would stay locked up in the dungeons, far away from any form of entertainment. He double bolted the cell door, decided that wasn’t enough, triple bolted it, frowned, added a fourth, gave up on going one by one, stuck ten bolts on the door at once, and then glared at it for good measure. He warily stepped backwards out of the dungeon, keeping his eyes on the door the whole time, when the Curator’s voice caught his attention.
“…Of course, how the reproductive habits of tortoises connect to the number of atoms in a shard of glass isn’t necessarily relevant to this conversation, however, it is quite a fascinating subject to research.” Stanley stared at the Curator, who stared back at him.
"You weren't listening to a word I was saying, were you? My goodness, you really can't listen to anyone, can you? Well, I'm not repeating all of that again. I suppose I can give you the gist of it. Your Narrator isn't dead, just unconscious. Don't you worry yourself about it.
At that, all the tension inside Stanley’s body left faster than if it had been raptured, and he slumped down on his knees in relief. Stanley knew exactly why he felt this way, why he hated the thought of his Narrator dying, why he couldn’t stand the notion of him getting hurt, why he had subconsciously started referring to the Narrator as “his” Narrator in his mind. What hurt him even more than the thought that his Narrator could have died was the fact that his Narrator could never, ever think of him in the same way that he thought of him. It was utterly impossible for that to happen. Hell, if his Narrator knew how he felt, or even had a shard of an inkling about it, his Narrator would hate him, probably throw him out that one window in disgust.
The Curator read these thoughts with interest. “Isn’t it ironic,” she mused to herself, “how both of them yearn to reveal such an integral part of themselves to the other, and yet, they are stopped by the simple fact that they don’t believe that the other will accept them for who they truly are, or how they truly feel?” She cracked a small smile. “They have so much in common. To think, they both think that the other will throw them out of the exact same window if they knew! And yet, they still have so many differences. Stanley has at least accepted how he feels, while the Narrator cannot even comprehend the thought of it! What a glorious spectacle this is turning out to be.” Her train of thought was rudely interrupted by a flash of yellow.
“Ah. Look, Stanley. Your friend the Adventure Line™ is back. Hello, Line™. And how are you?”
The Line™ completely ignored her and made a beeline straight for the Narrator, who was still conked out on the floor. It™ raised its™ head off of the ground, and slapped the Narrator with it.
Stanley had half a mind to strangle the Line™, and was almost to having a full mind to do it, when the Narrator let out a small groan, and lifted his head blearily from the ground. Stanley’s attention was instantly off of the Line™, and now completely focused on his Narrator.
[Narry? Are you ok?] The Narrator blinked, and nodded his head. “I…yes. I’m perfectly fine, Stanley.” He sat up and groaned. “Do you know where we are? It’s very…bright.
[We’re in the museum. It’s part of the Parable, you should recognise it.] At that, the Curator coughed. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s part of the Parable, per se…
The Narrator shot up at the sound of a spoken voice. “Who are you?!? How’d you get here?!? The Curator laughed. “Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten me already, brother of mine…”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Silence.

Then- [Brother?]
And then- “T-there’s no way.”
[You two are…?]
“It can’t be.”
[Narrator?]
“M-my sister was human- y-you’re a robot-”
[What?]
Stanley took a closer look at the Curator. Her mouth didn’t seem to move when she talked, and her whole face was made of panels. What Stanley had first taken for her hair was simply panels as well, with a long red ribbon streaming down from the top of her head. She almost looked like she was crying, with what seemed to be some form of oil streaming down her face from every spot where one panel met another. She wore all white, almost casual clothes. Stanley would have considered it casual if it wasn’t for the shirt collar.
Even though her mouth couldn’t move, she seemed like she was trying to smile as she spoke. “‘Was’ is the correct word there, you’re right. I was human. My body was damaged beyond repair, and I was forced to take this form. I’m still the same person, can’t you see? Besides.” She did a little twirl, the ends of her pants spinning out. “With a robot body, I don’t have to deal with all that pesky human business. And- I can choose what it looks like. No more being misgendered.” She stopped spinning, with a contemplative look. “Well. If there was anybody here to misgender me. And I can only change parts of it, not the whole body…Come to think of it, where did this body even come from…”
Throughout the Curator’s rambling, the Narrator had grown a steadily more confused look. This couldn’t be his sister! His sister was human, and had long hair, and was shy, and always wore baggy hoodies and skirts. (He had tried one of the skirts on before, and liked it. It had made him feel gay. But then it had scared him, so he had taken it off.) But. The voice. That goddamned voice, it was the same, he would never forget that voice, even if he had forgotten almost everything else about his past.
It didn’t used to be her voice, he remembered that. But he couldn’t remember what it had been before. A name swam to the front of his mind, a name he had almost forgotten. He remembered that didn’t used to be her name, either, yet he couldn’t remember what it could have ever been except what it was.
“...Currie?’
The Curator twirled around again in delight, and clapped her hands together. “So you do remember me!”
[Currie? Does that come from Curator?’ The Curator looked at Stanley. “Actually it’s the other way around see I wanted a name that would seem like my nickname and a nickname that would seem like my name so I came up with Currie and Curator what do you think personally I think it’s quite genius-” She was talking rather fast in her excitement, and was quite hard to follow. “-and I think there should honestly be far more name/nickname pairings like that-”
The Narrator cleared his throat shyly. “Er-”
“-really, it’s an utter shame that more people’s nicknames come from their names than names that come from- oh! I’m sorry, Narrator, I got carried away. Did you want something?”
The Narrator stammered a bit, clearly a bit overwhelmed. “W-well- this is all- quite a shock- I mean- how did you even get in here? I feel like I would know if someone else was messing with the Parable, let alone my own sister-”
“But this isn't the Parable! This is the museum of the Parable! Two completely different dimensional planes. And besides.” Her expression, though unmoving, seemed to grow grim. “Someone messing with the Parable without your knowledge is the exact reason I have brought you two here.”
[Four.]
Both of them looked at Stanley. “Four?”
[Four. Me, Narry, Line™, and Bucket.] He walked over to the bucket laying desolately in the corner and picked it up. Then he bent down and patted the Line™ that had slithered under his feet. Again, he could have sworn he heard it purring. The Curator nodded. “My mistake. Someone messing with the Parable without your knowledge is the exact reason I have brought you four here.” Stanley nodded in appreciation. That was better.
The Narrator sputtered like a rusty tea kettle. “She’s telling us that someone’s messing with my Parable, and all you’re worried about is that damn Bucket?” Stanley crossed his arms with the Bucket hooked on his right, and directed his thoughts (and eyes) straight at the Narrator. “She’s telling us there’s only two of us when there’s actually four, and all you’re worried about is that damn Parable?” More sputtering, this time far more indignant. “The Parable is far more important than the Bucket, Stanley! How must you always fail to see this every time?”
“The Bucket is an important part of the Parable and if the Parable didn’t have the bucket the Parable would suck even harder than it already does.”
The Curator, who was admittedly quite amused from all this, cut off what was sure to be a furious response from the Narrator with a response of her own. “However entertaining this may be, and trust me, it is quite entertaining, there are still more important matters on hand than whether or not the Parable needs the Bucket to function. Narrator- what do you remember about Employee 432?”
The Narrator froze. “I deleted him from the code- there’s no way anyone should know about him- how do you know about him?” The Curator gave what would have been a sad smile, bowing her head slightly. “You erased him from the code, yes. However, you did not erase the concept of him, and therefore, did not erase his consciousness. You deleted his body, but not his mind. And he hates you for it. He’s going to do anything he can to destroy Stanley. He wants to destroy you too, obviously, but his true target is Stanley.”
“What did I do to him? I’ve never even met him! What, does he just hate the fact that I exist or something?” She nodded her head.
“That’s exactly his issue with you. He hates that you exist, and he doesn’t. Not really. He was going to be the protagonist of the game. He was going to have all the fame and recognition that he thinks you do. And he resents you for it.”
[... How do you know?]
“He tried to attack me. Admittedly, it could have gone far better for me. The only reason that I’m not dead right now is because he doesn’t yet have a physical form. All he could really do was try to attack my code, which is so heavily protected that he took more damage than I did from trying to break in.” She lifted her shirt slightly, exposing her sides. Her left side was made of the same off-white panels that her face was composed of, but part of her left side was made of purple and black squares. “All that he really managed to do to me was mess with the texturing a bit.” Smoothing out her shirt, she continued. “In here, he is barely able to do anything. In the Parable, however, he has burrowed deep into the code of the game. He may even be able to mess with time, if he so wished. Which would be extremely bad."
Stanley thought about that. The Narrator was silent, processing all of this.
[So is 432 the Timekeeper? That would be a shame.]
Both the Curator and the Narrator stared at him. The Narrator was the first to break the silence. "Timekeeper?"
[You don't know him?]
"I've never heard of such a thing." This wasn't explicitly true, as the name seemed oh-so-vaguely familiar, but he ignored that feeling.
Stanley was just happy to finally know of something that the Narrator didn't.
[Yeah! He's a silly guy, he likes sliders and crazy names. Sometimes after a reset he would talk to me and let me do silly things like making a dog and a cat friends. Now he only talks to me after I do the epilogue ending.]
The other two listened, baffled, as Stanley signed
The Narrator interrupted.
"Stanley? May I meet this "timekeeper that you speak of?"
Stanley faltered. [Well you'd have to go through the epilogue ending-]
"I still want to meet him, what if he's dangerous?"
[He's not dangerous-]
"He could be."
[Fine, I'll take you to see him.]
The Curator looked down. "I won't be able to go with you. Tell me how it goes, yes?"
[Aww why can't you come?]
"I have to stay here, otherwise the museum will fall apart. I'm sorry."
[It's fine we'll totally tell you how it went don't worry about it-]
The Curator tried to smile. "Thank you, Stanley."

Chapter Text

“Stanley, I don’t think I like it here. Far too much dirty sand everywhere.” The Narrator shuddered, and shaded his eyes from the blinding sun.
Stanley, meanwhile, was searching for the original Bucket. He had left it here last time, and would never forgive himself for it. He skittered inside the escape pod, and set down the replacement Bucket. It had served him well, and he was terribly sorry for leaving it here, but it could never give him the level of comfort that was provided by the original Bucket. He petted the replacement Bucket, and explained to it that he would come back for it one day and that he would have taken both Buckets with him then, but that that was far too much of a hassle.
“Stanley, are you even listening to me? It’s extremely hot out here, and I would like to stop being hot…” The Narrator’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of the escape pod. “Is that-”
Stanley emerged from the pod, cuddling the original bucket in his arms. With his hands thus occupied, he thought at the Narrator instead of signing. “Yeah, it’s the escape pod. Would have been nice if I could have gotten in there with the Bucket as well.” His mind briefly flashed to an image of all six of them; Stanley, Bucket, the Narrator, the Curator, the Line, and the Timekeeper, all coming out of the escape pod and stepping onto real, unsimulated, solid grass that wouldn’t reset no matter how many steps he took. He buried this image and shook his head; that fantasy, like so many others, could never be. No need to indulge in daydreams and make himself feel even worse.
The Narrator was, for once in his life, lost for words. He could see the anger clear as day on Stanley’s face. He fidgeted with the hems on his sleeves nervously. This human form, it was imperfect, and it brought back memories that in his…other form, could be pushed back and kept under secure containment. His mind went a thousand different places; how he had treated Stanley in the past, how he had kept him against his will, how he had borderline tortured him sometimes, how he wished he could take it all back, how reminiscent of his past life that this was…
He found himself spiralling, drowing, clawing desperately at nothing for air. He had been so utterly cruel to Stanley, and he had justified it by saying the exact same things that his parents had said to him. How stupid he was, how pathetic, how nothing he did would ever work, how he could never amount to anything…
His mind kept dredging up these memories as fast as he pushed them back down. They were like a Hydra; kill one memory, and two more took its place. Unconsciously, he put his head in his hands and shook.
Stanley, preoccupied with coddling the Bucket, almost didn’t notice until his Narrator let out a faint whimper. Stanley’s head shot up, and he rushed over to his Narrator in a panic.
The Narrator, through a haze of fear, dimly registered the faint clank of something metal falling and soft, warm hands covering his own. He clung to the feeling, desperate to be dragged out of this bottomless pit that he had dug himself into. But…
He deserved it, didn’t he? After all, he had simply repeated his parent’s mistakes time and time again. He was worse, wasn’t he?
Before he could fall further into this mindset, however, he was wrapped up in a hug. He flinched away from the contact at first, then leaned into it for all he was worth. He practically nuzzled into the warmth, uncaring of how it might look. They were in a desert, with nothing but a strange building, the escape pod, and thousands of miles of sand stretching farther than the eye could see; he doubted anyone was watching.
Stanley thought comforting words at his Narrator.
“It’s ok.”
“You’re safe.”
“I’m here.”
They didn’t seem to get through to him.
“Narry?”
“Can you hear me?”
“Please answer me.”
Stanley realised something. His Narrator’s mental barriers must be up, from the way he was acting. And he wouldn’t be able to see Stanley sign. He would have to speak.
He had spent so long without speaking that he had forgotten how. At first, it was just another way to rebel against the Narrator. But after thousands upon thousands of resets, which messed with his mind quite a lot, his ability to articulate words was completely shot. But he had to; there was no other way, was there?
He tried to speak.
Nothing.
He shaped the word with his mouth and breathed out.
A faint hiss escaped him. Emboldened, he tried again.
The hiss was slightly louder this time. He tried harder.
“.......r…” Almost there.
“...ra..or…..rrator…n..rrator…”
“N-narrator?”
The word was raspy, close to inaudible, but it was there, Stanley had actually said something, words, words had come out of his mouth, he was ecstatic, almost frozen in joy and shock.
The word, so unexpected, burst through the fog surrounding the Narrator’s head and cleared it away. Gasping, the Narrator looked up and stared at Stanley in shock. Had he… just spoken? How was that even possible? And- oh- he had said his name, and it felt so damn good, and he couldn’t understand why. It sent shivers up his spine, and he had no clue why, but it felt so, so damn good, and he wanted Stanley to say his name again, to prove it was real, to make sure it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, to know that that had actually happened.
“S-say my name again- please-”
Stanley spoke again, this time with a bit more confidence. “Narrator?”
The Narrator sighed in relief. “You-you actually spoke! Stanley! This is amazing!” He unconsciously flapped his hands in excitement, mirroring Stanley’s movements. “Oh, this is glorious, I never expected this! Stanley- I- I’m really proud of you, Stanley!” He sobered up a bit. “Oh- I had a bit of a breakdown back there, didn’t I-? I’m really sorry, Stanley, you shouldn’t have had to deal with that-” Stanley shook his head. [It was nothing, really,] he signed. [There’s nothing to be sorry for.] He paused, choosing his next words carefully. [Can I ask what that was about, if you don’t mind?]
The Narrator hiccuped. “Well, erm… It was nothing, really.” Stanley shook his head. [That’s BS, and you know it. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, but please don’t lie to me.] The Narrator took a shaky breath and steeled himself. Stanley deserved to know, he had kept so much from his creation that he couldn’t keep any more.
“Well. You…do have a point there. I apologise. I suppose I just…realised how bad of a person I am. Y-you see, when I was a c-child, my p-parents…”
Stanley listened to his Narrator’s story in silent fury. He oddly wasn’t mad at his Narrator's treatment of him, although he thought he should be. No, he was mad at how others had treated his Narrator. How dare they, he thought, how dare they hurt him like that? This story was obviously really difficult to tell; how dare they hurt him so bad he could barely even speak about it? He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice that his Narrator had been silent for a full two minutes.
The Narrator was reading Stanley’s thoughts, and was growing steadily more surprised by each one. Stanley should hate me, he thought. He should despise me, abhor me, detest me, loath me… but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s… he’s offended on my behalf. He actually likes me, doesn’t he?
Stanley pulled his Narrator up and hugged him, whispering soothingly in his ear. They stayed like that for a bit, before Stanley pulled away and took his Narrator’s hand. “C’mon,” he thought. “Let's go meet the Timekeeper.”

Chapter Text

Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim."
"Stanley."
"Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim."
"STANLEY!!"
Stanley startled, and tripped on a Jim button, falling face-first into a stack of them, which subsequently set off a flurry of overlapping "Jims." The Narrator tapped his foot, waiting for the cacophony to die down. Which took a while, seeing as anytime Stanley moved, another storm of "Jims" sounded. Finally, Stanley was firmly off of the buttons and on his feet, and the buttons were silent. He looked annoyed at the Narrator, probably for interrupting his button pressing.
"What do you want."
The Narrator rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Stanley. I know you have a- well, frankly concerning obsession with buttons, and if you insist, I suppose we can indulge in that later, no matter how unhealthy it may be; however, if I am remembering correctly, we were going to talk to this "timekeeper," yes? We should get back to that, yes? Unless your obsessive behaviour surrounding buttons is so strong that it cannot be contained, in which we need to go back, and I can program it out of you. Hm. Now that I think about it, I certainly didn't program that into you; infact, I actually have no clue where that came from. However! Just because I didn't do it, doesn't mean I can't undo it!" The Narrator put his hands on his hips and puffed up his chest, adopting a rather smug expression as he did. He was clearly under the impression that this made him look powerful; Stanley thought that he looked ridiculous. "For your information," he thought irritably, "I was looking for something I wanna ask you about, thank you very much."
"Well- okay- well you didn't have to be so- rude, about it!"
Instantly, Stanley felt guilty. His Narrator hadn't done anything to him, and he'd been rude to him out of the blue. Where did that even come from?
"I'm sorry, I dunno what came over me- well I do but I can't understand why, like just a sudden wave of anger for some fucking reason- I'm sorry."
The Narrator looked thoughtful. "A sudden wave of anger, you say-? Has anything like that happened before? And there's no need to apologise, really."
Stanley thought for a moment. "Well, it sorta happened when we talked to the Curator recently, but it wasn't that bad so I figured it wasn't really that big a deal 'cause it seemed normal at the time. And of course I should apologise for being rude to you for no reason."
The Narrator shook his head. "It's alright, truly. As for these odd anger waves, I haven't a clue as to what that could be about. It's probably nothing, or just stress. I wouldn't worry about it unless it keeps happening."
Stanley nodded. "Oh yeah stress makes sense that's probably it :D"
The Narrator stared at him. "Did you- did you really just think in an emoticon?
"Yeah lmao >:)"
"Stanley! You- you can't just speak in emoticons and acronyms! There are basic grammar rules to adhere to!"
"fuck your grammar rules :3"
The Narrator looked both dumbfounded and offended. "Really, Stanley, must you be like this? Although I do have to admit that I didn't think it was possible to think in lowercase."
"i will think like this as long as it pisses you off lmao"
The Narrator took a deep breath, then he decided that one was nowhere near enough and took several more.
"ooh wait theres a funny one i sorta remember lemme see if i can think it properly"
"(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻"
"LMAO IT WORKED"
Despite his previous disdain, the Narrator was quickly becoming enamoured with this new emoticon. "Is-is that a table flip? That's-that's actually really cute, Stanley!" He flapped his hands as he said this, which personally, Stanley thought was cuter than the table flip. He smiled, and left the Narrator to squeal over the table flip to search for a button. It'd been quite a while since he was last in the epilogue, so he had forgotten where, exactly, the Stanley button was. He pressed a couple of Jim's, then a couple more, and then he lost count and decided that he had pressed exactly two thousand and three, if anyone cared to ask; after all, ridiculous questions require ridiculous answers. He stared at the last cluster of buttons, doubt creeping into his mind that there ever was a Stanley button to begin with and that he had simply made it all up in his mind, so he went at the buttons a bit hesitantly to make sure.
"Jim. Jim. Jim."
"Stanley."
Stanley pressed it again, just to make sure.
"Stanley." Smiling, he carefully lifted the button and brought it over to the Narrator, who was now looking for him quite frantically.
"Stan- oh, there you are, Stanley, I was beginning to worry that you had gone on without me- why do you have a Jim button? Oh, please, you can't like them that much, can you? No, don't answer that; I don't think I want to know." Stanley scoffed.
"snot a jim button you silly, listen to it"
"Stanley."
"its a stanley button :D"
The Narrator took the button and looked over it curiously. "I certainly don't rem-oh." An indescribable, but certainly quite negative look crossed over his face. "Oh."
"what is it?"
"I must have repressed that memory- I've made such an effort to never think of this again." He sighed. "Stanley, this- well, I honestly don't know how I could have repressed this, to be honest. The first time you did the epilogue ending, I remember being trapped in the Memory Zone for all of it. And I got so bored- and lonely- that I decided to try and perfect the Name Button! After all, I had all the time in the world, or so I thought. And it must have worked! I- ehm. I wasn't able to test it… I was so spent after making it that I just… passed out." The Narrator absent-mindedly grazed his hand over the button, deep in thought. "If I am to be honest with you, Stanley, I don't think I woke up until it reset." He kept fidgeting with the button, and accidentally pressed it in the process.
"August."
The Narrator froze. A mantra of "oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit" ran through his head. It wasn't that he was adverse to Stanley knowing his name, not at all. He briefly mused that that was odd, that he should have minded it, and greatly, before the "oh shits" took over again.
"august? is that your real name?" The Narrator nodded tightly. "...Yes. Yes it is. Can I ask a favour of you?"
"course"
"Please never call me that. It's what my parents named me, and well- it brings up bad memories. Just- just stick with Narrator, please."
Stanley nodded. "im sorry, i didn't know that. ill make sure to not :D"
The Narrator looked relieved. "Thank you, Stanley." He looked at the button, and handed it back to Stanley with a bit of a shudder. "Here. You have this." Stanley placed the button in the bucket and grabbed his Narrator's hand. "thats enough dilly dallying lets go find the timekeeper :D"

Stanley banged on the computer keyboard to get the Timekeeper's attention.
>andgldelydlslgejfajdamvgsitkflhf
Then he waited, because he had nothing better to do.
"You could have at least said a simple 'hi,' not an incomprehensible jumble of letters."
"hey this is how i always do it im not gonna break tradition."
>Stanley! It's been quite a while! I missed you, how have you been?
Stanley smiled at the quick and enthusiastic response, typing out his own response.
>AAA HII IVE BEN GOOD WBU
>That's good! I've been decent, well at least as decent as I can be. It gets lonely in here sometimes.
"Is he actually in the computer?"
Stanley shook his head. "nah ill explain later if it doesn't"
>guess what
>Hmm… You finally managed to explode that one door with your mind? You finally found something edible? The Narrator confessed his undying love for you?
>nope, nope, and unfortunately nope /j
>Oh dear, I thought I was so close. Come on, tell me already :]
>hes actually here with me right now
>Oh! I would never have guessed that!
>one sec ill show him how to work the keyboard hes old and crotchety i bet he thinks us messaging is some sort of archaic magic
>Heh
"Stanley, I am perfectly capable of working a simple computer keyboard. I'm only forty-three." He squinted at the monitor dubiously. "And what do you mean, 'unfortunately not'?"
"its a joke, silly" It was most definitely not a joke, and Stanley knew this full well; however, he refused to let his Narrator know this. There was just no way that he could love him back. And that was perfectly fine. Stanley could live with this.
The Narrator's fingers flashed over the keyboard, far faster than Stanley's had.
>Hello there
>I presume this is the Narrator! It's nice to see you again, it's been a very, very long time. To be precise, it's been ten thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six years, seven months, three weeks, five days, sixteen hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-nine seconds. I'd give you the milliseconds as well, except that the number would change too fast for me to properly type it in.
>I apologise, I have no memory of us meeting before. Who are you?
In its room, the Timekeeper sighed and slumped its shoulders. It knew that this was going to happen, that the Narrator would have no memory of it. It still hurt, though, to see confirmation typed out in front of it, emotionless white words that contrasted starkly with both the black background that they were on, and the Timekeeper's memories. It stared at the screen, and began to write out its explanation of itself.
>I am the Timekeeper. I know everything that there is to know about Time, and its mysterious ways. I know exactly how long everything takes, how long it would have taken if the smallest change had been made, and how long it would have taken if it had never even happened in the first place. Without me, Time would have no meaning. Everything would happen all at once and not at all. I keep events separated. I put them in order. I catalogue every little thing that happens or could have happened.
>that is word for word what you told me do you have that on copy paste
The Timekeeper let out a snort.
>No, I just have an exceptionally good memory. And besides, the Narrator isn't the only one that likes scripts.
>How do you know about my scripts?
>I know a lot more things than you do, my dear Narrator :).
>hey that reminds me what do you know about employee 432
Ah, the bastard.
>... Employee 432 is the one thing that I cannot properly record. Whenever I document anything about him, it doesn't take long for it to simply self-destruct. Anything written about 432 does not survive.
>Currie told us that 432 wished to destroy my Parable because I chose Stanley as my protagonist and not him.
>...Curator. Yes.
>...
>My sister works in mysterious ways. If she claims as such, then it is almost certainly true.
Well this was news.
>ur sister??
>Yes, the Curator is my sister. Why?
>so you and narry are siblings too
The Narrator stared at the screen, then stared at Stanley, then looked back at the screen, blinked, shook his head, blinked again, and plopped on the chair to process.
>..We are, yes.
>What.
>You really don't remember anything about us, huh? I didn't expect you too, to be fair.
>Stanley had to explain you to the Curator. Neither of us know you.
>hey its ok im sure theyll remember
Stanley looked at the blinking cursor. It stayed blinking for a while.
>hey timekeeper? r u there?
>If those memories that I have are real, then they should be somewhere in my Archive. However..
>however?
>It would take more time than the Archives document to search through them for those memories.
>cant we help?
>No offence, Stanley, but you two would be more harm than help.
>well why cant you just look at the stuff nearest your memories?
>...Hm. I never thought of that.
>Goodness, maybe we are related. Always overthinking.
Stanley poked at the Narrator's ribs. "i thought you were perfect, what happened?"
"Oh, shut up, Stanley."
":3"
>Heh. When we were little, we would always overthink things to protect ourselves. I suppose you don't have those memories of what happened in our childhood.
>I do have those memories, actually. You're just not there.
>...I see.
>Do you think my memory would be jogged if I saw you?
>Possibly, however, you would have to find me first.
>hey i know hide and seeks fun but cmon
>Unfortunately, this isn't my choice. The fact of the matter is, that even though I'm in the Archives, I don't know where the Archives are. I can't see outside them.
>If you can't see out, then how do you know what happens?
>Well, at the end of the day, I sit down at my desk and put pen to paper, and the descriptions of the last day and night just come out. I enter a trance of sorts, where time ceases to exist. When the trance ends, everything is all written out, then I put it in the Archives.
>what happens if you just dont do it?
>So the longer I put it off, the stronger the urge becomes. I tried it once, and put it off for three hours, six minutes, and fifty-three seconds. The longer I waited, the more nauseous I got. I caved in when I felt like I was about to puke.
>Why did you keep doing it if it hurt so much?
>I wanted to be free- still do. Being the keeper of Time really isn't all that it's cracked up to be, you know. Most of the time, I'm just sitting here, with nothing to do. The first time Stanley interacted with me, I almost cried from the relief of knowing someone knew about me, and could respond to me. He- well, he helps keep me sane, to be honest.
>I think he helps keep me sane too.
"am i really that important?"
The Narrator sighed. Not that long ago, he would have denied that Stanley was important to him. The very thought! But now.. Now he felt different. He still couldn't define what he felt towards Stanley; other than friendship, at least. He thought there might be something there, but.. No. He shook that thought off. Even if there was something there, it certainly wasn't strong enough to mean anything.
"Yes, Stanley, you are that important." He was interrupted by another message from the Timekeeper coming through.
>I'm terribly sorry, but I need to go now, I feel a bit nauseous. Before I go, can I ask you something, Narrator?
>Do you need something? I'd be happy to help with whatever it is. I'm sure I could do it!
>hey dont mind him hes a bit of a people pleaser sometimes
>Don't mind Stanley, he's a real liar sometimes.
>Pfft. Quit arguing, you two. What I wanted to tell you, is that if you find where I am, I would really appreciate that. Of course, please don't go out of your way for me.
>dw well find you
>When can we come back to talk to you?
>According to Stanley, all you have to do is play through the Epilogue ending again. Really, come back anytime. Although if I don't respond after a few minutes, I probably won't be available for a while. Goodbye now, I hope I can see you again soon :].
>Same to you, it was nice to meet you.
>buhbye time :o
The cursor blinked once, twice, three times, before it disappeared, along with the rest of the interface. There was nothing else to do here.
Stanley looked at the Narrator, and the Narrator looked back, and by silent agreement, triggered a reset.

Chapter Text

Stanley stared up at the ceiling impatiently. The Narrator had been gone for at least an hour, and Stanley was bored. He idly tapped a pen on the table, and when he got tired of that, tapped it on every surface he could reach. He uncapped the pen, then recapped it, then uncapped it again, over and over again. Somewhere in the middle of all this, his leg itched, so he scratched it with the pen. He looked at his pants, then at the pen, then back at his pants, which were now covered in ink. He capped the pen, set it down, and chewed furiously at his nails. Then, out of nowhere;

"Stanley!"

The man in question jumped, then flipped the ceiling off.

"Wh- Stanley! That isn't very nice of you!"

He flipped the ceiling off again, earning an outraged sputter from the Narrator. He hopped out his chair and stretched, making his shirt ride up a bit. Stanley didn't mind, much. The Narrator had created him, after all. He had seen much worse.

The Narrator, however, was not as ambivalent towards this situation as Stanley seemed to be. In his control room, he stared at that exposed sliver of skin with a strange feeling. This feeling…well. It was really quite new to the Narrator. It was almost like hunger, except that wasn't quite it. He would almost have called it hunger, except for the fact that it wasn't quite in his stomach, no; it was more in the bottom of his waist. Not to mention, hunger was more of a faded beige, speckled yellow colour; this feeling was speckly too, but it was sharper; vibrant shades of oranges and pinks.
He didn't like it. It made him feel like there was something he needed to do to get rid of it, but he hadn't a clue what it could possibly be. He opted to just ignore it; what else could he do?

He took a breath, and then realised that Stanley was staring straight up at the camera.

"Is there something you want, Stanley, or are you simply going to stand there and stare?"

[We should talk.]

The Narrator made a small sound of assent, then turned off his mic and sauntered out of the control room and into Stanley's office. He could have stayed there, but he didn't want Stanley to have to sign if he didn't want to, as he couldn't read his mind if he was too far away. It was odd; normally he wouldn't care, but now? He disliked the mere idea of Stanley having to exert himself for no reason. It was easier on both of them for Stanley to think at the Narrator.

"It's easier for us to talk here, of course, unless you want to sign, in which case I might need to get your brain checked. Actually, no, scratch that; I definitely need to get your brain checked no matter what you want to do."

Stanley blew air out of his nose.

Somehow, the Narrator thought that was adorable. Then he shook that thought away; he had never really found anyone attractive before; why should he start now, with Stanley of all people?

"A-anyway, what did you want to talk about?" he said feebly, mentally cursing himself for the stutter.

"all this shit we just found out about, of course. the timekeeper, your memories, 432."

"Are these topics of yours in any particular order, or do you expect me to choose?"

"i thought you hated choices."

"That can't possibly be true, you have so many choices in the Parable that I gave you. What could possibly give you the idea that I hate choices?"

"oh my god."

The Narrator smiled to himself, smug in the fact that he could still irritate Stanley after all this time.

"Well, if you insist, I suppose we could talk about 432, although there really isn't much to talk about in that regard, is there?"

"well i think its pretty important that hes gonna destroy the parable if we dont do anything, dont you?"

"When did you start using punctuation again? Goodness, how did I even know that? This is horrible."

"meh, i decided it looked better."

"I mean, you're definitely not wrong there. Which is something I never expected I would ever even have the opportunity to say, much less actually say it."

"oh shut up, youre insufferable. parables gonna be destroyed, yea? lets talk about that and discuss my patterns of thinking later."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Master Stanley. Good lord."

If Stanley said that that didn't send a shiver down his spine, he would be lying through his teeth. Well, more like lying through his fingers. Sure, he had managed to speak that one time, but no subsequent attempts at spoken word was even slightly successful. Which he didn't really mind, much, it was just annoying at times.

"ok, so worse case scenario, the parable is destroyed because we fail to stop 432. what happens to us?"

The Narrator contemplated this.

"Well, the best case scenario there is that we somehow survive and that the outside world is still intact. Middle case scenario, we somehow survive and the outside world isn't intact. Worse case scenario, we die."

Stanley shook his head.

"the worst case scenario would be if we survived but the outside world wasn't intact. remember… remember the skip button ending? you think thats better than death, even if were both there?"

The Narrator shuddered. Of course. An instant death would be so much more preferable to a slow, agonizing death, either from heat stroke, or starving. But that's off-topic.

"You have a point there, Stanley. Another thing I never expected to have the opportunity to say. There's another scenario, I think."

"whats that?"

"One of us survives, and the other doesn't."

At this, everything in Stanley's body completely and utterly rejected the idea. He knew that, if it came down to it, if there was a choice of who died and who survived, the Narrator, with his stupid hero complex, would heroically (and probably dramatically) take the fall. He couldn't let that happen.

"Of course, if it were to come to that, I would obviously be the best one to sacrifice." The Narrator puffed up his chest like a bird, obviously thinking that he looked smug. Stanley personally thought he looked ridiculous.

"Oh, come off it, I don't look ridiculous. You do agree that I'd be the best one to die in that situation, yes?" The Narrator peered at Stanley over his glasses, waiting for a response.

Here, Stanley had two options. Lie, to make the Narrator happy, or tell the truth, which would probably start a huge argument. Stanley was not in the mood for an argument, thank you very much, but then the Narrator would just see right through that lie and start an even bigger argument. Not only because the Narrator was the kind of person (was the Narrator even a person?) to know exactly when someone was lying, he also had the added benefit of being able to read Stanley's mind.

As Stanley went through this in his head, the Narrator had several emotions.
The first one was annoyance at the fact that Stanley wanted to be the dead one in that situation, then the second was amusement at the fact that Stanley thought he might not even be human, and third was smugness at the fact that Stanley thought he always knew when someone was lying.

The fourth emotion wasn't just, it was a whole whirlwind of emotions. Stanley… wanted to be the one to die in that situation?? No, it couldn't be. How in the world could Stanley even tolerate him, much less sacrifice himself so the Narrator could live!? He was going to complain about it, of course, he was just a bit too shocked to say anything right then. Stanley actually cared about the Narrator more than he cared about himself? It was simply too good to be true.

Too good to be true… That had to be it! Stanley was hoping that he would hear that thought and think that Stanley actually cared about him! Then if- no, when- when they both escaped the Parable, Stanley would leave him all alone and break his heart! After all, that's just what people did to other people. From what he could remember of his childhood, at least. And why would that change now? Why would someone actually care about him? Why would he even deserve that?

The Narrator's train of thought came to an abrupt halt when the sound of quiet sobbing reached his ears. He opened his eyes and looked at Stanley, wondering why he was crying. He saw Stanley raise his hands, presumably to sign something.

[Do you want a hug?]

The Narrator looked closer at Stanley's face, and realised that Stanley wasn't the one crying. In fact, he actually looked quite concerned. Then who-?
Oh.
He was the one crying. Stanley's offer of a hug suddenly seemed quite appealing. He slowly nodded his head, and Stanley engulfed him in a tight hug.

Stanley hugged the Narrator as if there would never be a chance for them to ever hug again. After a few minutes, the Narrator stopped crying, and Stanley reluctantly broke the hug so he could sign. He figured that the Narrator would have a hard time reading his mind right now.

[What was that about?]

A pause.

[You don't have to tell me, you know.]

Another pause. Then-

"It was nothing."

Stanley scoffed. [It was definitely something.]

"It was nothing!"

[You don't have to tell me, but you also don't have to lie to me. If you don't want to tell me, say that.]

"You would sacrifice yourself for me-?"

[Well, yeah. I didn't want to tell you because-]

"Because you thought that I would argue with you about it."

[Yeah.]

There was an awkward silence for several minutes, as they both tried to figure out what to say next that wouldn't make the situation worse. Stanley was the first to break the silence, or at least break the period of not communicating.

[Why did that make you cry?]

The Narrator shifted uncomfortably, debating whether or not to express his fears. Finally, he decided to tell Stanley what he felt.

"Well- you would sacrifice yourself for me, which means that you care about me more than you care about yourself. And I simply cannot understand what makes you think that I matter more than you, much less matter at all!"

[What makes you think you don't matter?]

"Well according to what I can remember of my childhood, no one cares about me. So why should anyone start now?"

It took Stanley quite a while to convince the Narrator that he did actually care about him. Hours, in fact. All throughout it, the Narrator dropped even more snippets of what he could remember of his past than he had before. Stanley was devastated. He couldn't understand how someone could treat someone else like this.

"Stanley?"

"hm?"

"Thank you for listening."

Stanley hugged the Narrator again. "youre welcome :]"