Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This is the story of a man named Stanley….

Reset X; Ending: B̷̹̅e̶͚̒ǵ̵͍̀XX T̶̨̜̭̅͗̔XX XXm̵̖̺͚͒é̶͙͊̓

All of his coworkers were gone. What could it mean?

Hello? Where am I? Am I in an office? What is this?

…

Why won’t you answer me? Can you hear me? Please help me. I don’t know where I am…

When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left.

Stop talking . Just tell me where I am! I don’t… I don’t understand what’s happening. Who are you?

Feeling a wave of disbelief, Stanley decided to go up to his boss’s office, hoping he might find an answer there.

What’s going on?! Where am I? If I keep following your lines, will you tell me where I am, please?

Stepping into his manager’s office, Stanley was once again stunned to discover not an indication of any human life.

This is starting to freak me out. Who the hell are you?! What… what’s happening? Why can’t I remember anything?

Why can’t I remember?

…

  Reset XX; Ending: XXXXX XXXXXX

It was baffling that Stanley was still just sitting in the broom closet. He wasn't even doing anything, At least if there were something to interact with, he'd be justified in some way.

Fuck you, I’m just tired. Tired of your voice and you never answering me, never telling me what’s happening, I still don’t know what’s happening, I can’t die, the blackness whenever I “reset” is terrifying, I just want to be left alone in here.

Are you... are you really still in the broom closet? Standing around doing nothing? Why?

…Are you talking to me? Can you really hear me? Please if you answer me, I’ll do anything. I’ll do the ending where I’m free, even if I’m not.

Please offer me some explanation here; I'm- I'm genuinely confused.

No, I… I just did. I’m fucking tired. So I’m just resting. Can you… can you talk to me, like, outside your script or whatever?

…But it didn't even occur to me because literally this closet is of absolutely no significance to the story whatsoever. I never would've thought to mention it.

I SAID, I was resting here, asshole. Can you give me a break from your stupid story for a moment? Are you just choosing to ignore me?

-Oh! Did you get the broom closet ending?! The broom closet ending was MY favorite! ...I hope your friends find this concerning.

Why do you say it like that? What did I do wrong? The hell is your problem?

Stanley was fat and ugly and really, really stupid. He probably only got the job because of a family connection; that's how stupid he is.

…Oh.

That, or with drug money. Also, Stanley is addicted to drugs and hookers.

W- what? I don’t even know what to say to that?! Why are you so insistent on being mean to me just trying to take a break? I’m doing nothing wrong, nothing bad to you.

I hate you! I fucking hate you! What is your problem with me?

…

Reset XXX; Ending: XXXXXXXX

‘Maybe,’ he thought to himself, ‘maybe I am crazy.’

I’m not crazy. I don’t know a lot of things but I know for sure I am not crazy. But why do I still feel panicked then? Why do I still feel unsure?! I’m not unsure. Right?

None of it made any logical sense. And as Stanley pondered this he began to make other strange observations.

No no it didn’t– doesn’t, but I’m not panicking, why do I feel that way– what is going on with me?

For example, why couldn't he see his feet when he looked down? Why did doors close automatically behind him wherever he went?

Fuck! You’re just making me panic, I know. You’re closing the doors, right? And my feet… I can see my feet just fine!

'No,' Stanley said to himself, 'this is all too strange, this can't be real,' and at last he came to the conclusion that had been on the tip of his tongue, he just hadn't found the words for it.

‘I'm dreaming!’ He yelled, ‘This is all a dream!’

God, I wish this was a dream.

And then perhaps the strangest question of them all entered Stanley's head, one he was amazed he hadn't asked himself sooner:

Why is there a voice in my head, dictating everything that I'm doing and thinking?

I have asked that! You just ignore me! I’m certain you CAN hear me, but you won’t say anything, still!

…

Reset XXX; Ending XXXXXXXXX

I’ve done the other ending so many times. Here goes nothing.

Oh Stanley, you didn’t just press the ‘ON’ button, did you?

Yeah? What about it, what’re you gonna do, after all this time?

After they kept you enslaved all these years you go and you try to take control of the machine for yourself, is that what you wanted? Control?

Oh… Stanley. I applaud your effort, I really do, but you need to understand; there's only so much that machine can do.

Where is this going?

You were supposed to let it go, turn the controls off, and leave.

If you want to throw my story off track, you're going to have to do much better than that. I'm afraid you don't have nearly the power you think you do; for example, and I believe you'll find this pertinent:

Stanley suddenly realized that he had just initiated the network's emergency detonation system. In the event that this machine is activated without proper DNA identification, nuclear detonators are set to explode, eliminating the entire complex.

…

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

Shit, shit, shit.

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

What, no! No, no just stop this. You don’t have to do this.

What's that? You'd like to know where your co-workers are? A moment of solace before you're obliterated?

Alright. I'm in a good mood, and you're going to die anyway. I'll tell you exactly what happened to them: I erased them. I turned off the machine; I set you free.

W- what? What do you mean?

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!

Of course this is all amusing to you, you sick bastard! Please, just let me go!

Oh, dear me, what's the matter, Stanley? Is it that you have no idea where you are going or what you're supposed to be doing right now?

I mean, look at you, running from button to button, screen to screen, clicking on everything in this room! These numbered buttons! These coloured ones! Or maybe this big button! Or this door! Something here will save me!

God oh god, oh god, please fucking stop this, please, I’m sorry, I- I’m sorry I insulted you–

But here's a spoiler for you: that timer isn't a catalyst to keep the action moving along. It's just seconds ticking away to your death.

You're only still playing instead of watching a cutscene because I want to watch you for every moment that you're powerless, to see you made humble.

Why?! I’ve been running around this place for god knows how long, god knows how many times I’ve died. I am humbled! I didn’t have any bad intent towards you, please, shit, I’m sorry; just turn it off! This is terrifying, you know!

Thirty seconds until a big boom, and then nothing. No ending here, just you being blown to pieces.

Will you cling desperately to your frail life, or will you let it go peacefully?

I’m sorry… please, just stop this… why the hell do you hate me so much? You evil narcissistic piece of–

…

Reset XXXX; Ending: XXXXXXX

Oh, thank god, you are willing to listen to me. Do you realize that I really have wanted you to be happy all this time?

Yeah, right. “Happy,” when I’ve been stuck here for years, or however fucking long it’s been. I hate you.

“For god’s sake, Stanley. You chose to do this ending, so just don’t fight it, you imbecile.”

I still can’t tell whether I’m happy or not that you’ve finally decided to not ignore me anymore.

“I promise you now that if I hadn’t started conversing with you off script you would be driven insane. And we can’t have that at all, can we? It would completely ruin the story!”

…The story. Yeah.

Here! Yes! Oh, it's beautiful, isn't it? If we just stay here, right in this moment, with this place... Stanley, I think I feel... happy. I actually feel happy.

Good for you, man.

No, wait... where are you going?

To kill myself. Again.

Oh, no! Stay away from those stairs! If you hurt yourself, if you die, the game will reset! We'll lose all of this!

I’m not empathizing with you. You’re cruel, and I hate you. I KNOW you’re trying to manipulate me. You don’t actually care.

Please, no, Stanley, let me stay here! Don't take this from me!

…And I hate that I feel guilty anyways.

---------

Stanley blinks awake, disorientated, and looks up. It takes him a few seconds of dizziness to regain his vision, and realize that the place he’s sitting at is definitely not his desk. But he knows the Narrator would never actually redesign his space to give the worker a change. He’s much too lazy for that, isn’t he?

Slowly, Stanley comes back to himself. There’s a screen in front of him… but not his screen. This computer monitor looks much newer than those in the office building. And there’s something being displayed on it. There’s a person, just sitting at a desk, staring at a computer with green text… and, wait, is that Stanley’s desk the new man is sitting at?

Stanley stares for a moment, not really taking in the details, moreso zoning out, then tears his eyes away from the monitor and looks around the room first. It’s quite spacious, he’d say a little bit bigger than the broom closet, and the walls are painted pale yellow with an accent forest green.

Three, quite larger than what he’s used to, computer monitors sit side-by-side in front of him on the mahogany wooden desk curved against the right wall, with the third monitor on the right having a wireless keyboard and mouse sitting in front of it. The far left screen displays interchanging scenes of what Stanley recognizes to be the office building he knows inside and out of, and the one on the right is completely black, a void of nothingness.

He turns to the right of the desk, where four rows and five columns of buttons and switches sit on a metal plate of some sorts, raised slightly at the end. Each is labeled with a small description at the bottom of it. He spots a few while looking over it that seem familiar. They’re presumably controls of some sorts, Stanley realizes. He then gets the compelling urge– as he so often does when faced with numerous buttons, just waiting to be pressed– to slap his hand down on each of them and depress them, but forces the instinct away. Something tells him these buttons are not ones to be pressed erratically or carelessly. The switches are in the top row of the panel, while the middle (labeled ‘Music’ ) is turned horizontal to fit neatly in the plate.

The largest, silver button in the middle of the bottom row, about the size of a sticky note and slightly bigger than the others, is labeled: ‘Reset.’ Above it is a smaller one, labeled: ‘Force Reset’, and to the right of ‘Reset’ is ‘Wake Up’.

Stanley thinks he knows where he is.

He takes another sweep of the room, perhaps a little more frantically now; warm light floods in from a lamp in addition to the main invisible light source illuminating the room, on another small, crowded desk in the far corner containing more papers too, and there’s a white door on the left side of the office. Stanley raises a curious eyebrow at that, skeptical and slightly grinning. A new pathway to explore, something he hasn’t seen or heard of before? Hell fucking yeah .

For another time, though; Stanley needs to find out exactly what is going on. He tears his eyes away from it and looks around further.

The back wall, the worker notes, is littered with sticky notes and pinned papers of various writings over a giant map, he thinks, with some things looking like they were quickly jotted down, and some with longer notes and lists. He turns his head back to the right side of his desk, where a rather thick, innocent-looking booklet sits. The words The Stanley Parable in fancy lettering are written on the cover, and under that, a smaller word: SCRIPT. It looks worn, like the pages have been turned regularly, and it’s placed deliberately on the desk, like a prized possession.

Of course. He stares at the thing, at that harmless pack of papers. Those pages that contain the lines to the Narrator’s story and the paths and this hell. Abhorrence for the vile thing rises in his chest the longer he stares at it. He fucking hates it, wants to throw it, wants to burn it and tear it into a million pieces.

Stanley stares at it for a few more seconds, before clenching his fists and turning back to look at the monitors, specifically the middle one, the one slightly larger than the other two.

He focuses on the new man sitting in his seat. There’s only one unsplit screen displaying the man, and yet Stanley can see the back of him, as well as his face in almost every angle, and his whole body all simultaneously, like looking at him from different viewpoints of a camera despite there only being one. He can’t describe it exactly, but he can still see, or at least physically perceive, everything perfectly in every angle of him. It’s… strange. But weirdly, he doesn’t mind it.

The employee leans in slightly, studying the frozen person in his seat. His back is perfectly straight, like a metal rod. His palms and forearms are flat on his desk right in front of him, and his eyes are glazed over, unblinking and staring perpetually into the black computer with green text in front of him. It’s… eerie, almost comparable to a corpse. Is this really what Stanley looks like in between resets? It unsettles him.

Next, he studies the features of the person more closely. Fluffy gray hair, with a streak of white cutting across the front. It’s neatly kept, but still soft-looking, and Stanley gets the sudden impulse to card his hand through it. He has deep yellow eyes with green swirls in his irises, and violet-rimmed rectangular glasses. Interestingly enough, his pupils are vertical, quite akin to that of a cat. His outfit is identical to Stanley’s own employee outfit, as well.

Hm.

If he wasn’t starting to realize just who that man most likely was, Stanley would think he was rather attractive.

Oh, god no.

Mind, do not betray him. This is the Narrator, at least he’s pretty sure. Y’know, the evil guy. The guy who’s been torturing him in here all this time? He is not attractive, or cute. You can shut up now.

…So he is human after all. At least, he appears that way, and it seems it’s been that way, looking around the office Stanley occupies currently.

He’s got to say though: It is a jarring sight– almost surreal– to see the Narrator in such a position, in such a form. Even if in a negative light, Stanley always really viewed him as some omnipotent, omnipresent entity that only abused his power over Stanley. The latter may be correct but… Stanley never would have thought of him as human. Just like him.

I don’t want to be like the Narrator, though. He’s a bad fucking person; selfish, arrogant, abusive… the list goes on. I kind of wish he wasn’t human, just so there couldn’t be any comparison between us .

He sighs, and decides he’d rather not think about that anymore. 

Instead, Stanley looks down at his own outfit, and startles slightly at the sight. He’s wearing a suit; it’s lemon yellow with a black polka-dotted tie and white collared shirt underneath. 

…Huh. Not the fashion choice I would’ve gone for. No way the Narrator has been wearing this the entire time, either. God.

It’s… interesting, to say the least.

Then Stanley just… doesn’t move, for a bit. He doesn’t know what to do. The reality of his situation is starting to sink in, at least a little bit; he is in the Narrator’s office , he must be, and he has no idea what is going on. How did this happen? Did… someone– or something– swap them? Did the game swap them? Is this meant to happen?

Nearly a full minute passes where Stanley is frozen, numerous thoughts and questions swirling around his head like a cyclone, and only then does he realize his breathing has started to become shakier, his hands trembling just the slightest bit. He balls his fists tightly and looks over at the buttons and switches.

Next to the ‘Reset’ button, there’s a slightly smaller, nearly golden colored button beside it, labeled ‘ Wake up.’

Stanley stares at it for a moment, and turns his head back to stare at the Narrator through the monitor, then back to the button. He reaches his hand out and presses it tentatively.

Immediately Stanley whips his head back around, and he’s glad he did, because the man had jumped to his feet the moment he awoke. His eyes are widened; he seems to be realizing what’s going on way before Stanley did.

Stanley nearly jumps in surprise again, as suddenly a… screen, just appears, out of nowhere? It’s purple, translucent, and literally just hovering in the air slightly below Stanley’s eye-level above the buttons and switches. It’s– it’s not even a monitor, it’s just… flat, a two dimensional, blank screen. Words appear on it soon after in darker purple text, various words of panic:

Oh god, what in the bloody hell is going on? This is… this is Stanley’s office–

As soon as the sentence appears, the Narrator freezes, and his eyes flit around the office nervously, words and sentences still being formed and sprinting across the screen at a pace Stanley has no hope to cohesively read. The door is closed; Stanley assumes he has to open that himself, so the man can’t really do anything but stand there.

Another screen appears, an exact copy of the purple one in size, but it’s connected to the top of the purple screen, and yellow. More words appear on them, this time in golden:

Stanley? Stanley–

Words appear on the purple half:

Oh, what am I doing?

The man opens his mouth to speak, next. Something forms with his lips– but no sound comes out. The Narrator looks nearly downright terrified at this.

On the bottom, purple half of the strange screen: I can’t speak? Why– why can’t I speak? Oh goodness, there must’ve been some breach in the code, something’s gone wrong I–

“Hello?”

This time, they both freeze. Stanley was honestly no more expecting than the Narrator to have the noise come out of his mouth. He sees the Narrator open and close his mouth several times, as the purple half of the screen in front of him seems to be reading his thoughts . But those thoughts are clearly not directed at Stanley.

He gets the urge to reach out and touch it, so he does. And his hand passes straight through the screen. Stanley withdraws his arm slowly, amazed.

But then words appear on the top of the screen, the yellow half: Stanley? Is– is that you?

“I… have a voice.” Stanley says mostly to himself, slightly in a daze. He shakes his head, coming back to himself, and the Narrator doesn’t look any less worried. The words on the purple half are racing but Stanley doesn’t really care for them right now.

“Wait, so… I can talk, you can’t, and… I’m in your office, I’m pretty certain about that, and you're at my desk, in the Parable, in place of me. So, does that mean… I’m the Narrator now? And you’re my ‘Stanley’?”

Golden text appears, with the Narrator looking rather panicked by this epiphany: W– well, look. This has to be a misunderstanding of some sorts, right? Or an error, possibly a bug! If you can just set the code back right, or fix whatever happened to result in us swapping roles, I’m sure we can just go back to the way things were, with me controlling the story and you being my Protagonist, yes?

Purple text is appearing again, but Stanley doesn’t read it. He’s beginning to realize what is happening with that, as several other realizations are crashing into him as well. It’s starting to become overwhelming, but Stanley takes a deep breath to help calm himself down.

One thing at a time. That’s how you took things in the office– just one step at a time. Then go from there.

He decides to address the purple screen first. 

“There are words appearing on the bottom half of this… screen thing. What is it?” He asks hesitantly.

Whatever do you mean, Stanley? I’m sure you most certainly would have figured it out by now.

Stanley exhales through his nose in exasperation. “Yes, obviously I have. They’re your thoughts, but different from the ones you seem to be directing to me , on the top half. Why do you have that?” He’s getting more and more pissed by the second, and if Stanley is right on the implications, that means the Narrator has been spying on his private thoughts– the thoughts decidedly not meant for him to see– the entire time. And he was never bothered to tell his Protagonist this?

More words fly across the purple half, but Stanely resolutely doesn’t look at them. Though he catches a few words– insults– within the text. Even after everything, it still hurts to hear them– or in this case, see.

Eventually, the yellow half starts producing words again:

Listen, Stanley… my office comes with it, alright? I’m meant to be able to read your thoughts. I’m the Narrator, for goodness’ sake, how else am I meant to communicate with you? It’s part of the story! Don’t blame this all on me again, even though I am aware you have a rather large tendency when you yourself are ignorant.

Even thinking this, the Narrator still looks slightly nervous. It’s a look Stanley feels is probably quite foreign on him, even if the previous worker had never seen the man before. It just makes him angrier.

“You have no empathy at all, do you, you fucking narcissist?!” Stanley shouts, and the Narrator flinches slightly in response to the sudden volume.

Stanley’s face relaxes at that, and he leans back in his rolly chair, sighing. He’s starting to realize something else as well; the more his anger is building in his chest, the more he feels a sort of pressure inside of him, like something is weighing on him.

He can’t explain it, or why, but he knows then that if he builds up too much anger, the office will start to collapse. It’s like the information had been fixed into Stanley’s mind without him knowing, which scares him a little bit.

He’s not going to apologize to the Narrator, but he won’t yell at him again. He absolutely hates that he feels guilty for shouting at the man; it’s not a lot, but the feeling is still there, and he loathes it.

Stanley shouldn’t feel guilty for this shitty person. The Narrator has yelled at him many times more, and the other could do nothing about it. Stanley hated yelling. The Narrator knew that, after enough cycles, but he continued to do it, not caring one bit.

He takes another deep breath, doing his best to control his rage, and says through gritted teeth, “So, this entire time , you’ve been invading my privacy, the one bit of privacy that I thought I possessed, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me this? I don’t want you to answer me–”

The yellow text that had started to appear vanished in an instant.

“–I want you to tell me how to get rid of this thing. Obviously, just the purple half of this screen. As much as I hate you, I don’t want to pry on your personal thoughts. I’m not like you,” He says that last sentence a bit more emphatically.

Rather than looking even the slightest bit guilty at Stanley’s words, the Narrator just looks relieved. Stanley feels like every time he just looks at the man, his blood nearly boils, and rage and hurt threaten to spill over. He does his best to ignore it, but it isn’t as easy as it seems.

Gold text: Alright then. You’ll have to use the computer to the right of the one you are looking at now. That one is the computer that I use to input and fix quick codes for something that may have gone wrong, or otherwise. And… Well, I suppose you’ll figure out its other purpose later on, given that you are in my office. I’ll give you instructions on how to delete the code displaying my thoughts to you. You’ll need to turn it on, first.

He spots the power button on the bottom left hand corner of the monitor and turns it on, and coding fills the black screen after a second of waiting. Immediately he’s overwhelmed, but follows the Narrator’s instructions on how to traverse it.

It takes several minutes for Stanley to figure out how to vaguely navigate all of it; there’s a lot of code, and he definitely does not know anything about programming. 

Finally, after about ten minutes of learning and navigating, Stanley declares his lessons sufficient (simply because it’s giving him a slight headache) and finds the programming for the purple half of the screen reading the Narrator’s thoughts. He hovers his cursor over the middle of it as the man tells him to.

“Are you sure you’re not fucking with me? Like, this isn’t going to delete or change anything important that could affect me?” Stanley asks suspiciously.

The Narrator rolls his eyes though the monitor, and is back to sitting in the uncomfortable chair of 427’s office, his legs crossed. Then again, Stanley hasn’t exactly opened the door to give him an opportunity to leave.

No, Stanley. It is purely the coding for the Thoughts Screen, as I like to call it. The purple half, as you have requested. If you just highlight that specific part that mentions the bottom section of it, delete it, and the screen will disappear.

“...Nothing mentions a “bottom section.” It’s all just… you know. Code. I have no idea how to read this thing,” Stanley replies annoyedly, which is quite valid, in his humble opinion.

He looks back at the middle monitor, to which the new employee is pinching the bridge of his nose and looking rather annoyed.

God, it’s like you are trying to be dense. It will most likely say something about thoughts, or… I don’t know, Stanley. I can read it just fine by myself, but I don’t know it by heart. Surely you can figure it out by yourself?

Stanley balls his fists tightly. He’s not being dense, or stupid. It’s not his fucking fault if he doesn’t know how to read this stupid complicated-looking code for something he hardly understands. Fuck. You, Narrator.

He elects not to reply. He doesn’t even know if the older man is doing this on purpose, to try and aggravate him or not, or maybe he’s simply too used to insulting the office worker, it’s integrated into his common speech. Stanley sighs.

“Yeah, I’ll figure it out,” Stanley mutters instead. The Narrator looks more satisfied with this.

He takes a minute to study the page of code intently, wanting more and more by the second to delete the stupid purple screen displaying the Narrator’s every vulnerable thought to him. He thinks he has the right bits highlighted after a few minutes of assessment, and after a moment of hesitation, furrows his brows and hits backspace.

Immediately the purple half of the “Thoughts Screen” disappears out of existence, as well as the sentences forming and fading out on it. All that’s left is the yellow half, the top part of the screen, which is blank at the moment. He sighs in relief.

After pressing the key, Stanley also feels a kind of shift inside him. It’s a miniscule thing, barely noticeable, but still worth regard; like the tiniest piece broke off his chest. He stills.

Is Stanley… a part of the game now?

Instantly he shakes his head to be rid of the thought. He does not want to think about that right now. He’s still slightly overwhelmed with this whole situation, still getting used to hearing his own voice come out of his mouth, and still getting used to this god awful yellow suit he apparently has to wear now. Seriously, did he really wear this thing? He doesn’t want to think about how a part of him might be connected to the Parable now.

“Did you really just wear this suit all the time? It’s rather… Well, honestly it’s pretty ugly.” He blurts out, unable to help himself; it is ugly.

The other man furrows his brows in confusion. 

What suit? Are you wearing my suit? I had a small variety of them to change out of, Stanley, which one are you talking about?

“The yellow one,” He deadpans. The Narrator nods.

Ah. Yes, I was wearing that one last. I hadn’t been for a while however, I had just tried it out not too long ago, and I thought it looked alright on me. You don’t like it?

“Fuck no. I look like a banana.”

The Narrator’s face twists in annoyance.

Well, frankly Stanley, I don’t exactly care for your opinion regarding my fashion sense. To be quite frank, I thought your shirt was ugly the entire time, but I didn’t make any remarks about your clothing, did I? I think you could use some work on your manners, oh, and also, your use of profanity as well. Perhaps try to dial it down a bit. I guarantee that would benefit the both of us.

“Bitch. Cock face,” Stanley spits out ragefully. The Narrator gives him an unimpressed look.

For goodness sake… Your insults need work, and besides, that is not even clever. And please, will you stop acting like a child in my game?

“Oh for– just shut up. Just shut up . I’m tired of hearing your voice,” He replies angrily.

You can’t even hear me, you fool.

“I said, shut up!” Stanley shouts again, and the man simply stares into the air and raises his eyebrows, barely even reacting this time. Bastard.

Careful now, Stanley…

The worker takes a deep breath again and closes his eyes, feeling the weight in his chest like hands pressing down on him. He’s sure that if he doesn’t calm down soon the office will start to collapse. And even with how much he hates the building, he’d rather not have a pile of rubble by his hand.

He just needs to stop letting the Narrator get to him. He’s dealt with him for so long, he can control his rage. It’s a minute or two before he talks again, and the other man thinks nothing to him for that period. 

Stanley silently looks around the room again, and his eyes settle on the door to the left again, a few meters away. Not for now , he reminds himself. Later. I’ll go through there later. Right now, however…

He clears his throat. The Narrator raises one eyebrow in acknowledgement, so Stanley assumes he’s listening.

“Okay, so. With this entire thing happening, I don’t really know what I should be doing exactly. But I know one thing– right now you’re my Protagonist, and I’m your Narrator.”

He turns and looks at the buttons in the bottom row of the assortment, and turns to the switches when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. One switch is labeled ‘Next door o/c,’ right next to ‘Previous door o/c.’ He flicks the ‘next door’ one. Sure enough, the door to office 427 swings right open, and the Narrator looks towards it curiously. He doesn’t get up.

“If I’m your Narrator, I should probably be narrating something, right? So, let’s go then. Time for you to explore the Parable from my end.”

Chapter Text

“Come on, please, just get up and out of this office!” Stanley pleads with the Narrator once again, as he has over and over for the past several hours– maybe even days– and the stubborn prick still refuses to budge.

I’m not moving, Stanley.

Stanley reads these same words for what seems like the millionth time, and groans loudly in frustration.

“What is it going to take for you to get up, you stubborn asshole?” He growls.

The Narrator raises his eyebrows, as if a parent who couldn’t believe his child was talking back to him, still sitting infuriatingly leaned-back in his seat, facing the wall and filing cabinets in the corner.

Oh, come now, Stanley, don’t talk like that. Especially to me; you know, these rude remarks will get you nowhere. And… I know you’re much too nice to actually attempt to physically force me to move. You don’t want to hurt me now, do you?

Even though I’ve treated you terribly in the past, you still refuse to inflict harm upon me. Now, I still can’t decide whether this reason is because you’re a coward, or you are simply a good person. And if it’s the latter, well, I certainly can’t relate.

Stanley stares, almost dumbfounded, at the latest text while the Narrator is looking amused. The words start to disappear after a few seconds, and he still says nothing.

The sheer audacity this man has to go admitting his abuse and still acting like he’s the one in power when currently he’s in the mercy of Stanley, is insane to him. He guesses it just goes to show how heartless the Narrator is– and how egotistical, too. What’s even worse is that Stanley doesn’t even know if he’s wrong.

He doesn’t understand why he even really wants the Narrator to get up and walk out of that office so badly in the first place. The more Stanley sits here, pleading for the man to actually do something other than sit in that godawful work chair , the more frustrated he gets, and there are other things he could be doing right now anyways. Like reading the notes plastered on the opposite wall, for example, or reviewing the buttons and switches to his right.

Or going through the rather large door to the left, which he’s definitely not forgotten about.

But he doesn’t do any of that; he’s still sitting here, trying in vain for the man through the screen to follow his instructions, and he doesn’t know why. Stanley would genuinely much rather be doing anything else right now.

Actually, he knows why.

He wants the Narrator to take him seriously.

Maybe it was a naive thought; perhaps it’ll never come true and Stanley was foolish to hope for such a demand, but he just wants some respect , damn it. He deserves it. The Narrator had been putting him through what was essentially hell, while also having no empathy whatsoever for his employee throughout all the verbal abuse and condescension. 

Or, if Stanley chose to go down a path that the Narrator was actually friendly to him that time, he knew it wasn’t genuine, or directed to him at least; if the script called for it, the Narrator wouldn’t let it down.

But he knows it was all for the game , not for Stanley. He’s been here long enough to understand that.

Stanley was confused in the Parable, and the Narrator never explained. He was desperate and tired, and the Narrator continued to follow the script. He was terrified and the Narrator never comforted him, and he was angry, however the Narrator never provided solace.

He just wants the man to listen to Stanley for once. Actually listen to him. Is that really too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Nothing to say, Stanley? The yellow text reads after a minute of silence.

“You’re right,” Stanley speaks up eventually, “I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t know why, since you have done nothing but to me. 

Maybe I’m a good person, maybe I am a coward, but is it really so bad if I don’t want someone in pain by my hand?” He sighs irritably. “At least I don’t have to hear you anymore. So, I’m just going to wait here. I’ll wait, and I won’t bug you, until you eventually get bored and walk outside. Even if it takes weeks, or months, or whatever. I’ve got time.”

The Narrator narrows his eyes in suspicion.

I don’t trust you with my story, Stanley. I know you won’t tell it correctly, and I know you won’t want to tell it correctly. How can I be sure you will follow my script?

Again, with the story . It’s always about the fucking story. Stanley wishes he could chuck the script into the nearest fire and watch it burn.

“I am not reading off your script,” He says bitingly. “We’re done with your story for now. I’m the Narrator now. This is my story.”

There’s a pause, and the Narrator looks at him– more off at nothing, really– with distaste.

What, then, Stanley, is your story about? Your story must have a plot, no? It has to contain emotion, drive, destination. Among other elements. Do you have all that in mind, something that is not related to my own works?

Stanley grits his teeth. “No,” He forces out. The man huffs.

There is no point to this game if there is no story, and thus, there’s no point in me aimlessly stumbling about the office just for you to ramble and rave about nothing in particular. I’m not going anywhere until you’ve figured out a story of your own, or you use mine.

Stanley turns toward the script booklet. He stares at it with distaste, then slowly reaches out to pick it up, holding it like it’s diseased.

“I’ve got the script, then. I… I don’t want to use this. I hate your stupid ‘story.’ I’ve hated it since the beginning of this whole game.”

If you really want to insult my work like that, then I’m not moving. Make your decision, Stanley. Do you really want to sit here forever? I’ll be more than eager to oblige.

There really is no winning with this man, is there?

Stanley thinks he might tear his hair out if he keeps trying to argue with him. Silence elapses for another few minutes, and the Narrator doesn’t think anything else to him.

“...Okay. I’m ready to start whenever you are.”

Oh, really?

Stanley sighs. “Yeah. I’ve got your script in hand.”

Hmm, I think I might just stay here for a little longer. To really, take in all the details of this office, you know, it is often imperative to have a deep understanding of what your environment is like before you go exploring in it. I’m rather tired, anyways, and I think a small rest is quite sufficient.

Oh my fucking god. The Narrator really knew how to push his buttons, didn’t he?

Rather than lash out and yell again, Stanley just squeezes his eyes shut, presses his fingers tightly to his ears, and takes a couple deep breaths, his head bowed slightly. In… out. In, out. It’s something he did in the Parable to help him calm down when he was feeling overwhelmed or panicky. The Narrator was always impatient with this; not one drop of understanding from the man about how constantly dying over and over might distress him. It’s a nice refresher not to have to hear that nagging voice anymore, pressuring him to continue on with his story and agitating him more when he was just trying to help himself not have a fucking panic attack. The Narrator hated it when that happened, too.

The Narrator wants a reaction out of Stanley now. It would humor him. Do not humor him.

He opens his eyes after a few moments, lowering his hands. “Okay,” He says simply, making sure to convey no emotion in his voice. Whether the Narrator is surprised or not by the lack of anger from his ex-protagonist, he doesn’t reveal it. He just nods, looking satisfied, and goes back to staring off at nothing.

Stanley sighs once more, and pulls his legs up to his chest in the armchair, folding his arms over his knees and resting his head on them, all while keeping his eyes trained on the Narrator, who now appears to be in deep thought.

He can’t help but wonder as he stares at that stupidly, pretty man, what the hell does he gain from this? Is he sitting around idly, waiting for nothing just to spite me? I don’t understand. I’m so tired of not understanding, but this I truly don’t.

Thoughts and curiosities about the door to his left inhabit the back of his mind, but he’s determined to stay here and watch the Narrator, even if it is boring as hell, and even if his anger rises for every moment he stares at him. He doesn’t want the possibility of the man deciding to do something and Stanley missing it. The Narrator can’t stay in that chair forever, right? Technically, there’s nothing that would be able to force him to leave, but… surely he must get bored at some point.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter. Stanley will wait for the Narrator to move, however long it takes. He’s been forced to be patient for him all this time, he can be patient now.

—

The Narrator has experienced more emotions in the past half hour in this employee office and chair than he can ever recall in recent memory. Quite a bit more than he’s comfortable with, might he add.

Anger, impatience, contempt, that’s nothing new, but it’s the first time since the skip button– which was over a hundred resets ago– that the man can ever recall being scared. A tad more than nervous, for what Stanley could and might do to him.

He’d realized that was a silly thing to worry about quite quickly, however, as what can that poor boy do to him? He is the Narrator, the closest thing to God in the Parable as he can be with the Timekeeper coexisting.

And yet, the Narrator had never felt powerless before as he does now. He despises it.

It’s helplessness in every sense of the word. The only reason he had realized so quickly his situation the moment he awoke, was because of how he felt physically. It was– is– like a piece of him missing, or rather multiple, really. Like he had lost a limb; a limb that was critical to the nature of his very existence.

Right now, sitting in this tiny office chair, he feels small, terribly small , wrong, and, to put it simply, gross. He doesn’t know how Stanley managed it, so confined to human limits and vulnerabilities.

Hell, he can’t control simple things in his vicinity, or make anything appear around the office with just a thought anymore! He tried, of course he’d tried, almost as soon as he woke up, but nothing came of it– he can’t even summon his own cup of tea at will anymore! It’s truly preposterous. He supposes that power is transferred to Stanley, and that angers him to no extent.

Stanley doesn’t deserve to be in his place– why would he? That man has been nothing but a nuisance and an ignorant, pathetic dog blindly following or disobeying his orders since the beginning of this game, without a single bit of understanding of what this is all for; he has absolutely no right to take the Narrator’s power from him. He’ll bet Stanley doesn’t even know half of the abilities he possesses now! How unworthy that man is of his place, and he seized ownership of it all!

Now, the Narrator considers himself to be quite above those pesky human emotions like fear and guilt, however one of those feelings he does have some slight experience with. And right now, to have that knowledge that someone is watching his every single move, has the power to do virtually anything to him inside his own game, the power that he once possessed himself–

The Narrator is not used to being out of control; the only time he ever had was during the painful skip button era, when his controls froze over and his door would not open, but other than that, he’s always had nearly complete sovereignty over, well, everything . Except Stanley, of course, and that had always bothered him.

Being out of control– actually, truly , out of control, in his own story no less, very nearly terrifies him. He would never admit that to Stanley of course, or even himself, really. He is beyond relieved that the man has chosen to delete the purple section of the Thoughts Screen, but that still doesn’t make his situation any less dire.

He needs to figure out how exactly they came to be this way. How in the world could they have ever been swapped positions? It was a circumstance so unfathomable to him previously, the idea had never once crossed his mind in all the time he’d been alive, and if it had, he surely would have thought it impossible.

If he could possibly figure out how this ended up happening, perhaps he could fix it, or manipulate Stanley into fixing the code without his knowledge. Maybe it was a bug, or a virus… had the coding been reversed?

…Was it the Timekeeper that did this?

But– no. It couldn’t have been; the Timekeeper is forbidden from interfering with the actual gameplay and set rules of the Parable, beyond fixing minor possible errors in the programming. There’s no chance they would have been able to reverse their roles, right?

The Narrator feels a surge of anger rise in his chest. He leans forward in his seat, quite aware that Stanley is most likely watching him intently.

If what he’s considering is truly the reason for how the pair ended up where they are, how dare they mess with the rules of his meticulously constructed, nearly perfect game? What would be the reason? The Narrator certainly doesn’t deserve this, and Stanley certainly does not have the entitlement to his place in the slightest. Why would the Timekeeper even give that pathetic, impudent little man such an important role in place of him? It doesn’t make any sense.

The Narrator is downright furious now. This must be a mistake– this entire mix-up must all be an error on the code’s part, he’s decided. He needs to do something about this, quite quickly if he’s to make this right again. He should order Stanley to fix it; the man has always been afraid of him, even if he covers it up with anger and stupidity. He knows with the right threats he’ll be able to coerce Stanley to fix this all for him.

“...Narrator?” The Narrator looks up, pulled out of his thoughts, feeling another rush of indignation as that stupid, naive man’s voice grabs his attention, words coming from everywhere and nowhere, from right in his office where the Narrator is supposed to reside right now.

What is it, Stanley?

“I uh… I was just wondering, you know. Are you ready to leave soon?” Annoyance creeps into Stanley’s tone, and the Narrator off the urge to roll his eyes. He resists thinking, ‘I actually think I’ll stay here for a bit longer,’ just because of that remark. But instead, he projects:

Yes, I suppose so.

God, he hates not having a voice. Hates it with every fiber of his being. His voice is practically half of what makes him who he is! It is his whole purpose! And now he has to think things to Stanley, something he considered himself superior to not too long ago.

Nonetheless, now is probably a good time to get going. If he wants to be able to pressure Stanley in the future to fix whatever bug in the code made them trade roles, he should gain his trust first. Play along.

So he stands up, grumbling as his joints protest the sudden movement, and takes a step towards the door.

He sighs. I’m really playing as Stanley, huh? This is pathetic.

Here goes nothing, then. He walks out of the office and immediately blinks against the harsh lighting casted down by the ceiling lights. It’s pretty obnoxious. It’s what Stanley deserves.

He notices immediately  that his present-narrator has not spoken since he walked out of the office.

Ahem, Stanley? He projects annoyedly, still looking around the office and desks, not used to witnessing the building from a first person perspective.

“Oh… right.” Stanley clears his throat, and the Narrator starts walking. “All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean?”

He nearly winces. Stanley says it with a sour voice, not delivering the line properly at all. His tone is all wrong, his pitch, his timing. The Narrator fights off the urge to berate him for it. He knows he must look irritated though, because Stanley grumbles, before continuing on begrudgingly.

“He decided he should go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo."

That’s it. The Narrator could maybe excuse a poor delivery, but spoken plain incorrectly? He stops, standing right in front of the doorway to the next office room.

Stanley.

“What?” He shoots back bitingly.

You know very well that wording is inaccurate. Go back and try again, and please do it correctly this time. You need to say ‘Stanley decided to go to the meeting room,’ not whatever you’re blubbering about.”

“B- But your name isn’t Stanley! That’s my name, not yours. I shouldn’t follow the script if it’s incorrect. Plus, I didn’t even change it too much. Wouldn’t you want a little change on this whole thing anyway?”

Say it. Correctly, Stanley.

“Fuck! Fine, I hate you,” There’s a pause and the sound of heavy breathing momentarily, and the Narrator rolls his eyes.

The feeling is mutual.

He waits patiently for the man to continue, but he doesn’t.

The Narrator tries to clear his throat to get Stanley’s attention after a few moments of silence, to no avail as his throat produces no sound. His annoyance only escalates with this.

Stanleyyyy?

“Are you not looking ahead?” Comes Stanley’s irritated– and possibly nervous– voice. The Narrator raises an eyebrow and looks into the office room before him.

And there on the podium, resting on a red cushion, is Stanley’s bucket. In its usual place, there’s nothing abnormal about it, and yet Stanley sucks in his breath audibly.

“You’re- you’re not gonna touch my bucket, right?” He asks hesitantly. The Narrator starts walking again, advancing into the room and stopping a few feet in front of the bucket.

He considers telling Stanley yes and picking it up, just to anger or agitate him, but it’s not really worth it, he decides after a moment. He gives an annoyed look to his ex-employee.

No, Stanley, why would I ever pick up your bucket? It won’t have any effect on me. I have no interest in carrying an empty piece of metal with me around the office.

“…Wait but, what about the apartment ending with the bucket? You get obsessed with it as much as I do at the end of it, don’t you?” Stanley asks confusedly.

It’s called acting, dear boy, The Narrator projects dryly.

“O- oh. Wait so, that whole time, during that ending, you didn’t even care about my bucket? You were just trying to wrench it out of my hands with some invisible force for nothing?” The Narrator scoffs soundlessly.

Oh, don’t be unreasonable, Stanley. Whatever the story calls for, I deliver.

“I’m just a fucking puppet to you, then!” Stanley challenges harshly. The Narrator crosses his arms.

If you really want to put it that way, then, I suppose that term would be correct, yes. You are the Protagonist of this story; I don’t make the rules of the Parable. As I have stated previously before, I simply play to my intended purpose, and you yours. Whether or not you get the fair end of the bargain is… up for debate. But either way, I certainly can’t have you screwing it all up with your nettlesome human emotions, that might impede if I actually decide to tell you things.

There’s silence for a moment or two, and the Narrator hears a tiny unidentifiable noise– is that a sob? How pathetic.

Then Stanley speaks again, his voice shaking slightly.

“Get out. Get the hell out of this room, and just continue on to whatever fucking path you’re going to go down. Get away from my bucket.”

Alright, alright.

The Narrator chuckles silently. The quietness dampens his humor slightly, but he’s still amused. It’s always enjoyable seeing– or in this case hearing– Stanley get all worked up like that. He wonders if the man is crying by that noise he heard earlier. Pesky human emotions. Always so dramatic. The Narrator is glad they’re not something he experiences often.

He passes the bucket, looks around the room and through the windows curiously, and enters the corridor leading to the two doors room. He passes through there relatively quickly, as it’s nothing too exciting, and approaches the room with the two doors.

“When… Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left,” Stanley’s voice pipes up again, now completely even, though he hesitates before saying his own name.

The Narrator looks between the two doorways. He needs to figure out which one would be best to go through right now.

This is his first run as the Protagonist in his own game, so he should make this ending count, shouldn’t he? Going through one of the doors automatically sets you in place for whatever path you’re going down. Of course, he could always detour through the maintenance section to get back on track if he went through the right, but whatever was the point in that? He never really understood the few times when Stanley went through the right door and just ended up acquiring an ending from the left. It was completely unnecessary.

The door to the right leads to the employee lounge, but the Narrator detests that room quite a bit from how many hours or even days at a time Stanley would just sit in there, doing absolutely nothing, whether to piss him off or some other reason he never knew. However, it does lead to quite a few more endings than the door to the left does. How about he lists off the endings from each door?

Let’s see… from the left door, he has: the Freedom Ending, his intended ending, and the one he prefers above all else; the Countdown Ending, which proves to be just as entertaining each time when Stanley activates it, which was hardly ever; the Elevator Ending, which isn’t so bad, but slightly annoying, even if he has to keep of the facade of intrigued and falsely-curious; Insanity Ending, which was fairly entertaining as well, and reading Stanley’s thoughts on the purple half of the Thoughts Screen was usually the best part of it; and the Museum Ending, which he never hears all of, simply because once he gets cut off he cannot hear what the Curator is saying to Stanley.

And of course, Stanley can access the Memory Zone through the executive bathroom now, which eventually leads to…

He cuts off that train of thought before it can go any further.

So, all fairly good endings through the left door. The Narrator turns to the door on the right.

There’s… quite a few endings he would rather not think about from then on. Such as, the Not-Stanley Ending. That one is complicated for him. It really does make him feel heartbroken and despair against his will as Stanley is frozen to the spot, unable to move even if he wanted to. Nothing forces him to say the lines, of course, but he always feels an unexplainable sadness whenever he reads them off, like a switch is flipped within him. It annoys him to no end, but luckily, Stanley didn’t go down that ending very often. There is the Apartment Ending, Zending… and, wow, through this door lies a lot of the rather more emotional endings, doesn’t it? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

Perhaps going through the left door would be sufficient. But what if it’s best to go through the right door, after all, isn’t being the Protagonist of this game about exploring the building? Out of all the endings, he should choose the one he likes the most, and the one Stanley will be most compliant with. That way, he gets the most experience out of his first run of the building as the Protagonist.

However, his story is set to have the Freedom Ending be its intended path. If he doesn’t choose that one first, can he really tell himself he played this game correctly the first time?

It’s settled then; he’ll go through the Freedom Ending. It’s his preferred ending, anyway, as it’s the one he constructed this whole Parable around, what he wrote his story for in the first place. He loves it when Stanley actually decides to listen to him all the way through, so it feels quite correct to go down that way himself.

The Narrator enters the left door.

“Took you long enough…” Stanley grumbles impatiently. The Narrator scowls in response, but continues walking forward to the staircase leading up to the boss’s office.

“Guess I should’ve expected you’d take a while to choose, given how you are with the doors in the Confusion Ending,” He says, and the Narrator stops walking. His scowl drops.

What do you mean?

“...What? What do you mean?” Stanley counters, confusion evident. “With the two doors in the Confusion Ending, you know, the ending with the Adventure Line™️? Where we get lost?”

The Narrator hesitates. That name, Confusion Ending, it does ring some bells, but he can’t quite place where in the Parable it is. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember a single instance where Stanley has gone down an ending labeled Confusion before. There’s nothing titled like that in his script, either. He can remember the Adventure Line™️, of course, that wacky little line that leads them to the Bucket Destroyer, but nothing about It™️ being in a ‘Confusion Ending.’

He tries not to appear panicked to Stanley as he projects his thoughts:

I know the Confusion Ending exists, and the Adventure Line™️ too , yes, but I don’t believe I can quite recall what happens in it, or really what it is… Where does the Line™️ lead us on that path? Another Bucket Destroyer, perhaps?

…I’m getting the feeling that it is not quite that.

“No… definitely not. So, you really do lose your memories of it every time I play it through? It’s not just acting?” The Narrator exhales in annoyance.

I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Stanley. Obviously I don’t know if I don’t bloody remember it. But from what you are telling me right now, I suppose you’re probably correct. He pauses, suddenly feeling quite worried about the fact that there could be other endings he doesn’t remember, or are completely unaware of. He hesitates.

Are there any other endings I am not aware of, Stanley?

“No,” Stanley answers, rather quickly. The Narrator narrows his eyes in suspicion.

Are you lying to me? You better not be keeping anything from me, Stanley.

“I’m not lying,” Stanley says, irritated. “Let’s just get going, okay? Please?”

He sighs. Very well.

He’ll drop the matter for now; not forever, of course, but eventually he’ll find the ending for himself, or make Stanley tell him what it is. He’s sure he can figure out some ways to force Stanley to listen to him from the other side of things.

But until then, he’ll continue down his desired path to Freedom , still set on gaining Stanley’s trust by complying– for the most part anyway– with him. The Narrator enters the meeting room in a few moments and looks around, slowing down his pace for Stanley to state his line.

“Anddd there wasn’t a single person in the meeting room either, which was very surprising indeed, and Stanley felt a wave of completely disbelief wash over him at the realization that he is really alone! But, surely there would be an answer in his boss’s office, maybe all of his coworkers or his managers just inconveniently gathered there without Stanley’s knowledge, they must have an explanation for all of this! That seemed totally logical. So he decided to check up there.”

The Narrator scowls, not amused.

Seriously, Stanley? You’re not being clever, you know.

“Hmmm, I wonder why ‘Stanley’ isn’t moving. I thought he wanted to check up on his boss’s office? Alas, maybe not. Maybe he’s just already accepted the fact that he will be completely alone forever and nothing will ever same him from this impending isolation.”

You are not being funny, either. You’ve managed to completely screw up the story now, how incompetent can you be?

“‘Stanley’ seemed to be trying to talk to someone, and the Narrator had no idea who he could possibly be directing his thoughts to. He wonders who this ‘incompetent’ person might be. Perhaps ‘Stanley’ himself?”

Okay, that’s it. Stanley does not get to insult him like that without some consequences.

I am not fooling around, you insolent dog. Continue with the story, correctly, Stanley, or I am taking your bucket and smashing it on the ground next reset. I’ll be sure it is destroyed, or at the very least dented. You don’t want that, I presume.

“I- I was just joking–” Stanley cuts himself off and takes an audible breath. “Fine. Yet there was not a single person here either. Feeling a wave of disbelief, Stanley decided to go up to his boss’s office, hoping he might find an answer there.”

His voice is perhaps a little shakier and higher than what the Narrator would prefer, but he decides it’s sufficient. He walks out of the meeting room, satisfied, and approaches the staircase.

“Coming to a staircase, Stanley walked upstairs to his boss’s office.”

The Narrator is even more satisfied when Stanley doesn’t even waver telling the correct line this time, even if his tone makes it clear he doesn’t want to. Perhaps threatening his bucket was the right move to make the man more compliant. He smiles triumphantly, having found an adequate threat to force Stanley into obedience, and walks up the staircase with renewed enthusiasm.

—

Stanley watches the Narrator go up the staircase with burning resentment. He loathes the man with everything in him. He can’t say he’s surprised, even, that he would go so low as to threaten to destroy his bucket, one of the only consistent things that make him happy in this dreary place, just so that he would say the correct lines in the script. Even near-powerless, the Narrator still knows how to twist Stanley into compliance.

And as he watches the Narrator climb those stairs with that smug, infuriating smile, his scowl melts off his face, and he sits back in his chair, a sinking feeling in his gut.

Is Stanley really this weak? That even in the state and the position that he’s in, that Stanley is in, the Narrator can still make him bow down to his level, can still make the ex-worker do what he wants with just a simple threat?

What if… what if the real problem here is Stanley, and not the Narrator? If he’s too frail to even stand up to himself against this man, who’s to say he’s actually cut out for this role as The Narrator ? Maybe he does deserve to merely be the Protagonist, running around the office building while the voice everywhere and nowhere and inside his head directs him and berates him and insults him for being human…

…

No. What is he thinking? He doesn’t deserve to have to put up with all the shit the Narrator forces him through! He’s had enough of it, and it isn’t his fault if he doesn’t want his one prized possession to be harmed by the hands of a horrible person like him! He… he’s just…

Stanley puts his head in his hands and sighs. He wishes the Narrator could just be a decent person for once. But of course, he’s hoped that before and it hasn’t come true, so he knows it won’t this time.

Stanley looks up confusedly at the weird feeling that just went through his head, like someone had poked the inside of his skull. He turns his head to see a word on the Thoughts Screen.

Stanley.

Stanley clenches his fists, and realizes the Narrator has gotten to the entrance of the boss’s office, and is now awaiting his line. He relaxes.

“Right, right.” Without needing to look at the script, he recites: “Stepping into his manager's office, ‘Stanley’ was once again stunned to discover not an indication of any human life.” He rolls his eyes; that bit always annoyed him. He looks back at the buttons and switches, and rests his hand on the ‘ Next door o/c’ switch. He decides then that he’d actually rather not say the entire short speech assigned to this section, or any of the alternates (which are all equally irritating to listen to), so he just settles with the short version.

“Hmm. I think we know the drill by now. Blah blah blah, dark secrets, the keypad, Stanley pushes some buttons, oh hey look, it's a new passageway. Quelle surprise,” He recites by memory again, mustering up as much mockery and sarcasm into it as he can, and flicks the switch. The Narrator scowls, and Stanley interrupts before he has the chance to reprimand him.

“Ah, you can’t say I did it wrong, technically, that is one of your lines,” He points out. The man just looks grumpy at this, and if it were any other situation, Stanley might’ve laughed. “Go ahead, then. Didn’t you want to finish the story?”

The Narrator reluctantly heads through the passageway and into the elevator. He presses the up button, and Stanley can see him visibly tense in preparation for the loading screen. It makes him slightly worried about what might happen on his end now.

They wait a few seconds, and nothing actually happens to him. 

What is different, is the screen displaying the Narrator, and the left monitor both going black with the infamous THE END IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER THE END and ‘ LOADING’ lining the bottom, just like how his vision cuts to when he was the Protagonist.

And, after a few seconds, the Narrator and the office come back into view on the monitors, and the Narrator looks slightly relieved, as if he had expected the loading screen to be painful or something. Stanley takes the time to be grateful that it isn’t.

And so, they continue down the path of Freedom, Stanley reciting the lines of the Mind Control Facility– actually having to look at the script for some of them, which he hates– and for the most part there’s no problem. The Narrator goes through the ending with no hesitation on his part, and Stanley sticks to his role fairly well, even if he abhors reading all of this. He personally thinks he could be a pretty good commentator if the Narrator didn’t want him to be reading off of this stupid script word for word.

And so, when they reach the two ‘ON’ and ‘OFF’ buttons, the Narrator presses the left one.

Stanley even reads off, for the most part, the speech at the end correctly as the overly-large facility door starts to open, stupidly slow. Bitterness creeps into his voice for much of the duration, but he doesn’t care, and it doesn’t seem to bother the Narrator too much either.

The door opens fully after several seconds of waiting, and the Narrator steps out into the open, entering a cut-scene for the first time. He watches as the Narrator’s eyes glaze over, and he takes robotic steps outside. He knows the man can still think internally, and is probably anticipating the feeling of actual wind that will never come.

“Stanley felt the cool breeze on his skin– ” Lies.  "–feeling of liberation, possibility for the new path ahead of him. This is exactly the way, right now, that things were meant to happen. ” Stanley takes a shaky breath.

“And Stanley was happy.”

That couldn’t be any farther from the truth. He sighs, reaching over to the buttons. Stanley hesitates, before firmly pressing ‘Reset.’

And his vision, along with the monitors, fades to black.

Chapter Text

Stanley’s eyes shoot open; he’s collapsed in his chair, he realizes, and panic sparks alongside confusion. Is– is he still-?!

He jolts up before he can finish the thought and looks around, eyes flitting around the room frantically. He’s greeted with pale, yellow walls and an accent green, plastered papers and sticky notes on the opposite wall, a white door to his left, and a smaller desk with papers and a lamp…

He sighs, a heavy feeling of relief washing over him. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he was back in his own office at the first reset, and all of this was just a ploy or planned out, a way for the Narrator to test his resolve and obedience, and he never actually had any power in the first place. If Stanley had finally been given an ounce of control for the first time in god knows how long, and it was taken from him after not even a day –

He relaxes back into his rolly chair and spins back and forth a few times, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.

He’s okay. He’s still in the Narrator’s office; he still has control, he’s not back in his office. He’s not going to die once again, and he won’t hear that arrogant voice taunting him for actually believing it was real. Stanley is fine.

He turns himself slowly back to face the desk to see the monitors in front of him that are now on, thankfully not blank– except the one to his right of course.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches something silver.

Stanley swivels over to the right of his desk, and right there, next to the wall, lies his bucket, in all its sticker-y glory, cushioned on its respective column stand like it had been there forever.

Stanley smiles widely and throws his hands in the air triumphantly. He remembers then that he can speak.

“Hello, my wonderful bucket,” He laughs, and his smile fades. He frowns, confusion blooming again, “How’d you get here though? Was–”

“Oh, there you go, talking to your bucket again, Stanley. It can’t actually hear you, you know, it isn’t living–”

Stanley shakes his head quickly to get that nagging, Narrator’s voice out. Get out. Of my fucking head. I don’t want you there.

He furrows his brows and reaches out his hand to pick it up.

He runs his hand over the stickers, and the metal is cold to the touch. He grabs it with both hands and holds it to his chest. Stanley smiles, sighing contentedly as the familiar reassurance and wave of calm wash over him with the bucket in his arms. He stays there, holding it like that for several seconds as he allows the tranquility to take over.

After maybe half a minute, with the bucket still in his lap, he turns back to the left monitor and stares as it flashes from room to room in the building, each scene displayed on the screen for several seconds. Stanley stares at it for a few minutes, though it never cuts to the second office room, the one where the bucket originally sits after every reset. He gets bored relatively quickly, and looks back down at his bucket, having decided he doesn’t want to spend half an hour observing rooms of the building. He’ll see plenty of it after he wakes the Narrator again.

Speaking of the Narrator… Stanley looks back up, and observes the man through the center monitor for a few seconds as he sits rigidly straight, his eyes glazed over and staring at the screen with his palms flat on his desk.

He remembers what the Narrator said about the Confusion Ending, how he doesn’t recall a single thing about it, yet still knew it existed somewhere in the back of his mind. It evaded his head during the Narrator’s run in the building, as Stanley was a bit preoccupied then– but now he’s entirely free to ponder.

Stanley picks up the script that was dropped carelessly in front of the monitor– making sure to place his bucket carefully back onto its podium first– and flips through it one by one.

There are little tab flaps sticking out slightly to the right side to section off endings, but when he turns the booklet sideways and squints to read the annoyingly tiny labels, he doesn’t see a single one labeled ‘ Confusion’ or ‘Confusion Ending,’ which is… strange. Just to be sure, he flips through the pages individually (quickly skipping a few rather painful bits of dialogue he comes across) and there really is nothing about the Confusion Ending mentioned anywhere in the booklet. He sets it down slowly, and stares at the screen displaying the Narrator, without really looking at him.

If there really is nothing in the script about the Confusion Ending; no set lines– that are written down at least– and nothing to guide for it, on top of the Narrator not even knowing what it contains… how does he manage to say the exact same things without fail when he plays it, as if there were a script? It doesn’t make sense. Unless he was lying about remembering it, of course. But Stanley could see his face, of course, and the man looked genuinely confused, even teetering on the edge of panic. No way he would’ve looked like that if he was lying, right?

Stanley previously figured that getting along with him was all acting on the Narrator’s part, but if it’s true that he really did lose his memories of it every time, and still recites the exact same dialogue each and every time, with the exact same delivery, then what did that mean? How was that possible?

Could he ask the Narrator? But, no– that was kind of dumb. If the Narrator couldn’t even remember any of his dialogue, there’s no way he would know the reason as to why he can’t recall, but still manage to recite them perfectly.

But… isn’t the Narrator pretty much the God of the Parable, in the first place? Didn’t he construct this whole video game himself? How could he not have an answer to a question regarding his own creation?

Too many questions were spinning in Stanley’s mind; he was starting to become overwhelmed. He puts his elbows on the table and rests his forehead in his palms, breathing out deeply and clutching part of his bangs.

This is all confusing; maybe he’s just overthinking it. Perhaps the Narrator is simply just lying to him, and he really does remember the Confusion Ending, but was just fibbing to off-put Stanley. That seems like something the man would do. Though, if that were the case, it still doesn’t explain why this particular ending, out of all the other endings, isn’t in the script.

He groans in frustration and turns his head– while still in his hands– to look at his bucket. “You know what, I’m tired…” He lifts his head and stretches his arms. “I’m glad you’re here to keep me company.” He smiles softly and turns back to the monitor. Without looking, he sighs and reaches over to the buttons to press ‘Wake up.’ (Distantly, he wonders what would happen if he pressed ‘Reset’ again. Most likely nothing, he figures, maybe the loading screen appearing again or the monitors cutting to black for a moment while resetting back to this exact scene.)

The Narrator blinks awake once again– and immediately looks grumpy as hell, with his slitted eyes dilated slightly in his anger. Stanley stifles another laugh at his expression as he turns to the wall.

Hello again, Stanley.

The Narrator does not look pleased at the fact that he still has to think things to Stanley. Welcome to my world.

It feels really good to have the Narrator have to experience what Stanley has for the years he's been in the Parable. The art of being humbled. He smiles to himself.

“So, still playing as me, huh?” He conveys a tone of casualness to the Narrator, and the Narrator still doesn’t look amused.

“Tough crowd, I guess.”

You seem to be much more confident this go around. Has all of your new power gone to your head already, Stanley?

Stanley hums thoughtfully. “Hmm, maybe. Not as much as you though, of course, when you were Narrator. I… haven’t had a voice since I can remember being alive; I have never heard myself talk until recently, and I’m going to have fun with it. Not that you would ever be able to understand, as being a voice was literally all you were… so I thought anyway.” He pauses, thinking. “I’ve gotta say now, you being human… really not what I was expecting. I just thought you were a disembodied voice with a huge metaphorical head. And now the only difference is it’s not metaphorical, is it?” He leans forward now, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

The Narrator stands up out of his chair, eyes slitted even more now.

You are insufferable, Stanley, almost as much as you are unamusing. Remember this: you will remain obedient to me, or I promise you I will crush your bucket with no hesitation in the slightest. So please, don’t get any ideas that you think are intelligent, because I can assure you they are not. I still retain the largest control here, and that fact is objective. Besides, I am far from being human as you are, and I will not stand to be compared to your numerous rudimentary dilemmas and customs that come with being a part of your abominable species.

Reading those words on the yellow screen fills him with insurmountable disgust and rage. How dare the Narrator be so utterly patronizing and dehumanizing to him now? How egomaniacal and arrogant was the man to be acting like this while he knows nothing? Next to nothing, anyways.

The Narrator walks out of the office before he can get his rage in check enough to be able to speak without yelling or breaking his voice.

Dialogue? He projects expectantly, standing a few feet from the doorway.

Stanley tightens his jaw. “...You’re not getting anything from me now. Maybe if you would ask politely I would have, but why would I comply when you’re being an absolute dick to me like you are right now?”

The Narrator drags his hand down his face. Seriously… you can’t really be this stupid, Stanley. I have the bucket held over you, remember? You don’t want that destroyed, right?! So cooperate.

“No,” Stanley says simply. He doesn’t bother explaining; he’ll just let the Narrator find out for himself that Stanley has his bucket now.

Why do you insist on being such a pain in the ass, Stanley? I won’t say it again. Cooperate fully, and for every minute you don’t I will put another dent in your beloved bucket.

Now Stanley reaches over to grab his bucket. He holds it close to his chest protectively. He can feel tears threaten to well up, but forces them down. He won’t give the Narrator the satisfaction of hearing him cry.

“You can stay here as long as you want, but I’m not saying the lines until you ask me politely. That’s your weakness, isn’t it? You can do whatever you want in this fucking game; toy with me, control virtually everything, but god forbid you go and be genuinely polite to me without acting for an ending that calls for it.”

The Narrator scoffs. Like hell I would go and be kind to you, Stanley, what good things have ever done for me? It would be quite pathetic on my part to go and be treating you like some sort of equal.

Stanley slams his palm on the desk. “Alright, alright, you know what? Fuck you. I have my bucket. It is right here in my lap now, you can’t do anything with it. Go into the office room and check. Go on, I assure you I’m not lying. It won’t be there, and since it’s apparently so hard for you to treat me right, I’m not going along with the story.”

How on earth could the bucket be with you now? That’s far too much of a coincidence for it to appear in my office–

The Narrator’s eyes immediately fill with rage as the words on the yellow screen cut off after ‘office.’ Stanley stares, suddenly confused as to what in the world could have made the man so angry now.

“What…?” He starts.

The Narrator’s face relaxes a little bit, but Stanley still notices some of that underlying irritation by the way his eyebrows are creased, and his mouth is a little too thin. It’s nothing, Stanley. I… It is nothing you need to worry about.

“Okaaaay. Well, what are you gonna do now?” He challenges, opting to avoid the suspiciousness of the Narrator in hopes of getting him on his side.

I’m going to go confirm you are not lying to me.

“Why would I– okay, fine, sure. Go and check. But I’m not saying my lines. The bucket won’t be there,” He reiterates.

We’ll see about that. He sets off for the office room where Stanley’s bucket originally was. Stanley sighs, deciding just to go along with it.

It really is gone, then. Wow. The Narrator stares at the spot the bucket once occupied with visible surprise.

“Yeah, it is,” Stanley says dryly. The Narrator rolls his eyes. He can see the disappointment in the man’s features, and clutches his bucket tightly. “So?”

So what, Stanley? The Narrator is still looking at the empty space where the bucket occupied the run before, looking like he’s in deep thought again.

“You want me to say your script dialogue, I know you do. The only way I am going to do that is if you ask me to, nicely .”

The Narrator groans visibly, pulled out from his thoughts. Do you really have to be so stubborn, my boy?

“Says you,” He huffs. The Narrator crosses his arms. “And, yes. Ask me.”

And how do I know you aren’t just tricking me into complying with your demand, yet you actually won’t abide by the script if I simply ask you to? I won’t be fooled by–

Stanley groans. “For fuck’s sake, it is not that complicated. Not everything has to work due to force and coercion. I just… I just want you to ask,” He sighs. This is exhausting.

The Narrator looks like this is nearly causing him physical pain. He grimaces. Very well. Stanley… ughmm. Stanley, will you please read the script as I go along with the story? There, now, that is it. Don’t ask me to do any more.

Stanley smiles widely and claps lightly. “Theeere we go, Narrator, now, how hard was that?”

The man’s face twists in disgust. Don’t you dare patronize me, Stanley. Now, are you going to fulfill your end of the bargain?

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll read it,” Stanley grumbles, but he isn’t too annoyed. Any instance where the Narrator has to treat him well is an instance he’s always glad about, even if it isn’t completely coming from a place of genuinity. He’ll take any bit of kindliness he can outside of endings with gratitude.

Once the Narrator arrives at the two doors next, Stanley– while reading off his lines– assumes he’ll take a more interesting route this time, as his second go-around, maybe go through the door on the right, and leave Stanley guessing which parts he’ll have to read off next. Of course, he might have to sit here for a minute or two while the Narrator takes his sweet time deciding.

The Narrator hardly takes seconds before entering the door on the left.

Okay, fine, sure. That can still be a different ending. Freedom isn’t the only thing behind the left door, he supposes.

That doesn’t matter, though, apparently, because the Narrator goes straight upstairs to the boss’s office, up the elevator only once, and ignores the ‘ESCAPE’ hallway, heading straight into the Mind Control Facility with no hesitation– all while thinking nothing to Stanley throughout his exertion.

Maybe… he’s going to see what I would do if he activates the Countdown Ending? Not even I really know what; I certainly don’t want to read the script off for that one . Maybe he expects me to actually do that. Stanley scoffs lightly in between describing the facility. Like hell I would.

The Narrator has not projected anything to Stanley by the time he finally approaches the two buttons; Stanley over-exaggerates his dialogue just for the fun of it. The Narrator doesn’t even look all that irritated at this, which isn’t what he expected. Nevertheless, he finishes with an enunciated “all” as he prepares himself for the ‘ON’ button to be pressed. 

In all honesty, he’s not sure if the countdown itself is automatically activated, or if the Narrator manually starts it up each time. Stanley hopes it isn’t the latter. He thinks that would hurt worse.

Without the slightest hesitation, however, the Narrator presses the ‘OFF’ button the moment silence elapses.

Stanley blinks, a little surprised at this. He recovers quickly, and a part of him is relieved, though part of him is irritated now. He really would rather, quite honestly, not have to read off this entire paragraph-long speech while the massive facility door ahead lowers painfully slowly, again.

There’s nothing technically forcing him to, but he does anyway, albeit purposefully making his tone somewhat dry for the duration. The Narrator only stares at the lowering door the entire time with a strangely determined look in his eyes, never projecting anything to him, and walking ‘outside’ with confident strides once it fully lowers.

Stanley reads off his lines as he promised, and hits ‘Reset.’

He clutches the arms of his chair tightly, preparing for his vision to fade out once again, but nothing happens this time besides the left two monitors cutting to black, displaying the famous loading screen: THE END IS NEVER THE END IS NEVER

And then cutting back to the Narrator and the office a few seconds later.

“...Huh.” He relaxes, looks down at the bucket in his lap, and murmurs somewhat, “Was it just because you were being transported here, that everything went black before?”

The bucket doesn’t answer him. Stanley would be quite worried if it did, honestly, but he looks at it for another moment, and sighs. He looks back at the Narrator through the screen and hesitates.

Stanley hits the ‘Wake up’ button with no cogitating this time. The Narrator comes to once again, blinking awake and standing up immediately after coming to his senses. He walks outside with no hesitation, and Stanley flicks the switch to close the door behind him. Hesitantly, he starts to say his expected line– because he did make a promise, and Stanley is going to hold himself to it for more than one reset because he’s not an asshole; he keeps his word, no matter how much he dislikes it.

“ All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean? He decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo. ”

But damn him if he isn’t going to say his own name in a narrative that is not about him. Especially for someone like the Narrator. He refuses to. The Narrator himself nods.

Thank you for keeping your word, Stanley.

Stanley is just grateful the man is going along with it. At least the Narrator has some sort of decency– or maybe he just doesn’t prefer to be called someone he isn’t while he plays as the Protagonist in his game. Stanley huffs, just slightly offended. He knows he’s a great Protagonist, he thinks other people should definitely want to play as him if this was an actual video game. But, whatever. Not like the Narrator has any reasonable opinions, anyway. He won’t dwell on it.

“No problem,” He says sarcastically, and picks up the script, before reading the next lines out unnecessarily mockingly– because he’s The Narrator now, he can do whatever he wants with it. Luckily, the ex- narrator doesn’t put up too much of a fuss about it, and arrives at the two doors room in a timely manner.

“ When he came to a set of two open doors, one right and one left, he went through the door on his left, ” He adds a little extra phrasing to the next dialogue, and overemphasizes ‘right,’ because judging from the previous two runs, if Stanley doesn’t say anything about the right door, he’s afraid the Narrator will just never go through it at all…

Never mind, then. Apart from a slight scowl, the Narrator completely ignores the right door and Stanley’s add-ons and walks through the left immediately after he finishes his line.

Really? Okay, no. Maybe he’s really going through a different ending this time.

He doesn’t, though. The Narrator continues his path to the boss’s office, up once on the elevator, heading straight into Mind Control Facility, ignoring the ‘ESCAPE’ hallway once again. Stanley reads off his lines reluctantly, and doesn’t falter, though abundantly aware that he sounds particularly dry in some of his reading. The Narrator, once again, never thinks anything to him. He figures that ‘ thank you’ from the man was a one time thing.

The Narrator arrives at the two buttons and waits for Stanley to finish his delivery before pressing ‘Off’ and shutting down the controls, once and for all. The overly massive door begins to open while Stanley reads off his speech, and the Narrator walks up to it, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes like this is his first time experiencing this situation. He opens his eyes, and takes confident strides forward, and enters his due cutscene.

Stanley recites his lines, exaggerating his last one again before pressing ‘Reset.’ The monitors cut to black and they load, before once more resetting back to their starting points, the Narrator right in his frozen position in Employee 427’s office.

Stanley throws the script down onto the desk and puts his head in his hands, groaning crossly.

Don’t get him wrong, Stanley is perfectly fine with not interacting directly with the Narrator, and is actually happy the man isn’t nagging him with several unhelpful critiques as he delivers his lines incorrectly, but it, admittedly, would be a little more fun to have someone to talk to and bite back to while mindlessly reading off of a script for something he in fact, quite dislikes. It’s just a bit boring, in his opinion. He doesn’t know how the Narrator manages to find fun in all this work. Maybe he simply gets his fun from toying with Stanley.

Stanley sticks his tongue out to no one in particular at that thought. I’m nobody’s plaything.

But, as he relaxes back into his chair, he thinks to himself.

I’m- I’m not a plaything. But… if he literally is the character that, in a video game, the Player plays as, and controls and puppets, doesn’t that, by definition make him a plaything? The Narrator thinks of him as his plaything; He knows that with one hundred percent certainty. And if the Narrator is truly the god of this realm, then…

He doesn’t want to be a puppet for anybody. But the more he thinks about it, the more it becomes evident that he must be. He is.

He stares at the Narrator. The Narrator who is in his mercy now.

Stanley doesn’t exactly know if this swap is permanent, or if they will ever get switched back again, but it’s the present that counts, isn’t it? The future, and the present. Presently, at this moment, he is The Narrator. He is in power, he is not a worthless tool made only to progress the story, he’s the machine powering it.

He is not the Narrator’s plaything anymore, at least for now. He is his own person. And the Narrator will be damned if he thinks he can control Stanley anymore. Stanley will pave his own path. This is his ending, that no one but him has determined. He is in control.

Stanley looks up, his brows furrowed. He doesn’t feel any better. There’s still that sinking feeling in his heart he knows all too well, and he just wants it to go away.

He clutches his bucket, and the action does make him feel a bit better. Stanley takes a deep breath and presses the ‘Wake up’ button.

It’s no different from before. The Narrator goes through the left door, up the elevator, through the Mind Control Facility… you know the rest. Stanley reads out his lines. The Narrator doesn’t think anything to him the entire duration. It’s the exact same repetition as before, with the Narrator looking determined and reacting as if this is his first experience at Freedom the entire time. He waits to push the ‘OFF’ button, he waits patiently for the door to finish opening, he closes his eyes and breathes in, and he enters the artificial outside, and ‘Stanley’ is ‘happy .’

Stanley presses 'Reset.’ He waits a few moments for the screens to load in. He presses ‘Wake up.’

And it goes again. And again, and again, and again. And–

“Hey.”

The Narrator startles slightly, broken out of character as Stanley interrupts his own speech while the facility door lowers.

Yes? Despite acknowledging him through projection, the Narrator just keeps staring straight ahead.

Stanley looks at the buttons and switches. He sees a button labeled ‘Sound’ and presses it. The sound of the door quiets. Hm. Interesting. He stares at the monitor for a moment as the Narrator stiffens. Stanley supposes the man expects some sort of telling off, or complaining, or big speech about why this is bad for both of them. Stanley chooses to ignore those glaring notions, especially that last one, instead sitting up.

He hesitates before speaking. “Why… do you keep acting like this is your first playthrough every single time? We’ve been about this several times now, and it’s just– you act… almost robotic , and you have seen this ending hundreds of times, just like me! Can you please try to act like a person for me while- while I do this work at your request? I don’t understand… why you are being like this,” He forces those last words out with some struggle, and turns to the yellow screen for a reply, bracing himself.

Stanley– The Narrator sighs, and runs a hand down his face exasperatedly. He inhales deeply. Stanley, this is one of the things I most despise about you. He projects with clear disdain. To fully experience a narrative, you must hear the line, yes, but the character must also, well, be in character. I am an actor as much as I am a writer, of course I am going to act like my Protagonist should be in my story. You never act correctly. I, however, right now, am playing as your persona, and so I must act your part. It is indicative of the story, Stanley. Without the character acting properly, especially with such poor delivery and voice acting, there is no real emotion, drive, and the story becomes trifling and languishing. Of course you don’t understand though, being you. The man scoffs.

Stanley swallows. He always finds it rather difficult trying to stand up for himself fully– it almost always goes wrong. He steels himself to anyway. “I am not a machine. I’m a person, I have my own free will, I am allowed to act like a person in a story about me! And of course you don’t understand that, either. You want me just to follow you blindly, but doesn’t emotion and freedom add spice to a story?” He tries to put it in terms the Narrator might actually care about.

Yes, Stanley, but the proper emotions do, not that vexatious sadness when you are supposed to be angry, not the pathetic sulking when you are supposed to be feeling joy. It only bored the audience. A well-developed story is written out carefully, pertaining to the audience’s feelings just as much as the character in the story! If not more, Stanley. Do you understand now?

“No,” He says exhaustedly. He just wants to be his own person, even if he’s in a story, or a video game, whatever, he doesn’t care . Why won’t the Narrator let him be a human?

He reads the next words on the screen with deep rooted gloom: Of course you don’t.

The Narrator doesn’t project anything more. He takes a moment to get back into character; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. He smiles; it doesn’t reach his eyes. The Narrator walks through the open way, and Stanley rushes through his lines before ending the run. He hits ‘Reset’ a moment later, and the screens cut to black. Stanley leans back in his seat tiredly.

Well, that went disastrously wrong, as usual.

He takes nearly half a minute to compose himself while sitting still in his chair, then furrows his brows and hits ‘Wake up’ once again. Stanley isn’t going to sit around like a crybaby and sulk and whine about something the Narrator would definitely scoff at; he is not pathetic.

The Narrator’s face is blank when he wakes up, holding no indication of their previous conversation. He walks out of the office.

“ All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean? ”

What could it mean, huh? Really, truly, what could it possibly mean? Maybe his coworkers exist out there, somewhere. Maybe they left him; they got up one day and decided they hated this place– which was absolutely just– and simply figured Stanley wasn’t worth enough of their time to pull him out of his state of perpetual button-pressing at his computer and fucked off and left him alone here. Wouldn’t that be something? He supposes they wouldn’t have liked him very much then if they were willing to leave him like that. He wonders what he did to make them all hate him, to leave him alone like this, stuck in eternal near-isolation with nothing but a voice to keep company. Probably something worse than staying in the employee lounge for too long, but, really, what if they took that as a sign that he’s lazy? Or, possibly just greedy, or an unwilling, incompetent piece of–

Shit, he’s spiraling again. Bad Stanley. Don’t. Fucking spiral.

He focuses back at the monitor in front of him and the Narrator has stopped in front of the doorway to the second office complex, an eyebrow raises expectantly.

Right, uh.

He blinks and clears his throat. “ He decided to go to the meeting room. Perhaps, he had simply missed a memo! ” He recites with a tone of enthusiastic mockery. The Narrator does not project anything, nor even changes his expression, just walks straight through the door and the office room and enters the meeting room next after the next hallway. His fake smile drops.

“ Yet there was not a single person here, either. Feeling a wave of disbelief… ”

And the cycle continues, much to Stanley’s complete and utter dismay. The Narrator, yet again, journeys through the Freedom ending with no falter or facilitation– even at the two doors room– other than to wait for Stanley to finish his lines.

And he continues… again, and again, and again, with no divergence.

Stanley is getting bored of this. It’s been weeks, and nothing has changed. The Narrator has hardly even thought anything to him in all that time, usually in short, minute responses when Stanley attempts to provoke him. He doesn’t know how the man can’t be bored after doing this ending at least twenty or thirty times in a row. He supposes he can’t really get bored, being The Narrator and all, but Stanley sure can, and he is. He’s tired of reciting the exact same things over and over again, and slight alterations don’t count as new dialogue. He thrives off change, ironic that may be, he knows, and all of these stagnant, unwavering runs are positivity sucking the soul out of him.

Well, he says that. But he does know the Narrator practically had to go through this at some point as well. It was a long time ago, but Stanley was tired, and Stanley was numb, and Stanley was fed up, so he went through the Apartment Ending– before he met his bucket– one hundred and six times in a row, before even the Narrator was exhausted of it and told him he had to stop. So he did, and he soon met the bucket, which granted him respite and gave him back his whimsy.

But, that’s besides the point. This time, when he wakes the Narrator up, he stops him before he even has the chance to stand up robotically and walk out the door. He closes the office door.

Wha- Stanley! What in the world are you doing?

Stanley gets straight to the point. “Look, you have to stop. I’m getting bored of this ending, alright?” 

Immediately the Narrator’s eyes narrow. And what will stop me from completing it again?

“Me,” He says simply. “I can stop you.”

The Narrator scoffs. No, you cannot. That is, annoyingly, the entire point of you, that you possess free will. I can’t control your actions, and you cannot control mine.

“No, but I can block off that door. And I’ll do it if you decide to go through the Freedom Ending one more time. I’ll complete it, but after that, the left door will disappear for a while.”

And what ending exactly are you counting on me completing if I go through the door on the right?

“I don’t know, that’s up to you. It’s where you want to go.”

Stanley swears he caught a flash of… was it fear, in the Narrator’s eyes? It’s gone after a split second, but the ex-worker could’ve sworn it was. Maybe he is just seeing things. Stanley thinks it so unlike the Narrator to be afraid of, well, anything, to be quite honest. He shakes his head and reads off the yellow screen to his right.

Fine. I will go down another path, now just open the door.

Stanley smiles, and breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, something new. Well– he stares at the right monitor of flashing screens sullenly before opening the door– new-ish, he supposes.

Chapter Text

Stanley sighs resignedly; he should’ve expected this. That doesn’t make it any less vexatious, watching the Narrator just stand there, staring at the two doors with a strange expression on his face– an emotion he can’t quite pinpoint, but he doesn’t think it’s good– for minutes. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he knows the Narrator well enough to know that he would just remain standing there longer to spite him if Stanley mentioned it (No matter how much the man insists that he’s above spiteful or pettiness). Stanley rolls his eyes.

It’s another fucking half a minute before finally, the Narrator steels himself and enters the door on his right.

“And, finally, the Protagonist had entered the door on the right. This was not the correct way to the meeting room, however, and he knew this perfectly well. He also hated the employee lounge with a passion, so the Narrator wondered what he would do once he got there.”

The Narrator walks briskly and purposefully, ignoring the add-ons to Stanley’s dialogue, speeding past the employee lounge with haste– a glowering look overtaking his features as he enters– then slowing down his pace once he leaves, Stanley closing the door behind him with a press of a button.

Stanley stays silent, as the Narrator is soon to pass the maintenance section, in hopes he will ignore it, or possibly not even notice the open door (that would be preferable). He holds the bucket to his chest to grant him more luck.

But alas, the Narrator turns his head to the left and looks curiously on over at the lift. He sighs quietly. Bucket, you failed him; how could you.

He looks down and pats it with a nod. Don’t worry, it isn’t your fault. The Narrator might not venture down that way anyways.

Is there anything down the lift, Stanley? I don’t seem to recall whether there is or not…

“Er…”

Hm, no matter. Perhaps I’ll investigate some other time; I know where I’m going currently.

Oh thank god.

“Okay,” He says quickly, as the Narrator nods once and continues down the hall like he never paused.

It’s not that the Narrator discovering the Confusion Ending would be especially disastrous, but Stanley isn’t quite… prepared for everything that would happen subsequent just now. The Narrator might turn out to be angry at him, or Stanley might forget… or, well, he doesn’t really know what would happen to him or his memories if the ending was activated. So, he’d rather not risk it.

And, just maybe, he doesn’t entirely want the Narrator to know what it contains, either. Maybe that is silly, or childish, to not want the man gaining this information, but now he knows that the Narrator had previously invaded his privacy, had read his private thoughts and taken advantage of that. This is one thing in the Parable– along with the escape pod– that he knows and the Narrator doesn’t . Is it so wrong of him to want to keep it to himself, even for a little bit? Because of course, he’s not foolish enough to believe or hope, even for a second, that the Narrator will never find it. He will, eventually; it’s inevitable.

Either way, he doesn’t want to have to deal with it presently. So, he simply moves on from it– making sure to close the door, just in case the man has a change of heart and decides to double back– and recites the dialogue as the Narrator makes his way over to the warehouse.

“Hmm, and he was so bad at following directions that it was incredible he wasn’t fired years ago…” Stanley recites dully from memory. The Narrator walks forward with intent, and pauses at the edge of the loading bay, peering down at the ground, developing a thoughtful look in his expression.

~

Entering through the right door was not easy for the Narrator, and that is an understatement. Every inch in his body had told him to go left, to travel in the direction of the story; he needed to follow the story, but he forced himself to go through with the decision of entering through the right door. Once he did, all of his instincts screamed at him to go back, he had to fight the disgusting, wrong feeling– like bugs crawling under his skin– that came with betraying the script in order to simply walk through that hallway.

Passing through the employee lounge was not any less pleasant. He despises the room almost as much as he despises disobeying the script. All the times Stanley spent hours or days, just sitting and staring blankly at a wall or a painting, making no advancements to the story whatsoever, not even moving, drove him mad. Doing anything else in those moments would be better than watching the man waste away on that ugly blue couch.

Now, however, he stares down at the concrete floor of the warehouse, far below enough to kill a person, that much he knows, of course, from the numerous times Stanley would throw himself down there for reasons unbeknownst to him. He wonders absently if the fall would kill him , as he knows naturally that his body can withstand much more trauma before it finally succumbs to its injuries– humans are so very fragile, aren’t they?- but he’s not very inclined to test the theory out.

He’s moreso thinking about the baffling fact that Stanley is so willing to throw himself off this platform, without the slightest hesitation sometimes. It befuddles him; seeing the enormous height in person, as he already didn’t have very good feelings towards it, but now there’s even more of a sense of dread (and, though he would never admit that to himself, possibly even fear) in his heart. It’s… it’s just high. It’s so very high up; how could Stanley ever look down and even have the deprecating thought of jumping enter his mind? How could he ever think about how devastatingly high up he is, and not cower away in fear?

The Narrator looks quickly away. The fall below looks even more dauntingly large up close than it did through his monitors; he’d rather not not dwell on it anymore. So, he turns to his right and walks onto the cargo lift, firmly planting his feet to the right of the machine as it begins to rumble, facing straight ahead despite his intentions of jumping off onto the walkway and interrupting what would usually be the Narrator’s own imploring ramble leading to the Apartment Ending, to which he has… complicated feelings about, to say the least.

However, the dreadful experience of journeying to this lift wasn’t too terrible as he imagined, since Stanley has apparently, and thankfully, decided to keep sticking to his word and recite the dialogue correctly– mostly, anyway.

“The Protagonist stood on the cargo lift, waiting for it to arrive on the other side… blah blah, stuff about… not being my enemy, and… investing trust in someone else can be difficult. Hm, I think the Narrator agrees with that one actually, especially when that someone–”

The Narrator lands with a dull thud, expecting his legs to be in mild or dull pain from the short fall, but he hardly even feels the impact, surprisingly. He scowls nonetheless.

“Ah! Seems he’s decided to jump off of the lift, this is a unique development indeed. And very inconsiderate too, as I was just–”

You can stop that now, Stanley, He projects viciously. He hears the tiny hum of a chuckle, and wishes he possessed his voice so he could lambaste the man verbally, perhaps wiping that most likely smug look off his face and making him cower instead at the sheer volume of his voice. Maybe that would actually get him to shut up, as the man of course never liked when the Narrator shouted.

“Fine, fine. Keep walking,” Stanley urges him.

You won’t do that insufferable bitching and making a mockery of my script again, do you hear me?

“Oh. Well, you’re angry now, aren’t you?” He says to him, speaking as if the Narrator was a kid throwing a tantrum, but at least sounding a bit caught off guard from the use of profanity. It’s rare for the Narrator to swear outright, usually only doing so when he’s most enraged.

The Narrator opens his mouth to speak, furious at the audacity of Stanley treating him like a child when the man was no more than a puppet himself. The instantaneous reminder of his forced muteness infuriates him further.

“Uhm, how about we just keep walking?” Stanley suggests apprehensively, no doubt seeing the look on the Narrator’s face, which he surmises is probably a growing look of loathing.

What, so you can mock me again? Reduce the script down to nothing but a bloody ridicule?

“Wow, I didn’t think it would make you so angry. Geez,” Stanley sounds mildly surprised.

You know how seriously I take my script, you ignorant child. Recite the dialogue as it is correctly stated; you should have it memorized by now, from all the dozens of times you went to that blasted Apartment Ending, anyway, or are you just that inadequate? That wouldn’t be any news to me, obviously, but it is rather impressive, even for you to

He’s interrupted by a loud groan of exasperation, and Stanley finally relents.

“Fuck you. Fine. Just walk to the door, I won’t mess up the dialogue again. You are so exhausting.”

The Narrator fights the urge not to spit back more insults, and strides confidently to the door. It opens right before he enters it, and walks through the next corridor swiftly. He’s met with only silence now; Stanley doesn’t speak a word as he makes his way through the next door, around the corner, and into the room with the two doors: red and blue.

“N- now, listen carefully, this is important. The Protagonist walked through the red door.” He hears Stanley’s breath hitch only the slightest bit at the word ‘ red’. He knows exactly what the man is thinking, and the Narrator doesn’t bother reassuring him that he isn’t planning to go that route.

Honestly, why should the man think even for a second that the Narrator would be compelled to show him the Zen room, as if he had given him enough respect to warrant experiencing the room from The Narrator’s perspective? And besides, he has no idea if the benefits also transfer to the Protagonist role; for all he knows, the Zen room could have no effect on him, and the Narrator would waste his time and pride for nothing.

He can’t help a glance at the red door, however, as both open passages glare at him harshly, and he almost feels as if it’s calling to him. Of course, he is aware of how utterly ridiculous that sounds, but it’s like he can almost feel the Zen room’s effects emanating from here, tempting him beyond anything to come and rest in his favorite place. He can’t deny it; he would love that. He has been stuck in a place so painfully familiar yet unfamiliar in perspective, and a nice, blissful rest sounds immaculately delightful now, somewhere safe, and peaceful, and happy.

Then his thoughts turn over to what he knows lies beyond his favorite room. And it is not grief he feels, oh, most certainly not; he’s stopped grieving for the Zen room ever since Stanley went back and forth between there and the staircase multiple times, probably just to tease his emotions and hear him hope again, before crushing it down once more. No, he’s angry. Furious for that very reason. That that impertinent roach would do that to him. That he would throw himself off a staircase multiple times and mock him when he’s in his most vulnerable state (Typically speaking, anyways), because, despite what Stanley might think, it isn’t all just acting on his part. It really does hurt. He thinks about the fall in the warehouse; he understands that it’s instantaneously fatal, therefore painless.

But this, well for god’s sake, he can hear the crunch of Stanley’s bones after each fall! He doesn’t understand how that cannot be torture for him; how the employee can bring himself to do it to over and over, to go through that pain just so he can tear down the Narrator– because if he wanted to kill himself, he would’ve just taken the most obvious route! So the only reason left is precisely that. Seeing the fall from the loading bay or lift from this new perspective already made his breath seize; the Narrator cannot fathom why Stanley would choose to do this, and so many times as well. It’s almost as if his goal is to make the Narrator’s life hell. It’s disgusting.

“Uh, Narrator?” Stanley asks hesitantly, and the Narrator blinks, pulled out of his thoughts, and realizes he’s been staring at the red door for quite a bit now. “You can go through there if you want. I don’t care,” He says quietly, sounding just the opposite.

The Narrator scoffs immediately. Of course the man figured as such. Always leave it to Stanley, to think so simple-mindedly, that the only reason he was looking in that direction was because of the desire to go down that path.

The Narrator hmph s, and heads straight through the blue door with only one minute falter; disobeying the narrative’s words still doesn’t come as naturally and intrinsically as it does to Stanley, even if he hates the idea of following it in the first place. Nevertheless, he doesn’t look back, intent on continuing his way to the next section: the expanse of broken rooms and exposed developer textures.

~

Stanley is infinitely relieved.

He really doesn’t have the energy to deal with the Zending Ending today, and the Narrator staring at the open red door for so long made him nervous, so much so that he almost considered closing it, but he knew that would only result in anger, and he’s tired of that.

He’s also pissed at himself for giving in to the Narrator’s demands to follow the script yet again. Stanley doesn’t like it, but he can’t help it. He knows the Narrator won’t stop pushing until he gets what he wants, so it’s up to Stanley to end the conflict. He just hates that it has to be him surrendering to the man that ends the bickering.

“Perhaps you misunderstood me, he walked through the red door,” He says in a flat tone, knowing now that he won’t take the path to Zending. Most likely.

The Narrator falters, just slightly, then clenches his jaw and walks through the blue door again.

“I still don’t think we are communicating properly, he walked through the red door.” He doesn’t put that much emphasis on red, but at least enough so that it satisfies the Narrator, and the man hesitates even more this time before looking like he’s nearly forcing himself to disobey the script once again. Why the hell is it so hard for him to go through the blue door?

Maybe the Zen room has some sort of a physical pull to him; that would be rather interesting, though not entirely surprising if it was true, he supposes. He’ll never know, though, and he sure as hell isn’t ever going to ask, either.

Despite the obvious reluctance, the Narrator turns himself around, and marches straight through the open door in front of him. He winds through the subsequent hall– Stanley is silent, not really seeing a point in voice acting the succeeding accusatory lines– around the corners and entering the vast room containing nothing but ‘broken rooms’ and ‘exposed developer textures.’

This massive expanse had always made him feel so minuscule; insignificant, like a speck of dust compared to the void lying underneath, that for all he knows could stretch to infinity, due to its incompleteness and ‘broken rooms,’ as the Narrator always put it.

Stanley has always been immensely grateful for the railings on the walkway; he’s imagined several times, about what it would be like if he happened to fall down. Maybe it would go on forever, and Stanley would be stuck falling for eternity in the suffocating absence of light, or he would land at the bottom, still alive, but consumed in pitch darkness, or near that, and unable to see anything, both of which, admittedly, terrified him to no extent. This place always filled him with a sense of uneasiness and dread, regardless of how frequently he comes this route– because he does rather enjoy this ending, significantly more than several of the other options anyway.

The Narrator stands near the end of the walkway, looking down into the void, presumably waiting for his present-narrator to speak up. Stanley merely continues to stare silently, half zoning out, and half waiting for the Narrator to interrupt the quietness that overtakes the vast space.

He feels the sensation of a poke in the back of his mind, and turns his head to the yellow screen, sighing internally.

Well, Stanley, since you clearly aren’t going to talk now, I suppose I’ll fill the silence… figuratively, of course. The Narrator looks very obviously unhappy about this fact.

I know exactly how you feel about this place. I will admit to you, I always had fun reading about your, rather unpleasant thoughts, about the prospect of you falling off the edge. Perhaps at one point the thought did arrange in my mind to make this walkway completely disappear, just to see how you would really react to falling.

An ugly mix of rage and loathing and hurt wraps itself around his throat, preventing him from even trying to form a reply for this disheartening confession. What the actual fuck was the Narrator talking about? What is his point in saying this? Was he trying to elicit a reaction out of Stanley, make him feel hurt or ashamed or betrayed, so that he might start yelling, or crying, or whatever the fuck that man wanted out of him? He just stares back at the monitor, mouth pulled back in a twisted grimace as he watches the Narrator continue to gaze below the edge in all perspectives.

I was angry at you for not going through the red door, that you wanted to belittle my story so much that you were willing to throw it off after I commanded several times the direction to go toward. I never understood, I still don’t understand your compelling urge to fuck it up, nearly every single time. It’s part of the reason I despise you so much.

“…Why are you telling me this?” He asks, treading cautiously, because obviously the Narrator is still in a bitter mood, especially if he’s willing to drop another expletive, making it the second of the same run.

The Narrator frowns. Merely filling the silence, I suppose. You and I know we both don’t like being left to our own minds for long.

Stanley stares at the monitor. That’s a peculiar thing to say, coming from the Narrator.

It should be soon when the game switches back to the two doors room; I put on an automatic timer after enough times you’ve gone through this ending.

He hesitates. “Do you still think about dropping me? Into the room, whenever I went in here.”

The Narrator’s features contort into a more smug look, a cruel glint appearing in his eye.

Oh, every time. I would love to see the look on your face if you landed down at the bottom. It would be absolutely delightful, I reckon, seeing you fret pathetically over nothing but simple darkness.

Stanley merely scoffs at this, feigning apathy, but again he feels that familiar sinking in his heart. He’s not even surprised by this fact, just… slightly disappointed, he supposes.

“Yeah, of course,” Stanley mutters, and he opens his mouth again, but the left two monitors cut to black before he can say anything.

The Narrator stares at the third door for a moment after he loads back in, before projecting once more: You know, I surmise we can probably just skip over to that creepy watchman’s tower, I’m sure you agree with me.

Stanley does agree; he wasn’t really looking forward to having to either recite or make up new dialogue, or just stay silent until they arrive at the actual games. “Okay… how do I do that?”

Simply press the button that says ‘Teleport’, and think about the watchtower and the game it resides in. Oh and, make sure it’s ‘Teleport Stanley.’ We don’t want that tower coming to us now; that would be rather inane.

Stanley hums neutrally, giving the rows of buttons and switches a quick once-over before spotting the correct one: ‘Teleport (Stanley)’ on the bottom row, just under ‘Teleport (object)’ He concentrates on that game and presses it.

The center monitor cuts to the loading screen immediately, and soon enough the Narrator spawns back in again, this time standing in the blue watch tower of the game that he, now that he thinks about it, isn’t actually sure if it has a name. The Narrator has never supplied him with one, and he never thought really to ask.

“Do you know what this game is called? If it has a name?” Stanley asks as the Narrator regains his senses and sweeps over the watchtower’s interior with his eyes.

Of course it has a name, Stanley, it’s a video game. Do you think some video games just don’t have their own respective titles?

“I don’t know, actually,” Stanley frowns. He’s now realizing just how limited his knowledge is on basic subjects, such as species of animals– he’s tried to remember all of them, but he can only recite about thirty from memory before he gets lost or confused– and apparently common sense of video game mechanics. He knew this game had a name, obviously; The Stanley Parable, but he never really thought about what other games could be titled.

He knows the definition of a video game, something the Narrator had to inform him on, since he acted so shocked and appalled that time when Stanley told him he didn’t actually know the definition of a video game, but he’s never actually given any much thought, besides the one he’s actually forced to be in , and even then, he doesn’t really think of The Stanley Parable as an actual, functioning, by-definition video game (though he would never tell the Narrator so). If he was asked, he’s not really what he would call it, since the Narrator has insisted an innumerous amount of times that this is a real video game, but he doesn’t really think it fits the standards. Doesn’t it?

“...But I assume it does, based on your reaction. So, what is it called?” He says after a moment of silence.

It’s called ‘Firewatch,’ Stanley.

“Hmmm. Firewatch? You sure?” He asks dubiously. The Narrator rolls his eyes.

I am quite certain of this fact, yes.

“Well… I get watch, I can see that; through the tower. But I don’t know really about the ‘fire’ part. Don’t really see any fire around here.” Stanley furrows his eyebrows. Actually, he doesn't think he’s ever seen fire at all. He knows what it is, of course, but he wonders what it would be like to observe it in person, and feel its warmth from up close. He imagines it may be nice, to warm up by a flame and feel its comfort, especially if you’re cold, and hear its light crackling. It seems quite peaceful. He thinks he can recall… Some people have s’mores around the fire, don’t they? Those are like, little sandwiches of marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers… he thinks. He wonders what they taste like. Most people like them, right? But they’re sticky, too, so some people won’t eat them. He probably wouldn’t either then; he doesn’t entirely like it when his hands get sticky.

…Right? He thinks. Stanley scrunches up his face, trying to remember. He doesn’t like stickiness, but he doesn’t exactly mind it when it’s a sticky, delicious food. Like… syrup. He thinks he can remember the word syrup. He likes syrup. It’s sweet, and you drizzle it on pancakes, and waffles too. Right?

Stanley blinks.

He turns to the yellow screen, shaking his head. He hates how easily his thoughts spiral; he loses track of them so effortlessly.

Stanley– The Narrator runs a hand down his face, as Stanley is starting to observe must be a habit when the man is exasperated with him.

You know what, I’m not even going to try to explain it to you.

“What? What if I want to know?” Stanley prompts, forcing accusation into his tone, trying to get his mind off that particular train of musing, the thoughts that just leave him more confused and frustrated the more he focuses on them.

Because you won’t appreciate it correctly, Stanley!

“How can I appreciate something incorrectly?” He asks, bewildered.

Exactly my point.

“Wh- that isn’t fair! Please, can you at least tell me what the game is about? Have you played it yourself? Can you even do that?”

No, I cannot, unfortunately. I’ve researched it extensively however, so I do know what it contains.

“So? Will you tell me?” Stanley implores hopefully, growing more and more excited at the prospect of learning something new. He loves when he receives new information, whether it’s little tidbits of knowledge the Narrator supplies him with, offhandedly or deliberately, or rambles telling him of a certain event, or subject, or anything really that the man believes is vital that Stanley is well-versed in. It all gives him something new to think about.

And, when the Narrator does get started on a rant about something passionate of his, it’s easy to get lost in the moment, to be able to forget about where he is and what he’s doing and get lost in the sound of the very voice that is typically the stem of his problems and anxieties, but during those moments it is, admittedly, a source of comfort for him. Even he knows that a companion like the Narrator to keep him company is better than nobody or nothing at all. He can’t imagine what this hell would be like if he were alone in it...

Right now, however, the Narrator crosses his arms.

No.

“What?!” He exclaims incredulously. “What do you mean ‘no’? Why not?”

I don’t believe you deserve to be privy to that knowledge right now, Stanley.

“What kind of fucking answer is that? What the– you know what? Fine.” He sighs in defeat, crossing his own arms in dissatisfaction. It’s not worth it to spark another argument for some information he otherwise never would have known he could acquire, save for this interaction; he’d rather keep the, arguably loose, thread of peace between them for as long as he can. “Will you ever tell me?”

The Narrator considers it. Perhaps some day.

“Good enough, I guess… Can I ask you another question then?” The Narrator raises his eyebrows skeptically.

Go on.

“How do the buttons work, exactly?” The worker sighs at this, uncrossing his arms to run his hands over and examine some of the other things lining in the watchtower.

Would you like a candid answer to that question?

“Yeah, obviously,” Stanley scoffs, watching as the Narrator inspects the typewriter, running his hands over the character keys and the top of it.

Very well. It really is quite effortless. To start, you need to think about what exactly you want out of the command you input by pressing the button, or flicking the desired switch. Then you press it to actually run the temporary code. Do you understand?

“I think so…” Stanley frowns, spotting a ‘ Produce’ button and a ‘Demolish’  button on the left of the assortment. He thinks of the roof of the watchtower, and presses ‘Demolish.’

The blue roof instantly disappears. The Narrator startles slightly and looks up, caught off guard by the abrupt disappearance, but regains composure quickly and straightens up.

There, I presume you tested out the ‘Demolish’ button. And, when you reset, all tampered with or modified objects will be returned back to their original position in the game’s initial coding.

“Interesting…” Stanley comments distractedly. “So, that would mean, I can make this entire tower disappear with just a thought and a button press?”

The Narrator pauses. Ah– well, yes, you could . But, I would of course fall to the ground as a repercussion, and I am not exactly keen on getting injured at the moment. So I really rather you wouldn’t, Stanley.

Stanley almost wants to do it, just by the slightest look of nervousness he catches in the Narrator’s expression. He wants to see how he would react when denied mercy and being able to do nothing about it. But, he reasons, knowing the Narrator, he would most likely be met with nothing but irritation and berating if he dared, and he would rather not have another heated argument on his hands now. So, he continues his desired goal not to create conflict and resists the temptation, electing instead to coax the Narrator into leaving the tower.

Absolutely not.

“Come on, why?” He asks, not caring if he sounds like a child in his bargaining.

The Narrator scoffs indignantly. Do you know how ridiculous you sound? It is an open world down there, do you really, truly believe I would risk traveling to the bottom; you know how much I despise open worlds, Stanley. He shudders visibly. They are nothing but problems, near-infinite expanses of land just waiting for someone to get lost in, you know. It disgusts me. There’s no reason for it! Sure, it gives the character more freedom, more ability to explore the unknown, but that’s precisely the issue! It’s the unknown, how preposterous is that? It could lead to a number of disasters: you getting injured, for example, and it would be my fault! Could you imagine that? It is a completely absurd thought, and should be considered illegal, in my obviously very correct opinion. But of course–

“Couldn’t you just reset or teleport me back to the starting point if I got lost?” Stanley interrupts casually.

The Narrator pauses, features arranged in utter disbelief about the fact Stanley would dare interrupt one of his passionate rants. He struggles to pull himself together.

Well– yes, I technically could, but that isn’t the point! It is fundamentally poor worldbuilding, and structure, and anything could go wrong, which is– The Narrator cuts himself off and groans, face twisting into a snarl. Stanley, you messed up my entire rant, it’s rubbish now. But of course, I expect that from you.

Stanley allows himself to be a little smug, ignoring the man’s scorn.

“So I take it you aren’t leaving then?”

No, obviously not.

“Okay,” He sighs, a little disappointed. He turns back to the buttons and stares at ‘Teleport,’ imagining the look on the Narrator’s face that would transpire if he pressed it without warning.

So, naturally, he concentrates on Sportsball and how fun pushing the life-sized balls around are, and how great it would be to be there now, and pressed it.

The center monitor cuts to black, and Stanley grins once the scene loads in, seeing the surprise on the older man’s face as he freezes. He blinks after a moment, the nonplus look replaced with a pissed expression.

God, Stanley, a warning next time, perhaps?

Stanley hums neutrally. “Maybe.”

The Narrator pinches his nose. You are insufferable.

“So you’ve told me,” He says dryly. The Narrator sneers.

Then perhaps you should get it through your thick head that I am not exaggerating, and it would grant us both a break if you stopped acting like an audacious child.

This is precisely why you should never have been granted a voice.

Stanley twists his face in disgust. “I was given a voice because we switched roles. Would you rather be alone in the office now, with no one to tell or narrate your story?”

The Narrator humphs , narrowing his eyes. He crosses his arms.

“Yeah, thought so,” Stanley scoffs. “You don’t like it so much when you’re the one mute, do you?”

Of course I bloody don’t, Stanley! My voice is literally what makes me, me! It’s pathetic, me being reduced to having to think things to you. The Narrator, unable to speak or narrate his own story. He scoffs. Completely ludicrous. Who the hell would call one a narrator when he can’t bloody talk?

“Yeah, it sucks, doesn’t it,” Stanley says pointedly.

If you are attempting to make me feel sympathy , Stanley, it won’t work. I have no reason to be sympathetic towards you.

Stanley opens his mouth to speak, but the Narrator begins to look around, and his mood immediately switches on a dime.

Ah, Ro- I mean, Sportsball! Hm. It really doesn’t seem as appealing when there’s no ball present, does it? Can you perhaps make it appear?

If the Narrator thought he would miss the almost-slip up, he thought wrong.

“What did you say?” Stanley asks skeptically.

Whatever do you mean, my boy? I’m simply asking you to have the ball drop in. Simply press the ‘Produce’ button again to summon it.

“No, you were about to call this game something else. Is it not really Sportsball?”

Of course it’s Sportsball, though I don’t exactly see the ball anywhere right now, which of course is a rather salient component; perhaps that is what’s contributing to your confusion.

“No, it’s not,” Stanley says more forcefully this time, starting to get irritated. “What’s it actually called?” The Narrator sighs.

Oh, fine, Stanley, if you truly must know, the game is called Rocket League. The man projects grumpily.

“Rocket League…? I don’t see any rockets.” He frowns. “What’s with people naming games about things that aren’t in it?”

The Narrator looks unimpressed.

“What?” Stanley demands. “I’m being honest!”

You are positively hopeless.

Stanley is even more baffled by this. He doesn’t even say anything for a few moments, befuddlement nearly rendering him speechless.

Well, The Narrator brings his fist in front of his mouth to clear his throat, probably out of habit, because he scowls when the action doesn’t produce noise.

Are you, at any point, going to summon the dominant feature of this game?

“Sure. But tell me what the game is if I do it.”

Is it not self-explanatory? The Narrator raises an eyebrow.

“I just want to know why it’s called ‘Rocket League’ when there’s no rockets!” Stanley says, which is a very reasonable thing to ask for, might he add. He thinks the name ‘Sportsball’ suits it better.

Very well.

“Good,” He nods, then looks over the buttons and pushes ‘Produce.’ He watches as the giant Sportsball- Rocket League ball appears in the sky, falls, and bounces a couple times before coming to a standstill in the center of the field.

The Narrator’s eyes light up immediately, his slitted pupils expanding the slightest bit as he jogs to the ball in a timely manner.

Stanley stares at the worker’s face, torn between bitterness and… some other feeling he can’t quite place. It’s not any sort of fuzziness in his heart, nor endearment toward the cat-like man, god forbid something like that ever developing, but perhaps some sort of curiosity. Yeah, that seems to be the right term. The man actually looks happy to see the giant ball in front of him; a look so contrasting to his usual scowl, or grouchiness, or irate expressions.

Oh, I do rather enjoy this game! I’ll admit, it’s quite fun, watching you push around a ball as tall as you are with your hands, trying to get it in the goal.

I truly don’t know what exactly is different about this ending; normally the sight of you and all your unreasonable curiosities and whimsy leaves me perpetually irritated, but here I just can’t feel that way, like something is preventing me. Until the script calls for me to stop it, of course.

I’ll be honest, though, I didn’t expect the ball to be quite so erm… big in person.

He has to nearly crane his neck to see the top of it. The Narrator squints.

No matter, I certainly won’t be pushing it around anyway.

“Why not?” Stanley asks genuinely, because it really is pretty fun, until the Narrator ruins it with having all of them disappear under the statement of ‘This is my game, what I say goes’ and all that bullshit (truthfully, Stanley just thinks he was jealous he didn’t get to be in the employee’s place).

Because, pushing the ball around, trying to get it in a goal, to win the game, having fun playing a game that isn’t mine is your job, Stanley, not mine. I’m certainly not childish enough to go around trying to get a ball in a goal, as if it’s actually worth the time and effort.

“Come on, it’s a game, it’s meant to be played,” Stanley all but whines at the monitor.

Yes, but it isn’t my game. By default, that makes the game lesser, obviously. It’s childish; immature. I might just have a small rest or walk around instead.

Stanley rolls his eyes and huffs out a sigh of irritation. Fine, if the stubborn asshole didn’t want to play the game he was so insatiable about, that’s fine with him. Not like he cared, anyway.

“Okay, whatever. I’ll just take the ball away then,” He replies casually. The Narrator stiffens.

Well I don’t want you to do that, either.

“Well, clearly you don’t want to play it…” He trails off intentionally, conveying a tone of indifference.

Yes, but-

The Narrator all but groans.

Fine. I will play it, just once.

“Fine with me,” Stanley grins. He presses the ‘Produce’ button again, and from the air appears fifteen more balls. The Narrator looks up in alarm.

Will you, for god’s sake, stop pressing things without warning me first?!

There’s numerous thuds as the balls land and bounce slightly at differing times, and Stanley presses the button one more time, producing a ball right above the Narrator with a glint of mischief in his eye.

The Narrator immediately hears the summon and looks up, eyes widening, before giving a desperate, soundless yelp and sprinting out of the way as the ball just misses him. It bounces harmlessly away from the man.

He’s breathing heavily, with still a frantic look to him, now mixing with rage, and it’s all Stanley can do not to bust out laughing as his ears turn red and pupils retract back to their normal shape.

What in the bloody hell, Stanley?! What in the world is wrong with you? Are you trying to crush me?!

“No, ‘course not,” He says between giggles, the amusement creeping into his voice. The Narrator turns redder in embarrassment, the warm hue now painting his cheeks, and Stanley does his best to try to calm himself down.

“I couldn’t resist.”

Well now I’m certainly not pushing it. Absolutely wondrous work, Stanley, you’ve managed to screw it up once more . Stanley shrugs to himself. He doesn’t really care that much anymore, he’s just happy he got at least one entertaining thing out of the Narrator.

“Alright. Well. What are you gonna do now then?”

The man turns around and observes his environment, pointedly ignoring the multitude of balls littering the field. He nods to himself, and begins walking towards the edge of the circular field.

I think I’ll have a rest here on the boundary.

“Boring,” Stanley mutters. The Narrator huffs, but continues walking. Stanley almost considers summoning another ball on top of him, just to see the look on his face, but he thinks the joke has run thin.

The Narrator reaches his destination quickly enough, and plops himself down on the grass with his back leaning against the wall. He looks peaceful, and stares out into the field.

Stanley hums obnoxiously, already bored after several moments just watching the man sit there. The Narrator scowls in disapproval.

See, this is exactly the problem with you. You simply always need something to entertain you, to have anything moving right in front of your face so you don’t get bored. I could dangle a marble in front of your face for hours, and you would be watching it swing back and forth with insatiable interest, and that’s all it would take I presume.

You humans just need to constantly be doing something, anything, to keep moving, to hustle and run about, due to your astonishingly short attention spans, for absolutely  no reason at all. It’s quite frankly absurd.

Stanley frowns, furrowing his brows. That isn’t really true, isn’t it? Stanley has spent quite a few astonishingly large amounts of time sitting in one place… doing nothing, really. Now that he thinks about it, it’s usually the Narrator who’s impatient with him, spouting on about how he needs to get on with the story, and he’s wasting time, to the point where he’ll start shouting, doing anything to get Stanley to budge. Eventually he just ended up fucking off to go do… whatever it is he did when he wasn’t narratoring. Maybe going into whatever rooms are beyond the door?

Stanley widens his eyes, swiveling around in his chair– keeping his hands firmly on the bucket so it doesn’t fall from his lap– to once again see the plain white door several feet from him.

He forgot about that.

He turns his head back slowly to the monitor.

“Narrator, what’s beyond the door?”

The Narrator’s previously zoned-out eyes come back into focus. He pulls a strange face, almost… self-conscious? Or even sheepish? That… really doesn’t seem like him.

Er, well, there are a few rooms. Each time you open the door, it leads directly to a different one.

Strangely vague. Hm.

“Okaay, and, what are they? How many rooms are there? How do I get a specific one?” He asks pointedly.

Well, just ask me all the questions about it then, instead of figuring it out for yourself, he projects sarcastically. He hesitates, a strange look on his face, like he’s deciding whether or not to inform him of something.

But, I suppose I’ll tell you: if you don’t think about a certain one you want to enter, it will automatically choose a room at random.

Stanley waits for more. After a few moments of nothing but a blank Thoughts Screen, he shrugs. “That’s good enough for me,” Stanley stands up, stretching his arms with the bucket still in his hands, and places the object on its cushion, before giving it a small pat and turning back to the monitor.

“Just, don’t get up. I don’t know how long I’ll be, so that would be good,” Stanley says with a small nod.

The Narrator has no reaction to his words. He just continues to look out into the field with a pondering look on his face, having seemingly not heard him. Stanley frowns, perplexed. He looks down at the chair seat, and slowly lowers himself back in it.

“Just, don’t move, yeah?” He asks louder this time.

The Narrator rolls his eyes. Fine, whatever you say goes. Just try not to take too long, for my sake.

“Mhmm,” Stanley hums.

Interesting.

It seems getting out of his seat makes it so Stanley is unable to be heard by his Protagonist. He wonders how that works. Magical gaming chair , He thinks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

And with that, he turns around once more to the plain white door in front of him, positively waiting to be opened.

Chapter Text

Stanley doesn’t know what he expected, but a closet was certainly not it. It’s a walk-in, and quite full, too. The drawers are white, with a long shelf atop them. The shelves are split in half evenly, with various assorted items, shoes, and clothing articles lining them. There are dozens of hangers, every one of them full. The walls are painted a pale green like the office; the back wall, which has a giant, full-body mirror mounted in the center of it is the same, the green just a tad darker, and a white ceiling. The giant mirror nearly fully covering the back wall seems a bit excessive, but then again when is the Narrator not?

There’s no ceiling light or light switch, much like The Narrator’s office, so the room’s light seems to be coming from nowhere, even though the space is perfectly illuminated.

The Narrator had told him he had an assortment of suits, but Stanley didn’t think he meant… well, this.

It’s not just suits on the hangers either, there are collared and button down shirts of various colors, turtleneck sweaters and regular sweaters, solid-colored and patterned… but mostly different kinds of suits.

Stanley looks down at his own outfit. Yeah, he’s due for a change out of this ugly yellow, he thinks. Apart from this atrocious suit… he has to admit the Narrator has some style. He huffs, a little irritated. Why would he have the need for so many clothes, anyway? He doesn’t need them for anything; the man’s only job is to sit in one room, narrating Stanley’s actions and not being seen by him. Who the hell would he need to dress up for? And why didn’t Stanley ever get a change of outfits? It seemed a bit unfair. He’d been stuck with the same work attire for years and didn’t even know changing out of it was an option. He gets tired of the same boring shirt every day for that span of time, believe it or not.

Stanley takes some time inspecting the clothes. He opens the drawers and looks at the pants, ties, socks, and other outfits. He observes the shelving with all the shoes, some more folded apparel, and (surprisingly) some jewelry sitting in it, and runs a hand through every shirt or sweater or suit on the hangers. He sees a few blue options. He thinks he could look good in blue.

The reminder that the Narrator is still sitting in Rocket League (he still thinks that name makes no sense) sits in the back of his mind, but he ignores it. The Narrator can spend a few minutes alone; Stanley told him he was going to check the door. He shouldn’t be surprised that the man is taking a bit longer than anticipated. Serves him right for keeping all this from him, anyway.

Eventually he finds something he likes: a nice, medium blue crew neck sweater with a light pattern. Fairly simple, but it’s comfortable, and he doesn’t mind it. He picked out some alright-looking brown pants that matched well enough with the blue, and were comfortable enough too, even if it’s slightly too short, with about an inch or two of his ankle showing after putting it on (the sweater had fit him surprisingly well, with only the neck being slightly wide for him so it rests a bit loosely on his shoulders).

He takes time picking out some socks next, and the Narrator does indeed have a wide variety, all folded and neatly organized in a drawer. Some were simple and plain, but some were brightly colored, flashy, and heavily patterned. Some were low-ankle, some medium, of varied thickness. It didn’t really seem like the Narrator to have so many bold socks like this, but then again, maybe he just wanted to wear something fun to contrast the rest of his outfits. Nothing wrong with that, Stanley figures. Besides, it’s fun, observing the whole collection and deciding which would be the most satisfying to wear. He considers having a mismatched pair, but ultimately decides against it.

He spots one pair of unusual looking socks among the folded variety that make him chuckle. They’re grey, with a yellow snakey line weaving a random path on the footwear, curving and even looping a few times, with the right sock having the base of the Line™, and the left depicting the arrowhead, indicating the end. They had tiny stitched Bucket Destroyers scattered in the empty area around the Line™. It was so silly, he couldn’t help but find them amusing. This would be the pair he wore, he decided.

He also decides he’d really rather not wear shoes, either. There wasn’t really any point in it, he reasoned, and he had a nice-looking pair of socks on, so why would he hide it with shoes that were unnecessary in the first place?

Stanley puts the socks on, and feels complete. A small smile appears on his face, and he looks around the closet one more time. He stares at his reflection for a few seconds, smile dropping, before coming out of the closet (ha ha), and closing the door behind him. He pauses, hand still resting on the door handle.

Stanley grimaces, preparing himself for the long rant that was sure to come from the Narrator after taking longer than thought away from his desk. He almost doesn’t want to go back; first of all, he’d have to see the Narrator again, and second of all, he wanted pretty badly to see what else was behind the door. The Narrator had said there were multiple rooms, after all.

He furrows his brows, hand still lightly gripping the door handle. He doesn’t have to do anything, for the man though, doesn’t he? He doesn’t have to read the whole ramble and lecture the Narrator most likely will project to him when he gets back, about how he should’ve been quicker and thought more of him. He doesn’t even have to go back at all, he can make his own decisions about wanting to go through the door, he’s his own person. The Narrator does not dictate his actions, at least, not anymore. He doesn’t have any authority over him; why should Stanley even want to go back and check on him while he has every right to go ahead and see what else is behind this door?

But, he supposes, he had agreed that he would return to his desk soon, and it’s already been quite a bit of time. He doesn’t exactly care what the man thinks if Stanley decided to leave him, or if he was angry. But he figures he should at least honor his word. He’s better than the Narrator in that way; he would make sure of it.

Stanley sighs. His hand loosens its grip and slides off the handle, and he walks quickly to The Narrator’s chair– no point in dragging his feet– and just before he sits down, he notices the scene playing before him.

The Narrator, despite all of his protests and objections and disapproval at the mere notion, was pushing a ball towards the orange goal, apparently with the intention of scoring. He was playing the game, something that he considered inferior not even that long ago. Stanley’s lips part in surprise.

Despite everything, despite it being the Narrator who he was currently staring at, pushing the ball with both his hands and jogging to keep up with it, a slight grin tugs at his lips. This was so unexpected; how can he not smile at it?

He watches on, not daring to sit, as the man continues to push the ball and jog to keep up with a curious expression on his face, like he’s not sure if he’s enjoying this or not, for a minute or so until he finally scores, the ball falling down below. The Narrator doesn’t look happy about this, rather he looks torn between confused and… well, irritated, for some reason.

Nonetheless, Stanley doesn’t try to decipher it, as the man quickly jogs back to fetch another ball (there are only six left, he counts, out of the previous twenty-or-something) like he’s trying to keep from standing still, keeping himself distracted in some way. Stanley knows that feeling well. He can’t be too sure, though. It doesn’t really seem like the Narrator at all. Maybe he’s reading the situation wrong.

Stanley sits before the Narrator can reach another ball.

“Nice goal,” He praises brightly. The Narrator jumps, his features, originally pinched in concentration, now morph into surprise. Stanley’s mouth quirks up again.

Stanley! Er… how long have you been there? Have you been watching me? The Narrator looks pissed off, but also sort of uneasy about having been caught pushing the balls around.

“Just long enough to see you make the goal. I thought you didn’t want to push the balls around, as you emphasized, since the game is obviously lesser than you,” The last part he says with dripping sarcasm (it appears that’s the one thing he and the Narrator have in common).

Well, Stanley, I was only playing it

The sentence is off on the yellow screen as the Narrator, seemingly remembering something, slowly grows a look of resentment. Here it comes , Stanley thinks sullenly. Sure, nothing was forcing him to read off the long rant that the Narrator was most certainly about to deliver, but it still wouldn’t exactly be pleasant to have to sit through it, even if he was able to ignore it now.

Why on bloody earth did you take so long, Stanley?! I told you, do not take long , for my sake! I didn’t say that only for nothing, you know. Did you even consider–

The words cut off again, as the Narrator looks torn between saying something or not. He lets out a sharp breath through his nose and opens his mouth, before closing it again.

Did you not stop to consider the effects it would have of you leaving for so long?!

The Narrator looks very angry, as he usually does and it’s something Stanley has grown accustomed to, even after this relatively short time, but something else is in that expression, too. Not exactly fear, but, the Narrator looks almost unsure, or even the faintest bit desperate.

Stanley stares at the words for a moment, then back to the Narrator. Slowly, the dots connect in his mind.

“...Oh. Right,” He says slowly, fidgeting with his sleeve. The Narrator somehow looks more irate, like he expected this of him.

I bet that thought never formed once in your hollow mind, did it?

Truthfully, it did not. He doesn’t exactly feel guilty, because, well, he doesn’t blame himself for not remembering; it had been a long time ago. But something close to it, definitely. He frowns sympathetically. Suddenly what the Narrator said earlier in the room of exposed developer textures makes sense to him.

“No, it didn’t,” He admits, ignoring the insult, and the Narrator scoffs. “But I’m here now. I can stay… for a little while longer, I guess, before I look in another room.”

Where had you gone off to in all that time, anyway?

“Uh…” He trails off, not immediately inclined to tell him exactly where the door had led him to, for reasons he’s not entirely sure of.

The Narrator senses Stanley’s hesitance and miraculously, doesn’t push. Maybe it’s because he’d been a tad emotional earlier, maybe not, but either way, he lets it go and just sighs.

Alright Stanley. You don’t have to tell me right away, then, if you truly wish not to.

“Oh, alright,” Stanley replies, a bit surprised. “Are you going to push any more balls? No judgment if you do, I know what it’s like to want– need to stay distracted,” He tries to convey a sympathetic tone; maybe it’ll rub off on the stubborn man. Most likely not.

The Narrator’s nose wrinkles. I am perfectly well now, Stanley. Don’t even attempt to sympathize with me. I won’t be playing this game any longer, so you might as well get rid of these balls now.

“Fine,” He sighs, the small hope that the Narrator might agree with him shattered. Regardless of what he said, Stanley thinks of smaller balls than those present, and pushes ‘Produce.’ Ten more balls, half the size of the regular ones, appear from the sky, and the Narrator isn’t startled this time, just looks annoyed.

I just told you not to – oh, never mind. Go do whatever it is you need to do, I’ll obviously be here. He crosses his arms, looking at the half-sized balls around him with disdain.

“Just in case you change your mind, and these are smaller for you so you can move around easier,” Stanley tries to explain, and realizes what he may have implied only just after it comes out of his mouth. Oops.

The Narrator looks more than a little offended by this, but Stanley doesn’t bother reading the next words quickly appearing on the screen.

“I’ll be back sooner this time, I’m gonna go open the door again,” He nods to himself, and gets out of his chair. Stanley, again, doesn’t bother reading the Narrator’s next words, which he knows might be slightly cruel, but he doesn’t really care that much; he’s much too eager to see what else might lie behind the door.

He opens it, expecting to maybe find an impressive room full of interesting items, or at least something to do with computers and controls or some other means of operating in the Parable; the Narrator’s measly metal plate of about twenty or so buttons and switches and the black monitor of coding, while plenty useful, cannot be the only operating devices for this ‘game.’

But what he actually finds is much more baffling than any sort of closet or control room he could’ve stumbled into.

The room is about the same size as the closet, that is to say, not too large, which he’s extremely grateful for, looking around. Various medieval weapons (not that Stanley knows what the term ‘medieval’ means) fill glass shelving lined against the left wall, waist height; different kinds of swords, daggers, axes (some of them double sided), spiked clubs and bludgeons and more, all neatly organized in lines, the different categories of weapons grouped together and separated by gaps. Above the shelves are two mounted crossbows, each with an arrow inside.

To the right, more traditional medieval racks (again, not that Stanley would know exactly what that means ) hold longer swords and axes and spears, and many other really sharp and dangerous things that Stanley has never seen before. A flamethrower is mounted above those, mirroring the crossbows on the opposite end.

 A display case sits against the center of the back wall, and in it is a large metal cylindrical object with a circular opening, sitting atop a wooden base with wheels (this was in fact, a mortar, though Stanley doesn’t know what that is any more than he knows what ‘medieval’ means).

Stanley stands completely still, too dizzied to move. The door closes behind him after a moment and he presses himself up against it, breath faltering to a stop as he takes in the terrifying room full of super dangerous things that could easily fucking kill him. His eyes soak in the room’s contents with frozen dread, and his head is buzzing nonstop with thoughts of: oh my god what the fuck is this what the hell why is this here why does he have this is that a fucking cannon in the case–

Stanley gasps for breath after several seconds, turns around, hastily opens the door and rushes back into the office, slamming the door behind him and attempting to catch his breath. His mind is still racing, he can’t comprehend what he saw in there; why the fuck would that be there?!

Slowly, Stanley’s breathing calms down, and his chest isn’t heaving anymore. He can think more clearly, the terror has slightly subsided, but his steps are still a little shaky as he makes his way back to his chair and sits down. It’s another moment before he speaks; the Narrator is lying on his back in the grass, but Stanley hardly pays attention to that.

The Narrator, apparently hearing Stanley’s labored breathing, sits up, a growing look of confusion on his face.

Stanley, what

“Why the fuck do you have a room full of fucking weapons sitting around?!” Is the only thing he can think to shout. The Narrator winces. He waits a moment, then sighs as one does when they get caught and realize there’s nothing they can do about it.

I knew you would find the room at some point, but there is really no need to be so dramatic about it. It really isn’t as dreadful as you might think, Stanley.

“What the actual fuck?!” Stanley genuinely doesn’t know how to respond to that. The Narrator continues to look unimpressed, and a few words appear on the yellow screen beside him, but he doesn’t look at it, a horrible thought forming in his head as he once more ponders the room.

“W- were you planning on using them on me?” He asks squeakily, not sure if he wants to hear the answer. If the Narrator’s response is a no, then great, but if it’s a yes…

To his relief however, the Narrator looks immediately appalled at this idea.

Goodness, no! Good god Stanley, that’s quite a morbid suggestion. I merely collect them, how the hell did you even come up with that notion?

He sighs. “Okay. I was just making sure…”

Besides, my boy, if I ever truly wanted to put my weapons to use against you, I would have done it a long time ago! No sense in me waiting if that was my intention, after all.

Stanley swallows. That’s… somewhat helpful to know. Maybe. Definitely not worrying, or scary at all. He forces himself to think better of it.

“Alright. Good,” He says. The Narrator nods, seemingly not noticing the worry in his tone.

“So, if you aren’t planning to use them…” Stanley frowns. “Why the fuck do you have them? And that thing in the display case.”

You mean the mortar, Stanley.

“Right,” He says dryly. “So, why do you have it.”

The Narrator actually has the nerve to laugh. No sound is produced, of course, but Stanley is still taken back by it, and annoyed.

I told you, I merely collect them. It’s been a long while since I have added to it, but if I happened to come across one, or learn about another type of weapon, I would bring another into the room. The man looks somewhat proud of this.

“Where do you even find stuff like that?” Stanley asks incredulously.

The Narrator tilts his head. Here and there.

“Wh-” He stops himself. There’s a small pause. “Right.”

The Narrator looks satisfied with this, and Stanley just sighs. He opens his mouth, but the man straightens up, looking like he just thought of something very important, or worrying. Or both.

You didn’t touch anything, did you, Stanley?

Stanley gets the urge then to lie and say that he did, but decides the truth is probably easier. “No. I got the fuck out of there the minute I took everything in,” He says somewhat forcefully. He feels angry all of a sudden, though doesn’t know why. He doesn’t really care.

The Narrator sighs, not noticing the exasperation. Good. Don’t.

He fights the urge to scoff. Of course Stanley won’t fucking touch it, he doesn’t even want to look at it. A collection full of numerous, very threatening weapons designed to hurt and kill, just lying around on display? Hell no. He won’t ever be going in that room, thank you very much.

He hums neutrally instead. “Right. I’m leaving again, then. Is there anything else I should know before I go? Anything I need to be warned about. Please tell me,” His tone switches to slightly desperate; he really doesn’t want to find anything like that ever again. If the Narrator had a whole room collection of weapons for seemingly no reason at all , who knows what other horrible stuff he might be keeping behind the door.

The Narrator hesitates. There’s an audible silence for several seconds, with nothing appearing on the translucent screen. Then he shakes his head.

Stanley stares at him, distrusting. “Are you sure?” He enunciates.

Yes, I am sure, Stanley. I… don’t want to be left alone too long, you obviously know that. Just go. I’ll be here when you get back again.

“Fine.” He still doesn’t fully trust the man, but he knows he won't get anywhere by pushing. He just hopes he won’t find anything too terrible.

So, Stanley gets up from his seat, and watches the Narrator carefully for a few moments to see if he might change his mind. The man just goes back to lying on the ground and gazing upwards, a distant look to him. The Narrator doesn’t blink often, Stanley notices.

He gets bored soon enough, and decides he should just suck it up and take the gamble. What’s the worst that can happen? Definitely something bad , He thinks sourly. He opts to ignore it. He’s pretty accustomed to bad, anyway.

Well, here goes nothing. Stanley takes a few steps to the door, turns the handle, and opens the door for the third time, preparing for the worst.

Instead of walls, however, or lights, or any sort of room greeting him, beyond the threshold is nothing but pitch black as far as he can see. There doesn’t even seem to be a floor , or any other physical dimensions , just… a void.

Stanley stares into the nothingness, a sense of unease creeping up his spine. He gets a bad feeling from it.

But… it might be a room, right? Perhaps it is one, or a hallway, and the lights are simply turned off. There might be a switch to flick only a couple feet into it, and that would activate the lights. He’s probably only feeling this dread because he expected something bad, previously.

The rational part of him says that doesn’t quite make sense. The office, and the two previous rooms have no apparent or visible light source (apart from the lamp on the smaller table), but the rooms are still lighted perfectly regardless. Why would this be any different?

But at the same time, who would he be if he didn’t at least explore? He’s Stanley, his whole job is to explore, to venture into the unknown and find out what to make of it. It’s in his nature to try out new paths, no matter how ominous or creepy they seem. Besides, it’s just darkness. Stanley doesn’t especially like darkness, but it isn’t the scariest, or worst thing he’s ever experienced.

So, with a deep breath, he ignores that sense of dread growing stronger in his gut, and walks forward into the blackness.

Immediately he knows something is wrong. His feet don’t land on a floor; in fact, he doesn’t think there is one, but he’s still standing, like he’s standing on something but nothing at the same time; floating but also not. He feels a sharp wave of panic, and tries to turn around to leave. This is not right; he should never have crossed the door frame.

But to his horror, Stanley finds he can’t move. His heart rate increases at this realization; he can’t twist his body, and it actually seems like he’s slowly moving forward rather than backward, despite not moving his feet. He can’t see a single thing, besides the light shining from the office behind him.

Even worse: he feels like his throat is closing up, rather all of him being squeezed and his throat along with it. He can’t breathe; he’s being suffocated by the darkness enveloping him like a tight embrace, but at the same time he feels numb.

His mind is a blur of panic, the light seems to grow smaller and he realizes he’s the one moving farther away from it, ever so slowly, and he can’t make himself stop. He wants to cry, but nothing forms in his eyes. Stanley can’t move his mouth, to cry for help despite there being no one and nothing to rescue him.

Stanley can’t breathe, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe and he’s frozen, his body being compressed by some sort of pressure and feeling nothing, and with gripping horror he sees the light from behind slowly narrowing as if the office door is closing itself. Soon, if he can’t get out of here, it’ll be completely shut and he’ll be trapped, swallowed and consumed by this endless abyss.

His eyes widen– at least he can move those– and he forces himself to move, tries with everything he has, to no avail. Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god oh god no–

This can’t happen to him; not after everything. The Narrator will have no idea where he’s gone– or maybe he will, because he certainly knows about this place and Stanley’s stomach turns to lead as he realizes the Narrator could have warned him about this, but he didn’t and now Stanley is going to die and it’s all his fault, he can’t breathe he can’t think he only wants to get out of here please someone help me get out of here–

He can’t turn around, but he knows the office door is nearly closed; what’s visible is merely a small slice of light. He can only stare straight ahead, watching helplessly as his only exit slowly disappears. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’ll be trapped in a few seconds and he doesn’t know what will happen to him then. He can’t stay like this forever.

He opens his eyes, and miraculously, as the light is only the tiniest sliver, the last crack of hope Stanley has in the suffocating endless space, it stops moving. His heart stutters; surely not–

And then the door behind him is wrenched open, Stanley watches as the light expands largely. He feels his body being jerked to a halt; he’s stopped moving further into the void. And, before he can process what is happening, he’s tugged backwards so fast his head spins. He falls backward onto the office floor, and the door slams shut in front of him.

Stanley gasps instantly, clutching his throat as he hyperventilates, not bothering to pull himself up off the ground.

Fleetingly he wonders who the hell– or what– could’ve just saved him, but he doesn’t care. Not in the slightest, he’s just so fucking grateful he was. Stanley gasps once more and closes his eyes, feeling his cheeks dampen with tears he can’t contain any longer. That was without a doubt the most terrifying thing he’s experienced in all his time in the Parable; scarier than the first time he activated the Countdown Ending.

Stanley sobs, still feeling faintly as if he’s being compressed. He can feel himself trembling slightly, and pulls his knees to his chest to hug himself, so very grateful that whatever pulled him out was fast enough. He was nearly out of time; he has a feeling that if that door closed, it would never open again.

He stays sitting on the floor for a long time, rocking slightly back and forth– an action that had grown to comfort him in the office building– thankful he has a floor at all now. Eventually he pulls himself up slowly, and with a shaky breath hauls himself to the monitor.

Stanley doesn’t sit down, and, feeling a surge of anger rise in his chest, stares directly at the stupid fucking face of that horrible Narrator, laying on the floor contentedly, completely unaware of the traumatic event that just took place for his only other companion.

He could’ve prevented this. The Narrator could have prevented this if only he said one fucking sentence, one warning that he shouldn’t go into the darkness. It didn’t even have to make sense; he could’ve said it then, and Stanley would have understood that later. But he didn’t, for some fucking reason he didn’t tell Stanley, and he had suffered all because the man chose to stay silent. He doesn’t understand. Did he think Stanley would not have gone into it when he saw the abyss? Had he known that something would pull him out if he did? Why would he risk losing the only person that can keep him company here– as he resents being alone in the first place– only because he hated him? He knows the Narrator despises him with a passion, but this was so fucking low, even for him.

He clutches the sleeve of his sweater tightly and breathes, trying to calm his unsteady breath. In, and out. Stanley has had experience with dealing with the Narrator being an inconsiderate asshole, he can get through this. He can be rational, even if he has every right to shout and scream at the man for having indirectly put him through that awful experience. But he chooses not to. He doesn’t want to yell, any more than he wants to be yelled at. He sighs wearily.

I’ll be rational, He tells himself firmly, and lowers his body onto the seat. He takes a breath, preparing to speak, and his blood boils again as he sees the employee sit up in the grass, looking relieved that he’s back. Stanley doesn’t bother pondering the implications of that– the Narrator has no right to be relieved.

“You–” His voice cracks. Be rational. Stanley forces himself to stay calm. “You didn’t warn me. Why the– why the hell didn’t you warn me about it?”

The Narrator understands after a moment. The faintest smirk appears on his face. Found the abyss, have you?

“You fucking bastard, why are you– why are you smug?” He takes a deep breath. “I could’ve died in there. You would’ve been alone forever,” Some desperation leaks through his otherwise even tone, and he hates it.

The Narrator frowns at that, as if pondering. Stanley wants to scoff– he doesn’t.

You went inside? Frankly, I didn’t see any reason to inform you of it. I figured you wouldn’t be unreasonable enough to venture into complete nothingness, so I kept it to myself.

Once again Stanley is reminded of how much he hates that fucking man. “You know I didn’t know what would happen if I went in there,” He hisses. “You can’t actually have thought I wouldn’t try to explore. Me. You risked me dying, just because what, you hate me? That’s the reason?”

Hm, I’ve never actually experienced it personally. I’ve only been told what might happen if I for some reason, did. How was the experience?

“You– it was awful,” Why is the Narrator being so utterly nonchalant about this? Stanley doesn’t even know what to say to him. Nothing he could tell him would convince him that he did something terrible. The Narrator refuses to admit he does anything wrong in the first place, that egotistical moron.

His resolve breaks in two. “You are so fucking shitty! Why can’t you at least be decent for once?! I did nothing! Fucking nothing to deserve this shit you put me through! I’m only going along with this stupid game because I have no other choice, why do you have to make this hell for me every godforsaken chance you have?” He breathes hard, silently scolding himself for losing his cool again.

The Narrator is unfazed. He crosses his arms and looks around the circular field.

I think I’ll complete this ending now. It isn’t really serving me as much joy as it did previously. A shame, really.

Stanley stares in disbelief as the man walks leisurely to the blue goal. He doesn’t know why he keeps getting surprised by the Narrator’s apathetic reactions anymore. He’s grown used to them, so why does it still feel like a blow to the chest nearly every single time? It’s not even really that, it’s just… he doesn’t know. Even after everything, he still expects some form of rationality or sympathy. Stanley really wishes he didn’t. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t keep hurting himself like this.

Stanley is silent as the Narrator peers down the large opening with a thoughtful expression.

The Narrator walks forward into the hole soon after, and Stanley watches on glumly. He has no choice but to go along with the Narrator’s decisions, just as the opposite was true for the past. He has to be adaptable if he has any hope of staying sane in the Parable; it’s the only way to live in this realm. And Stanley wishes– for the millionth time it seems– that this existence could somehow be different for the both of them.

Chapter Text

Stanley doesn’t talk as the Narrator falls; he watches him, preparing for the screen to cut or fade to black or some other thing restricting him from seeing the man at the bottom.

He wonders idly if the Narrator could see Stanley’s thoughts when he falls to the bottom, as the loading screen appears, then passes. The Narrator is still falling, the expression on his face clearly showing that he does not like the unfamiliar sensation. The further he falls, the more Stanley’s frown deepens; he grows confused. Shouldn’t he not be able to follow the Narrator down here?

The Narrator hits the ground with a small thud. He opens his eyes, looking relieved to be on solid ground again. He starts walking instantly, a nonchalant look on his face. Stanley’s eyebrows pinch as he realizes why he can follow the employee down here.

“Narrator,” Stanley says finally, after several seconds of silence, the yellow screen blank, and he realizes the Narrator is not going to initiate conversation or explain himself.

The Narrator keeps walking; the Thoughts Screen reads: Hmm?

Stanley makes a noise of irritation. “You lied. You can follow me down here.”

The Narrator smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Congratulations, Stanley, what a stark and wonderful observation you have made here. Shall I give you a round of applause for your spectacular detective work?

“Save it,” He snaps, growing more hostile by the passing moment. “Why would you lie to me about that? What the fuck else are you lying to me about? Or hiding from me. I’m tired of you keeping things from me. I’m the only other person in this goddamn place with you, tell me what else you’re hiding.” He’s angrier than what is probably rational in this situation– this lie has never harmed him, in fact a part of him is grateful for it, as down here was one of the few places that he could go to temporarily escape the voice if he really needed a break– but he can’t help it. After all, what took place mere minutes ago as the result of the Narrator keeping precious information from him, nearly killed him.

Stanley, you really needn’t get all worked up about this, it’s not as though I’ve harmed you. Though, I obviously would not be opposed to such an idea now that it is apparently extremely imperative to you. You were just fine walking around here alone, with no one to guide you– granted, not always, I am aware. But at this point, you are just acting like an unreasonable child, as per usual; getting angry at me for such a minute thing.

“Why, though?”

The Narrator rolls his eyes. I would have thought you figured it out now, my boy. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected such an apparently difficult task to be completed by you without my help. I am following the script, of course! You understand what the meaning of this ending entails, correct?

“Yes,” He says sharply, choosing the safer response as opposed to shooting back another insult. He doesn't elaborate. 

He’s thought about this ending extensively. The Narrator’s short speech that arrives after he reaches his office and his vision cuts to black, it always enraged him. He doesn’t like pondering about it. The man is so egomaniacal, so arrogant as to proudly declare that Stanley cannot survive on his own, not without a companion to guide him, and write and lead his stories, more specifically the Narrator himself. 

What made him even more rageful, was that deep down Stanley knew part of it was right. He’d rather have a narrator guiding his actions in a place like this than be alone forever, traversing the empty halls without a single aid to help him feel less alone. He figures the Narrator must know this, too. And he is proved horribly, begrudgingly right, as Stanley fell into the abandoned area and made his way through the decaying halls alone, dark and devoid of any feeling and light to occupy its walls.

It would sometimes make Stanley feel better being alone in there, without the Narrator to pester him and he could take as long as he wanted, so long as he didn’t venture to the faux, dark version of his office and walk out of it. 

And it would sometimes leave him with an eerie, ghostly feeling or cold dread he couldn’t shake off no matter how much he wanted to. He knew the implications of it, too: without a narrator, everything would be left to decay, bereft of soul and a story and a point to it all. And Stanley would wander the desolate map, alone and lost and accomplishing nothing.

Then you understand. I need to teach you a lesson. You obviously never take it to heart, don’t take any of my words seriously given how you still act like a disobedient brat and it has never changed. But deep down, I know you know I’m correct. I am not wrong in this situation. You need me; whether you like it or not. And believe me, I don’t enjoy it much either. But it isn’t as if we can choose here, now can we?

“And right now, you need me,” Stanley mutters, and raises his voice slightly. “If you’re correct, and I’m your Narrator right now, then by your own words, you need me. You need me to guide you.”

The Narrator narrows his eyes, slowing his trek through this harsh echo of the office building.

I… do not need you, Stanley. My words have gone right over your head, typically. This ending is supposed to show you that you cannot disobey my script, nor me , without consequence. It is your choice to defy the narrative, and so it is your choice to remain alone forever. I myself, have not chosen to disobey the narrative. I am the narrative. I’ve chosen to come here because you still refuse to obey, to be compliant with me and my script. I give you every impeccable opportunity to follow my commands, and yet you still choose insubordination. You have forced me to diverge from the correct path. We are not the same. You will never say those words to me again; I have never needed you. You are a roach I am able to squash under my foot, no more than a bug to me. You are insignificant. I choose to narrate your story for you. I will never need you, ever.

He reaches the light at the end of one of the hallways, and crosses the corner. Stanley is silent. He swallows, staring at the Narrator. He feels the loathing course through his chest, but it’s almost muted; like he’s gone past the point of pure rage at the indignancy and harshness of the Narrator’s words to him, and to a state of calmness. He refuses to believe the man is right, Stanley knows he is the right one, to some degree he must be, but he thinks it would just be much easier if he didn’t argue back. Again. He wishes he would just feel angrier, though. Feeling somewhat numb makes him think that the Narrator is more correct than not.

The Narrator enters the not-really office of Employee 427 and looks around for a moment, before turning back around and walking straight ahead once again. The screen cuts to black, but instead of the loading screen immediately showing up, the darkness stays. Stanley hits ‘Reset’ before the Narrator can project anything further to him.

The Narrator is transported back to the desk of his employee number; Stanley’s hand hovers over the ‘Wake up’ button. He looks back at the white door. He has a feeling he still hasn’t discovered all the rooms yet.

He thinks of the black abyss, the suffocation, the compression and icy panic it had brought upon him. He’s pretty sure he won’t open to it again if he ‘asks’ the door not to, from what the Narrator told him, but he still shudders to think about it. The apprehension and cold feeling settling in his gut overrules his burning curiosity. He almost presses the button, before thinking of the bucket. He looks up and stares at it, before bringing it over to his lap and patting it again.

The familiar yet refreshing feeling washes over him once again. Stanley has never gotten tired of this feeling, and knows he never will. He smiles, feeling somewhat optimistic about this next run. Maybe it’s simply the bucket’s influence inviting him to think that way, but regardless, he allows himself to keep the thought. He presses the ‘Wake up’ button, and the Narrator snaps his eyes open and stands up, now somewhat accustomed to the process. He walks quickly out of the office, and Stanley finds himself droning the words out before he thinks about it.

“All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean? He decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he had simply missed a memo.”

Good, Stanley, though perhaps you ought to work on your delivery of this line. If you can’t even master this to perfection, you have no hope of achieving the equivalent for any of the other pieces of dialogue. I know we’ve been through this before, but still. Never too late to practice, I say.

Stanley wonders how the man can go from scolding Stanley and making sure he understands just how unimportant he is, to acting neutral, even a hint of a start of friendliness to him, in such a short time. It’s gotten more frequent since they swapped places. Maybe it’s just the result of being in an unfamiliar placement, but still. The Narrator was never this friendly to him (not that Stanley could really call it friendly, but given the Narrator… it is nicer than how he usually acts. Almost like he doesn’t consider Stanley an exasperating pest he has to remind himself not to squash on the daily) outside the script before.

“Right. Will do,” Stanley says automatically, his right hand resting on the bucket. He will certainly not be practicing lines. The Narrator looks satisfied however, at this, and continues down the room.

He speaks when the man enters the two door’s room, too. Once again, the Narrator shows clear reluctance going into the right door. He takes several seconds to stare at it before finally walking in, not faltering this time, though stumbles very minutely once he crosses the threshold. Stanley pretends not to notice and closes the door behind him.

“This was not the correct way to the meeting room, and…”

The Narrator gazes into the maintenance section when he approaches the entrance, but less at the lift this time, and more at the opposite door, like he would like more than anything to cross that door, and get back on track.

“Don’t go in there,” Stanley warns him. The Narrator immediately scowls. “I told you if you went down the Freedom path I would block off the left door. And I know you want to do it.”

The man doesn’t respond, his features still arranged in pure distaste, and, fists balled tightly, tears his eyes away from the maintenance section, forcing himself to continue onward and enter the warehouse.

“Good.”

The Narrator again, gives no response as he enters the building and resolutely keeps his gaze up, preventing it from gravitating to the concrete floor below. This makes Stanley curious. Is… the Narrator afraid of the warhouse? Afraid of the fall, or perhaps simply of heights. Strange. It’s still weird to him to think of the Narrator as being afraid of anything, even after seeing him in human form. Of course, if asked, the man would very adamantly deny that he isn’t scared of it, Stanley, you are being ignorant and dim as always, I mean, to think I could actually be capable of being afraid of something is quite frankly an insult to my dignity. Thankfully, however, I don’t personally take your insults to heart. So thank you Stanley, for your inquiry, but you are remarkably incorrect on that assumption.

Stanley is prepared for him to walk onto the cargo lift, but instead of that, the Narrator turns away from it and climbs onto the cardboard boxes, over the fence, and onto the ledge leading to the Vent Ending. His eyes are trained on the wall and he nearly hugs it, obviously forcing a look of nonchalance. He enters the vent, and his face immediately relaxes as he’s turned away from the outside, and walks faster and into the short fall.

He frowns when the loading screen appears. Huh. Why on earth would the Narrator want to come here?

He still says nothing when the new room is loaded in, the Narrator striding forward and entering it. And Stanley is metaphorically slapped in the face with a certain repeating voice he hasn’t heard in several weeks.

“So far off the beaten path, that it seemed the office had become–”

“So far off the beaten path, that it seemed the office had become–”

The Narrator stands still in front of the desk, listening to his voice coming from the tape player with a more or less blank expression. Stanley doesn’t care, though. The instant he hears that painfully familiar voice, even if it’s simply coming from a recording, he can’t help but grip the bucket’s handle tightly, but it unfortunately does little to aid him right now. His breath stutters, and comes to a stop.

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“So far off the beaten path, that it seemed the office had become–”

Why on earth is Stanley reacting like this? Surely he’s being overdramatic. He’s heard this same supercilious voice from the moment he woke up in the Parable, and it is the only voice he has ever heard in his godforsaken existence, aside from his own since quite recently, and one other woman’s occasionally. It hasn’t even been that long since he heard the Narrator speak, not in terms of the Parable. But he can’t help it.

Stanley remembers to breathe. He inhales shakily, and the Narrator remains in front of the desk, not moving a muscle. He holds the bucket in his lap with both hands, allowing its effects to wash over him and feeling somewhat calmer, though still slightly agitated with the line being repeated.

“Turn it off,” He commands harshly.

“So far off the beaten path, that it seemed the office had become–”

I was waiting for you to say that. The Narrator gives the faintest smirk. However, I haven’t heard my voice in quite a long while, and I believe you need a refresher just as well as I do.

Stanley wastes no time. He presses the ‘Demolish’ button, and the entire table, including the tape player and all its other contents vanish. The Narrator reacts visibly to this, opening his mouth and closing it, narrowing his eyes at Stanley’s audacity.

You are a brat, Stanley.

“I don’t care,” His voice shakes slightly. He composes himself, the incessant voice finally gone. The Narrator allows another smirk to paint his face.

Do I affect you that much, Stanley? Do you fear me so intensely that you begin to quiver at the sound of my voice after you’ve heard it for the sextillionth time in your existence? I always knew you were a coward. You are no less pathetic than since the start of this game.

“Why didn’t you just get rid of me, then?” Stanley shoots back hostilely, letting go of the bucket. “If you hate me so much, why the hell didn’t you just delete me from the game and create a new Protagonist? Don’t you control this fucking place? Don’t you have the ability to do that? Why would you keep me here if I sucked for you that fucking bad?”

The Narrator still just looks disgusted with him. Hot anger rolls in his stomach, and he keeps his eyes focused on that fucking face while he sees everywhere else too, trying to ignore the hurt and confusion of it.

It’s more complicated than that, Stanley. I cannot be rid of you, anymore than I can be rid of the game itself. You are special– though not in a good way, might I add. You are an anomaly. When I created you, I inserted you in the game, and I could not delete you. You know I cannot control you. I lost the ability to delete you once I placed you in the Parable. And obviously you know I cannot kill you permanently, so I was forced to remain with you.

Stanley sighs, rage nearly subsided now. The bucket does have that helpful effect on him, of anger dissipating at a much faster pace than usual. He opts to ask another question instead.

“Why did you come in here then, just listen to your own voice? That’s not egotistical at all,” He mutters sarcastically with an eye roll. The Narrator rolls his own eyes, and Stanley blinks, a sudden spark of irritation in his chest.

No, Stanley. Not entirely. There is… something else about this room. He looks around, seeming perfectly at ease and familiar within the walls and around these tapes. He hesitates for longer than Stanley prefers.

“If you have something to say, tell me,” He all but hisses. “Don’t you fucking keep it to yourself.”

The Narrator pauses, a look of curiosity growing on him.

And what will you do if I don’t tell you?

“You will tell me. Or I’ll make you,” Staley says coldly, meaning it. He’s not exactly sure what he would do, but he would do something. He won’t let the Narrator get away with silence again. He looks down at the bucket, who seems surprised as well. He doesn’t take it back.

~

The Narrator raises a skeptical eyebrow. This was most unlike Stanley to say, and he sounded like he was genuine. too. He supposes going into the abyss must have truly affected him. Still, the Narrator doesn’t regret it.

He looks around the office, holding off on an answer for a few more seconds. The Narrator sighs.

I can travel in this room, Stanley. It is the only room I can personally enter in the Parable. This tape room is separated from the rest of the office building, while still connected obviously, via the loading screen, and means I am able to visit it in person with a command from the Control Room. And I may wish myself out of it as I please.

He’d been hoping that upon entering the room of tapes and recordings, he might have gained at least some semblance of power that he used to possess as The Narrator, or even possibly felt stronger, more connected to the Parable here. If he had, he may have been able to find a way back to his office or even simply wish himself back as he had before, and force Stanley to return to his rightful place as the Protagonist. Also to change out of this undignified outfit when he gets back, too.

However, the moment he stepped foot in the tape room, he knew there is no point in attempting to leave. It wouldn’t work; he feels no different here than what he does in the rest of the Parable. The Narrator knows that there is no way to return by himself; he really is completely stripped of his powers. Now, he is well and utterly trapped in the Parable, just as Stanley had been before.

And doesn’t that just feel wonderful.

The Narrator supposes… well, just because he can’t bring himself back into his office, that doesn’t mean he can’t manipulate Stanley in some way to do it for him. That possibility hasn’t changed, has it? This simply means he’s down to his last option now, so he would need to play his cards well.

Stanley interrupts his train of thought. “You– what? You can visit a room in the Parable? I thought you were confined to your office. Besides what’s past the white door, of course, but… you could have– you could have visited me in person?” 

The Narrator huffs, crossing his arms and feeling more than a little irritated. Stanley’s voice grates in his ears, like tiny nails dragging themselves across a chalkboard surface and drilling into his mind. The sound of it buzzes incessantly like an annoying gnat. It makes him want to cringe, hearing that man speak. No other voice should be heard but the Narrator’s. Stanley is not supposed to be speaking; that is a crucial component of this game!

Regardless, he doesn’t express this. Not out of any sort of kindness for the man, or peace, but rather because he knows there isn’t any point in telling him. It would be impetuous and unnecessary; There’s nothing the Narrator can do to make him stop talking, no matter how much he wants that man to shut up . And the Narrator would rather not waste his time in pointing this fact out.

Would you have liked me to visit you in this room, Stanley?

Stanley starts to speak, he takes a breath, but then pauses. Silence stretches on for a few seconds, and the Narrator takes that time to bend down and pick up one of the tapes lying in a pile on the ground to his left.

He frowns immediately, and turns it over in his hands. When he was Narrator, he could tell, as soon as he picked them up exactly what words are contained in these tapes without needing to physically hear them. Every cassette tape in this office– almost every, anyway– has a different recording within them; nothing substantial, or particularly plot relevant, but the Narrator would occasionally insert some of his own fragment lines or bits of stories into them, or, even less frequently, vent out his frustrations and throw them back into a box, never to be seen again but still there, existing eternally.

“No,” Stanley’s icy tone cuts through the silence after several more moments. The Narrator sets the cassette tape carefully back onto the pile.

Good, then. The feeling is mutual. I could not visit this room while you were occupying it, anyway, even if I had tried.

“G- good. That’s good. But, that doesn’t answer my first question. Why did you come in here, if the whole reason wasn’t to hear your damn voice again play over and over?”

This makes him hesitate again. Stanley can’t know about his true intentions. The Narrator would be damned if he were truly honest about the reason he came here; if he tells the man of his plans to take his place back in his office, he’ll be immediately on guard for any hint of the topic in the future. And he certainly can’t have that for his next plans. So, he makes something up instead.

I wanted to look at the tapes.

The Narrator nearly cringes from that awful excuse his mind had conjured. Really, that? He could have come up with anything else that might have been more plausible to Stanley and his brain chose that?

“You… wanted to look at the tapes. Why?”

The Narrator pulls a sour face. Of course the man has to ask questions about it, too. Stanley can’t help but ask an abundance of meaningless inquiries the moment he doubts a piece of knowledge, especially when the Narrator was the one to offer it.

Perhaps you can form your own inferences as to why a narrator would want to review his own tapes, but I’m not obligated to answer that question, Stanley. Alas, you did eliminate the very tool in order to play back these recordings, so it’s all useless, thanks to you. The Narrator finds himself getting more irritated the more he projects his thoughts to Stanley, something that happens rather frequently, he’s beginning to realize, and the words tumble from his mind in a wave before he can stop himself.

Again. You really can’t help destroying things, can you? Whether it be my story or my script, my good spirits, a room, or an important object, you just cannot help yourself from obliterating it. Everywhere you go, you contaminate. You taint and impair, with your impulsive decisions and your immature actions. You are utterly destructive. You just can’t leave things alone, can’t you?

The Narrator forces himself not to continue. There’s silence, for a moment. Good. Stanley does not deserve to speak. Of course, he needs to at some point, unfortunately, so the Narrator waits for the shouting and spitbacks that are sure to come, residue of the rage and contempt lingering in the back of his mind. He wants to see what the man has to say to that.

He hears an intake of breath, and prepares himself for a jab. Then:

“Why this room?”

The Narrator pauses, caught off guard.

What?

“I said, why here? Why is this room the only room you can enter in personally?” Stanley’s tone is carefully contained, possessing no rage, perhaps merely the slightest edge of bitterness if the Narrator concentrates. He doesn’t answer for a moment, uncrossing his arms.

Oh, I don’t know exactly why, Stanley. I am a narrator, after all, and this room contains cassette tapes that record and play back those words and lines, and, well, surely you can make the connection, yes?

“I guess that makes sense.” And Stanley goes back to being silent.

He wants to ask Stanley why he had ignored the Narrator’s lecture, and demand for the man to acknowledge it and not be a coward, but Stanley apparently seems set on pretending he never read it. Maybe he didn’t read it.

That prospect infuriates him. What, is the Narrator not worthy enough for Stanley anymore to read his thoughts projected straight to him, for him?

“Are you gonna do anything else in this room?” Stanley asks after another minute or so. The Narrator shakes his head, a hateful expression he knows is still plastered on his face, reflective of his current emotion.

“Right. You stay here, and I… I’ll be right back.”

The Narrator’s eyebrow quirks. Alright then. If Stanley was going to go somewhere, he doesn’t exactly know why the man doesn’t just reset, but it seems Stanley isn’t going to talk anymore. The Narrator sighs and sits down, legs crossed, preparing himself to be alone for quite a while once again.

~

Stanley leans back in his seat, muted (he’d pressed a switch on the top row of the small panel, labeled ‘Mute (Narrator)’ ). He places the bucket back onto its podium with a few small pats and turns around. He’s going to go through the door again, he’s decided. Fear lingers in the back of his mind, memories of the void ringing alarm bells in his head at the sight of it, but he convinces himself he won’t get trapped again. He’ll be smarter, and prepared for anything else that might greet him.

So he stands, takes one tentative step towards the white door, and then crosses over to it determinedly. He reassures himself, it’ll be fine. Stanley takes a deep breath and puts one hand on the handle.

Just… anything but the blackness. Any room is fine, just not that, please. He braces himself, and turns it. Immediately, he hears a voice.

“Narrator… what have I warned you about visiting our area–” A woman’s angry yet familiar voice cuts through the silence. Stanley stares as she turns around, the murderous expression on her face morphing to shock, then confusion. Her brown eyes widen as she cuts herself off and notices who is really standing in front of her. “...Stanley?”

Stanley snaps out of it. “H- hey,” He rubs his arm nervously, and tries not to look at the other woman sitting on a rocking chair farther behind her, looking up in curiosity, then surprise. The woman’s– whose Stanley is beginning to recognize as the Curator’s– eyes seem to widen even further. Stanley meets them; they’re a warm sort of brown, the shade matching her curly brunette hair pulled up in a bun, and chocolate-hued skin. She stands there, radiating a certain air of authority that Stanley can’t help but respect. Her lips part.

“You can talk?” She breathes, eyes giving him a once-over. He feels self-conscious all of a sudden, and for some reason gets the feeling that he should be formal around the woman.

He nods, and hesitates. “You’re… the Curator, right? The Narrator told me that was your name, when I asked him.” The Curator stiffens at the mention of the man, but nods carefully.

“I am,” She answers, and doesn’t elaborate, still studying him. It’s getting harder for Stanley not to look back at the woman behind her, now staring at him in blatant curiosity. Stanley smiles nervously.

“I… s- sorry to barge in, ma’am. I didn’t know you would… be here, behind the door,” Stanley breaks the silence, feeling extremely awkward and out of character.

The Curator blinks, then chuckles. Her stony expression breaks, replaced with a more relaxed smile, though her assertive atmosphere doesn’t dissipate. She adjusts her oval glasses, and her eyes obtain an amused and almost fond look to them. Stanley wonders why that is.

“You are very polite, Stanley. I must thank you for that. However, there is no urgency to be formal around me; do not worry yourself.” She pauses, then frowns again. “How on earth are you here? Where is…?” The Curator trails off, a distasteful look on her face. It disappears as quickly as it came. “Is the Narrator in your place?” She asks with slight hesitance, remaining still, and Stanley still standing in the Narrator’s office.

Stanley nods, and relaxes his shoulders. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His head is swimming with questions; he doesn’t know if he should speak or not.

“The Narrator. You… really don’t seem to like him, do you?” He elects to ask. The Curator’s features lower into a scowl, and Stanley, recognizing that growing look, subconsciously prepares for dismissal or anger. He opens his mouth to correct himself.

“I know how he treats you, Stanley,” She says darkly before he can talk, her tone low, and Stanley closes his mouth. He swallows, still sensing the anger in her tone, and forces his muscles to stop tensing up.

The Curator notices this, and softens again. Her body relaxes, the warmth returning to her eyes.

She sighs. “I apologize. I know better than to react with rage,” She meets Stanley’s eyes again. “I am not typically bitter, Stanley. It is usually only when he is mentioned that I grow resentment. I despise the way he treats you, as if you are not a person sometimes.” She pauses, then offers a friendly smile again. “You should enter, should you not? I don’t presume you’ve formally been introduced to Mariella.”

Now Stanley’s eyes dart past the Curator’s shoulders, and he meets the other woman’s gaze. He’s never actually seen Mariella’s face properly, his own always sideways on the concrete ground, lying in a severely uncomfortable position on the pavement. Usually, at the end of that cutscene, he’s thinking about how much he wants to leave, rather than the face of the woman apparently staring down at him. He never gave her much thought, not really, just assumed she was a model, not really a person. Now he sees that’s not the truth; that Mariella may be just as human as him. That thought fills him with a certain emotion he can’t quite pinpoint, like a fuzzy feeling, but also sadness.

He nods, and the Curator moves aside to let him in. Mariella stares at him a moment from her place on the rocking chair, now granted a full view of his face, before smiling hesitantly and offering a small wave, a closed book sitting on her lap. Stanley smiles back, but looks around first. His eyes are drawn to the contents of the large room, or rather, more like a living space. The walls are painted a comforting shade of lilac, and the ground underneath is wooden floorboards, with a large oval rug covering most of it. Potted plants are on either side of the doorway, green and thriving and reminding Stanley of the plant in the employee lounge.

To the right of him is a black coffee table with some mugs and books strewn atop, with a dark green couch behind it, and a large potted plant beside it in the very corner. In the farther right-hand corner lies a bookcase, nearly entirely filled with books, and a few boxes on the bottom shelves; the rocking chair faces the end side of the oval coffee table.

He looks to his left. A desk, not unlike the Narrator’s but slightly simpler, takes up nearly the entire left wall, with enough room for a larger potted plant on each side. Stanley guesses that it's the Curator’s desk. It has the same three monitors, a keyboard and mouse in front of the far right one– though all three of them are black currently– and a small metal plate of buttons and switches on the right, albeit less than the Narrator’s. The only major difference being that this one doesn’t curve onto the adjacent wall.

The homespace gives off, well, a homely, as well as tranquil vibe. Stanley can’t help smiling appreciatively, contentedly as he notes the colorful artworks mounted above the couch, beside the bookcase and the doorway. The only blank part of the room and wall is a rectangular section of the wall straight across from the white door. The Curator, who’s been watching him observe the space with a small smile, notices his slight curiosity.

“The reason the wall is blank in that section, is because it’s not actually a true wall. We both possess no physical necessities for sleep or rest, but occasionally we do get tired– not in the traditional sense, mind you– and would enjoy a nice break lying down. So, beyond that mirage is essentially a small bedroom, with a bed fitted for two and a small table. It is rather cozy, if I may say so. We can simply wish for the wall to disappear, and have complete access to the bedroom beyond.”

Stanley nods thoughtfully, turning back to face her, a smile tugging on his own lips. “I like it.”

The Curator beams. “I am honored that you appreciate our living quarters, Stanley. We are able to change the appearance of our living space, unlike the Narrator; Our jobs require less effort than his, so that means our space is constructed to be more fit for comfortability, rather than merely work. Of course, it still is part of my office, as you can see,” She nods to her desk. “But otherwise, we can choose what is in here, what color the walls or furniture are, or change the furniture itself.”

Stanley nods appreciatively. “It seems like it would be nice.” He means it, though he wonders if it ever gets lonely here, just the two of them to keep each other company in one room forever.

The Curator studies him once more. “It may often feel lonely, yes. Then again, the Parable itself is not exactly the most vibrant, is it? We make do with what we are able,” The Curator tells him, as if reading his mind.

Stanley turns to face her. “I understand. I’m used to feeling lonely,” He shrugs, keeping his tone light. The Curator nods sadly. She walks over to the couch and sits, patting the cushion to her left lightly.

“Come, sit. Mariella doesn’t bite, I assure you,” She invites. Stanley takes her offer and sits down next to her, a little hesitant to relax fully. It’s only instinct for him to treat somewhere unfamiliar, even if it seems inviting, with caution. The Curator doesn’t comment, giving him a look of understanding.

The Curator watches his and Mariella’s silent staring contest with light amusement.

“Mariella isn’t much for talking, but I trust you won’t give her any trouble, yes?” She speaks up, her tone assertive and firm, like a stern mother, and Stanley glances back at her. He nods seriously, and focuses on the blonde woman again, taking in her features fully. She really is quite pretty, now that Stanley actually has a good view of her.

“Hello, Stanley,” Mariella finally greets, her tone light. She doesn’t reach out her hand, which Stanley is totally fine with. He isn’t much for touching, either… he thinks. It could just be due to the fact that he’s never felt another being for as long as he can remember, but nobody’s really keeping track. He realizes Mariella is studying him with a hint of wariness, as if she’s trying to work out what to make of him. Stanley doesn’t feel offended; he completely understands.

“It’s nice to meet you finally,” She says politely, a smile working across her face. She seems to come to the conclusion that Stanley is good, which relieves him.

Stanley, however, doesn’t respond, remaining perfectly still and staring at her despite the urge to fidget, not exactly sure what to say to her. He doesn’t know how to react to greetings, having never experienced one face to face. Is he supposed to nod back? Say it’s nice to meet her? Or maybe he’s not supposed to say anything at all. He is originally meant to be silent; that was a fundamental part of his role, so maybe the woman is expecting that now, too. The Curator was relatively easy to converse with, as she’d felt more like a stern but nice teacher or authority figure to him. Mariella, however, does not.

Mariella’s smile widens slightly in amusement at Stanley’s loss for words. The Curator herself chuckles behind him. Stanley feels his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Oh, he was supposed to say something, wasn’t he? He stammers wordlessly for a moment, unsure and completely lost at this point.

“It’s alright, Stanley. I wouldn’t really expect you to know how to converse with people,” Mariella assures him, and he relaxes slightly.

“Simply meeting us must all be completely new to you, mustn’t it?” The Curator says. “I doubt you ever remember having a face-to-face conversation with anybody.”

She’s right; it is exhilarating, and slightly overwhelming. Maybe he is just being dramatic; it’s only two people, after all, but considering he’d spent years in isolation, never meeting another being in person, it’s extremely foreign to him. He shakes his head. The Curator hums thoughtfully. Her voice is soothing, and Stanley finds his mind going back to the Museum Ending. Her voice is no less comforting than it was inside the building, even more so when the words come from a single direction rather than everywhere and inside his head, just like the Narrator’s.

“I suppose you would like to know of my relation to the Narrator,” The Curator says eventually, grimly. Stanley nods after a moment. She sighs.

“Through my monitor, I am able to observe events that occur in the Parable, even if they do not concern me. I used to do so much of the time, before I began to see just how poorly the Narrator would treat you so very often. I grew… sick of it, to say the least, and decided to only view you whenever I am called to fulfill my duty in the museum.

I’ve attempted to convince the Narrator innumerous times to stop… treating you how he does, but he would never truly listen to me. I’ve reminded him of his job as your Narrator, your caretaker; he is supposed to help you, to assist you in this realm and to make sure your emotional and psychological needs as a human are met, and you are… well, as happy as you can be in a place such as this. He should have handled you with kindness and delicacy when he first met you.

I am forbidden from interacting with you directly inside the museum; the game’s programming prevents me from doing so, which meant I could not communicate with you off of my script. It broke my heart, how I could not terminate the abuse the Narrator would constantly put you through. Eventually I cut him off, told him he is not allowed in my space unless he changed his ways and how he acted towards you. He accepted my conditions, and went back to his office. He never did change, however. I have not spoken to him personally in years, nor have I watched you two through my monitor.”

She frowns sadly, her eyes gaining a somber look to them. “I truly am sorry I could never help you, Stanley. The issue has been plaguing me for so long. I always wished the Narrator would change the way he acts toward you, but I know he will not. Not unless something externally forces him to, and I am afraid I am not one of those things.”

Stanley takes that in. He doesn’t speak for a moment, nodding silently.

“It’s alright.” He nearly cringes as the words come out of his mouth. His situation is most certainly not okay, but what is the Curator supposed to do about it? She can’t change the Narrator, any more than Stanley himself can. He hesitates again. “You can’t do anything about it. I don’t expect you to fix everything for me. You shouldn’t blame yourself. It isn’t your fault,” He tells her firmly, and he means it.

The Curator sighs. “I suppose you are right. I just… I resent having to stand idly by knowing you are getting harmed, and simply ignoring it.”

Stanley nods solemnly. He doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he wants her to know that he never blamed her. He opens his mouth to respond.

He feels a tap of a palm on his shoulder.

Stanley flinches away immediately, and Mariella retracts her hand with an apologetic smile. He stares at her a moment, the spot on his shoulder tingles slightly, and Stanley’s hand goes to the area on his shoulder she just touched.

“You could stay with us.” She turns to the Curator. “Can’t he?”

The Curator hesitates, but shakes her head.

“The Parable needs a Narrator; without it, it cannot exist. If the Parable remains too long without The Narrator speaking to the Protagonist, I’m afraid it will fade.”

“Oh. I… I’m sorry,” She frowns.

“Don’t be, Mari. It’s not your fault,” The Curator smiles reassuringly at her. Mariella smiles hesitantly back, and Stanley looks between the two with a growing wave of jealousy at their interaction. It’s evident that the two women have a very positive relationship; he can’t help but envy it.

Stanley speaks up quietly, starting to feel selfish for the jealousy, and forces it down. “Hey. If the Parable really does need a narrator, I- I don’t mind filling that role. The Narrator can’t hurt me through the monitor, especially when he’s mute.” He’s not sure if he’s lying, saying that, but still does. He means the first bit.

The Curator looks up amusedly. “He is mute as well? I say he deserves it. I presume he doesn’t like that very much, doesn't he?”

“Definitely not,” Stanley sighs. “And, speaking of which, I should get back soon.” He might hate the man with every cell in his body, but Stanley realized he forgot that he could reset before coming here, and he’d left the Narrator alone in the tape room. And he’s not one to force the man to be alone for long when it’s his worst fear; he won’t be that cruel.

“Why?” The Curator asks, mildly surprised. “Surely you would want to stay longer, no?”

“I…” Stanley shifts, hoping he didn’t offend her. The Curator looks like she’s definitely not above giving a stern lecture to someone who makes her mad. “I don’t want to leave him alone for too long,” He sighs. “After, well, you know.” He’s not sure if the Curator even knows of the skip button, but she surely must, right? Perhaps it hadn’t skipped thousands of years for her and if it had, would they have even noticed?

The Curator studies him for a moment, her face revealing no emotion. “Very well. Allow me to walk you to the door, then.”

Stanley nods and the Curator stands. He turns toward Mariella, and thanks her.

“No problem, Stanley. It was nice seeing you, you know, not passed out on the ground like you usually are,” She grins shyly. Stanley opts not to tell her he’s actually not passed out on the sidewalk during that ending; rather he is entirely conscious and can feel and see entirely, just not able to move. He nods, stands, and turns back to the other woman waiting for him at the entrance.

“Are you sure you would not like to stay longer?” She asks one more time. It dawns on him then that these two might be just as lonely as him. He hesitates, pondering it. Already, how these two women have acted towards him is a vast contrast with how he’s been treated for the past years, and he’d only just met them. This living quarters makes Stanley feel somewhat peaceful, and he actually feels wanted here. Like being human isn’t a nauseating transgression. He could bond with Mariella, learn more about the Parable in general and how the Curator’s job works. They won’t treat him like an offense, like a person deserving of being punished simply because he got put in a certain situation he couldn’t escape from. He wouldn’t have to put up with the insults and the berating and lecturing, just exist peacefully. He could like it here.

Why should he go back? The Narrator certainly doesn’t deserve him; that man hasn’t shown a fraction of the respect in all this time that these two women have offered him in minutes.

It makes him think.

But, Stanley also knows that if he accepts the offer, he wouldn’t ever want to go back. He knows he has to at some point, and that feeling doesn’t even have to do with conscious thought necessarily, rather, it’s an instinct, something deeply rooted in him telling him he shouldn’t be too far away from the Parable for long. And he agrees, no matter how much he resents it.

He’ll start to feel… strange, if he stays away for too long. Stanley doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does. And he completely trusts that feeling.

“I… I should go. I’ll be back to visit… that is, if you’ll let me?” He looks hopefully at the Curator.

The woman smiles and nods after a moment. “You may visit whenever you please. We certainly won’t stop you. We would love to have your company here, as a matter of fact. You are a pleasant man to be around, Stanley.” He hesitates, wildly unused to the compliment. Pleasant, him ? He doubts that. He tries not to think about it too hard, though. Instead, he chooses to focus on something that’s been bothering him for a while, something that he hasn’t had the opportunity to ask before. It’s just entered his mind, and now is the perfect chance.

“...Can I ask you a question, though, first?” He says, pausing just before the doorway. The Curator nods.

“Of course.”

“Actually, two questions,” He decides. The Curator gives another small nod, inviting him to speak.

“First…” He looks around the living quarters. “How can you prevent the Narrator from coming in here? Nothing stopped me from opening the door here.” The Curator sighs.

“Yes, there technically is nothing preventing the Narrator from arriving unannounced. Ever since our argument, long ago, however, he is under the mutual agreement that we are not to speak or enter each other’s spaces until he admits to change. I do not wish to talk to that man, and I believe he is perfectly content with not acknowledging me as well. So he chooses not to knock on my door, and vice versa.”

Stanley nods. “Okay. Second question. It’s been… bothering me for a while. I used to think about it a lot.” He hesitates.

“Whatever you wish to ask, I will answer to my fullest ability, Stanley. Go right ahead,” She urges him. Stanley gives in.

“I don’t understand some of your dialogue in the museum,” He murmurs. “Most of it makes sense, and I get it…” He sighs. “The part I don’t understand you saying: ‘Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another?’ And… the rest of that, too, I guess. Why? What- what does that even mean? I know what it means, of course, but I don’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense. We hate each other. The Narrator hates me, and I couldn’t talk to him. How could we ‘need’ each other?” Stanley fiddles with the cuff of his sweater as he talks.

The Curator studies him. Stanley wants to think it’s simply pity that she’s feeling for him, but he has a feeling that the Curator would hate the very notion of pity being brought upon her, so that’s probably a no. Perhaps understanding?

“It is… difficult to explain. You don’t know everything yet. I suspect you haven’t met the Timekeeper; you will soon, I presume. You will understand one day, Stanley, I am confident in that.”

“‘Timekeeper’?” He questions, confusion wrapping itself around his mind again. “What’s- who’s… the Narrator never told me about anyone named that.”

“No, I don’t expect he would have,” She sighs. “Loves to boast about how he’s the most powerful person in the Parable, that man does. They’ll show themselves to you someday. Until then, I don’t think it’s wise I answer your question. It will only bring about more confusion, and I am not the right person to explain everything to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” He says after a moment. He’s disappointed, but knows better than to argue with the Curator, even after just meeting her. One look at her, and Stanley knows she would not put up with bickering. “I get it,” He murmurs. He opens the door.

“Well, bye then,” He smiles. “Expect to see me again somewhat soon.”

The Curator smiles back. “I shall. It was lovely to meet you in person, Stanley. Perhaps someday you and the Narrator will get along, now that he is experiencing perspective from the Protagonist’s point of view.”

“That’ll take a miracle,” Stanley breathes, the concept so foreign he can hardly wrap his head around it. “But, I guess it’s good to be optimistic.” He receives a wise nod in response.

Stanley waves, but before he can turn around, the Curator reaches her hand out and rests it on his left shoulder. Stanley’s breath stutters, and he forces himself not to pull back, and at the same time lean in. She looks into his eyes, he stares at the warm brown, the kindness in them. Stanley rests his hand on hers, but she doesn’t pull away. His shoulder tingles again, the sensation burning and tingling and spreading across his skin, and shoulder tensing and he can’t tell if he likes it or not, it’s overwhelming and yet at the same time he craves more.

“Farewell, Stanley. I bid you good luck with that man. I hope one day in the future you may start to form a more positive relationship with him,” The Curator says sincerely, and it takes a lot for Stanley to concentrate more on her words than the overwhelming sensation sparking across his skin.

Stanley nods. The Curator pulls away, and Stanley reluctantly retracts his hand, still feeling the sensation of her touch. It’s getting cooler. He wants it again, wants to ask her to put her hand on his shoulder and never take it off, maybe with both hands, or even hug him. He’s forgotten what an embrace with another human– or human-like being– feels like.

But, instead of expressing this, he simply turns around, takes a deep breath, and enters The Narrator’s office once again, the door closing shut behind him.

Stanley looks at his monitor and huffs out a sigh. Back to the Narrator, then.

He returns to the desk, sits down in his chair, and stares at that face looking off at nothing, a blank expression concealing the emotion of its owner. ‘Perhaps someday you and the Narrator will get along, now that he is experiencing perspective from the Protagonist’s point of view.’ Maybe, just maybe, the Curator could be right. He desperately hopes so. They only have each other, after all. Once this is all over, if Stanley ever goes back to being the Protagonist, he’ll only have the Narrator again. And maybe, if they really were amicable, it could make this place more endurable for them both. Things could finally change for Stanley.

It’s something to strive for. And Stanley is nothing if he does not have anything to look for, to follow, a purpose to fulfill. It may be fate that they ended up here, they may be doomed to live out this monotonous existence forever, but their narrative isn’t set in stone; Stanley knows that, for how could it? In a place full of paradoxes and overlapping contradictions at every turn, they can still attempt to change it, to bend it in their will, to write it to their own benefit.

And attempt to, Stanley most certainly will.

Chapter Text

Safe to say, he’s not surprised when the next time the Narrator goes down the path, he enters the maintenance section and heads straight to the lift. Nor does he protest; he knows protesting won’t change anything. In fact, it would more likely compel the Narrator further to go down, just to spite him.

However, what does stun Stanley, is when the lift descends and he opens his mouth to speak once the loading screen passes, the Narrator beats him to it.

No words are produced, of course; the Narrator is not capable of uttering a sound as the Protagonist, and yet Stanley watches, completely perplexed as the Narrator is mouthing words while descending the lift. Stanley concentrates more on the man’s mouth, leaning slightly forward, and realizes with a jolt that the man is silently reciting the dialogue for the start of this ending.

“Narrator?” He asks hesitantly, but the man just continues to mouth the first few lines of dialogue with slightly wide eyes.

The Narrator doesn’t move when the lift completes its trip, and doesn’t start to move until his lips close, and stay closed.

“...What just happened?”

But the Narrator looks just as confused as he feels.

I… I could not control my mouth, or stop, I just… starting talking, my lips began to move and I could not– I did not even know what I was speaking! Well, I did, but not beforehand. You believe me, right, Stanley?

Stanley studies the Narrator’s face in search of a lie, but the man looks completely genuine, this conclusion either drawn from the fact that Stanley has almost no experience in reading emotions on faces, or the man really is telling the truth. He’s hoping for the latter.

Experimentally, he opens the left door.

The Narrator hesitates, then walks to his left and Stanley closes the door before the man can fully reach it. For a fraction of a second, he looks annoyed, before opening his mouth once again. This time Stanley reads his lips as mouths the next lines; they’re word for word on-script.

Stanley? Why is this happening? The Narrator projects once he finishes the next dialogue.

“I don’t know any more than you do, so. I’m not sure,” He answers truthfully.

Are these the dialogue lines for this ending?

Stanley hesitates. “Yeah.”

The Narrator looks… almost disturbed, maybe even worried upon hearing this. Stanley cocks his head slightly, trying to gauge what he might be thinking. Eventually Stanley sees him swallow.

Right. Okay. I want to continue on.

Stanley opens the right door, and the Narrator approaches tentatively. He closes it, the Narrator opens his mouth and begins “speaking” the next lines, his eyes pinched closed and mouth still moving.

He stops. The Narrator opens his eyes.

I don’t even remember what I’m meant to be speaking, it’s as if I’m simply…

The Narrator doesn’t finish the thought. Stanley, without speaking and brows slightly furrowed, opens the garage door ahead of them and the Narrator stands completely still, staring at the open pathway.

Will I say anything else when I cross that border?

“Er…” Stanley’s mind automatically goes to the ‘spoiler’ that lies beyond. “Not for a bit.”

The Narrator does not look relieved. He walks through the garage door and descends the stairs with hesitant steps, and approaches the extended platform. He stops, just before entering it, and widens his eyes only the slightest bit. He progresses forward, and Stanley gets the feeling that he regrets coming here.

Once again, he mouths the lines, and the Narrator shudders as his lips move on their own accord, almost like he’s trying to shake off whatever in him is forcing him to say these lines. When he mouths ‘Stanley,’ his expression becomes even more disturbed, even teetering on the edge of panic, but he continues, against his will, to mutely recite the rest of the dialogue for this sequence. Stanley keeps track of every word he’s ‘saying,’ focusing on the movement of his lips and the expressions on his face.

Finally, the Narrator reaches the end of the script, and after he mouths ‘From the top!’ the loading screen appears, which slightly surprises Stanley. He assumed he would have to activate it or reset manually, but turns out he doesn’t even have to wake the Narrator, either; the man is already standing, frozen, the moment the Parable loads back in.

Another look teetering between unsettled and uncertain is arranged on his face. Stanley frowns thoughtfully.

Stanley… I rather don’t think I like this. I find it… quite disturbing. Could we perhaps reset?

The Narrator must be really out of it then, if he’s asking Stanley politely to do something for him. Stanley hesitates.

“Can’t,” He decides.

The Narrator stiffens even further if possible. What? What do you mean you ‘can’t’? You can reset, Stanley, that’s what the ‘Force Reset’ button is for. To restart if required when you are still in the middle of an ending.

Stanley hums. “Not on this ending. We already restarted, remember? Doing it again will only progress it more. And the next one, you start talking immediately.” This isn’t exactly true, about the talking of course, but he needs something to convince the Narrator. And he isn’t really sure whether force resetting would actually work or not. It most likely would, Stanley reasons, but the Narrator clearly isn’t thinking as straight as he normally would, so this is a good time to test a theory out.

He’s simply curious, and the Narrator always took advantage of his unwilling ignorance, so Stanley thinks this is a little justified. It might be slightly cruel to force the man into this, at least without trying for a way out first, but… well, all things considered. Why wouldn’t he deserve a bit of toying around? It’s mostly harmless, anyway. If it got too distressing for him, he would force reset. Maybe.

“Go ahead, then. The only way we can get out of this is by moving forward. The faster we complete the ending, the faster we get out. Yeah?”

The Narrator’s features lower into a scowl, and for the moment Stanley thinks the man will call him out on his bluff. But he can still see some of that trepidation lingering, the nervousness in his eyes, maybe a hint of fear.

The man’s mouth had moved against his will, didn’t it? He supposes that that is what’s troubling him so much. Even after this long, the Narrator still hates feeling out of control. Of course he would; he’s a control freak, has a certain taste for power that the moment he loses it, and something else starts to take control, gone is his sense of rationality, and he starts to panic. It’s unhealthy.

He deserves this.

Stanley doesn’t receive any genuine happiness in seeing the Narrator stressed out or worried, but a certain, distinct satisfaction crawls up and settles itself deep in his mind. A hint of a smile plays at his lips.

When will I start… trying to talk again, Stanley? Will you tell me that?

Stanley considers it. “I think it would be best if I didn’t. You wanted to see this ending for yourself. You always tell me I need to face my own consequences; this one is obviously yours. So, we can complete the ending, and we won’t go down it again next time.”

The Narrator narrows his eyes suspiciously.

Did you know this would happen, Stanley?

“No, I didn’t.” Stanley says genuinely. He had no idea this would happen, and cannot fathom why in the world it would be. He was just as baffled when the man parted his lips to recite the dialogue as the Narrator was. He’d gotten over it sooner, though. He’d still love to know why on Earth this is happening, but he’s learned to let some things, things he’s not able to find the answer to, go in the Parable. The Narrator hasn’t. “I had absolutely no idea this would happen, and I don’t know why it is. But I’d really just like to get on with it, if you would.”

The Narrator, instead of responding to that with a rude comment or quip as he would normally, stares out the doorway and swallows.

A thought seems to have entered his mind, because his face drops to a glower not one moment later. Stanley blinks. The Narrator hmphs, then walks forward, and mouths his usual introduction with closed eyes once again, almost like the action is painful, or he’s trying to distract himself from it.

–

By the end of the second reset, the Narrator was still not used to his lips moving without his consent, and found the ‘You Win!’ line particularly disheartening. He’d grown more annoyed at it than anything by now; it interrupts his thought process too, apparently. He can hardly project to Stanley while he’s ‘speaking,’ and doesn’t know when he’s going to, which proves to be an irritable combination. Though, Stanley can tell by his hesitations and expressions that it still unsettles him. Stanley’s seen enough of the Narrator’s body movement and physical signs of anger and contempt by now, and he’s lacking in them. Not by a lot, but Stanley can still tell, he’s only hiding his turmoil under thinly veiled hatred.

He can’t really blame the man for being stressed about it, though. Stanley hated cutscenes during the first months of being in this place, in which his body moves without his permission, when it won’t stop moving when he tells it to. Those ones were worse than the forces of the Parable that kept his body immobile. He grew used to it eventually; he had to, of course.

Immediately upon the third reset, the Narrator straightens up, his eyes widening just barely when he recognizes what is lying beyond the doorway this time.

Stanley!

“Yes?” Stanley says, unable to hide the amusement creeping into his tone.

The Narrator notices this, and brings a fist to his mouth to presumably clear his throat, and settles back down, serious once more. Stanley is almost disappointed.

Right. Anyway. When will I begin talking here, if the Adventure Line™ is present?

“Same as always, though different words.” The Narrator nods.

I’d expect as much.

The Narrator takes a breath, comes to his wits, and steps out of his office.

Stanley, I will tell you, I would be more exhilarated to see the Adventure Line™, if it weren’t for these blasted lines that I keep attempting to recite. I presume, this is precisely where the Line™ originates?

“Yup,” Stanley says. The Narrator had just finished his long, confusing speech about the meaning of stories and destinies and journeys that Stanley never really cared enough to pay much attention to. He follows the Line™, subtly tapping his finger in the air to the beat of the music Stanley has played via a switch in the top left of the panel labeled just that.

This music is rather enjoyable, however. Stanley, is this what I am missing out every time you venture down this path?

He passes the fern, unaware of it.

The Narrator pauses, confused when he starts mouthing lines again. Stanley stops the music. The Narrator grows even more perplexed when he realizes what he’s saying, exactly, about the fern. He doesn’t go back and approach it, but eyes it, and projects once he’s done with the line.

Stanley, is this fern really important?

“Nope,” Stanley chirps. The Narrator grumbles a little, perhaps at the loss of music, before beginning to move again.

“Wait!” Stanley says without thinking, a completely unrelated thought just entering his mind. The man pauses, raises an eyebrow, and crosses his arms.

What now, Stanley?

“You never told me what Rocket League really is about.”

The Narrator uncrosses his arms and gives a long, annoyed sigh. Stanley rolls his eyes.

Of course you ask that question now, after it’s been days since I have left that area. Why, may I ask, have you thought of this all of a sudden?

“I dunno. I just remembered.” Stanley shrugs to himself. “Anyway, I want to know. And you’ll start talking again when you move forward, so I need to ask now.” The Narrator rolls his eyes adjusting his glasses soon after.

You are positively helpless. Stanley doesn’t bite back, waiting, knowingly. The Narrator sighs again, and explains to him how exactly the game is played.

“Ah…” Now it makes sense. Stanley wonders what the people in the front seat of the cars feel like when they are forced to fly in the air and do loop-de-loops midair, and hit the front of their car with a ball the size of it.

He doesn’t ask this, though. The Narrator hadn’t actually mentioned if there were any NPCs in the driver’s seat itself during a game, so he thinks the man might consider it a dumb question.

The Narrator stares into the office room, grimacing, as he follows the Adventure Line™ with his eyes first before crossing the doorway.

And, while mutely stating his confusion about how they’ve circled back to the office and asking the Line™, he follows it dutifully and heads straight onto the platform extended out into the room with the monitors. He looks cross and shocked at first, then nods knowingly as he tells the Line™ that they trusted It™, and he can’t believe It™ would do this to them.

The game restarts by itself, and the Narrator raises a suspicious eyebrow at It™ once he regains his senses in the office.

The Line™ betrayed us, Stanley. He sighs. This is truly a monumental revelation for me. Why hadn’t you told me this before?

Stanley makes a noise like ‘Idunno’ and says, “Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

The Narrator huffs, crossing his arms. He steps out, distrustingly, and follows the Line™.

Stanley closes the door a bit too early and the Narrator is momentarily confused before he mouths his next words. He nods once, like he’s agreeing with himself and his words before Stanley opens the door to his right. The Narrator eyes it and waits for his mouth to stop moving before progressing into the hallway.

When the Line™ shows up again, the Narrator’s eyes light up just barely, betraying the speech in which he’s forced to recite about It™; scowling slightly when he mentions not to acknowledge it, but continuing onward, not looking back. Stanley observes silently, knowing what awaits them after this.

They enter the room with the two doors and Stanley sucks in his breath quietly. The Narrator seemingly hears this and narrows his eyes, as if he knows there must be some trick to this. He stares, unimpressed at the ground when Stanley presses the ‘Produce’ button and the arrows appear. He does not, in fact, walk in circles, and as Stanley expected that he can’t deny a small part of himself is slightly disappointed.

The Narrator finishes his mute monologue and doesn’t move.

Stanley. What’s behind here, I don’t trust it. Where does each door lead to?

Stanley, who is feeling quite dreadful about the Narrator’s potential reactions upon seeing the Confusion Ending Schedule, especially after the man had been forced to silently recite lines without his permission, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think it will go well, less so than during the normal Confusion Ending route.

The Narrator huffs out an annoyed breath, and enters the door on his left.

Stanley was right; the Narrator takes a minute or two to read it, his expressions independent from his speech, and appearing as though he might not even be registering what he’s mouthing now. His eyes widen, then narrow, then his eyebrows furrow and he adjusts his glasses, looking particularly distressed. He doesn’t project anything, so Stanley is left wondering what the man could be thinking, and still stays silent.

Words appear on the screen after several seconds. S- say something, Stanley. Please.

“Oh, uh.” Stanley falters. The Narrator’s mouth is still moving, and the man is looking more and more panicked by what he himself is silently reciting by the second. He’s staring at the words on the schedule imploringly like somehow they’ll bring meaning to whatever may be going on in his head, and being unable to seize the motion of his lips does not seem to be helping his stress.

“I don’t exactly know what to say, well… this is the Ending Schedule. It doesn’t carry out ‘till the end of it, though. It stops. This is the last reset, I promise,” He says hurriedly. The man in the screen doesn’t look any bit reassured, eyes desperately wide and green swirls floating faster than Stanley had ever seen them go before. Stanley’s eyes flick to the Force Reset button, wondering if he really should press it now. He decides to hold out a little longer.

The timer stops. The building shakes, and the Narrator still looks scared. Blatantly scared. Not the slight nervousness veiled by ire, or the disapproval at the absurdity of it all; no, the Narrator does nothing to hide the sheer panic in his eyes, and Stanley just about believes he ought to be worried for the man. It’s almost uncomfortable, watching the man overtly panic like this, it feels like something he shouldn’t watch; it’s so alien to the grouchy demeanor he’s accustomed to. He fiddles with the cuff of his sweater and doesn’t look away, but doesn’t talk, either.

The Narrator continues to stare at the large schedule, completely rigid, eyes flicking to the timer and remaining there, boring into the unmoving numbers as if he could burn them. He’s rooted to the spot, clenching and unclenching his fists as silent words continue to pour out of him. He shakes his head very slightly when he suggests that this might be some kind of story in its own way. The fear does not leave his eyes, and Stanley doesn’t know what’s more concerning: that it’s appeared at all, or that the Narrator has not forced it away so Stanley cannot see the raw weakness he is so openly showing, every detail of it on display for him to witness.

The Narrator’s eyes do not widen further when the alarm sounds, he gives no visible reaction besides a sucked in breath when the loud sound reverberates through the room, and Stanley, when the alarm keeps going after seconds, realizes he needs to restart this time, manually. He does not give this a single thought at first, instead firmly pressing the silver button allowing the game to restart, and leans back in his seat. The office is loaded in a few moments later, and the Narrator is returned to sitting in the office chair, back straight and palms face down in front of him.

Stanley sits for several minutes, staring at the frozen man occupying the screen. Gone is that uncharacteristic panic from before; his face is as blank as always while sitting in that chair. He looks away, tightening his jaw. He doesn’t want to deal with the fallout of this. He should not be concerned for this man, he should scoff and think, the Narrator was being dramatic. He’s an actor, isn’t he? He was doing that, acting that way to make me feel worried for him. Or feel bad or guilty. I’ve never seen him that panicked before. Surely he was faking.

It was so unlike him though. Stanley knows the Narrator is much too prideful to even act afraid of something, which means it had to be genuine. Somehow, that just makes him feel worse.

“Fuck.” Stanley groans, putting his head in his hands as he thinks.

He wonders… if the game had faux restarted all those times within the ending, why would Stanley have had to restart manually that last time? That means the exact same thing must have been required when the Narrator was at the controls. The Narrator himself had to restart… after acting like he had no idea what to do with himself once the timer had stopped moving. What did that mean?

What the hell is different about this ending? What is the deal with it?

Stanley lifts his head, having had enough of pondering about this. This is all wildly confusing to think about; It’s making his brain hurt. He sighs, and presses ‘Wake Up’. He grimaces when the Narrator stands up, expecting confusion to form on his face, then morphing into more fear or panic or something of that regard as he remembers. He expects the Narrator to bombard him with questions, most of which he knows he would not be able to answer. He expects some indication of the reaction in which he had had upon witnessing the Confusion Ending Schedule, and the dark implications it had brought, and still brings.

However, all of this is tossed aside when the Narrator gives no indication of recollection. Nothing. His face is devoid of emotion, besides his usual grumpiness. Stanley is immediately confused, and suspicious.

The Narrator walks out of his office, face unwavering. He looks annoyed when Stanley doesn’t say anything.

Hellooo, Stanley? I can hear your breathing, you know, you are not fooling me. You never fool me. I’m not moving until you recite the dialogue. We had agreed upon that before, remember?

“You… what the fuck,” Stanley blanches.

The Narrator huffs out a vexed sigh and rolls his eyes.

Really, Stanley? What, are you attempting to get a rise out of me by being astonishingly childish and impudent? I had somehow thought you were better than that.

The Narrator had to be acting. There’s no way he doesn’t remember; what, he just forgot the raw panic shown to Stanley just seconds before? He was very nearly terrified at the sight of that schedule, and here the man is pretending he never had gone down that lift in the first place.

Then again… the Narrator had forgotten about the Confusion Ending before. Maybe the same thing happened here, for the same reason or reasons as to why he was forced to silently recite the script, word for word, against his will.

“Are you… you’re acting, right? You’re pretending this never happened, so I don’t acknowledge it.”

The Narrator takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Now you’re just being plain immature, Stanley, I have no idea what you are talking about, what this ‘it’ is, and if you are just being this irritating on purpose, though I most definitely would not put it past you.

“I…” Stanley clears his throat. “Right.” 

He then presses ‘Demolish’ to be rid of the lift in the maintenance room, not exactly knowing if it’ll work so far away from the section; immediately, however, he knows it did. “You got me,” He says dryly, electing not to press. If the Narrator really isn’t acting, and he did actually forget this all happened, then he won’t have to deal with the shit that came with it, and actually saves Stanley an irritating and rather difficult conversation.

The man rolls his eyes again, and Stanley recites the opening intro. The Narrator nods, but instead of walking to the door, the Narrator walks over to Employee 431’s desk and pulls the chair out from underneath it, adjusts it so that it faces away from the desk and a few feet out and sits, crossing his legs. Stanley raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to initiate conversation.

So, Stanley.

He only hums in acknowledgement. The Narrator hesitates slightly, which sparks his curiosity.

When, next, are you planning on entering the door again?

The question catches him off guard. “Uh, I don’t know. Whenever I feel like it, I guess.” He certainly feels like it now, now that the man had mentioned the door and he’s reminded of it, and his hand nearly itches to restart again so he can take another look through it. “Why? What rooms have I got left?”

What rooms have you visited? I presume you’ve entered… four times, yes? Which leaves you one room left. And I have a feeling of what that room may be, Stanley.

“So, what is it?” He asks, doubtful that he would receive an answer. Most likely the Narrator would tell him oh, you’ll have to wait and see, Stanley, or, you can’t just go and investigate yourself? No need to ask me–

I believe it is the Control Room next, that you have yet to enter.

“Oh,” Stanley says, unable to keep the momentary surprise from his voice. The Narrator must be right, though; Stanley definitely hasn’t entered any sort of room that would warrant the label of ‘Control Room’ yet.

He was right, too. He knew there had to be something else, another means of programming within the Parable. Stanley’s curiosity immediately flares, and he’s gripped with the burning desire to pull the white door open and examine everything the Control Room might have to offer him.

But he’s suspicious. Why is the Narrator bringing this up? Why now? And why specifically does he feel the need to mention that room to Stanley when Stanley could very well find out for himself, on his own time? It doesn’t exactly make sense, and anything that doesn’t make sense to him, he instantly is doubtful of or on guard, especially as of late.

“Okay, and… why are you telling me this?” He asks carefully.

The Narrator crosses his arms, knowingly.

Because, Stanley. The Control Room is extremely important, I’d even say that it is the most important room in the Parable, besides the office building itself of course. It’s where everything is monitored, controlled, and well, the obvious stuff. Everything in there has a purpose. If you touched one wrong thing in there, and I just know that is an all-likely possibility when it comes to you, it could completely restructure what you know to be in the Parable!

“Hm.” Stanley considers this. “That doesn’t seem to be a completely terrible thing, though. Doesn’t it? I could change it for the better.”

The Narrator gives an incredulous look.

No, no! No, Stanley, do you not know one singular thing about the premise of video game design, I mean I knew you wouldn’t, but everything in there is precisely balanced to offer exactly what the Parable gives you, Stanley. You don’t know anything about code or programming, as you’ve said in the past, which is why you need my help in navigating it, and making sure you don’t do anything catastrophic in there! Because I know that infuriating knack of yours to investigate something new will leave you desperate to go around touching every little thing in there, and messing with the enormously delicate controls in that room. I will act as your guide, Stanley. You won’t be overwhelmed with me there with you, I guarantee.

Stanley frowns; this doesn’t seem right. Since when has the Narrator offered to do something for him, like this? Well, he does know that the Narrator is extremely passionate about his creation, so perhaps it’s simply that he doesn’t want Stanley to destroy it by accident. In that case, he could see the possessiveness toward his own story outweighing his disdain for Stanley, and, if he’s in there with Stanley, he has every opportunity to order the man around an unfamiliar place.

But, wait.

“What do you mean by me in there with you, exactly?”

The Narrator looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes again, green streaks swirling faster in his irises.

I mean, my thoughts. You’ll have the Thoughts Screen activated in there, so I may explain to you–”

“You can’t see me, though,” He points out, not convinced. “How would you be able to direct me away from something if you can’t see me doing it?”

The Narrator pauses, tightening his jaw. He waits a moment before responding.

I’ll simply tell you what you can and cannot touch– or what is safe for you to touch, and if you have any questions, I can hear you from the desk chair in that room as well, so long as you don’t mute yourself.

Stanley crosses his arms, still not fully convinced. The Narrator must realize this, because he tries one more thing.

Stanley, you know you don’t know anything about code. I can quench any thirst of curiosity and burning desire for knowledge, to know what each coding means in what section, and what every knob and dial and button does, so long as you describe it to me.

Fuck. Stanley has to admit, the Narrator is starting to make a point. He just can’t resist learning a new piece of knowledge.

And, Stanley. There are a multitude of buttons in the Control Room. Each one has a specific purpose. And I can tell you what each of those purposes are, if you allow me to. You might possibly even be able to press a few of them.

Fuck. Stanley sighs. He looks at the bucket, who stares back knowingly. The Narrator using his greatest weakness against him: pretty low. But unfortunately, it works. He gives in.

“Alright. But, you need to promise to be honest with me about every one of my questions. Don’t lie to me about any of the coding. Or whatever it is I’m asking you about.”

Whatever you say, Stanley. The Narrator smiles. Stanley stares at it.

“Promise me.”

I promise, Stanley.

“Good,” He chirps. He doesn’t notice the way the Narrator’s smile widens ever so slightly, pupils dilating just a bit. The Narrator is careful. “Now, how will I know how to bring the Thoughts Screen over there?”

There’s a desk in the center of the room. It’s large, and you are able to activate every single monitor from it. You’ll be able to turn it on from one of the numbered buttons on the second keyboard, turning on a monitor of your choice in column two. You’ll understand what I’m talking about when you see it.

“Got it.” And Stanley steps up from his chair. He looks at the bucket, who stares at him suspiciously. He pats it reassuringly and heads over to white door. He sucks in his breath, still wary of the thing.

Control Room, He thinks, and turns the handle. He opens it.

Stanley’s eyes widen before he even steps inside. The room is a wide, rectangular expanse, larger than the Curator’s living area. It seems the sole focus of the wall opposite him are the four columns of monitors– ones not unlike the very ones in the Mind Control Facility– each one containing a different number of them.

In front of the large-ish monitors, in the center of the room is a white desk, oval-ish with the surface slanted slightly downwards, and knobs and keyboards he can see from here lay on top. He hesitates, then takes one step in.

Stanley gasps as he plants both feet firmly on the ground underneath him, across the threshold. He looks down; the green floor under him has started moving vertically, and he realizes with a start, what’s moving isn’t really the floor itself, but the collection of bright green 0’s and 1’s– binary, Stanley remembers the Narrator had called them at some point– it’s comprised of. He looks behind him, the door closed now, and sees that the whole back wall is made of the same vertically-moving binary, disappearing into the black ceiling when it makes contact with it. He touches the wall hesitantly; the numbers around his hand glow softly, the same way the numbers around his feet glow with each step, but otherwise, it doesn’t seem to affect anything. Stanley retracts his hand, slowly, and turns around.

The floor wasn’t what had made him gasp; more prominently, it was the feeling he had obtained upon entering the room, and it hasn’t gone away. As soon as he stepped in this room, he felt more powerful, more connected to the Parable than he had just seconds ago, than he had ever felt. It wasn’t a feeling he could describe very well, Stanley just felt it. Like someone had added more air or helium to a balloon he figured was already well-blown up, but afterwards saw that it really was lacking, but now it’s completely full. The balloon was not filled too much, however, he did not feel as if he were about to burst. It feels right. He was wholly unprepared for it, and he did not expect it. But right now, the sensation feels right. Like it was always meant to be this way, and that scares him a little bit.

Nevertheless, Stanley has work to do. Before he tries to activate a monitor on the wall, however, he decides to explore the room a bit, trying to ignore that sense of power he feels deeply rooted in him here.

What immediately catches his attention is the two rectangular panels of buttons, knobs, switches on opposite walls, to his left and right. Some of them flicker and flash with different colors, and Stanley fights the itch to go up to them and start pressing them to his heart’s content. He resists, though.

(Stanley would say he’s gotten pretty good at resisting. Sometimes he acts impulsively, rashly, but the Narrator really is usually exaggerating when he says Stanley is always as impulsive as a petulant child. He’s learned to contain his childish urges, to keep himself from scratching the itch whenever a particularly mischievous idea, one the Narrator would most certainly get angry for, springs itself into his mind. The Narrator might have even been proud of his progress over time in that department if he cared at all to keep track.)

However, there weren’t nearly as many buttons as Stanley anticipated when he’d heard the Narrator describe them to him. He huffs out a sigh of disappointment.

He walks over to the left wall first and looks above the wide panel, at what seems to be a map of some sorts, of the Parable. Something like poster paper plastered onto the black walls (even though they were black, they looked almost like they were softly glowing with light, and Stanley could see perfectly), one on each wall, and different from each other.

He balls his fists, to get rid of the urge to press the buttons on the panel that stops at waist-height. He examines the map, or, something like a map. It’s titled, at the top: Left Door (Map). It depicts the pathways exclusively to left-door endings. And, on each side, lists are present. The list on the right names all of the left-door endings, and the left list tells all of the rooms, all in small-ish lettering so that much information can fit the sides of the poster.

Stanley looks up; towards the top of the walls are monitors with flashing scenes and rooms within the Parable office building, much like the first monitor on the Narrator’s desk, but Stanley steps back and observes them more carefully– most of the rooms shown aren’t any rooms he recognizes in the Parable. He stares at them a moment, trying to see if anything interesting will pop up, but when nothing does after a few moments, Stanley looks back down and hums thoughtfully. He walks to the other side of the room to inspect the second informational map.

Just as he suspected, it displays pathways in the Parable leading down right-door endings, and those exact endings and rooms are listed on each side of the poster paper. The monitors on this wall are perfectly mirrored to the ones on the left, though they all flash different rooms at the same time.

Finally, Stanley turns to the desk, and allows himself to observe the main occupant in the room, besides himself. He walks, slowly, to the front of the desk, and doesn’t sit down. He eyes everything on the smooth surface with a careful, curious, eye.

He notes the keyboards first, lining the bottom of the slanted surface. There are four of them, each with a different amount of numbered buttons on the tops and a plus and minus sign button at the end of those. They cover almost the entire length of the bottom of the desk, leaving room for a mouse at the right end and more various knobs and switches sprinkled on the very left and right ends, with more buttons to the right of the large gray oval in the very center of the desk surface. Next to the oval are two buttons, one a plus and one a minus sign. It doesn’t appear to have any use, as it’s literally just a gray oval, but Stanley figures it must be important anyway.

At the top, there are three horizontal, black lines, slightly indenting the surface. The center line is the longest, and two more identical ones, about half the size of the center one, cut across each left and right side.

Stanley sits down on the wheelie chair in front of it.

He inspects the keyboards more closely, and presses ‘3’ on the second one with the Thoughts Screen in mind. Right away, he sees the third monitor down in the second column lighting up yellow. It stays yellow, and remains blank, and Stanley assumes he’s gotten it.

“I can see your thoughts now.”

Gold text appears on the monitor then, and Stanley leans in a bit so he can decipher them easier. Oh good. I was beginning to wonder whether you would even activate it at all. Now, I take it you’ve explored the room, as I’d expect from you. And I am sure you have questions, so, go ahead, ask me anything.

It’s weird, to see the Narrator’s thoughts without being able to see the man himself. He knows he must still be sitting in the same chair he was when Stanley had left him, but it still annoys him that he can’t see the man.

Regardless, Stanley pushes that thought away. He looks around, then at the columns of monitors on the wall. Four columns of screens, all but one of them black. He looks down at the four keyboards, with buttons on top of them, labeled with numbers. He presses a numbered button at random– ‘4’ on the fourth keyboard. Just like he expected, the fourth monitor down on the fourth column lights up, and Stanley holds his breath. The screen is filled with code near-instantly, none of which Stanley can hope to decipher. He hums.

“I just activated a monitor,” He remembers to say. He also feels weird speaking when he can’t visibly see anybody listening to him. Though, he knows the Narrator is listening.

Which one?

“Number four on the fourth column,” He tells him. “What differences do the monitors have? Are they all code, or almost all of them?”

Most of them, yes. Each column of monitors serves a general, broader purpose. Such as, character and world building, creating new objects, rooms, and management coding. The specifics, however, depends on each monitor within a column. Whether it is object oriented, functional, procedural, or some other, and what purpose it serves for the Parable, that comes down to the monitor itself.

Stanley doesn’t know what some of those terms mean, but he thinks he understands the general explanation. He hums thoughtfully.

“So, what does column four manage?”

He doesn’t receive an answer, for a moment. Then:

Object and entity positions within the Parable. As well as room positions. Essentially, the fourth column oversees where things are located in the office building, and the rest of the Parable.

Stanley thinks about that. He hums again, to signify that he was listening. The words are pretty hard to decipher, looking all the way from the desk, he notes.

“The words are tiny. How do you manage to see all of it to alter it, or anything like that?”

You see the black line cutting across the top-center of the desk? 

“Mhm.”

Simply press the enlarge button on top of the fourth keyboard, and the enlarged screen will appear from it. Also, from whichever monitor you have the Thoughts Screen pulled up on, you may enlarge that and each monitor display will take up half of the enlarged screen.

Stanley locates the button, the square one with a plus, and presses it. Instantly, a black screen rises up from the longest black line, and coding, the exact same as from the original monitor, fills the screen, the contents large enough for him to read now.

“Interesting,” He notes. “I don’t understand any of this.”

He considers for a moment, then allows the Thoughts Screen to enlarge too, which cuts the screen in half vertically to fit both monitor screens.

I knew you wouldn’t. Managing the code is not your job, even though I had thought you would be able to after you gained my power. Some knowledge simply can’t be learned by certain people, I suppose. Stanley tightens his jaw at the thinly veiled passive-aggressiveness.

How about this, Stanley. Are you paying attention?

“Yes,” Stanley says, now scrolling through the code in slight fascination with the mouse by the four keyboards, while flicking his eyes to the yellow half.

Good. I have a proposal to make with you. As a matter of… trust, let us say. You are in my space, currently. I have not given you permission to enter there, and I frankly despise that you are trespassing in my area.

However, I’m willing to give you something, something I guarantee you would want, in order to prove that I’m trustworthy. That I am not lying to you, here. Got it?

“What do you mean… give me something?” He asks, skeptical. He doesn’t trust this; he doesn’t trust the Narrator, who is full to the brim of lies and deception with every word, who hates him passionately and here is willing to apparently give him something with no repercussions.

I’m willing, Stanley, but you need to do this on your own, since you are the only one capable right now. I’m willing to alter some of the rooms in the office building to give you, and in addition me, something fresh. Perhaps the employee lounge, as a start. We, or more clearly you, can rearrange the furniture, the walls, make it fit your standards more, something new. And I am granted the benefits as well. It’s a win for both of us, no?

Stanley opens and closes his mouth. He furrows his eyebrows, on immediate guard.

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

Stanley. I gave you my word, did I not? I promised to you.

The Narrator’s promises didn’t mean much, all in all. But… Stanley can’t deny, what he’s offering, if Stanley can make it work, it is a pretty good deal. Stanley loves learning new things, he loves finding new things, and he hasn’t had that chance in so long.

“Okay. I’m willing to try,” He decides. He wants to give the man a chance to prove himself. “But first, you need to tell me more about this place and about the code, before I can just blindly trust you on this.”

Of course, of course, Stanley. It’s almost laughable, how much you still depend on my support and guidance, after everything, even though you still insist upon hating me. I would have thought, after gaining my power, you would be able to figure things out more easily on your own, no? Well then, I suppose I can grant you a small… tutorial.

Stanley balls his fists, nails slightly digging into his palm. “Just tell me, or the deal is off. Hear me?”

Yes, yes. Allow me to tell you what the rest of the monitors hold. However, keep that current one you have open. To your luck, you’ve managed to open the precise monitor you need to rearrange things in the employee lounge.

“I thought you said it focused on the positions of rooms.”

Not only, Stanley. Positions of objects, as well, within the rooms. You reach the right code in there, and you can completely change the employee lounge’s layout.

“Alright…” He mutters, still not completely trusting.

The Narrator gives him a fairly basic run-down of the rest of the columns and monitors, and describes the coding within them using terms Stanley has never heard of before. He doesn’t point that out, though, or ask what they mean; he understands at least half of the Narrator’s lecture, and he doesn’t feel much like being insulted or remarked on right now.

When the Narrator is done, he explains some of the functions of the desk, next. He explains that the two indented lines on either side are, once activated, composed of character code. The Narrator tells him that most of the code cannot be altered from that screen when pulled up, and is mostly for reviewing. When Stanley asks about his own code, the Narrator tells him that no part of it can be altered in any way, nor be pulled up on a wall monitor.

Which he finds interesting. Stanley doesn’t say that to the Narrator, but he thinks, why can every other characters’ and entities’ programming be changed at least somewhat, but not his?

He asks the Narrator then what happens if something goes wrong in his own code, to which the Narrator replies that it has never happened, nothing has changed on its own, even though other characters’ and entities’ coding requires a once-in-a-while checkup. The Narrator himself doesn’t know exactly why, but he assures Stanley, it’s nothing to linger on.

Stanley is still very much intrigued. He moves on anyway.

The Narrator offers some more explanation for some other things in this room, and answers a few of Stanley’s questions. Then, he deems their lesson done for now, and suggests that Stanley begin their plan.

Alright Stanley, are you ready to start coding? I’m going to relay to you the specific instructions you must type in order to achieve what you tell me you want. I have remarkably good memories, and I won’t forget a thing, I assure you. So, anything I tell you to type, you type, got it? And, don’t you worry if it does not contain any specific words you might be trying to identify.

Remember: code often does not directly tell you what of that you are attempting to instruct it. It’s vague, so a lot of it will be confusing until the very end, yes? I will tell you exactly what I’m doing to the lounge, and you can tell me if you’d like one thing or another, and I’ll make sure to give you those exact instructions.

The Narrator’s statement checks out, from examining the code on this monitor and from the third monitor in his office, but Stanley still is slightly skeptical at the fact that the man feels the need to mention that now, before he gets started. Maybe he’s overthinking things, as usual. The Narrator would tell him that, most definitely, and a part of Stanley really does want to do this. It’ll be difficult, and Stanley assumes it’ll take a few attempts to fully get it right, but who is he if he isn’t ready to try something new?

“I’m ready to start,” Stanley tells him, assuring himself that if this gets too suspicious, or seems too dangerous, he’ll stop typing right away.

The Narrator, back in the office, grins.

Quite so. Now, what would you like to begin with?

Stanley will admit, it isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Though, after an hour or two of Stanley suggesting what changes he’d like to make to the room and them coming to agreements, the Narrator telling him what to type in order to attain them all, Stanley gets a strange feeling.

He stops typing, suddenly, while the words on the yellow half of the screen keep flowing. His eyes narrow. He’s getting a weird feeling, like he’s doing something wrong, like something is happening that it isn’t supposed to, but he doesn’t know what. His eyes flick to the yellow half, words and instructions unseizing as the Narrator seems to know exactly what he’s talking about, confident in this procedure.

He clicks his tongue, ignoring the directions now and scanning the code, closely. The code hadn’t mentioned anything about the employee lounge before, he knows, and the Narrator had assured him it didn’t need to have those words to be talking about the room. And Stanley, who doesn’t know the thing about code, and remembered the Narrator’s promise, trusted him in that second. He went along with it, ignoring the prickling feeling at his skin.

He scrolls up, and thinks.

Stanley? What was that noise? Have you stopped typing?

His name catches Stanley’s eye, and he reads those words. The feeling of wrongness at the situation erupts again.

“Narrator,” His tone is careful. “Tell me, what exactly am I putting in here? What am I changing here?” The Narrator had left this piece of coding, of “new furniture”, and ‘surprise’. Stanley had trusted him well enough, after a few seconds of reassurance.

A pause. The screen is blank, for a moment.

Stanley, you needn’t worry about it. It is a surprise, as I said, and I do know just how much you enjoy pleasant surprises; I gave you my word, I’m simply helping you redesign the employee lounge, and I know what I am talking about. My power may be absent, but my near-limitless knowledge of coding is certainly not. Keep following my instructions, and I will show the results to you straight away. Not much longer now, only a few more lines of code to go. Now, when did you stop typing? I assure you, my memory is nearly as impeccable as my knowledge, so I can get us back on track straight away.

“I don’t trust you,” Stanley decides. His voice comes out cold, more than he meant. He doesn’t care anymore. “Tell me exactly what you are trying to do here and maybe I’ll continue.” That’s a lie; he’s not going to keep doing this. He’s trying to think of the employee lounge, to maybe sense some change in it, or if this code really is directed toward it. But he can’t. The more Stanley concentrates, actually, the more the feeling grows fuzzy. Like he’s having a hard time telling what state the employee lounge is in, at all. He hadn’t thought about it before, but now he realizes, if he could sense changes before, even the smallest ones within the Parable, why hadn’t he been sensing anything different for an entire room?

Has he been coding for the lounge at all this past hour? And why does it feel like the connection he’d felt to the Parable in this room is much less potent than before?

“Fuck,” He curses, unable to keep it inside. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

Nothing! Stanley, I promised you. It’s only a few more lines of code, now. Perhaps, five or ten more, give or take? I promise you, when it is done I will show you everything.

“I’m not sensing any change in the employee lounge, Narrator. Want to tell me why? When I think about it, I can’t feel a thing. This code is not for the employee lounge,” The more he speaks, the more he becomes certain of it. He still can’t read it, he still knows only the very basics of programming, but when he stares at those lines of computer instructions, he knows it isn’t for the employee lounge. The Narrator had been right when he said it was for the position of something, but it wasn’t for any rooms within the office complex. He’d been lying to him, this whole time.

Another cold realization strikes him in the face. There are words still flying across the yellow half-screen, but Stanley doesn’t give a shit about them anymore. He catches a few phrases (-finish it- and Stanley you can’t- and -last line is the key- ), he supposes the Narrator is trying to convince him one last time to keep going. But Stanley won’t have it.

“You lied. You were trying to swap the position of something else. Of yourself; w- weren’t you? Of-fucking-course you were.” He can’t help the incredulous, humorless laugh that bubbles up out of his throat, and the words on the screen have seized. Stanley doesn’t need to see the Narrator in order to know that he knows he’s been caught.

“You are unbelievable. I- I was trying to fucking–” Stanley cuts himself off, taking a shaky breath. It would be more dangerous to get angry in here, than any other part in the Parable. He knows this.

He just wanted to try something new. He wanted to trust the Narrator, for once, for the first time in a while, and he had thought, the Narrator had a pretty shitty time today, even if he doesn’t remember it! He thought he might at least try to trust him, to give him a chance, just this once, but it hadn’t worked. The Narrator had taken advantage of him, as always.

No words appear on the yellow half. The Narrator knows he’s lost.

“Fuck you,” Stanley snarls. He closes out the screen enlarger. He closes out the monitors. He steps out of his chair, and he races back to the white door, seething and unable to look at that fucking code, to stand in this room any longer. There’s no use trying to undo what he’d damaged; Stanley doesn’t know the very basis of coding. He can’t risk breaking or deleting something crucial. He doesn’t want to try. He doesn’t want to know the extent to how much he’d fucked up.

He’s thinking to himself: stupid, stupid, you are so incredibly stupid, as he slams the white door shut, feeling much of that connection drain out of him the moment he takes a step out and back into his office. Stanley is still seething with anger, as he approaches the desk and, before he sits down, resets immediately, his breath shaky, heavy, and his heart thumping with rage in his chest. He doesn’t pick up the bucket; he doesn’t look at it. He sits down, pulls his knees up to his chest, and tries to calm that terrible hatred to both that man now sitting ramrod straight in Employee 427’s desk and himself.

Of course. Of course this would happen; he should have never trusted that snake, should have never believed him when he said ‘ I promise.’ The Narrator doesn’t give a shit about promises, he’s broken enough promises that Stanley should have known the moment he agreed so quickly because the Narrator does not care about promises . They mean nothing to him. And yet, Stanley was too distracted by his idiocy and curiosity about the room, his hope to be able to trust the man. He had wanted to try and form more of an alliance with the Narrator, and that would have been a start, but just where had that naive wish gotten him?

He had so foolishly been led into another trap. Stanley has nothing to blame but himself, he supposes. And his fucking stupidity that he let himself get tricked again.

Stanley stands up, prepared to go visit the Curator and Mariella; perhaps they could help him feel better. Provide some sort of comfort, or at the very least some distraction from all this bullshit.

Hs turns his head, twists his chair half-way to give himself room to exit it, when that same buzzing feeling, not unlike the small sensation he feels when words appear on the Thoughts Screen, pokes the back of his skull. He stands up straighter, confused. Hadn’t he–

But then he spots it, out of the corner of his eye. White text on the third monitor, the normally completely black one. The monitor that Stanley figured he had to turn on manually in order for anything to show up. He doesn’t sit down quite yet, nor move, reading the text out of the corner of his eye, breath hitched.

Stanley, wait.

Stanley turns around.

Chapter Text

The words disappear once Stanley turns his body to face the monitor, takes a moment to read them, and new ones replace them.

Can I speak with you now, please?

“...Who are you?” Stanley asks cautiously, even though he has a hunch. He doesn’t sit down, yet. That residue anger is still deep in his chest, but the pull on his heart is less palpable than before, calming down. He’s wary, even though he knows he doesn’t need to be.

I think you know who I am. Me and the Curator had a small discussion about you, after you left her space. Don’t worry, it wasn’t bad in any way.

The entity must somehow be able to sense when he’s finished reading, because not a second later, the white text disappears and is replaced by new.

I didn’t know a great time to speak with you, and I wanted to wait until after you met the Curator. I figured now was okay.

“You’re… the Timekeeper,” Stanley says. He knows he’s right even before he receives confirmation.

That’s my preferred title, yeah. I was also known as Employee 432 for a brief period, a long time ago, and occasionally called the Settings Person. But, I like Timekeeper the best. Rolls off the tongue kind of, right? Not like I can test it out myself, but I still like the name.

“432?” Stanley asks, surprised. “You mean, the same 432 from the Peer Reviews hallway in the Confusion Ending? That’s you?”

Well, that’s a bit complicated. I’m not really sure why they kept that in after the idea was discarded. But essentially, yeah, back then. I’m not that person anymore, though. It reminds me of… not very pleasant times.

Stanley frowns. He sits back down now, crossing his legs in the chair and getting more comfortable. “I’m sorry.”

Don’t be; it isn’t your fault. Far from it, it really is mostly mine. But, let’s not focus on that, yeah?

“Who are you?” Stanley repeats the question once that last white text disappears. “I mean, what do you do exactly?”

The monitor is blank for a second. Stanley is worried briefly that it’ll stop replying, but then, more words appear, and Stanley reads them carefully.

In the Parable, I help the Curator, and also technically the Narrator, manage code and keep everything in good shape. I don’t really have a set thing on what I’m meant to do here. Mostly I keep to myself.

I pretty much just watch over this place, and occasionally converse with the Curator and Mariella outside of work stuff. I’m out of sight most of the time.

“Is that all you do?” It seems sort of lonely to him. “Are you trapped inside that monitor? Or… other screens, too?”

That’s also kind of complicated. This whole place is complicated, really.

However, I suppose you can say I am, sort of. I don’t have a physical form anymore. It’s been a long time; I can’t manifest one. No, I live inside the code of the Parable. Inside the screens, and in between all the programming and everything that makes up this place.

Think of it like living in walls, maybe. But I can see everything, feel everything in here just fine. You bear some of that connection to this game now, so it’s something like that. Only much more potent and abundant than yours. I can alter a lot in here with just some thought.

Stanley nods slowly. He remembers what the Narrator had mentioned about Stanley’s own code.

“But not me, can you?”

No. I can’t.

Stanley wants to ask why. He prepares the question, and opens his mouth to say it, but then pauses. He remembers something else; something more important.

“Did you… swap our roles? Me and the Narrator?”

Yeah, that was me. I’d rather you not tell the Narrator that, though. He would be… angry, at the very least. I’m worried he might already suspect it.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Stanley mutters. “Why?”

Well, to be honest, I was simply bored, and also curious, to see what would happen.

I was tired of the way things were here, how nothing ever changed much, and how the Narrator would treat you, no matter what I said to get him to stop. So one day I decided to plan this out. Took months, but I finally got it ready. So I put in the command when you reset, and it worked, thankfully.

Oh and, sorry for not getting your bucket that first reset too; I’ll admit, I totally forgot about it when planning for this, but luckily the command worked for it, also.

Stanley nods. He can understand that. And the part about his bucket– he’s just a little annoyed, mostly because it allowed the Narrator to threaten to smash it, but he gets it. It doesn't really matter now; no harm ever came to it, thankfully.

He looks at the bucket. He’s sure the bucket understands, too. He nods again, more towards it this time. He turns back to the monitor.

“Okay. Don’t worry about it. So in that case, was it… was it you who got me out of the void, too?”

Yeah. I’m beyond grateful that I got a hold of you just in time. 

If that door had closed, that would have been it. I wouldn’t be able to get you out of there.

Stanley shudders. “W- what would have happened to me, if I never got out?”

It requires a bit of context. But essentially, you wouldn’t have died, Stanley. You would’ve remained there eternally in that state your body was in, conscious, but not exactly alive in any other sense.

Stanley falls silent, the horror dawning on him as his eyes are wide. He looks down at his hands and stares at them, not really seeing them. “So, good that you got me out,” He whispers, fighting the lump in his throat. He’s trying and failing, not to think about that terrible prospect. He tries not to let his breathing get shaky, but fails at that, too. He looks up when more words appear.

Yes. Really, really good.

And the Narrator would have let me–

He stops that train of thought. There’s no use for it; no point in dwelling on something he can’t change. No matter how much of a stab to the chest it feels.

The Timekeeper must be watching Stanley as he struggles to breathe properly, panic steadily rising at the horrid thought of staying in that place, his body and mind being compressed, unable to move and feel anything for eternity ; words appear again.

Stanley, try to breathe. Please.

Stanley does; he takes deep breaths, and attempts to distract himself by asking another question that comes to mind.

“Are you, s- since you can control this place, are you like, the God of the Parable, then?” The question calms his heart somewhat, but he can still feel it pulsing in his chest.

Stop thinking about it. Just concentrate on what they say. Stop thinking about it.

Hm. I suppose you can say that too, yeah. I don’t see why not, if that makes sense to you.

Stanley nods once more. He feels a bit better. Push it down. Not enough, though. He wraps his arms around his chest, slowly making himself smaller, a habit he’s picked up when stuck on particularly distressing thoughts. “Okay, yeah. That’s good.”

:)

Stanley looks down again, still attempting to ease his breaths.

Stanley.

Stanley looks up again, feeling another poke in his skull. He stops curling up.

You’re stronger than you think, Stanley. So much stronger than the Narrator gives you credit for.

Look, I know everything here is… it’s not ideal. So far from ideal; this whole place is unnatural. It shouldn’t exist like it does.

But the fact that you’re here, still fighting and trying to make better of things, makes you unbelievably strong. Anybody else, after so long in a place like this, would’ve gone insane, no doubt.

But you’re still intact, Stanley, you’re still here . That makes you admirable. You should be proud of yourself.

Stanley stares at the screen, the words not dissipating yet and he swallows.

“Going insane sometimes feels like it would be a mercy here.” He murmurs. “And I have been before, always snapping out of it eventually. You know… if you’ve watched me all this time, you know what I’m talking about.” Stanley sighs.

Maybe I am insane right now. I wouldn’t know if I was, would I? He opens his mouth, then closes it. The text on the screen disappears, more slowly this time, and more replaces it.

Tell you what, Stanley. I’ll answer any other questions you have. Any to the best of my ability, and however many you want. Just… be prepared for the answers I give you. They may not be as reassuring as you hope.

Stanley stares at the monitor, head swarming with so many questions and mysteries about this place; where could he start? Ideas race past in his mind, more than they did upon meeting the Curator, and he can’t think of a single thing to begin with, though he’s been wanting this opportunity for so long. Questions like, where did the Parable even come from? Did it always exist? Why does the Narrator forget the Confusion Ending? And–

“Am I really human?” He blurts before he can think twice. “I mean, I must be, right? I feel human, always have, and the Narrator told me I’m human. But I’m not sure everything adds up. And… I have a feeling the Narrator isn’t quite human either, so, am I?”

The screen doesn’t answer for a moment. Then:

Yes, and no. I can tell you exactly why, and how, if you’d like. But it’ll be a long explanation, so you’ll need to prepare yourself for it.

Stanley glances at the Narrator through the center screen and back. “I’ve got time. Go ahead, I’m prepared.”

Alright. I’ll start from the beginning. 

Would you like to know where you came from, Stanley?

“Yes,” He breathes. This is exactly the thing he wanted to know since the beginning, just how he came to be, how this all started. But, wait–

“Didn’t the Narrator make me? How… how would I come from anywhere else?”

The Narrator didn’t make you. That idea and memory has been planted in his mind artificially; he’s made to believe it. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let’s start with who you really are, and were.

Stanley nods, letting them know they can continue.

You were human, once. Fully human, I mean, you were another person out in the real world, living your life among other humans.

You are aware this is a video game, or meant to be at least. And the Narrator’s explained to you before that videogames are created by people, developers. This video game is no different.

The screen is black for another moment once the white text disappears. Stanley stares at it, his full attention on it, waiting for them to continue. His head already swims, but he doesn’t dare interrupt.

Though the Narrator’s told you that he’s the one who made the Parable, it isn’t true. It was created by developers, humans in the real world, like you were once.

They made this game, they constructed the office building, the map, the endings, the coding for it all, programmed it all and called it The Stanley Parable. They worked for many years on it, and they’d nearly finished everything. They were close to having it done. But they still needed the characters.

In a normal game, developers program and model their own original characters, right? But these ones wanted to be as immersive as possible, make the game as real as possible for the Player. They were proud of their creation, as all game developers are, and thought this game and its ideas and themes to be truly genius.

They wanted to base their character off of a real person, to make the game character as detailed and realistic as possible. That’s where you come in.

Stanley, are you alright?

Stanley’s breathing is shallow again. He swallows, hands trembling the slightest bit, and he’s not quite sure if he’s prepared to hear this anymore. The words repeat in his head again and again; he says them to himself. ‘You were human, once.’ You were human, once. You were human, fully human, in the real world. You existed in the real world. You were a person there. How was I a person?

Do you need a break? It’s fine if you do, I understand. I know this must be hard to hear.

Stanley hesitates, eventually shaking his head. He needs to hear this.

“No, please go on. Just– just give me a moment first.”

Stanley takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and squeezing his fists at the same time; he exhales, relaxing his muscles the best he can. He opens his eyes.

“Okay.”

Alright, let me know if you need to stop.

Like I was saying before, they wanted to make it seem real. Using real people. Why, I don’t really know. But there wasn’t much to be done about it.

“So they took me by force?” Stanley guesses, because he knows at least that it isn’t going to be good.

No. It was all consensual, at first. They sent emails out to people who said they wouldn’t mind helping the company. They didn’t want the entire public to know what the game was yet, right? They didn’t believe they had enough of it finished for that yet.

They described the offer in the email, and what it was for. The offer was for a person, two people to come and work with them, help them build new characters and base them off that person.

Several people came to interview, but it was you and Mariella that got picked. You were both really excited to start working on the project.

Stanley cuts in, surprised. “Mariella? Why would they want a human to base or model off a character that doesn’t even speak, and hardly shows up here?”

Because, they originally had a different idea for Mariella. At first, Mariella was supposed to be Stanley’s fellow co-worker, Employee 327.

She wouldn’t be as prominent as Stanley in the building, but she would be seen there walking occasionally, and she had a few lines as well. That’s why she still has a voice.

“But I didn’t. I was created to be mute?”

Stanley was a vessel for the Player, yeah. But at first, they didn’t take your voice.

Let me back up a bit. You’d been accepted to help model the character Stanley. You would help with the demo, do some test runs, and some other things with the team you worked with.

The idea that they had as a way to create characters off of you and Mariella, essentially, was to pull coding from you and insert it into the character programming. That way, everything would seem hyper realistic, and really feel like Stanley was a human.

“What…? How– how do you pull code from a person? Do people have…” He frowns, confused. That didn’t make sense. Did regular humans have something that lets them pull something like out of them? But, humans aren’t machines, or computers. They don’t work like that.

It’s complicated. I don’t know why they wanted to do it that way specifically. I’m not quite sure how exactly they did it, actually. My theory is that, they made some sort of way to work with brain scans, and physical and medical tests, such as blood tests or brain tests and took that information to store it somewhere else and used it.

They did that with you and Mariella, and you both agreed to it. Honestly, when I think about it now, it just makes me sick. Figuratively.

Stanley cuts in again. “Why, though? I sort of understand, but we both consented to it, right? So why would it be so bad?”

Well, they often went further than they informed you on. I think they took more tests, monitored you, hooked you up to stuff more than you agreed on at first. I don’t know why. Mariella, too. But you stayed. You wanted to finish this, I believe.

And to be honest, if they had gotten that far, I don’t think they would have let you leave if you wanted to.

“Sounds like they weren’t very good people, then…” Stanley mutters. He still wants to know what happened to him, and what he is, exactly.

No, they weren’t. They were not good people at all.

Look, I’ll skip the unimportant details.

The extraction from Mariella– it’d worked. They’d long since decided to scrap the idea and used her character as the one you know, just to appear in one ending. 

So, she got to go home, after a few months of working with the team and her character model and programming was finished. She’d required less code than you, for her character, so she finished before you. You waved goodbye and stayed, more confident that this would work. After all, Mariella had been a success, right?

“But, something happened?” He assumes. The Timekeeper did say he was still partly human. “Or was I a success, too?”

The former. Something went wrong when they were in the lab. I’m not sure exactly how it happened.

“Lab?” Stanley can’t help but interrupt, caught off guard again.

Yeah. They had a laboratory, too; like I said, these people were doing all sorts of tests and scans on you to ‘pull code’ from you.

“Okay. I don’t know a lot about developers, or coding or programming in general, but I thought a lab was for science things? At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I know you said they did all that, but this stuff seems more than just coding and programming. Were those people really only game developers?”

The monitor remains black for several seconds.

I’m not sure. I didn’t know that team too well. A lot worked on the game, but the ones that were mostly in charge of creating the characters is who I’m talking about.

That could be possible, though? That they weren’t only programmers. But I’m not sure who else they could’ve been. They worked on this game for years. I figured that was all they did, really, as of work. They were passionate about it, much like the Narrator is passionate about ‘his’ story.

Stanley furrows his eyebrows, thoughtful. He’s not too interested to know who those people might’ve been other than developers. He knows they are important to how he came here, but he just can’t really bring himself to care about the details of people’s lives that were a long time ago, and that he doesn’t remember meeting.

Something else had caught his attention more.

“What do you mean by you ‘didn’t know that team’?” He pauses again. “How do you know all this?”

Blank, for a few more moments.

Because, I was a developer once, too. I was in charge of creating the Curator and the Narrator. They hired me as well.

They didn’t talk to me much other than give me instructions or criticism about the characters. I kept mostly to myself, content to work alone, though it was challenging.

“You… you were a developer?”

Yes, but, like I said. I didn’t know exactly what was happening with you. I hardly talked to you at all. It was only after the disaster happened that I figured out what they did to you.

“What–“ Stanley hesitates. He swallows. “What happened?”

I’m not sure precisely how it happened. I walked in nearly right after, having just finished the two characters I was assigned to. 

I was thrilled to share, but then I saw you, and the others were panicking.

It seemed like they were stalling by avoiding the answer, which only causes Stanley to dread it more.

Apparently, Stanley, they were trying a new strategy to extract code from you, and it’d gone wrong. I think that’s what they told me. The code had merged with you, instead of being pulled from you.

Stanley’s breath hitches once again. The Timekeeper continues on, and even though Stanley has no frame of reference to tell, he’d say they wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. He doesn’t blame them, but can’t help but feel an inkling of something like hurt from it.

They told me, by the time they’d even realized what happened, it was too late. The coding for the Character Stanley was integrated in you too deeply, they couldn’t have tried to remove it without killing you.

“Oh. Sh- shit…” Stanley feels his heart picking up speed once again. He squeezes his eyes shut, keeps them shut for a moment. He squeezes his fists. Then he relaxes them. He opens his eyes and asks next, his breathing still uneven.

“Then what happened?”

You and the Character had meshed into one being. They couldn’t separate the two, and they couldn’t just release you to go back home, either.

So they simply had the idea to use you as the character, anyways. They couldn’t be bothered trying to fix the mess they’d created completely; they took the lazy way out.

Obviously you would have objections, but they assured you it would be fine, at first. Now, since you were partly code, they now had access to alter some of it, specifically your brain and your thoughts.

“So they forced me to believe it was okay,” Stanley murmurs.

No. They did more than that; they erased your memory completely. Memories of your life, who you were, and the real world, all wiped clean. They inserted you in the game’s programming, and made you the Protagonist.

“Oh.” Stanley stares at the screen, feeling hazy. “Okay.”

Do you want to stop now, Stanley?

“No–” His voice breaks. He composes himself. “Please, tell me the rest. I- I want to hear the rest of what happened to me.”

Okay. There isn’t much more to explain about you, but then we can move on to the Narrator after. I’m sure you have questions about him, right?

Stanley nods, feeling absent, or distant. He forces himself to remain steady, to focus on the words on the screen. This is important; he wants to know this. Even if it hurts; even if this feels so much worse than any suggestion the Narrator could have come up with to explain his existence here.

He feels something similar to grief, in his chest. Despite not knowing, not remembering his former self– and he knows he never will– his heart pangs with a certain sorrow that only comes with losing someone–or something–precious. He takes a deep, wobbly breath, and lets it out slowly.

“Please, continue.”

Alright.

Soon after, they did some more test runs in the office building, now with their Protagonist inside. They were more enthusiastic now, despite all that they did to you.

They soon ran into a problem, though. You still had your voice; you were able to express your confusion verbally, your boredom, outrage, and other emotions. You could talk to the Player and the Narrator, as they’d put him in the game now, too.

They couldn’t have that. It would be annoying for the Player, having to hear the Protagonist speak all the time, mostly in a negative or confused manner. So, they took your voice. They couldn’t delete it completely, same with your memories, as you were still human, too. They couldn’t delete anything of you. But they removed it from you, and discarded it.

“They didn’t delete it. That… that means, it could still be out there, somewhere? My memories?” Stanley asks, a momentary hope sprung in his mind.

No. You, or I, wouldn’t be able to retrieve it. It’s lost, completely. You’re original voice as well; I had to make a new one for you.

Stanley deflates. He shouldn’t have let himself be hopeful, even for a second. This wasn’t a place where his wishes could come true.

Anyway, they took your voice, and they were a little more satisfied with you now. They wiped your memory again after, too, so that you never knew you could speak in the first place.

Stars, they were cruel. Not just to me, but you, too. It’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Stanley.

Stanley nods again, slowly. He blinks, slowly. He feels slow, right now. Like his brain is working to catch up with his body while processing all this information being brought upon him at the same time.

I should finish, though. If you need to stop again, please tell me.

They took your voice, they were a little more confident now, but you were still a problem. You were too independent, so to speak. You would sometimes move on your own, tilt your head on your own, look around on your own, when the Player stopped you. You sometimes refused to move when the Player would try to control you. You were too expressive to pass as a good Protagonist for this game.

You weren’t the blank slate, the vessel they needed, that you should have been. You didn’t cooperate. And they couldn’t make you, even though they tried. You always found ways to fight back.

They eventually grew frustrated enough that they just decided to scrap the entire game. They couldn’t take you out of it, and they’d gone too far to try and start over. They tried deleting it.

Stanley is silent as the Timekeeper explains all of this. He forces himself to focus on the words, to process them and store them all in his memory, and not just skim over them so that he doesn’t comprehend the weight of it all. Even though they give no indication of emotion, and are simply text on a screen, Stanley knows this has to be hard for them to explain all this, too. He couldn’t imagine how it wouldn’t be, and Stanley doesn’t want them to have to repeat themselves all because he couldn’t bring himself to comprehend it first.

The words continue. Stanley reads them diligently.

But, it wouldn’t work. You were a part of this game now, and you were part human being, and because you were part human being, the code could not be deleted unless that human part of you was also killed at the same time. Because they put you in here, however, they didn’t have physical access to you, to your human side.

So they simply abandoned it. They sealed off your code and froze you in your office chair, in your default position, and they left The Stanley Parable to rot in some discarded folder, and never touched it again.

The screen is black for several seconds. Stanley is quiet, still. He opens his mouth, after a few seconds have gone by; it hangs for a moment, then he closes it.

He–

Stanley–

Stanley doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to process this. The only way he knows how to truly cope long-term with his more profound, distressing feelings and thoughts is to suppress them as best he can, not let themselves give way to the surface of his mind so that he can endure this painful reality in a way that doesn’t break him. He is aware of this. He knows what he does, and he could not afford to stop because he was not in a situation where that was safe to do. It wasn’t healthy, but neither is the Parable.

If he told himself his situation wasn’t as bad as it really was, or the person he is talking to isn’t really the kind of person who has put him through hell over and over and over–

If he convinces himself that, then he can manage it. He can put on a determined face and he can get up out of his chair, and he can make a choice, and he can brave that voice, that face, and he can bear it.

This isn’t something he should suppress, or ignore, though. He doesn’t want to suppress it; he doesn’t know how to deal with it any other way. He feels detached from himself, almost, in a way, but at the same time it envelops him, and he feels terribly, utterly real in the moment. And he wishes he weren’t.

Stanley knows it isn’t the Timekeeper’s fault. That doesn’t stop it from hurting like nothing else.

“What about you?” Stanley eventually says, quietly. “How did you end up in here, if you were also human, and a developer?”

The screen doesn’t answer, for a moment.

They were angry at me for something.

Before being assigned to make the Curator and the Narrator, I was assigned to create Employee 432, because I asked for a job in the team and they hired me.

They later scrapped the idea of it, before they even had inserted the code in the game. They kept some details about 432, though, and I don’t know why.

After that, some of the team made fun of me, started calling me 432 because the position I was in got discarded. That’s how I was known as that, before.

They already didn’t like me very much, you see.

I eventually asked for another job, wanting to prove myself. They gave me the task of creating two more characters they needed: a male Narrator, and a female narrator whose name would be the Curator; single-handedly. To find actors for their voices, to write the lines of code that needed to be integrated into the game, all of it.

I don’t think they expected me to actually be able to finish it, but I worked on it for so long while they were working on you, and I did it.

So when I showed it to them, they took the characters from me, my biggest project, and didn’t let me see it again, and they inserted it into the game.

Stanley scowls, without meaning to. He feels a deeply rooted rage towards these developers , bubbling up more in his chest at every sentence he reads.

The words continue.

My approach and idea for them was… unique, however. Even though they were supposed to be only voices, and I was supposed to find actors to voice them, I decided it might be easier if I could make them human-like, or have forms/models. I didn’t tell them this, mostly because they dismissed me when I tried to mention it to them. I got to work anyway, thinking they wouldn’t mind when I showed them later.

The reason I wanted them to have models for them is because I thought of a way that the characters could self-manage the game’s programming. If I could manage that, then the others might’ve been impressed. Because the characters could do upkeep on all the code themselves, we wouldn’t have to manually do it ourselves as much. They could fix bugs that cropped up in the background, and we could relax about it. Of course, we would still have to check up on the game every once in a while, but not as much.

I wanted to impress the rest of the team. I worked hard on the models and programmed the Narrator to say all of the script, where he needed it to, the emotion he needed to convey, without a voice actor. It was difficult, but not impossible; the same for the Curator, though she had less lines.

I inserted the false memories of him creating the Parable, and creating you, so it would feel more like he was passionate with his game while playing it.

I’m sure you want to know why the Confusion Ending is so different from the rest, and why he’s still forced to recite the lines. It’s simple really; that part of his code hasn’t left him, and probably never will. That ending was unique, so it was coded a little differently than the rest of him.

Hey, you still okay?

“I’m–” Stanley wants to say he’s okay. He wants to believe it, too, because he knows he still hasn’t completely gotten all the answers, and that the Timekeeper still has more to say. But, he thinks he’d be lying if he said he’s okay.

He falls silent, and stays silent for several seconds, cogitating the words on the screen he’d read, and forcing himself to comprehend the meaning of it all, however hard it may be. The Timekeeper does not say anything. He’s grateful for that.

Stanley takes a deep breath, after nearly a full minute of silence. The Timekeeper still hasn’t answered his question.

“How did you end up in the code?”

Ah. Yeah. Well, the thing is, once I had completed my project, and showed it to them, the others got angry at me. They were annoyed that I didn’t do it how they originally instructed me to. Like I said, they already didn’t like me, and I was naïve, wanting to impress them.

They took my project away from me, cut off my access to it and when I learned that, and learned that they put it in the game anyway, I was angry. I protested; I demanded that I had access, or that they would at least give me credit, because I had worked so hard on it and wanted to be recognized for it.

They told me to back off, but I didn’t. They were angry. So, they took matters into their own hands.

Stanley sucks in a breath.

They knocked me out. I don’t remember how, or where; like I said, the memories are distant, at the least. I don’t know what they did to me.

The next time I woke up, I wasn’t human anymore. I didn’t have a body. I was inside the code, and I couldn’t even speak.

Stanley can’t believe what he’s reading. But at the same time, he can definitely believe it. He knows firsthand, of course, just how cruel and evil a person can be, but other humans? He doesn’t want to believe there was so much bad that existed either, out in the real world, a place he thought before must be so much better than here. He doesn’t know how all of this was possible in the real world, but then again his knowledge of the real world is enormously limited.

It just kept getting worse. He went into this thinking he would get answers that might’ve been a means of catharsis for him. Stanley thought he would feel better knowing just how he’d come to be, and how the Parable had been formed.

Still, Stanley does not regret his discovery. He wouldn’t go back in time to reverse this conversation if he had the chance, even as his entire world-view and understanding of his existence and reality has been flipped, twisted, flung around, and then twisted some more. He’d wanted to know this. And he still wants to know this. He’s used to hurting. He can bear this. If it means he finally understands the truth, then he can bear this.

Again, that rageful feeling of those horrible developers and whatever-else-they-might’ve-been rises up in his chest, like a simmering pot of boiling water within him, wanting to burn and damage the people that deserved it.

Nevertheless, Stanley doesn’t want to keep feeling angry. There’s no point to anger. He can’t change any of what happened to him. What happened to any of them. It’s terrible, and he wants this to have never happened, but it did, so the least he can do is bear the truth.

He feels tired.

Yet, he wants to continue.

Stanley’s breath is shaky. He evens it out. “Keep going. Please, I want to know the rest of it.”

He doesn’t think the Timekeeper takes offense at his bluntness, but then again he has no way of knowing. He hopes they know that Stanley isn’t mad at them.

Okay.

So, you see, after they had abandoned the game, it continued on. It cannot be truly deleted, because you occupy it. Your humanity is what keeps it alive.

Over time, the Parable grew. We essentially exist nowhere. We take up space, somewhere in some large folder in a computer or in between other lost and abandoned programs and projects, but at the same time nowhere.

That’s what the void is, Stanley. That’s an exit to the Parable. It leads to the vast expanse between other lost programs, and nothing.

Stanley widens his eyes.

I wasn’t lying when you said you’d be stuck out there. You cannot fade, or die unless both your artificial code and the human part of you are killed, and here your human side can’t be killed by the forces that make the other lost programs fade away. Do you get it?

Stanley nods slowly. “So, I’m the reason you can’t escape here. I’m the reason you all have to suffer eternally alone here, and can’t die?”

No. Not completely. Look, there’s more to it than that, Stanley. Over time, it grew. 

The Narrator was an AI, at first, just a model and some code put together. And the Curator. They didn’t have actual feelings that they weren’t made to appear to have to the Player; they weren’t sentient, they didn’t have functions like regular people have such as breathing.

Mariella was also simply programming and a character model. She had no human aspects to her, because she was successfully made as intended by the devs. You were frozen and ‘asleep’ in your chair, like how the Narrator is now and between resets.

But as the years went by, because you were human, even though you were asleep, you had an influence on this place. It became more alive; now, I’m not saying the building itself is alive or anything like that, but the place has become… less dead, really.

The Narrator woke up first. By ‘woke up’, I mean he started moving on his own. Before he just sat in his chair, much like you. Same with the Curator. Now, at first, they didn’t do much. The Narrator was not supposed to feel things. But, somehow, he was beginning to grow more sentient, and I had no idea why.

The screen is black for a few moments then, to which Stanley nods, showing he’s paying attention and that he’s okay. He’s pulled his legs up to his chair now, knees to his chest and palms resting on top of them. He takes a deep breath again.

The words continue.

He developed a personality over time, grew genuinely passionate about ‘his’ script and story, and wrote the booklet of all the words that were programmed into him, believing that he came up with them himself. He made more rooms beyond the white door. He communicated with the Curator and with me. Mariella had woken up by this point, and bonded more with the Curator. I was relieved that I didn’t have to be isolated anymore, even though I didn’t know what was going on at first.

You were still asleep, though. I didn’t know when, if at all, you would wake up. You were breathing, the whole time you were, but your eyes were glazed over and back perfectly straight.

Eventually, the Narrator was fed up with his Protagonist unable to move or progress the story he so badly wanted to start finally performing. He created buttons and commands; that small panel on the desk, he made.

He made a command to wake you up. Two, actually. One to wake up your mind, so you could hear the opening intro, and the second one, to allow you to get out of your chair and move.

So he did it, and he woke you up. He said his intro; you got out of your chair. You stood up, and you didn’t remember a thing. Who you were, what this game was, you just stepped out of the office, and the Narrator began his script. The game had begun, and there was no turning back.

And… then. You know. There’s not much more to it than that.

Stanley doesn’t speak, for a long time. He can’t bring himself to glance over at the center monitor.

Stanley puts his head in his hands, breathing out slowly. He gathers his thoughts; a difficult task, but he needs to do it. He can bear the hard thing. “So, what’s my role here? Why– why is… what is… what am I really then? If it’s all centered around me, or mostly, and it’s my– if it’s because of– then… I don’t…”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say, or request. He just wants some sort of relief, but he knows the Timekeeper can’t offer that now. Not if Stanley wants only the truth. A sigh of frustration escapes his lips.

Stanley doesn’t want to be the one that the Parable formed around. It seems too big a weight to carry on his shoulders.

He doesn’t have a choice, though, does he?

You are the support beam of this game, if you will. Without you in it, the Parable would collapse, break down, and fade.

Though the Curator has also told you that if the Narrator doesn’t talk for long enough then it will also begin to fade. That’s true, and even though it would take a long time for that to happen, it would. Wanna know why?

Stanley nods hesitantly.

You may be the reason behind most things here existing how it does now, but the reason the game even began in the first place is because of the Narrator. He set things into motion, and he told your story, and you were able to make decisions because he offered them to you.

That was the point of the Parable when the devs were making it; it came with a lot of underlying themes, definitely, but down to its core that was what this game was, and is: The Narrator telling a story, giving you choices, and the Protagonist making those choices, choosing to follow or disobey the narrative.

Without the Narrator, Stanley does not have a story or a definitive path to follow. He does not have choices to make, because they have not been brought into existence until the Narrator has stated them. The Parable would have no use lying around without a person to traverse its halls like you do. Just like without Stanley, the Narrator has no one to tell the story to, to carry it out with. Without Stanley, there wouldn’t be any reason for the office building or the Narrator or any of it at all.

Can you see it now?

“ Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another? ”

“I–”

Fuck. This is just so much. It’s– it doesn’t make it any better, knowing now that the Narrator carries some of that weight, too. Stanley feels like that should make it better, but it doesn’t. He thinks if the Narrator were a better person to him, then some of that responsibility taken off of Stanley, and that understanding, would bring him relief. But it doesn’t, because he realizes now just how much they matter to each other, and just how much they circle each other, and just how substantial their relationship is. It hurts to know that someone who could’ve been his friend, his guidance in this place and his near-equal, is such a monster to him.

Why is this so agonizing? He wants it to stop hurting. He’s tired of hurting. He doesn’t think it’ll ever stop.

Words appear on the screen again.

I have only a little bit left to tell you. You’ve made it through this far, so can you hold out just a little longer while I finish?

“Yes,” He whispers, barely able to hear himself. Everything is taking so much energy right now; including talking. The Timekeeper hears him, though.

Okay. I promise I don’t have much more left. You’re doing amazing, holding up this long with this much being thrown in your face.

I’ll finish.

Not all of it would completely disappear, if you or the Narrator left it in some way or another. It’s gone too far now. Maybe a century or so ago, it could have, but not now. Maybe fragments of the office building lines of code would remain after thousands of years, because of your influence. But that’s all. The characters would be stuck here, essentially in purgatory. Their consciousnesses would still exist, though broken down and without bodies.

And you , if you left here, your body wouldn’t even fade. But you wouldn’t be alive, not in the sense that you are now.

“What about you?” He whispers.

Me?

“Yes,” Stanley says, louder, more forcefully than he intended. “You’re important, too. What would happen to you?”

Well, I’m not too sure. Probably similar to the other characters. I would be more fractured, and isolated again. Unable to move and physically feel, and I couldn’t show up on monitors then, could I?

I don’t want to say that to depress you though. I’m not trying to make you feel bad or guilty, or anything like that. Please, don’t. You shouldn’t feel guilty for any of this, or bad about yourself. None of this is your fault, and never has been. It was never supposed to happen like this.

A huge burden was placed on your shoulders, and I’m so, so sorry for that.

Stanley sighs. His head feels fuzzy.

He does not feel guilty, though. Or, at least, he doesn’t want to. Just like Stanley doesn’t want to feel angry toward the people that did this to him. He glances to the center monitor, sees the Narrator in his chair, and his breath hitches. He looks away from it, and fiddles with his sleeve. He grips the cuff of his sweater tightly. His hands tremble and he closes his eyes.

“It’s okay.” It’s not. He doesn’t think it will ever be okay. “I don’t blame myself for it, and you shouldn’t blame yourself either. You were, and are, just as much of a victim as me. I won’t leave the Parable. Don’t worry; we’ll keep it going. It has to keep going. I won’t let you all die like that.” He says it with confidence, vindication, with as much sincerity as he can muster. If that is what’s needed out of him, for the game to keep going and for the others not to suffer, he’ll do it. He’ll keep being the support, even if it means living out this existence for eternity.

Okay. Thank you Stanley. You have no idea how much this means to me. It takes a lot of sacrifice to choose to do that.

Stanley smiles sheepishly. Even that feels like a lot, so he drops it. “Well, it’s not like I can choose. And I don’t have a choice, not in this way. Either way, we’re all condemned to a purgatory of some sorts, and this is just the lesser suffrage. I would suffer too, if I left this place. And if it means you all don’t have to suffer like that too then of course I would stay. I’m staying for all of us.” For me, mostly. But he doesn’t say that, because he doesn’t want to be selfish.

He shrugs. “What else am I supposed to do?”

I guess…

That does make sense. Still, thank you. Really. I’m sorry that you had to learn all of this today. You don’t deserve it, any of this.

“I’d rather learn it now than never learn the truth at all.”

Black, for several seconds.

I suppose you’re right.

Is there anything else you would like to know?

Stanley considers it. He considers it for a full minute, before one difficult question crosses his mind.

“Was I always called Stanley, then?”

I’m afraid I don’t follow.

“I mean, before all this, before everything, did I have a different name? From when I was human, when I lived in the real world.”

I’m not sure.

You must have. They didn’t change the character’s name to fit you, and unless it was a coincidence then, you probably weren’t named Stanley before.

I don’t know what your name would have been, though. It’s been so long, and I hardly ever talked to you when I worked there, anyway.

Stanley nods. That’s okay, he thinks. He’s not really sure what he would’ve done, if he’d found out another name he used to be called.

Besides, he’d say Stanley fits him pretty well. He’s been called that since he can remember, after all.

One more thing to ask.

“Also, I don’t think so, but… is there any chance of being found? Since you said we exist somewhere, could we ever, well, be rescued in some way, I guess?”

No. That’s the truth of it, really. Even if the developers that made this game were alive after so long, they’d have forgotten about us long ago. I’m sorry, Stanley. There’s nothing we can do anymore.

Stanley repeats that in his head: ‘Nothing we can do anymore.’ In a way, that is true. Stanley looks at the monitor to his left, the center screen, and stares at the man who he’d thought had trapped him in here for years. A man who doesn’t know any more than that himself.

It might be true that there’s nothing to hope for in here; there’s nowhere to go, nothing new to accomplish, to try to follow. It really is hopeless, in every aspect. They are forced to carry out the rest of their sentences in this incredibly unique, eternal prison until the end of time.

But– Stanley looks at the Narrator– there is something he can do, isn’t there? Something he can work toward, something he can improve. He’d wanted to before, when he saw the Curator being so very kind to her companion, and the man had shattered that chance with his cruelty and his callousness toward him. But with everything Stanley knows now, well, what don’t they have but an eternity to fix it?

The Narrator had made Stanley feel meaningless; he’d made Stanley think his life was inconsequential, less of worth than a roach in the grand scheme of things, and Stanley had believed him, because he wasn’t given any option to believe something else.

He knows it’s different now. The Narrator might not know it, and he’ll still try to use that card against him, but he knows better now.

Stanley is literally one of the most important things here. He is half of what keeps it all together. He is everything but inconsequential.

Still, There is a difference between knowing that and accepting it. It’s hard to unlearn something about yourself you’ve been made to believe for all that you can remember, even when the facts are staring you straight in the face.

Stanley puts his head in his hands and leans back, stretching his legs, feeling mentally worn out. He wants to sink into his chair and turn off his brain. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. He doesn’t want to think at all.

He needs the Timekeeper to know that it isn’t their fault he feels this way, though. He doesn’t care if they already know; Stanley needs to know they know.

“Please don’t feel guilty about telling me this. Or anything.” Stanley looks up. He isn’t in the mood to speak right now, but he needs to say this. “It’s not your fault if I don’t feel good or like it. You did what I asked, and you told me the truth. Thank you, really.”

The monitor doesn’t respond. He knows they heard him, though.

Stanley sighs.

“ Can you see? Can you see how much they need one another? ”

Stanley sees now.

He wishes that knowledge would make it any easier.

After another long minute, he stands up, slowly. He can’t bring himself to wake up the Narrator now, not right after everything he’s found.

He’ll go to the destination he planned to before this whole conversation: to visit the Curator and Mariella.

He can bear it. That’s what he’s told himself before. He can bear the hard things; he’s done it before, he can do it again. He’s stronger than he thinks, that’s what the Timekeeper had told him, right?

Stanley stands up and stumbles to the white door. His eyes are stinging. He doesn’t want his eyes to sting; he forces it away.

He thinks of the Curator, and opens the door. The Curator, already standing up with her back facing him, talking, turns to look at him immediately, her smile melting at the look on his face.

“Stanley? What’s wrong?” Mariella says in a steady but concerned tone, from behind the brunette.

Stanley can’t bear it anymore. Try as he might to shove it down, the tears spill out anyway.

Chapter Text

Stanley isn’t much of a crier, when it comes to life in the Parable.

Sure, he can be… emotional at times; feel things so strongly he can’t help but react externally in some way. He can be expressive, and at times when gets really bad he might lash out in ways that are destructive to himself or his environment, oftentimes both. But he doesn’t cry very often. He hasn’t in a long while.

So of course, when he finally snaps and the waterworks fall now, he can’t help but think of the Narrator’s potential reaction towards it if he knew about this. How could he? Even if it’s a toxic one, the Narrator is the only support he’d known to lean on for years, perhaps decades.

The Narrator would probably get annoyed, at first, or dismissive. He would scoff and roll his eyes, saying he doesn’t have time for Stanley’s nonsense right now, and he can stop that right now thank you very much. But when Stanley can’t stop it, he’ll grow more serious and more pissed at him.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Stanley. Really, I don’t understand humans and they’re unwavering desire to cry so often; it’s rather annoying. It’s not as though the world’s against you, boy, no need to be so dramatic about things. You’re quite selfish, you know, choosing to fret over such a tiny thing instead of moving my story along. Really, what are you ? Hm. Pathetic; that’s what I’d say you are right now. Now, quit your blubbering, pick yourself up off of the ground and gather your pitiful self to choose a door for me. The left, of course, by all means.”

Stanley takes a shuddering breath and wipes at his eyes, still standing near the doorway. He sees the Curator approach, hesitantly, her expression full of concern and warmth and Stanley turns his head away when the tears don’t stop. He hates them.

He feels her presence in front of him. Stanley doesn’t look up; he doesn’t want them to see how weak he’s being right now.

“Stanley, it’s okay,” The Curator reassures him in a soft tone. “You are allowed to cry; do not feel ashamed of it. Would you like to sit down?”

Stanley hesitates, then gives a small nod. The Curator moves aside and Stanley walks slowly over to the green couch, sets himself in it and the tears are still streaming down his cheeks, uncontrollably now that they’ve started. He doesn’t know what to do, and he hates himself for it.

He feels the cushion sag slightly as one of the women puts her weight to the right of him on the couch; it’s the Curator, Stanley sees out of the corner of his eye. His breath hitches, and he can’t prevent that learned instinct telling him that crying is dangerous, crying will get him reprimanded, and he does not want that.

“I-“ He cuts himself off. He doesn’t think they want to be apologized to. That didn’t get him much anywhere with the Narrator. What matters is stopping it, and getting on with his life.

This isn’t the Narrator.

Stanley takes a deep breath. He looks up, and the Curator is watching him, smiling sadly, with not a single inkling of anger or annoyance in her expression. He wishes he weren’t surprised by that.

“What happened?” She invites him to speak in a quiet, soothing tone, and it almost makes him feel better.

I found out everything. I spoke with the Timekeeper. I know what I am and where I came from and that we can’t escape this place. My entire reality I had known for years here isn’t real, and the truth of it is so, so much worse.

He can’t bring himself to say it. Saying it out loud would make this so much more real and crushing than it already is, and he doesn’t think he could take that.

When he doesn’t answer, the Curator prompts him: “Did something perhaps happen with the Narrator, Stanley?”

He shakes his head immediately, looking away again. No, no, the Narrator is the least thing he’s concerned about right now.

He looks at Mariella, who makes eye contact with him. Stanley looks at her desperately, like somehow she can make it all go away, or make it any easier. The tears have slowed a bit, now, but they still well up in his eyes. He still hates them.

“Stanley… Did something happen, with someone else?”

They both know who Mariella is referring to, but Stanley understands why she doesn’t say their name.

Stanley nods. He hears a sharp intake of breath behind him, and scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve while holding the threatening tears down, more successfully this time.

“I don’t blame the Timekeeper,” He says quietly, looking down at the floor. They don’t interrupt, and he knows they both are paying full attention to him. His cheeks are still wet, and he hates that. He wipes at them with the back of his hand.

“They told me. About all of it.” Stanley’s voice breaks, breathing shallow. It doesn’t feel better admitting it out loud. He continues, when they don’t speak, hugging himself and head still slightly bowed. His hands grip his sweater tightly as he talks.

“It’s just… so much to take in. I- I thought I knew something else, but I got answers, and not only was it so different, but it was way worse than I could’ve ever imagined myself.”

He sees Mariella nod sympathetically from the corner of his eye. He looks up again, taking a deep, shuddering breath with his arms still wrapped around himself. The Curator begins speaking, and Stanley turns to face her.

“When we found out, when they told Mariella and I the truth, it was difficult for me as well, to process so much. Mariella helped me cope; she put me back together when I was at my worst.” She looks at Mariella, smiling softly. “And we took care of each other.”

The Curator turns back to Stanley. “Of course, I know it must be harder, insurmountably harder for you, being the worst victim out of all of us. I truly cannot imagine what it must feel like to be in the center of all of this.”

Stanley remains quiet, for a few moments, before speaking again. “So, the Narrator is the only one who doesn’t know, is he?”

“…Yes. We haven’t told him for a reason.” Stanley looks her in the eye now, feeling a bit better now that his face isn’t wet. “He’s had false memories implanted in his head, and he loves to be the one in control, to possess sovereignty, and especially over you; it all goes to his head. If he learned that it is all truly false, that he did not create the Parable, and that someone else had created him, well… you know what he is like. He would not take it well.” She pauses, looking at him with eyes full of compassion and sympathy, but not pity.

“We thought he might take his anguish out on you, as well; turn his emotions into anger and abuse you worse than he had been already,” She continues, voice still quiet. It comforts him; Stanley isn’t used to such a soft voice directed at him. “We thought it was for the best that he didn’t, and continues, to not know the truth.”

“Are you ever planning on telling him?” Stanley asks, and he releases his hold on himself, laying his hands back down in his lap. He asks, not because he wants the Narrator to find out the truth; no, he agrees that the man would not take it well, and it would definitely go poorly. But he still wants to know.

“We… aren’t quite sure. But, certainly not yet, and not soon, either. Not until… not until he changes, perhaps, and we don’t see that happening in the near future.”

Stanley nods again. “Okay,” He says. He takes a deep breath again, balling his fists on his knees. “Okay.”

The Curator looks at him with concern, and turns back to Mariella.

“Stanley, are you okay?” The blonde speaks up again. Her voice catches his attention, and he looks at her. Her eyes are full of kindness, too; not as much warmth as the Curator’s, but certainly understanding, and empathy. Why does it feel so strange to him to be looked at with kindness like this?

Stanley hesitates. He doesn’t want to say yes , of course, but he doesn’t want to worry the two women by answering no, either.

“I will be,” He settles on, trying to sound confident, now that he’s stopped crying. “I’ve learned how to get over things quickly.”

Mariella studies him, deciding on a reassuring, albeit sad smile. Stanley frowns.

“You don’t need to get over it quickly, Stanley. You do not need to ‘get over it’ at all,” The Curator says from behind. Stanley turns to face her. “That is something you learned from the Narrator pressuring you so severely so often. You can acknowledge something that hurts, and that is still okay. You can talk about it, and you can still say it is painful. And you may learn to live with it, as opposed to avoiding it or avoiding talking about it.” She sighs. “Please, do not keep it all bottled up. It will destroy you.”

Stanley’s breathing grows shakier again; he subconsciously starts digging his fingernails into his palm, and stops himself when he realizes it. Stanley nods his head, a tiny movement.

“I’d like to stay here some more. If that’s okay with you. I-“ Stanley cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to impede on their personal space, but he so desperately wants to stay with them, here, now. He still believes there’s no way he can face the Narrator right now.

“Yes, Stanley, of course. You can stay here as long as you need– as long as you want. We really don’t mind at all, do we, Mari?”

Mariella shakes her head.  “No. Not at all. Heaven knows we both could use the extra company.”

The Curator smiles at her. “May I touch you?” The question is directed at Stanley.

Stanley nods slowly, bracing himself.

The woman rests a hand lightly on Stanley’s shoulder. He still isn’t used to the sensation it brings, tingly and light and oh so warm, and he forces himself not to move or stare at the hand, his breathing shallow, just slightly. His gaze still drifts to it.

“See?” Stanley’s eyes snap back up to the Curator when she talks. “Mari doesn’t mind either. You may also use our bed to rest if you would like, or if you don’t want to use our’s, I’m sure I or the Timekeeper will be able to create one for you, and a space for you.”

Stanley blinks. That offer is much more generous than he expected. He doesn’t really need all that, does he? Wouldn’t he be selfish to want to take up that much space in something that’s not his?

But, he supposes… he does think he deserves some generosity, considering what he’s had to bear today. Besides, the women seem to be happy to let him in, to offer something for him. It wouldn’t really be all bad to have a space for himself, even if it’s selfish to request it. He’s earned a little bit of selfishness.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d really like that, thank you,” He sighs, savoring the warmth the brunette’s hand brings to his skin. He smiles tiredly. “I appreciate it.”

“Quite good, because I certainly would have made you one anyway. Heaven knows you need it, Stanley.” She says it firmly, but kindly, without any heat to it.

“Curie is very protective of the people she likes, Stanley; consider yourself warned. You might have to tell her to back off, sometimes,” Mariella pipes up, a lighthearted smile on her lips. Stanley grins weakly at her.

The Curator shoots a teasing glare at her companion and lifts her hand off his shoulder. He bristles, immediately mourning the loss, but Mariella chuckles lightly, and he turns to face her again.

She approaches the couch, having been standing a few feet away, then extends her hand out to him. Stanley stares at it a moment, then looks up at her. She looks back at him, meeting his eyes with a steady expression, eyes determined and inviting. Stanley hesitates a moment more, then takes her hand.

Mariella pulls Stanley up, and she approaches him. Then the woman does something he could never have anticipated in years.

She pulls him into a hug.

Stanley’s breath seizes. She doesn’t squeeze hard at all; she rests a hand on his back and an arm over his shoulders, pulling him in. Stanley is frozen, for a moment. He can’t move, rendered immobile from the shock of it.

He snaps out of it soon enough. Stanley chokes out a breath, and returns the embrace. It’s so unbelievably warm; much more than a simple hand on a shoulder could offer. But it’s a comforting warmth, not unwelcome. It envelops him, like a loving companion he never knew could exist for him, and he can feel the heat radiating off the other woman’s body, and he almost can’t breathe. Mariella hugs him so gently, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes for the second time today. This time, he lets them fall. Stanley closes his eyes.

He loves this; Stanley could stay in this hug forever, he thinks. He rests his head on her shoulder gently, really hoping that’s okay with the blonde. But Mariella doesn’t tell him off for it, or push him away; she simply tightens her hold on him slightly, reassuringly.

“We’ve got you, Stanley. You’re allowed to feel bad. We all feel bad sometimes. And you don’t have to hide it for our sakes,” Mariella half-whispers soothingly, her voice a steady anchor for Stanley to hold on to. The Curator doesn’t speak, not wanting to sever the peaceful moment, but Stanley has a feeling she’s watching them.

It’s wonderful, he thinks. A hug is so much better than he’d imagined.

They stay like that, and Mariella’s shirt is soaked after minutes, but she doesn’t complain. The tears have not slowed; Stanley sobs into her shoulder and grips her shirt tighter. Mariella rubs small circles on his back, silent, giving no indication that she wants to end the hug, so Stanley doesn’t.

Stanley doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now. He thinks it might be a mix of sorrowness, hopelessness or grief, maybe anger? But not towards the women. Never towards them.

He gasps, finding it hard to breathe after another sob is wrenched from him. When was the last time he let himself go like this?

“Breathe, Stanley,” Mariella’s voice comes soothingly. “You can breathe. In, and out.” She demonstrates for him; he follows her example the best he can.

God, he’s so grateful for them. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this kindness from the two.

He takes a deep breath in, but it comes out choked in the next exhale. He sobs again, and starts to feel guilty for the position he’s forced–

No, no, he didn’t force anything on Mariella. Mariella pulled him into the hug. She’s happy to comfort him.

“That’s okay; you’re okay. Keep breathing, but if you need to let it out, go ahead. I’ve got you, Stanley.”

‘I’ve got you.’

Stanley sobs a fourth time, clutching her shirt like his life depends on it. He can feel all of the emotion in his chest building up, threatening to spill over. Rage, anguish, hurt, so much hurt. This– He doesn’t know how to–

He can’t let it all out now. Not because he feels guilty for making Mariella comfort him through it, but he thinks if he lets all that weight out in one go, he just might break. If he opens his mouth to scream, he doesn’t know when he’d be able to stop.

Stanley squeezes his closed eyes tighter, his head buried in the woman’s shoulder as she continues to hold him, to be there for him. She won’t let go of him.

How on earth is Stanley meant to cope with this? He can’t– he doesn’t want to stay like this forever.

“It isn’t fair,” He half-whispers, with his lips barely parting. He doesn’t know if they heard him, or even understood him, since he’s pretty sure all that came out was a sort of muffled mumble, but Mariella speaks up.

“It isn’t. It really isn’t, and that hurts so much, doesn’t it?”

Stanley nods the tiniest bit.

“We’ll get through it,” Mariella says quietly, but genuine. She sounds like she believes it.  Stanley isn’t sure if he does. “We’ll get through it together.”

More thick, warm, tears soak into the blonde’s shirt even now, and he doesn’t respond. She doesn’t say anything more.

They stay like that. The Curator doesn’t interrupt, and Stanley stays in Mariella’s arms until the tears slow down and he trusts himself enough to let go of her shirt. Eventually, they stop completely, leaving Stanley feeling entirely worn out.

Stanley pulls back finally, after several minutes; he blinks a few times, and looks away. He sees Mariella’s face out of the corner of his eye. “Do you feel better now?” She asks, tone light and a smile painting her face.

Stanley hesitates.

“A little bit, yeah.” He sighs, tilting his hand in a so-so gesture. He smiles gratefully. “I bet I look like shit, don’t I?” Stanley asks with an exhaled laugh. He glances up to see Mariella’s lips curl up more in slight amusement. She doesn’t answer; he takes that as a yes.

Stanley chuckles weakly. He feels mentally and emotionally exhausted, wrung out, and his face is sticky with dried tears, and his eyes feel droopy. He doesn’t understand that. Why do his eyelids feel so heavy? He can’t feel tired, he never has before, not physically at least.

He’s glad he got to cry, though. Even if it isn’t much, at least some of the burden on his shoulders feels lifted. It may be only a miniscule amount, but he hasn’t cried in a long time. It’s something.

Stanley sees Mariella’s shirt, then; it’s nearly completely soaked from her shoulder down to the middle of her upper arm. Stanley looks up at her face, and she doesn’t look angry. Guilt tugs at his insides anyway. He looks down again, biting his lip in shame.

“...I’m s-

“Nope. No, no,” Mariella stops him with a shake of her head and crosses her arms. “Don’t apologize. You needed this. The least I could do was help you with this, okay? Don’t feel guilty for accepting help you need, Stanley. You deserve the help.”

Stanley tenses, slightly. “Do I, though?”

Mariella uncrosses her arms, a more concerned expression passing her face.

“Of course you do. Heaven, Stanley– hey, look at me?”

Stanley slowly raises his head, feeling all too self-conscious. He still needs to remind himself that neither of the two women are going to reprimand him for this, or insult him for looking like complete crap after crying his eyes out. They aren’t like that. Why isn’t that getting through to his dumb head?

“You deserve help. You deserve to be treated with kindness. Pulling you into a hug was the bare minimum I could have done to help you. You’ve been starved of the bare minimum for so long.” A small pause, and Mariella says more softly this time, “You know, you deserve to be loved.”

Stanley’s eyes flick downward; he sucks in a breath, the words ringing in his ears. They’re like a blow to the chest, but Stanley finds it doesn’t hurt as much as he might’ve expected it to. Warmth spreads through his entire body, and he feels like crying all over again. He can’t though; his eyes have exhausted all their tears.

It hurts to hear, but Stanley thinks he also doesn’t mind it that much.

“Can you say that? The first sentence. You deserve help, Stanley.”

“I- I.” Stanley balls his fists tightly. He breathes out deeply, and says: “I… deserve the help.”

Mariella breaks into a wide smile, immensely proud. Stanley stares at her.

“There you go. It’ll take some time to believe it, I know, but I’m proud of you. You’ve endured so much so far. You should be proud of yourself, too.”

That’s what the Timekeeper had said, also. Stanley feels his lower lip tremble. He still feels so worn out, but a part of him does feel better. He thinks, with enough time, maybe he can truly believe he deserves it. He wants to believe it, too. He wants to make them proud.

He turns around, back to the Curator. He hasn’t forgotten about her presence, and the brunette sits on the couch with a smile on her face, too.

“We are both proud of you,” She says. Stanley can’t help but smile, though it’s a tired one.

“I- I’m exhausted,” He admits.

The Curator nods sympathetically. “That feeling is completely normal. It’s typical to feel tired after a strenuous cry.”

“No, I mean. I’m physically exhausted, too. I don’t understand; I’m not supposed to be tired like this. I never have before.” He’s felt like he has before, definitely, but really, he knows it’s simply mental exhaustion he so often experiences, because he did truly usually have the energy when the Narrator would pressure him to get up out of his chair or off the ground; he just didn’t feel like it. Now though, he feels the weight of his limbs; his eyelids are nearly half-closed and he fights to keep them from shutting all the way, and it doesn’t make sense. He’s never felt like this before.

“Crying can leave anyone really tired, physically. Even if drowsiness doesn’t come naturally to you, external factors still can make you feel it.” Mariella says.

“Then why haven’t I felt it before?”

“Have you ever cried like this before?”

Stanley hesitates, trying to remember. Surely he must have, right? This can’t be the first time he has ever cried this hard, and it wasn’t even the worst he could have. But he can’t recall any time that he might have, in all those years; and if he had started crying, he picked himself up and forced it down quickly enough, finding a distraction to alleviate the feeling or suppress it more.

Fuck. No wonder he feels worn out.

Stanley shakes his head.

Mariella frowns, slightly. “Well, then that’s most likely why. We don’t have a bed for you yet, but, would you maybe want to sleep on the couch? Or do you wanna take our bed for now? We really don’t mind, promise.”

“Sleep…?” Stanley says dumbly, the mere prospect of it seeming foreign and even prohibited.

“Yes, sleep,” Mariella can’t help but chuckle. “That’s what you do when you’re tired. You take a nap.”

“A nap.” Stanley repeats. “What are they like?”

“Well… I mean, you lay down, close your eyes, and stay like that until your consciousness slips and you fall asleep, and you wake back up after your body or brain feels it's time to wake you up.”

“So, a bit like a reset, then?”

“Mm, not quite.” Mariella’s experienced resets. “It takes longer to fall asleep than simply cutting to black after the- after a button is pushed. And after a nap, not everything is set back to default. You might feel sore, or still tired after a nap.”

“Why would I wake up if I’m still feeling tired?” Stanley asks, a bit confused.

Mariella shrugs. “That’s just how bodies work, I suppose.”

Stanley nods. That makes sense. Maybe.

Not really, actually, but whatever. Stanley doesn’t press further.

“Okay. I’ll take a nap then. On the couch, thank you.” He’s extremely grateful for the offer for the bad, but that feels a bit too personal for Stanley to take for himself, even if only for one nap.

The Curator stands up, walks over to Mariella, and puts a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “We’ll be right here, when you wake up as well. Oh– would you like a blanket, Stanley?”

“I’m-” He was about to say, ‘I’m okay, thank you,’ but then the Curator looks at him very pointedly. “Uh, I mean. Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”

She smiles. “Very well, then. Timekeeper, will you open our bedroom for me?” She asks, facing the monitors. The white text appears not a second later:

Sure thing!

A few more seconds go by, and a portion of the wall seems to melt away, revealing a section with a large-looking bed and some shelves on the left wall, with some clothes neatly folded on the top ones. Some more things are on those shelves too, including a mirror and some potted plants, but he doesn’t feel like inspecting them now, especially since he can’t see them very well. He spots a hint of a bedside table with a drawer on the other side, though, from where he’s standing.

The Curator nods her thanks, and walks into the bedroom section like she has before dozens of times. Stanley makes sure to sit down on the couch before she walks out with a purple blanket in hand.

“Lay down, Stanley,” She orders, but not harshly, and Stanley obeys, laying on his side, his head on the arm of the couch. She approaches him, smiles, and lays the comforter on top of him, making sure it covers his entire body. Stanley grabs his end, feeling sort of like a child being tucked in by his mother.

The Curator studies him for a few moments, her lips pursed. Then, she apparently decides on something, and goes back into the room, walking out with a pillow.

She tells Stanley to lift his head, and places the pillow on the armrest when he does. She draws back with a satisfied look on her face.

“There you go. We shall have the Timekeeper dim the lights as well for you. Now, get comfortable, and close your eyes! We will be here when you wake up.”

Stanley smiles and curls into a more fetal position. “Thank you,” He says earnestly, hoping they understand just how much this means to him.

“We’ll always be here to help; you can count on us,” Mariella says, reciprocating the honest smile. “TK, you mind dimming the lighting, maybe by half?”

The lights respond a moment later, the room growing steadily darker from no apparent light source being turned down, until Mariella gives a thumbs up.

Stanley brings the blanket closer to his chin, his eyes half-lidded now. It’s so incredibly warm. Stanley doesn’t think he’s felt such warmth like this before in the office building. The closest thing he can think of would be in the Zen room, but even then, Stanley’s feelings were always tainted with dread or anger or whatever he was feeling that drove him to enter the room. The Narrator never bothered to dim the lights in the office when Stanley was feeling overstimulated or overwhelmed. In fact, occasionally, when he was feeling particularly annoyed at Stanley’s nonsense in those instances, he would make them brighter until Stanley was forced to move on from it.

But this, this moment and feeling has nothing but comfort and care and fragileness and love attached to it. Stanley feels cared for. He doesn’t know the last time he felt cared for like this, if he ever has before.

At some other point in this existence if he was presented with the option to sleep, really sleep, he might’ve found himself hoping he’d never wake up. Now, however, he’s glad for the knowledge that he will, here. Stanley sighs out a heavy, content breath.

He closes his eyes, and he sleeps.

~

To say that Mariella isn’t heartbroken by Stanley’s actions would be lying. Mariella would consider herself pretty good at reading faces, intrinsically, and she could see every microexpression on his face, every indication that Stanley was either confused by their compassion and care or didn’t believe he deserved it– and that was just shattering to think on its own– and she hated it. Not because of him, never. It would never be his fault; no, it is all the fucking Narrator.

Mariella remembers when Stanley had introduced himself to them before, and Curie had told him that she isn’t one to talk much. That isn’t necessarily true, and she knows Curie knows that, but she suspects the brunette knew that Mariella didn’t know exactly what to make of Stanley in person at first, so she allowed that space to scrutinize the man and come to a conclusion herself.

In fact, Mariella loves to talk, once she gets comfortable with a person. She’d tell you all about her favorite book or a particularly interesting one she’d just finished recently if you asked, and she had a certain way with words that could help a person stay grounded when they needed it, namely Curie, of course.

And, of course, some words she did have to say for the fucking Narrator.

That horrible man– he is nothing short of Stanley’s abuser. Mariella realizes she doesn’t know just how bad it was with him, but she does know it must have been awful to be in Stanley’s place, just based on what Curie had told her. And Curie has never even seen the full extent of the two either, usually shutting her monitor off when a really bad argument had risen between them, and had stopped viewing them altogether years ago.

Even now, with the way Stanley clutches the blanket and pulls it close, like he can’t get enough of its warmth and comfort, like he’s never been this warm before, and needs to soak it up as much as he can because he doesn’t know the next time he might receive it. Marilla hears his even breaths, the rise and fall of his chest, and her heart is squeezed.

It isn’t fair. Heaven, Stanley doesn’t deserve what he’s going through.

Curie squeezes her shoulder gently, looking at Stanley with concern, sympathy. She glances at her companion, and sees the tears welling up in Mariella’s eyes.

“Mari…” She says, and sighs, moving her hand to rest on the blonde’s back. “I understand. I didn’t… I knew his situation was bad, but I did not realize– I did not realize just to what extent he was being treated by the Narrator.”

Mariella wipes his eyes. “He doesn’t deserve this,” She whispers, and Curie nods.

“No, he does not.”

“I want to help him,” Mariella says earnestly. “But I don’t know how .”

Curie turns to face her completely now, something like a smile on her lips. “You’ve helped me when I was at my lowest, did you not? I would not be the way I am now if I did not have you to lean on. You can help him, I know.”

“But,” Mariella lets out a frustrated sigh. “He’s different from you. I knew just what to do to help you, I knew how much you were hurting; I don’t know how much Stanley is suffering. It must be a lot, and we both know he can’t stay here forever. He’s going to have to go back to him, and I- I’m just not sure how to–”

“Mari.” Curie gives her a light kiss on the top of her head. “You will be able to help him. Even if you cannot make everything better, we can make a substantial difference. Stanley will see just how much he is cared for, if he decides to stay for long. You needn’t burden yourself with the notion that you have to heal him immediately.”

Mariella’s shoulders drop slowly, and she nods. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. We’ll show him that things can be better. I can talk to him more, too.”

“We will help him,” Curie says it with conviction.

“Yeah,” Mariella smiles, finally; she’s hopeful. “Yeah, we’ll help him.”

With aid from the Timekeeper, they create Stanley’s bedroom.

“If Stanley decides to stay for a longer period of time, we should have items for him, do you agree?” Curie had suggested when they started planning for the small room.

Mariella did agree; so did TK. Their own bedroom would have a door on the right wall– not white– that would lead to Stanley’s. In there, he would have a bedside table and some shelves with clothes and a few trinkets and an instrument of his choice when he woke up (along with a harmonica, just because it seemed like a fun idea). They both had a ukulele that they played together occasionally, so it’s only fair that Stanley has something similar of his own.

They decided on blue walls for him, carpeted floor, just like their bedroom, and simply white sheets and covers on the twin sized bed that he’d be able to change if he wanted. They put a few outfits on the shelves, but he would be able to choose most of them when he wanted to, because they were ultimately his to decide upon. They are simply helping Stanley get started.

The bedside table they created is pretty much identical to the one in the women’s room, with a small lamp and a drawer with some paper and such in it.

They decided to have a branching, smaller section in the corner for a sink and a mirror, too, because undoubtedly Stanley would want to clean his face off when he woke up; he could ask to close up the side of the wall without any problem if he didn’t want to see it.

It’s simple, but then again, they don’t spend too much time here. They figure Stanley will be the same too.

Curie smiles at Mariella when they’re done, the finishing touch being a black screen embedded in the wall so he could communicate with the Timekeeper in here, identical to the one in their room.

“He will like it,” She says with a satisfied smile.

“He might not think he deserves it…” Mariella trails off, lost in thought.

“We’ll let him see that he deserves it, won’t we, Mari?”

“Okay,” Now Mariella smiles. “Thanks a lot, TK.”

No problem! Always happy to help.

Mariella’s smile wavers. It drops, and she grows uncertain. Curie senses her uneasiness and takes her hand to hold momentarily. She squeezes it gently, and Mariella squeezes back, not sure if she wants an answer to the question on the tip of her tongue.

She has to ask it, though. She doesn’t want to know, but she feels like he needs to.

“H- hey. Timekeeper? How… bad really was it, with the Narrator?”

The monitor remains blank for several seconds. She tries to explain herself a bit more.

“I know the Narrator is a bad person, a- and Curie has told me,” She looks at her companion momentarily, who has a slight grimace on her face, and turns back, continuing. “But I just, I don’t know everything and…” She doesn’t know how to explain it.

I know. It’s hard, and you want to help him. The Narrator, well, all you really need to know is that he’s very stubborn. He doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants, and usually, well.

A few moments’ pause between text, perhaps the Timekeeper trying to find the right words.

What he wanted out of Stanley wasn’t reasonable, or fair, and he never gave Stanley time to help himself or recuperate. He hates Stanley, for a lot of reasons, one of them being that Stanley doesn’t follow the story that he supposedly made most of the time. He hates Stanley a lot, and, you know.

He had a lot of power over him, so he took advantage of that, and abused it substantially. It was never Stanley’s fault, though. He just got stuck with a really bad person, and got unlucky.

I feel terrible about it. I’m the one who made the Narrator, you know?

Mariella’s throat feels tight; she can’t bring herself to speak, so Curie does, still holding her hand reassuringly.

“You could never possibly have known this would be the result, Timekeeper. This was completely out of your control,” She tells him. “It isn’t your fault at all, no more than it could be ours. You don’t blame us for not being able to convince him to change, do you?”

No, I don’t. Of course I don’t.

I understand where you’re getting at but it’s just… a bit different. I don’t know. It still feels like it’s my fault the Narrator turned out like he is with Stanley, even though it isn’t. I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not angry. But I can’t just not feel terrible about it, you know?

Heaven, everyone here needs therapy, don’t they.

Mariella feels like she should talk to them about this, but she isn’t exactly in the mood for that right now. Another time, definitely. She wishes they could just be okay; she wishes all of them could be okay. It’s like the Parable is a poison, seeping into them continuously and making them all feel worse the more time they spend here. It gets to her and Curie, too. It gets bad for them, as well, and they can never control if and when it does, only push through it.

But now, they have Stanley to take care of. They can’t afford to let it get to them anymore, not as long as Stanley is here.

Curie sighs. “I know Stanley does not blame you for it. You know that as well. But I… I suppose I understand, slightly. Nevertheless, the only thing able to be done now is move forward.”

Yeah. You’re right. I shouldn’t be wallowing in self-guilt while he’s here. Maybe I can talk to him at some point. Form a better relationship with him, other than just being ‘the entity that told him all of the terrible truth of this place and that he can’t ever leave.’

Curie smiles. “I’m sure he would love that.”

Black for a few seconds, again. Then:

Thank you. That means a lot. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he really was angry at me for all of this or for telling him.

Figuratively, I mean. I can’t exactly do anything either way, I know, but still.

Curie nods sympathetically. She looks at Mariella, inviting her to speak if she wants to.

“Thank you for telling me,” She says quietly. “It probably isn’t… the easiest thing for you to talk about. I appreciate you telling me, really. I’m sorry if it was insensitive to ask,” She exhales, breath a little bit shaky. “I think we should get out of here, yeah? We should be in the main room when he wakes up.”

“Yes,” Curie agrees. They make their way out of the bedrooms and into the main living area, and Stanley is still asleep, looking peaceful, the blanket sliding off him a bit from the movement in his sleep. The sight of him makes her heart pang.

Stop that. He doesn’t need pity. What he needs is grounding, and reassurance.

Oh, but maybe, Mariella thinks, she could feel a little sad while he’s currently unconscious. This world really isn’t merciful for any of its residents, is it?

She feels a deep sort of rage in her, as well. How could the Narrator be so fucking cruel to someone like Stanley? How could someone that bad exist? It made no sense. How the hell can the Narrator live with himself knowing what he does to that man, what comes from his treatment? Stanley is a person, just like the rest of them; a person who didn’t understand what was happening when he woke up, a person that was just trying to survive with what little he was given. And the Narrator actively made it worse for him, constantly.

Curie squeezes Mariella’s hand again, and grabs her other one. She turns to look at her fully, with that warmth in her eyes Mariella loves oh so much.

“It will be okay, for now. He will be okay, when he is with us. There is not much you can do about this now Mari. It will be easier to attempt to let it go, and focus on helping him.”

Mariella wants to protest, and counter that statement with no, it won’t, because his abuser is still out there and the fact that I can’t do anything about it is exactly why I’m angry and upset!

But she hesitates. She sees her companion’s face, and she realizes that Curie understands her, and that Curie is just as angry about this as she is. The blonde can see it in her clenched jaw, the way her breathing is just the slightest bit labored, her eyes full of a certain conviction. Curie is extremely angry with the Narrator; she’s just better at keeping herself reserved, and controlling it. Mariella knows this. She’s spent years with Curie, of course she knows that.

She sighs, trying to relax her muscles. “Okay,” She says quietly. “I’m sorry.” Mariella doesn’t normally say that, but she doesn’t know what else to say right now. Usually, she’s good with words, but right now, she can’t come up with them. It’s been an eventful day. Or rather, series of events, maybe.

Curie lets go of one hand, and presses a palm to Mariella’s face, stroking her cheek with her thumb gently. She smiles, the hardness in her eyes melting.

“Do not apologize. This is a unique situation; it is hard for everybody here. What matters is helping Stanley, yes? But you also need to remember to care for yourself, as well. I will be here for you, just as we’re there for him.”

Mariella closes her eyes, letting those comforting words seep into her. She opens them. “Alright. I’ll remember. Don’t worry too much about me.”

Her smile takes on a slight teasing nature. “I do nothing but worry about you, remember?”

Mariella exhales a quiet laugh through her nose. She says softly, “Love you, Curie.”

“I love you, too, Mariella,” She says back, just as softly and just as warmly. With the anger now pushed to the back of her mind, she presses her forehead to Curie’s own and closes her eyes, realizing now that even though she knows things won’t necessarily be okay, it’s alright, because things in the Parable rarely turn out that way. But, they make do with what they have, and they can be as happy as they can with what they are given. They may not be able to give Stanley what he needs here, but they can come as close to it as they can. He can come as close to happy as he can be, here, with them. Things can be as close to okay as they can be in the Parable, and Mariella will do her best to make things as close to okay as they can. She can live with that; she can live with trying her best, even if it won’t end up perfectly okay in the end.

~

When Stanley first realizes he’s awake, he doesn’t move. He opens his eyes, blinking blearily and adjusting himself slightly, but nothing else.

He sees Mariella and the Curator sitting and quietly conversing on the floor in the near-center of the large grey-white rug. Mariella, he sees, now wears a new shirt, a purple and white striped long sleeve with a light pink scarf.

The Curator stops talking suddenly, a few moments after Stanley opens his eyes, and turns her head to her desk, Mariella echoing the action. There are a few words on the third screen, Timekeeper talking, but they’re too far away for Stanley to decipher.

He doesn’t need to though, because not a second later both of the women turn to look at him, standing up, and Stanley shifts again under his blanket. He’s not in the same position as he fell asleep in, he realizes. He’s still on his side, but more sprawled out, his legs stretched and the comforter less on the couch than before. He frowns, confused. Did they move Stanley a bit while he was sleeping? What would be the point in that?

The women don’t talk, probably giving him time to adjust or lift himself into a sitting position.

Stanley yawns, a bit more from reflex than actual tiredness. He blinks away the sleepiness that tugs at his eyelids and shakes his limbs slightly. He pulls the blanket off and hauls himself up to sit.

Mariella smiles at him. “Feel any better?”

Stanley tilts his head to the side a bit, still feeling somewhat droopy, but not so much that he feels genuinely fatigued. “Yeah, a lot better.” With the way Mariella described it, he imagined waking up would not be a fun experience, but he feels refreshed. Relaxed, and full of newfound energy that he finds he hasn’t felt in a while.

“Good,” She chirps. “Slept well, then?”

“I… think so. I don’t really remember what it felt like.”

She nods. “Yeah, most of the time, if you don’t have a dream, it feels like you fall asleep one second and then wake up the next. Time has passed though.”

“What’s it like, having a dream?” He asks, curious.

The Curator, who’s standing next to Mariella, answers. “We don’t often have dreams when we truly fall asleep. It’s a rare occasion for us, and more common for Mariella than me, however, when it does take place, they are similar to movies playing in your mind, though a bit more confusing, and difficult to recall properly after you’ve woken up.”

Stanley nods thoughtfully. “What’s a movie?”

“Essentially, they are moving pictures, but flowing so smoothly that it appears to look like they aren’t simply pictures, but actual moving objects and people on the screen.”

“Have you ever watched a movie?”

The Curator smiles. “Yes, a few. The Timekeeper has played some for us that they remember, but not in a long time.”

Stanley nods again. “Why would a movie play in your head while you're sleeping?”

“Well, you’re often the main person in the dream. Usually it's a mix of things in your life that you remember. TK’s explained that it’s a way for the subconscious, the deeper part of your brain, to process information,” Mariella explains.

Words on the screen appear, and they all turn to look at them:

I could be wrong about that, honestly. It’s been a while, and I don’t even know if it’s entirely correct.

“Well, we’ll say it is,” Mariella decides.

Alright then. :)

They turn back to Stanley, looking at him to see if he has any more questions. He does.

“You say it’s like a movie. Are they all… good? Or bad?”

“Some can be good, and some can be bad. It’s pretty much random what kind of dream you’ll have. Bad dreams are called nightmares,” Mariella says.

Stanley doesn’t like the sound of that. “How likely is it that I’ll have a nightmare?” He asks, more quietly this time.

The blonde hums. “I’m not sure. You could have a few, or you may never have one. Hopefully it’s the latter though; they really aren’t pleasant, during and after.”

“However, if you ever do end up experiencing one, Stanley, we will be here to help you through it, alright? You will not be alone,” The Curator adds.

Stanley wishes he could express to them how grateful he is for them. “Okay. Thank you.” He smiles thankfully, which the Curator reciprocates with the usual warmth in her expression and her eyes, and it makes Stanley so happy. He never knew how good it felt to be wanted.

“Are you ready to get up? We finished your bedroom,” Mariella says happily, and Stanley’s eyes light up.

“Ooh, yeah!” He says delightedly, and pulls the blanket off of himself fully, stretching his arms as he stands. He’s aware of the women watching him, but he doesn’t care. He’s wondering idly if his face still looks like complete crap, though.

“We added a sink, too, so you can wash your face a bit. It might still be uncomfortable since you hadn’t properly cleaned it,” She adds, and he thinks, They really did all that for me? The women didn’t have to do all this. He would’ve been just fine sleeping on the couch every time he felt like it, and scrubbing at his face until it felt alright enough. Seriously, what did he do to deserve this kind of treatment?

Maybe they just feel bad for him. That could be it, as Stanley did come in their space crying, and then promptly sobbed into Mariella’s shoulder for several minutes, so he supposes they could be doing this just to make him feel better.

But still, it’s the nicest thing ever given to him after he’s had a breakdown before. Mariella waves a hand for Stanley to follow, and he does, walking into their own bedroom.

He looks around, taking in the contents more closely this time: light teal walls, carpeted floor, with a queen sized bed and a wooden bedside table on the right side, with the white shelves on the left wall. On the top few, some outfits lie folded, shirts and pants of different kinds and color, and he sees a jewelry box beside them.

On the lower shelf, there’s a fancier sort of box, though he doesn’t know if it should be labeled just as a box really, because it curves on the bottom and forms a raised, smaller rectangle on the top. It’s decorated and embellished with a pattern, a deep royal blue color with gold painted on the edges, and small, blue shiny stones are encrusted on the corners of the lid, three on each, forming small triangles. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mariella smiling at him, and turns his gaze to the other contents on the shelf. He’s tempted to ask about the nice box, but doesn’t. The potted plants he sees are on the middle shelves, along with the mirror on a stand, and some other miscellaneous things like a couple notebooks and a deck of cards, and some other decorations.

On the bottom shelf, there are two identical objects with an hourglass looking part with a hole in the center and a long, flatter part protruding from the top, with four strings connected to the top of that, one of them pale yellow and the other a pleasant teal.

“What are those?” He points down to the objects.

“Those are ukuleles. They’re a type of instrument that plays music when we strum, by plucking on the strings. We can show you later, if you’d like,” Mariella says. Stanley looks back up and nods. He walks away from the shelves and turns back to the women, neither of them looking irritated with Stanley from deviating from their goal to look at their stuff. He smiles.

On the right wall is a light green door, and the Curator opens it, waiting patiently for Stanley to cross the room. This time, he’s the first to enter.

Stanley’s eyes go wide the moment he steps in, looking around and soaking up all the contents. This is so much more than he had expected. He’d expected a simple bed with white sheets with maybe a bedside table in it like the Curator and Mariella have. He didn’t expect colored walls, a nice shade of blue a little darker than the employee lounge, carpeted floor, a lamp on his table, and certainly not the shelves with stuff on them. Some clothes, and other trinkets and objects he assumes they thought he might like. Though, there’s a lot of space left for him to maybe pick out some more things to line it with.

There’s a black screen, much like the one in the neighboring room, which he assumes is to talk with the Timekeeper.

Stanley can’t believe what he’s seeing. They made this for him. His very own room. They went out of their way to create a space for him, a private area.

“You… did all this for me,” He marvels, in slight disbelief.

“It is quite simple, but we figured you would like to customize it and find things you enjoy, to decorate the room with and put on the shelves,” The Curator says from behind, and Stanley turns to them, a big smile on his face.

“This is so nice. I love it. Thank you, guys… I don’t know if I can say that enough.”

Mariella waves a hand in the air. “It’s really no big deal. The least we could do is make a private space for you.”

No, it isn’t the least they could do. They could’ve just chosen to let him sleep on the couch, and take up space in the main room. Instead, they spent time creating a suitable space just for him, something they thought he could enjoy. Something comfortable. For Stanley.

He doesn’t think they realize just how much this means to him, and just how much joy the sheer fact that they went out of their way to do this for him gives Stanley.

“And I can come in here whenever I want? You won’t be mad if I want to be alone for a little while?”

“Of course not. We all need some alone time. Even me and Curie need space from each other sometimes. That doesn’t mean we don’t want or like to spend time with each other, it just means we need some time to ourselves for a bit.”

Stanley turns around again, the large smile still plastered on his face. He doesn’t know the last time he smiled like this. It feels good.

“Thank you. I don't know how I can repay you two, and Timekeeper,” He says genuinely.

“Well…” Mariella puts her hand on her chin like she’s thinking. “You could maybe stay here, for a while, with us?”

Stanley’s smile grows wider, if it even can. He nods.

He’s definitely going to stay here.

Chapter Text

“This is a music box, Stanley,” Mariella explains, holding up the blue object and setting it down gently on the coffee table, in front of him. All of them surround the table; Stanley sits facing the couch right in front of the box, Mariella next to him, and the Curator adjacent at the table end to their left, watching him.

Stanley stares at the box again. He doesn’t think he’s seen this beautiful an object before.

He’d asked about the box after they exited his bedroom, and Mariella had picked it up and brought it out with them, saying that it’d be much better to show him instead. Stanley had enthusiastically agreed, and Mariella brought it out with the Curator following shortly behind.

“What does it do?” He asks, still staring at it, his hand hovering over the lid of the box.

“Well, first you need to wind it up.” Mariella reaches over and turns the box to the side a bit to let him see a little metal piece sticking out near the left-hand corner. She grabs it, and twists it a few times.

“Open it,” She says, and she lets go, turning the box so the front faces him again. He opens it.

Inside, is a relatively smooth surface with a disk-like circle in the center that spins, and a small woman in a dancing pose, spinning with the circle. Her dark hair is in a bun, and she wears a short, pale pink dress that contrasts her light brown skin.

“Oh,” Stanley exhales in quiet awe, pulling his hand back slowly, because the lovely dancer isn’t the only thing that appears when he opened it.

Just like the title indicates, music plays from it: a soft, beautiful melody that he doesn’t recognize, but appreciates all the same. He loves it; it sounds like what a lullaby might be, not that he’s ever heard one, but what he might’ve envisioned one to be. It sounds like something he could fall asleep to. Lovely, is the word that comes to mind to describe the music. And soft; gentle.

Yeah, he thinks with a soft smile. It’s gentle, and wonderful.

The melody stops all too soon, and he studies the dancer once more. She’s pretty, Stanley thinks.

He shuts it tenderly and looks at the women with a small smile still on his face.

“So?” Mariella breaks the silence in a soft voice. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Stanley says with a nod. “I love it. It’s beautiful.” He looks at it again. “Thank you for showing me.”

The Curator smiles at him; he turns to look at her. “You should thank the Timekeeper as well. They gifted this to us long ago.”

Stanley turns around to face the Curator’s desk, still sitting.

“Thank you,” He says earnestly. “The music box is really lovely.”

Text appears, slightly enlarged so they can all read it clearly from where they’re sitting:

I’m very glad you like it, Stanley. :)

It’s one of the first gifts I gave them. They used to play it over and over again for months.

The Curator chuckles lightly. “That we did.”

“I can see why,” Stanley murmurs, and turns back to the box. “Can I listen to it again?” He asks Mariella hopefully.

She smiles. “We can listen to it however many times you want.”

Stanley smiles back, delighted. He winds up the box, and opens it again.

They listen to it some more, Stanley entranced by the lighthearted music each time. In the back of his mind, he marvels how the women could be just fine, and not even a bit annoyed with him choosing to redo such a small, mundane thing like listening to a short melody over and over, when they’ve clearly done it themselves so many times before. They’re just… letting him. Without criticism or complaint. It’s sort of nice, to be able to do and enjoy small things like this without a voice chastising him for it.

Soon enough, though, independently from those thoughts, he finds himself itching to move, and starts to become distracted by his curiosity of the bookshelf around the seventh time he winds it up and watches the dancer, who Mariella had explained is called a ballerina.

He listens it out one more time before he closes it and pushes it gently towards Mariella, indicating that he’s finished with it.

“Thank you,” He says again. “I loved it.”

“Of course,” She says, her tone sincere. “We can get it out and listen to it again whenever you want. We’ll put it on the shelves in here; I’ll make some room.”

“Really? Whenever I want?” Stanley asks, surprised. “What if… I get it out when you guys aren’t in the mood for music?”

“Then you can take it and listen to it in your room,” She says simply, like it’s no big deal, that Stanley might want to do something they dislike at the moment, and they’ll let him do that . Stanley looks to the Curator; she nods in agreement. He stares at them, looking back and forth for a hint of a lie, and he realizes once again that they aren’t like that. Right.

He really needs to get that through to his head, doesn’t he?

“Okay,” He says finally, and smiles again. “Thank you.”

“This is your space now, too. You can use anything you want in here. It really isn’t a problem, Stanley,” Mariella assures him.

He’s starting to see that they definitely don’t realize how foreign some of the casual things they say are to him. The Narrator has never once allowed Stanley to do something he himself wasn’t in the mood for with a simple ‘ it isn’t a problem.’

He nods, slowly, after a moment. Realizing that he should probably talk so they don’t think something’s wrong, he scrambles for something to point out or say. His eyes land on the small decorations adorning the music box.

“What are the blue stones on the corners?” He asks, pointing to them. He keeps his gaze resolutely on them, but can see Mariella studying him from the corner of his eye.

“They are sapphires, and they’re called gems, not stones,” The Curator answers.

“They’re beautiful,” He says genuinely, and looks up. He pushes the earlier comment off to the side to ponder about later. He looks up at the Curator.

The brunette smiles. “Yes, they rather are, aren’t they?”

Stanley smiles back.

He looks around the room as Mariella picks up the box and starts to stand up, the Curator following suit. He looks at the bookcase in the corner of the room, and once again, the boxes on the bottom shelf pique his interest. There are three in total, just regular square, wooden boxes, one red, one yellow, and one a light green.

He stands up, and follows Mariella to the shelves. Mariella grabs a few books on the left-hand side in a top-middle shelf, and sets them carefully down on the rocking chair, to make room for the music box. She places the blue and gold object in its new spot, and turns back to Stanley.

“There,” She says. “You can pick it up whenever you want and use it.”

Stanley nods. His eyes flick down to the boxes. He hesitates. He doesn’t exactly know why he hesitates, but he does, and the Curator must notice this.

“What is it, Stanley?” She asks, still next to the coffee table with her hands clasped behind her back.

“What’s in the boxes?” He asks, bending down to their level. He holds a hand out, and pauses, looking at Mariella. “Er- can I touch these?”

“Of course. Here, I’ll get these two and you get that one. We’ll show you what they’re for.”

Stanley picks up the red box, and is surprised to find it weighs almost nothing, like the box is completely empty. He carries it over back to the small table, confused, where the Curator is standing, and she gives him a knowing look.

Mariella arrives after and they set the boxes down. They remain standing as Mariella begins to explain.

“The boxes are color coded. Each has a category of what they contain.” She taps the red box. “This one’s for art and craft supplies, and whatnot.” She taps the green box. “This one here we can use to get any kind of board game or card game we want to play, to pass some time or just have some fun.”

Stanley wants to ask what board games are, but he holds his tongue. Mariella points to the last box, yellow. “And this one is for anything that doesn’t fit in those two categories that we may want to have, like a book.”

Stanley is still confused; He doesn’t understand why they felt like they were empty then. He voices this, and the Curator answers.

“That is because, Stanley, they are empty, at the moment.” The brunette reaches over and grabs the yellow one, opens it, and holds it out for him to reach into.

He stares inside. Just like what she said: nothing occupies the space.

“Just reach your hand in, and think of an art supply, like a marker, or a pen.”

He hesitates, then thinks of plain old red ballpoint pens he’s seen around the office. He reaches his hand in, and he stares inside as a pen materializes right next to his hand. He grabs it and pulls it out, amazed.

“And there you go,” Mariella says. “If you want to get rid of it, just put it back in the box and it’ll disappear.

So Stanley does, and it disappears without a sound the moment it touches the bottom of the wooden box. Stanley looks back up at Mariella, amazed. She grins. He looks at the Curator and she smiles too, so he reaches his hand back in the box, and pulls back with some paper and a blue marker in hand.

“This is awesome,” He says, delighted.

“Yeah, it is. TK coded it in for us.” Stanley grins over at the monitor, and the monitor flashes him a sideways winky face. He turns back to the Curator.

“Could I reach in my hand and think of an object but not specify, and still get something?” He asks her. The Curator tilts her head thoughtfully.

“We have never attempted to do that, actually,” She says, and then she smiles. “Why don’t you give it a try, however?”

Stanley nods, and reaches his hand in again, and thinks of any art supply. Nothing specific, just a random object to construct anything with.

He pulls back a small bottle of pink glittery something.

“What is this?” He asks, bemused. Mariella laughs.

“Wow, I did not expect that to work. That’s glitter-glue, Stanley. Glitter is messy though, generally, so we’d rather you don’t go using that.”

“Okay then,” He says, and puts the object back in the box. He looks at them, unsure of what to do now. “Er- What now?”

Mariella hums thoughtfully. They glance at each other, and Mariella nods slightly. Stanley looks between them, even more confused.

“How about,” She begins with a smile. “We do that a few more times, and see what else you can pull out that you don’t know the name of, so we can teach you about them?”

They sit back down now, and Stanley’s eyes brighten with curiosity. He’ll always take an opportunity to learn something new.

“Alright,” He agrees wholeheartedly, and reaches his hand in, once again thinking about nothing in particular.

He retracts his hand, and brings out a gray, cylindrical container of something. He opens it and looks inside at the mass of gray stuff inside.

“That’s clay,” Mariella informs him. “You can mold it and shape it into anything you want, and let it harden, and then paint it. We’ve made a few clay structures. It’s pretty fun to play with clay; we both like it. There’s different colors, and if you don’t want to make something specific with it, you can always mess around or fidget with it. Here, take it out of the container.”

“There are a few clay objects on our shelf,” The Curator adds. “Sometimes we sculpt objects we rather like. You can do that as well, and add a structure to your shelf. We can keep this out if you would like to use it later.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Stanley grins. He puts the clay container off to the side and reaches in again.

This time he pulls out a pen, but it doesn’t look like any normal pen he’s seen around the office. It has a curved tip, and sharp-looking point. He frowns at it.

“That’s a pen used for something called calligraphy,” Mariella explains.

“Fancy handwriting?” Stanley guesses, recalling a long ago conversation with the Narrator, who had mentioned something like that.

“Yeah.” She sounds a bit surprised. “How’d you know that?”

“The Narrator told me about it… can’t remember when, but he definitely mentioned it at some point.” He thinks back to the script booklet. The title ‘ The Stanley Parable’ on it was definitely that, then.

“He told me I definitely didn’t have the skill to do calligraphy,” Stanley adds, looking at the pen.

“Well…” Mariella grimaces. She looks to the Curator.

“Perhaps you can prove him wrong then, yes?” The brunette suggests.

“By doing calligraphy? I won’t be able to show him, though.”

“You needn’t show him. You can do it if you would like, yourself, and then you would know that he is incorrect. He doesn’t need to know,” She smiles.

Stanley thinks about that. “Alright,” He agrees, and sets the calligraphy pen next to the container.

He pulls out a few more things, such as colored pencils, chalk, a mini mannequin object that Mariella explained is used to reference off of when drawing something, some square paper, to which the women explained to him is used for folding into certain shapes. He even brings out a camera, which slightly surprises him. For photography, he assumes. The Narrator had told him about that, too.

Around the eighth time he does this, the table is beginning to be slightly crowded. He looks at the women.

“Do you want me to stop? The table is getting kind of… cluttered,” He says unsurely.

“Only if you want to. We can put things on the floor if you’d like. How about, if you want to stop, we can do one more?”

Stanley didn’t really want to stop, but if Mariella is suggesting it, then he supposes he should probably agree. He nods.

Be a good one, he thinks. He closes his eyes and reaches in, closing his hand on a cylindrical object.

He brings his hand back, and looks at the bottle in his hand.

“Paint?” He doesn’t know why he’s surprised by that.

“That’s acrylic paint,” Mariella tells him. “There’s different kinds, like water color, oil paint, spray paint, and others, but those are the most common for art I think. Those and acrylic.”

Stanley hums thoughtfully, looking down at the purple bottle. “Tell me more about that.”

“Well, you paint on a canvas, using brushes. There’s different size brushes and canvases. With watercolor, you can just paint on paper, and with spray paint, you can do it on pretty much any surface. We don’t really like to use spray paint here because it might make a slight mess, but feel free to try it.”

“You may prop a canvas onto an easel as well,” The Curator pitches in. “And by mixing colors with that kind of paint,” She nods to the paint in Stanley’s hand. “You can create any color.”

Stanley doesn’t remember the Narrator ever telling him about different types of paint, but for some reason, all of that sounds… rather familiar. Color theory is what it’s called, when mixing colors together. He remembers that, even though he doesn’t recall hearing it.

“The primary colors are yellow, red, and blue, and you mix those to get secondary colors,” He says, and looks at Mariella. “Right?”

“Yeah,” She says, nodding. “Did the Narrator tell you that, too?”

“No,” Stanley answers. He concentrates some more. “Colors are called ‘hues,’ aren’t they? And… combining every hue will make black.” He shakes his head. “No, brown. So will mixing two specific colors. I can’t remember what they’re called…” He pauses. “Oh, complementary!” He grins, having remembered, and sets the bottle of paint with his other supplies. He catches Mariella looking at him curiously.

“You sure the Narrator hasn’t told you that before?”

Stanley’s smile melts off his face, and he frowns. “No… I don’t remember him ever giving me a paint lesson. I just know that, I suppose. I don’t know how.”

“Well, that’s great. And interesting. You think you’ll want to paint at some point?”

Stanley nods earnestly. “Definitely.”

The Curator closes the box and picks it up, setting it back on the shelf. She walks back and stands next to Mariella. “Mari, would you like to teach Stanley a card game or two?”

“Oh, yes,” Mariella says excitedly, and opens the yellow box. She reaches in and pulls out two decks of cards.

“Which one first?” She holds them both out. One of the boxes is red, and has a big, yellow title on it. The other is a blue and white pattern. Stanley points to the red one.

“You chose Uno ,” Mariella says with a grin, and puts the other deck back in the box.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a game. One of the few card games the Timekeeper could remember. Apparently humans play it a lot in the real world. It’s a fun one. We’ve made up our own rules to go along with the basic ones,” The blonde explains.

Stanley looks down at the deck. He doesn’t see how a really fun game could be made out of some small cards, but whatever. He’ll give it a try.

Mariella pulls them out of their case and hands them over to the Curator.

“Curie’s best at shuffling between the two of us,” She says with a light smile, and the Curator rolls her eyes fondly.

“You give me too much credit, my dear,” The woman says as she splits the deck in half and holds one in each hand.

“You know I don’t lie about you, Curie. I love you too much for that.” She winks at the brunette. The Curator snorts in amusement and shuffles the cards.

Stanley smiles at the interaction. She watches as the Curator shuffles the cards, as they fall into one another rhythmically. It’s impressive, but it’s not perfect. He bets the Narrator would be even better at it.

His smile disappears. No, the Narrator would reject anything Stanley gives him to use if it wasn’t the man’s idea first. He’d certainly refuse if Stanley gave him a deck of cards just to shuffle them. He’d probably be irritated at him for asking.

The Curator does this a few more times, and offers the cards to Stanley.

“Would you like to try shuffling?” She asks, and Stanley nods.

“Don’t think I’ll be any good at it…” He warns, and takes them. “But I’ll try.”

He copies the Curator’s action and splits the deck, and lines them up in the corner. He lets them fall, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates.

When he’s finished, he pushes them together. “Eh,” He says, judging it. It definitely wasn’t as good as the Curator’s shuffle.

“Not bad for a first try,” Mariella comments. “You should be more confident in yourself, Stanley.”

“Oh.” Stanley blinks. “...Alright. I’ll try, then, I guess.”

She gives an amused smile and takes the deck, and taps it against the surface a few times. “So, we’ll teach you the rules, and we can play a few games. Or, however many you want. Up to you.”

“Up to me?” Mariella nods. He looks to the Curator, too; she nods as well. Stanley turns his head back. “Okay. So, how does this work?”

The women teach him the rules, plus a few extra that they made up, and teach him how to deal.

“TK wasn’t sure how many cards you’re supposed to have in a hand, so we just do ten for most games,” Mariella explains as she hands them out. They play.

They end up playing a few games, with the basic rules first, and Stanley ends up losing each and every time. The women, mainly the Curator, certainly don’t go easy on him.

“How am I this bad?” Stanley grumbles, as the Curator puts down her last card, winning once again. She chuckles.

“You forgot to say ‘uno’ for the last three rounds, Stanley,” The brunette informs him.

“I’m forgetful!” 

Mariella laughs this time. “Curie is surprisingly competitive. You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at her, but she usually ends up beating me in a lot of the games we play. I wouldn’t take it personally, Stanley.”

The Curator smirks at her companion. “Are you getting jealous as well, my dear?”

“What? No!” Mariella exclaims, feigning offense. She leans in closer to Stanley. “I say we should team up on her,” She fake whispers to him. Stanley grins, nodding in agreement.

The Curator scoffs indignantly. “I heard that. I was planning to go easy on you next round, Stanley, but now, I suppose I won’t.”

Stanley shoots a look at Mariella. Mariella shrugs. He sighs in acceptance.

Stanley grabs the cards and shuffles this time. He’s shuffled more over their games, and has gotten a bit better at it.

He deals, and Mariella goes first.

This time, Mariella is more on her side, though it takes three more rounds for Stanley to finally win.

“Finally,” He says after he puts down his last card. “That took forever.”

“I was down to my last two,” The Curator grumbles, though she sounds fond. “Great job, Stanley.”

Stanley smiles. They put the cards away, Stanley electing to do something else. Namely, toying around with the supplies on the table.

Mariella puts the box away, and explains that she should put the books that are still sitting on the rocking chair away sooner than later.

“I’m almost finished with one of them, so I might be in there for a little while. That alright with you, Stanley?” She asks, and when Stanley says yes, she carries them into the bedroom as the Timekeeper opens up the wall. It closes back up, and Stanley and the Curator are left alone.

“Um,” Stanley starts, looking at the pile of art supplies they put off to the side, specifically the purple acrylic paint bottle. “Well, can I try to paint first?”

“Of course; there’s no need to ask,” the Curator replies kindly, going over to the shelves to get the red box for Stanley. “Grab anything that you might need.”

Stanley nods a reply, and begins reaching in for supplies after she places it down on the small table.

Before he can do that, though, the Curator says, “Stanley.”

He looks over at her, and tilts her head toward the monitor, which has text on it, and offer:

Stanley, if you’d like, I can make a different table for you, one that’s higher, so that you can sit on a chair and paint rather than on the floor. I’ll move the other art things to the couch.

“Oh, sure. Thank you,” Stanley replies.

Just a moment, then.

He nods again, scoots a bit back, and begins to grab supplies to lay them out on the floor instead.

He thinks of all the basic colors of paint, and ends up receiving an entire set of small acrylic paint containers. Stanley grins. He pulls out some paint brushes, a medium-sized canvas, a small, white circular paint palette, and a wooden pencil.

He thinks some more and stands up, and asks the Curator since she’s closer to the shelf, “Could you get some cups and a cloth for me?”

The Curator obliges without a word, and hands him the supplies. Stanley thanks her, and when he turns around, there’s a larger white table and chair where the coffee table stood earlier. All of his painting supplies lie on it now, organized. He smiles.

“Could you also open up the bedroom, Timekeeper?”

The wall melts away a moment later, and Stanley enters their room to find Mariella rearranging a bit on the shelves to put the books in.

She gives him a wave, not looking over, and Stanley heads to his room. He goes to the corner, and the Timekeeper opens up the section of wall to reveal the sink and mirror. Stanley fills up the cup with water, and catches his grinning face in the mirror. What can he say? He’s excited for this! He’s not exactly sure why he’s this excited for it, but he is. He can’t wait to start putting brush to canvas.

He travels back, cup in hand, but then stops, a few feet from the doorway. He stares at it.

“...Would it be bad if I drank this?” He asks, and looks at his screen on the wall. “I mean, I’ve never drank water before, but would it be alright to?”

Well, you can certainly try, but I don’t know if it would taste like anything, or if it’d be good for you. I just arranged it so there was clear, odorless liquid that fell from the sink. It might not be proper water; I have no idea.

Stanley hums. He won’t drink it then. “Can you code in food?”

Unfortunately no. I don’t remember most foods, truthfully, and especially what they’re supposed to taste like. The only ones I know are the ones that come up in Mariella’s books.

There are a few picture books that have food in them. Otherwise, I can’t remember any others. It’s been too long.

“I understand,” He says, nodding solemnly, and walks out.

Once back in the main living area, he sits down in his chair, and sighs happily. Stanley grabs his canvas and sets it in front of him.

“What are you going to paint, Stanley?” The Curator asks as she approaches him.

“...I’m not sure, actually,” He says honestly. He really got all this out without a plan, huh? “Guess I thought I would figure it out on the go.”

“Hmm,” The Curator hums. “Perhaps you can look in one of Mariella’s picture books. You may find something in there that looks enjoyable.”

“That’s a good idea,” He agrees, and stands up from his chair to look for books on the shelves..

He goes through the organized books, and finds that all the picture ones are on a shelf towards the bottom. There, he goes through all of them until he finds a good looking one about nature, and flips through it.

All of the pictures look interesting, and he marvels at the scenes he finds. Pictures of animals and amazing forests and lakes and mountains, and so much greenery. Is all this really what resides in the real world, like what the fake outside looks in the Freedom ending?

The real world must be beautiful, he thinks.

Eventually he chooses one of a stream in a small forest clearing, with trees surrounding and two deer scavenging near the rocks at the edge of the water. This is perfect to paint , he thinks.

Stanley memorizes the page number, closes the book to bring it back to the table, which now has all the paint supplies on top of it, and heads back to his chair to get ready.

The Curator walks up beside him.

“I am certainly not doubting you, Stanley, however… Are you sure you will be able to paint all of that completely? It seems quite complicated,” She muses, looking at the picture in the book.

“I can do it,” Stanley says confidently, and he means it. He thinks he can paint a stream and trees, with some animals. It might be challenging, but he’s good at painting; he can do it, and do it well.

…Huh, that’s something he wouldn’t have expected to think. How would Stanley know if he’s good at painting, if he never has before? He never even knew the first thing about painting up until today!

Weird.

“Is something wrong?” The Curator questions after a few moments of him staring blankly at his canvas. “You didn’t seem to hear me just then.”

Stanley snaps out of it, and shakes his head. “No, just thinking. What’d you say?”

She smiles. “I said that I have full confidence in you, Stanley. I’ll be delighted to see it when you have finished.”

Stanley smiles widely. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Do you mind if I watch you as you work?”

“Nah, don’t mind,” Stanley says distractedly, studying the photo in the nature book. He’s well acquainted with having someone watch him and judge his every move; he’s not bothered by it anymore.

The Curator smiles, and a chair materializes on the opposite side of the table. She sits down.

“Hey…” Stanley begins, and looks up. “How did you get all these books, anyway? Did the Timekeeper remember all of them?”

The Curator shakes her head. “We simply ask for books, and a random one appears on the shelf or in the box. Sometimes they are good, some not so much. If we want a certain type of book, like a picture book, we may request that.”

“Are these books from the real world, then?” Stanley stares at the one in front of him with wonder. The possibility that this book could have been created by a real human that existed once, maybe even exists now, somewhere in a distant world, amazes him.

“We are not sure,” The Curator answers. “They might be, or they could simply be a random collection of words and photos generated from the Parable in order to give us the object we requested.” She smiles. “Personally, however, we like to think they’re from the real world.”

Stanley grins. He grins widely. That sounds wonderful.

He looks at his book, filled with a new appreciation for it. He runs his hands over the open page, and pauses.

It probably isn’t a great idea to fixate on the real world, He realizes, and tells himself. That will only be painful, even if it might feel good at the moment. When thinking of something you lost, even if the thoughts are good, with it always comes a sense of grief, and sorrow for what you could have, but don’t. Stanley knows that.

He takes his hand away, and grips the pencil instead. He begins to trace the outline of the more basic shapes lightly, a rough sketch to guide his actual painting.

“Why do you draw on the canvas?” The Curator asks, some time after Stanley finishes his sketch, and begins mixing colors to paint the grass and dirt first.

“To have a sketch, so I have a plan,” He explains, with ease as he mixes the paints, grabbing another palette to separate some more colors. He knows exactly which paints to mix and how much color to add to each, to get his desired hue.

When he has sufficient green and brown shades for the ground, he gets to work painting. He dips his brush in, knowing exactly what size to use for each part.

Stanley’s painting is slow going, at first, and a little more frustrating to him, but he soon eases into it, and it feels like second nature after a while. With a feeling of familiarity he can’t place, he shades and highlights the patches of grass and earth, and as he waits for them to dry, he moves onto the rocks, and each individual pebble is painted with deliberate care. He hardly has to think about it; he concentrates, of course, but it’s like the painting process comes to him naturally. He can let his mind drift as he works like second nature.

He knows just what to do to match the photo and receive the desired look, exactly which colors to get the correct one, and transitioning from one focus to another is easy. Far more than he should when he’s just starting out for the first time, anyway.

Almost like he’s done this before. Almost like… he’s used to painting.

He takes a break, having finished almost the entire ground. Next is the stream, which will be tricky. Water is usually trickier for him.

“What?” He asks out loud to himself. He doesn’t understand why he just thought that. He looks at the Curator, who stares at him quizzically.

“What is wrong, Stanley?” She asks, and she looks at the painting. “That is extraordinary, for your allegedly first time painting, at the very least. I did not want to interrupt, as you looked very concentrated, but I couldn’t help being amazed at your expertise.”

“I feel like I’ve done this before…” Stanley says hesitantly. “But I don’t remember ever painting. How else would I be this good, though? I knew exactly what to do. I hardly even had to think about it.”

The Curator considers that, and her eyes seem to twinkle slightly, perhaps realizing something. “It is possible, that you may have painted in your previous life, Stanley?”

“You mean, as a human?” Stanley furrows his brows, looking at his painting. His eyes flick to her; she nods.

He thinks about it. With how familiar he felt with the paintbrush in his hands, and how gracefully he seemed to move it… it doesn’t seem like that far off a guess. It’s more than plausible, he realizes.

“I was a painter before?” He asks quietly, directed more at himself than the Curator. He stares down at his hands, to which his right is smudged a bit with various greens and browns.

The thought fills him with an emotion he can’t completely place… not grief, or exactly sorrow… perhaps melancholy, but he thinks it’s content too, bittersweet; a happy sadness.

“I like that,” He decides, and he smiles softly. “I like that I was a painter; an artist.” After all, art can express what words can’t, right?

“That’s wonderful,” The Curator smiles. “I’m truly happy that you found something you love.”

Stanley nods happily, and looks down at his artwork. It really is sort of nice, he recognizes. He begins the stream then, adding and mixing the colors for water. He resumes his activity, and realizes that the Curator is right, when he paints the clear and blue water. He does love this, a lot.

—

Stanley finishes his painting after many hours. He takes breaks periodically to let it dry and to stretch, and Mariella comes out of her room at one point to see what he’s working on.

Eventually, though, he puts his finishing touches on the deer at the rocks, and leans back. Finally, he’s finished with his first work of art.

He steps back, admiring his painting. He compares it to the photo scene in the nature book. They’re not identical, but they’re close enough. His painting is realistic. He doesn’t think he’s ever taken pride in anything he’s done, but he can take some pride in this. He thinks it’s even sort of pretty; he smiles.

The Curator approaches him first, then Mariella behind her. “It’s beautiful,” The blonde says in awe. Stanley blushes slightly, still not used to compliments.

“It’s not that–”

“Are you kidding me?” Mariella cuts him off. “It’s so good! It’s amazing. Where in Heaven did you learn to paint like this?”

“We found out that Staney used to paint in his life as a human,” The Curator says, and looks at him warmly. “It really is wonderful. Perhaps you can paint something else you’d like, as well.”

“I’m definitely going to paint more,” He agrees, nodding. He rubs his arm. “I’m glad you guys like it so much.” He’s never been allowed to make many things on his own with the Narrator, and certainly not be complimented for it, too.

“We love it.”

The Curator nods. “Agreed.”

“You both are so nice,” Stanley says through a nervous chuckle, fidgeting with the end of his sleeve. “But thank you.”

“I’m sure the Timekeeper thinks the same as well,” The Curator says warmly. They all turn to the third monitor.

You’ll have to hold it up so I can see it a bit better but yeah, it’s awesome! You really are great at this.

“You guys are just making me feel good,” Stanley mutters, but he isn’t annoyed. Far from it; he grabs his painting and holds it up in the air.

Wow. That is so cool, Stanley. I bet the girls could never paint something as great as that.

“Shut up, TK,” Mariella chuckles. “Obviously not, anyway. And Stanley, you say that again, you are getting even more showered in compliments,” She warns him.

“Um… alright,” Stanley says with a nervous smile, not sure if he should take that as good or not.

Stanley cleans off his things, and puts away all the leftover supplies. The Timekeeper converts the table back to the usual smaller, brown one, and Stanley enters his own room, setting the painting on his shelf to dry completely.

“I think I might rest a bit, in here, or take another nap. That last nap was nice,” He says to the room.

Want me to tell them?

Stanley nods at the monitor. “Yes, please. I’m not exactly tired, though…” He sighs, and rubs his forehead. “I’ll try to sleep anyway.”

Okay, I’ll dim the lights for you then. Or do you want them completely off?

“Not all the way,” Stanley says quickly. “Maybe just a bit of light. I don’t like darkness all that much, you know.”

Right, okay. No problem. Good night, Stanley.

“It’s not night, though,” Stanley says, confused. “It’s never night.”

I know. Just something we say when someone is about to go to sleep.

“Oh, okay. Good night, Timekeeper,” He smiles, and pulls himself into bed, under the covers. It is admittedly much more comfortable than the couch, and he marvels at the softness of his mattress. He sighs as the lights dim significantly, but he can still see his outline.

Stanley closes his eyes, feeling content. He’s glad he decided to stay here, with these people. They’re kind. He likes being treated with kindness for once. He didn’t realize how much his existence lacked basic benevolence, but he sees now that life is so much more bearable with it, and with people that appreciate him and the things he creates.

Stanley isn’t tired at first, but eventually, after a while, he falls asleep.

—

Stanley ends up staying with Mariella, the Curator, and the Timekeeper for a long while, much longer than he initially thought he would. He’s not sure how long, exactly; It has to be months, but it’s not like either woman minds, and he certainly doesn’t mind. In fact, they enjoy his company.

He paints some more things in his time here. Most of the things he paints are pictures or scenes he finds in books (Mariella offered to let him read some of her favorites, but he never could concentrate on the words on the pages for much longer than ten minutes before he got restless. However, he is always glad to hear Mariella rant about her favorite story, or a particular character she loves), but at one point he painted the music box.

He painted it two separate times: one with it closed, and another time the lid open, with the tiny ballerina inside. They turned out rather impressive, and Mariella insisted that he frame it, so Stanley could stand it up on his shelf. He reluctantly agreed. He had a hard time accepting his work as ‘beautiful’ like they said or even very good, but over time he grew prouder of his artworks. He could look at something he made, after his sixth or seventh larger painting, grin, and say “I made that! I made that, it looks gorgeous and I like it!”

He played around with a few of the other art supplies as well. He tried calligraphy, and was surprisingly not all that bad at it, and made some name plates for Mariella and the Curator, just for fun. Sculpting with clay… he wasn’t bad, exactly, but not that great. His circles weren’t even; the details he tried to add or craft would come out somewhat sloppy. He got frustrated with himself for not being good at it, so he just gave up on that.

The Timekeeper had given some instructions on how to fold the square paper into certain shapes. There was a name for folding paper into shapes, apparently, but they’d forgotten it, so Stanley simply calls it paper-folding. He wasn’t too bad at that either, but after some mistakes he, again, got frustrated with himself for it. He tried once more, but when the shape never came out perfect, or just how he wanted, he threw them into a colored box to never be seen again.

He’d given up on paper-folding, too.

Soon after, however, they let him choose an instrument to play. They showed him all kinds of items, and he’d picked a violin at first. Quickly though, he realized, he was not cut out for it, and Mariella had put it away with a shaky laugh and reassuring smile. Next, he tried a xylophone. It looked cool, and it was different colors, so he picked it. That one wasn’t as bad, mostly because it was harder to fuck up a xylophone, and he had some fun with it, but ultimately, producing music wasn’t his favorite hobby.

He’d liked the harmonica, though, and frequently used it to playfully annoy the other residents by blowing loudly into it at random intervals. They assured him they weren’t actually mad at him after he was uncertain, so he kept doing it, and it became a joke with them for Mariella to sing any song or tune that came to mind whenever he started playing it, no matter what they were doing at the moment.

The Curator would shake her head at their antics, but Stanley saw right through her, catching her trying to hide a smile. He never got her to actually sing, however, which disappointed him. He accepted it, though.

They’d even given him something called a rubix cube! Stanley loved it. He’d solved it within the first day of receiving it, and scrambled it up and solved it again and again, and kept some of various sizes on his shelves. They showed him some more puzzle games, like one called ‘sudoku,’ and crossword puzzles, and Stanley quickly learned that he loved solving puzzles. He was good at it, too, that and riddles. Riddles were fun for him, and they spent time together coming up with new ones just for the fun of it.

The Curator taught him how to crochet, at one point. It took a while for him to grasp it and get good at it, but soon he was able to make stuff like blankets and hats, and he did that occasionally as well.

The thing Stanley loved most to do here, though, was simply spending time with his friends. Playing a little game here and there, and listening to Mariella tell him about her books; listening to them both play ukulele and Mariella singing softly, while sometimes joining in himself with his xylophone. Even just sitting quietly with them, while the Curator crocheted, Mariella read, and Stanley worked on some sort of craft or artwork, was lovely to him. There could be peace in silence, he’d come to learn.

Eventually, Stanley tried paper-folding again. He got better at it, and started actually liking the things he would create- boats, stars, some roses and snowflakes. He started making some for Mariella and the Curator, much to their surprise and delight. He did simple arts and crafts, like coloring and gluing paper, and making little wooden stick-structures. 

He also made gifts for the women, and found that he quite loved giving gifts. It made him feel good, and all fuzzy and warm when they reacted positively when he presented it to them- which they always did.

The Curator, he’d come to understand, loves all things plants and nature, so he made a lot of crafts akin to those. Mariella loves music and fantasy books, so Stanley would make– to the best of his ability– little unique objects described in those books, and made little books out of cardboard and painted them, as well as stuff regarding music. Stanley loved creating, and gifting.

Often, as well, he would spend time alone in his room, creating various arts and crafts and gifts for his friends or simply resting. For the first few days that he would spend time in his room, he was agitated. He didn’t like being alone. It made him think of the skip button– how he was forced to be alone in that room, and condemn the Narrator to millenia, maybe eons in isolation. It wasn’t his fault, he knows, but he still despises it. It was cold in that room, Stanley remembers.

The Timekeeper made it warm for him, though. They would converse with him, and over time they grew closer, and Stanley formed a bond with them, as well. They shared ideas and talked about Stanley’s crafts, and Stanley is grateful for them.

He’s grateful for Mariella and the Curator. He’s grateful for the wonderful people that have allowed him to live with them. He’s so extremely grateful, and he feels happy. He catches himself smiling so much more with them than he thinks he ever has in this existence. They’re wonderful. They like him and he likes them, and eventually, he learns to like himself, too.

He’s happy for the first time in so long, which is why he’s ignored the small, growing feeling for so long. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about it.

It started a few weeks after Stanley had arrived, or at least, it felt that long. It started out so small, he could barely even feel it.

Slowly, though, it worsened, with every passing day. The tugging in his gut, in his chest, and he knows where it’s coming from. Stanley knew the moment he noticed it, and he’d always known it was going to happen, even if he didn’t know it then.

The Parable wants him back. It needs its Narrator. Stanley is The Narrator, he doesn’t belong with the Curator or Mariella. He belongs in his office, in his chair, narrating for the Protagonist. It wants him back in his chair. It wants him to reset again; to do his job that he didn’t ask for.

The tugging only grows stronger the longer he stays here. It’s a constant, uncomfortable sensation, and he hates it. It reminds him of who he is, and where he’s supposed to be. It reminds him of the man that waits for him in the office building, frozen in that office chair. Stanley knows, if he goes back, the feeling will disappear completely.

Like hell he’s going back, though.

He’s in his room, now, in the middle of making another paper bird (Stanley loves making silly birds!) when the tugging sensation is pulled into the forefront of his mind once again. It’s getting harder to ignore, to push back and pretend it doesn’t exist. Stanley doesn’t want it to exist.

Why can’t the Parable just let him be happy, damnit! It’s already been cruel to him, so fucking cruel, can’t it just let him have this?! He just wants to stay with the people that care about him, that accept him, that he feels safe with. Is that really too much to ask for? Is his happiness only ever meant to be temporary?

Stanley’s hands let go of the paper, half folded, and it falls to his lap. He stares at the bedrest unblinkingly, feeling both numb and a swirl of emotions and he wishes it could just be okay.

But the Parable has proven, time and time again, that simply ‘okay’ is not an option here. Contentment, and peace, is a privilege, not a right. It isn’t fair. Stanley didn’t ask to fill this role.

Are you okay, Stanley?

He looks up, reading the words on the screen. Stanley opens his mouth, but closes it. He’s gotten better at expressing his emotions, offering his input and opinion. He wants to tell them, to tell someone about this.

But Stanley is terrified, that if he does explain to them about the tugging in his body, wanting him to go back to his rightful position as The Narrator, the others will agree. Out of concern, or want, they’ll send him back to the Narrator. They might not even let Stanley back, too worried that this could happen again.

“No, I’m okay,” Stanley says. He swallows back the truth, and smiles as best he can. “Just… was thinking. But I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

The screen doesn’t answer for multiple seconds, but then the text appears:

I don’t know whether you're telling the truth or not, but, I want you to have something, Stanley.

“Y- you do?” Stanley asks.

Yeah. Close your eyes.

Stanley obeys, and opens them again when he feels that now-familiar poke in the back of his head.

On the pillow.

Stanley’s eyes swivel just there, and they widen. Resting on the pillows, is a small, white and fluffy, bear-looking (he’s seen bears in a few picture books) thing with purple paw pads and inside its ears. He reaches over to it slowly, pulling it in and marveling at the softness of it. He runs his hand over the top of its head gingerly, and looks at the black screen.

It’s called a stuffed animal. You can hug it or hold it, or just be with it. You can name it, as well.

I thought it might make you feel a bit better. A small gift, from me to you. You’re a great person, Stanley. You deserve a lot more in this life.

“Thank you…” Stanley says softly, hugging it a bit. “I love it.”

Will you keep it?

“Yes, of course. I’ll name her Bear,” He smiles. “It’s a cute name, in my opinion, and she is one, I think.” He looks down at it. “ Is it a girl? Does it have a gender?”

Not technically, but you can use whatever you’d like for it. I like the name Bear, too.

Stanley smiles wider. “She’s wonderful.”

I’m so glad you love her. :)

“I do. I really do.”

Stanley?

His name on the screen catches his attention again. “Yeah?”

I think I know what’s bothering you.

Stanley breath hitches. “W- what?”

I know about the tugging you feel, that you’ve been feeling. I didn’t want to bring it up, because you never brought it up, but I’m connected to the Parable, too; I know what it’s doing to you.

Stanley’s eyes nearly well up. He bites his lower lip. “Please don’t tell the others,” He implores quietly.

I won’t, not if you don’t want me too. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I don’t want you to be in physical pain.

“It doesn’t hurt,” He says truthfully. “Really, it doesn’t, and I can pretty much ignore it most of the time. I just… don’t like it.” He mutters the last part. “I don’t want to go back.”

I understand, and that’s completely fair. But I don’t want you hurting yourself over this, even if it’s unfair. The girls wouldn’t want you to either.

“I don’t want them sending me back.”

They wouldn’t do that, not like that. They’d do it out of love for you. They don’t want you gone just as much as you don’t want to go, and me, too. 

But they can’t force you to leave; neither can I. Will you please tell them if it gets too much?

Stanley hesitates. It isn’t quite at the point of unbearable, but Stanley knows it’s only a matter of time. But he likes it here. He sighs, feeling glum. “Okay, I’ll tell them.” He says, and he means it. But, he can handle it for now, and in the future. He can handle a lot; he’s not going to tell them any time soon.

Thank you. I know that won’t be easy to do.

“Yeah,” Stanley mutters. He hugs Bear tighter. “Can I sleep with her?”

Of course! You can take her and hold her wherever you want whenever you want.

“Great. I’m gonna go to sleep now, then,” He sighs. He feels emotionally tired, now. It’s easier to drift off when he feels mentally tired, even if he isn’t actually sleepy.

He changes into his sweatpants (other than for taking naps, he doesn’t ever change clothes), pulls himself into his bed and under the covers, hugging Bear. “Good night, Timekeeper,” He murmurs. He doesn’t look at the screen, but he knows the Timekeeper says it back. Stanley closes his eyes.

—

Stanley blinks awake, and the very first thing he can sense is the ache in his body, and familiar dread and fear coursing through his chest. His head feels cloudy; for a moment, he can’t see anything.

He blinks again. Oh.

He’s looking down, from high atop on a staircase; down, down, down below to a concrete floor that would surely kill him if he were to jump. The aching and sharp stabs of pain– almost feeling distant– in his legs indicate that he’s jumped before. How many times has he been here, looking down from above and wishing he were anywhere else?

He hears words, familiar words. They’re muffled at first, but soon Stanley hears them loud and clear through the pain shooting in his head, or what he believes is pain. Words of a plea for him to stay alive; words begging for mercy.

“No! No, no! What are you doing? Stanley, please I'm asking you not to take this away from me. I can't go back to what I was before! If you die, we'll both go back! Why are you doing this?”

Stanley is cruel, he realizes. He can hear his breathing, heavy and labored from the strain he is punishing his body with. Punishing himself.

There’s a figure that floats in the air right across from him, unmoving against the opposite wall, several meters away. Stanley sees him, and he stares at it. It stares back.

With a jolt, he realizes why the words were so familiar. This is the Narrator. But… it’s not the Narrator. It looks like him, his body, but his face is wrong; everything but his eyes and glasses and the skin around them swirling with inky blackness, and his features are warped; his mouth– which isn’t moving despite the clear words Stanley hears– is curved upwards in a twisted smile, lips and teeth too long and wide for it to be natural, and completely visible despite the disturbing distortion of his face. He smiles, completely contrasting his further pleas for Stanley to get down from the staircase. It unnerves him greatly.

His eyes, on the other hand, are exactly the same as Stanley remembers them. They seem to glow in the gloom, from all the way across from him; deep yellow with flecks of green swirling fast in his irises. Slitted pupils stare at him accusingly, and Stanley fights not to squirm under the gaze. It makes him uncomfortable, even from this far away. He wants to jump. He looks straight down again, and the Narrator is there, on the ground. His breath hitches. The Narrator looks up at him again, straight into his eyes.

Though his lips don’t move, the words are loud and clear in Stanley’s head, tone bitter and resigned.

“I just wanted us to get along, but I guess that was too much to ask. It looks like you wanted to make a choice after all. Well, this one is yours.”

Stanley closes his eyes. This was his choice, wasn’t it? He had come here, he had hurt the Narrator and betrayed his trust (no, that’s not right, is it? The Narrator had betrayed him first), and now he was suffering the consequences. Stanley’s body aches; he feels heavy.

He lifts his left foot, limbs feeling enormously weighed down, and he brings it closer to the air. He forces himself to step off the platform, to jump from the staircase.

He falls.

He falls, but he doesn’t hit the ground.

The Narrator watches him as he falls, that unnerving smile coating his face morphing into something more smug. He meets Stanley’s eyes, completely calm and unmoving as Stanley plunges to his death, and before Stanley nearly makes contact with the ground, just a few feet away from his end, he is somewhere else.

He’s in a void, wrapped in a coat of pitch black that envelops him. He looks down with his eyes; he can’t move his head. He can see himself and his body. He isn’t standing on anything; there’s complete darkness all around and he’s floating on nothing, and Stanley feels the pain from the staircase, and the fear and the dread, but he also has the terrible sensation of himself being squeezed.

It’s a terrible feeling. He hates it, and his eyes dot around the darkness in panic. He can’t see anything but his own body. He can’t move. He can’t move, and it’s terrifying. He’s going to die, surely.

A door opens in front of him. Stanley’s eyes snap toward it. Light pours in ahead of him, and he can see. He sees the office complex where the doorway leads, the room of desk cubicles that neighbors Stanley’s own office.

He could cry in relief– but he is still rendered immobile. He can’t turn his head; he can’t make himself move forward.

Panic sinks its claws in deep as he looks down at himself again and looks back up, and the Narrator is there again. This time his face looks normal, nearly normal, but Stanley can’t quite shake the feeling that it looks… almost fuzzy. Or blurred, like his features are distorted just slightly, that Stanley feels as though something must be wrong, but it’s like he can’t pinpoint what exactly is.

His eyes are the same, though. His eyes are clear, and they look straight at him again.

This time when he talks, his mouth moves with the words, eyes burning with cruel delight, with green swirls racing in his irises.

His voice takes on a mocking tone, more so than when he usually recites the speech. He’s taunting Stanley from where he stands; derisive and merciless. He smirks.

“But in his eagerness to prove that he is in control of the story, and no one gets to tell him what to do, Stanley leapt from the platform and plunged to his death.”

He says ‘ platform,’ but the word ‘staircase’ overlaps it, like two words spoken at once. The Narrator doesn’t notice, or pretends to have not noticed.

The Narrator grins wider, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe casually. His lips aren’t abnormally stretched, but it disconcerts him all the same. He says the next bit more slowly, as if making sure Stanley hears every syllable, and understands just how meaningless the choices that he made were, how meaningless they ever are.

“ Good job, Stanley. Everyone thinks you are very. Powerful .”

He pushes himself off the doorframe, arms still crossed and looking at Stanley without pity, instead like he’s studying his employee. The Narrator continues on, dropping the mocking tone and sounding completely serious now; still taunting, but in a different way, colder.

“You are nothing, Stanley. Your feeble choices make no difference in my game. Whether you decide to kill yourself, whether you decide to obey me or diviate from the path; it all amounts to nothing. It’s all the same to me. You have no choice. You are everything but powerful. And you will be less than nothing, here.”

The Narrator sighs. “So, I suppose I shall have to find a new Protagonist for my stories, now that you’ll be… MIA, so to speak, for the rest of eternity.”

As soon as he finishes the sentence, Stanley feels himself being dragged backward. The door and the light and the Narrator grow steadily smaller as Stanley floats slowly away from them. He tries to open his mouth to plead, to beg the Narrator to save him, and tries desperately, without success, to move his body. He can’t speak, nor move. He can only plead with his eyes, in vain.

As he gets farther away, the Narrator’s face starts to slowly swirl in inky blackness again, more and more gathering until his face is a black void with only his eyes visible, bright and mocking.

“Enjoy… the rest of eternity in the dark.” The words are sighed out contentedly, like nothing was wrong.

“Goodbye, Stanley,” The Narrator says, and shuts the door, trapping the worker in the void, and in the dark.

Sharp panic stabs Stanley like a heated dagger; he can’t see anything again but himself.

He can move his body now, though. He tries to cry out, but no sound is produced. Stanley turns his head around wildly, thrashes in the dark and attempts to propel himself forward, but it’s futile, like attempting to swim in concrete. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s being suffocated slowly as the darkness holds him in a chokehold; the knowledge that he’ll spend eternity in here, in this state, thrusts him with a harsh wave of terror.

Stanley can’t cry; he can’t plead for help. He’s alone, forever. Nothing can save him now.

He looks down at his hands, and his eyes barely widen at the sight, though his mind reels with more panic at the sight of them.

The skin on his palms and wrists and fingers is eating away at itself. His flesh is discolored, and before his eyes layers of skin are removed from seemingly nothing; skin peels back and is broken down, like the very air around him is causing it to rot and decay.

He waves his hand in the air frantically, trying without success to get it to stop. He doesn’t bleed; his blood seems to diminish on its own. He stops moving, resigned to stare at his hands in horror as the rotting grows faster and faster until a spot of white on his forearm is exposed, growing bigger; he can see bone–

Stanley bolts upright, gasping. Vaguely, he can hear his name being called, but he doesn’t care. He reaches his hands up to his cheeks. His fingers come back wet; tears still stream down his face as his breath heaves, feeling like he’s being choked. He stares at his hands with wide, frantic eyes. His hands are normal. They’re intact, and distinctly not rotting. Relief hits him like a truck, but he can’t stop hyperventilating, and he can hear his name being called again.

Stanley turns to the source of the word, meeting Mariella’s frantic eyes. He looks down at his hands again, rubbing them and his wrists, and he clutches his neck desperately next. He still feels like he’s being suffocated. He can’t stand it. Cruel words ring in his mind:

‘You have no choice. You are everything but powerful. And you will be less than nothing, here.’

A defeated sob tears itself from his throat, and he hears the Curator’s name being called by Mariella. A moment later, said woman rushes in the room, and stands next to the bed. She grabs Stanley’s wrists gently, pulling them off his neck slowly. Stanley allows it, still feeling the lingering panic from the consuming darkness and seeing the deterioration of his hands and forearms. He remembers Bear, and looks around for her, but can’t find her. That makes him panic even more, but he doesn’t voice anything.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you are alright,” The Curator murmurs words of comfort while Stanley closes his eyes and attempts to even out his breathing, but it only minutely helps with calming him down. His hands shake in her hold, and he can’t stop staring at them like he’s afraid if he looks away, his flesh will start eating away again.

“Look at me, Stanley,” The Curator invites gently, and when he doesn’t, she repeats herself a little more insistently. Stanley tears his eyes away from his hands, and looks at the Curator’s face. She smiles, her expression warm and reassuring and Stanley feels himself calm a little more looking at her. She squeezes his hands tenderly.

“You had a nightmare,” She informs him. “It wasn’t real, but we understand that it hurts, doesn’t it?” Stanley doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t want to speak, so he looks away, and nods slowly.

“I tried to wake you up,” Mariella says desperately. “TK called me in here because you started crying in your sleep and breathing unevenly. You wouldn’t wake up, though.” She sounds scared, still, and Stanley feels a pang of guilt in his chest, even though he knows he couldn’t control that. He keeps hearing those words spoken to him by the nightmare version of the Narrator.

“Can you say something for me, please, Stanley?” The Curator asks gently. “Just repeat: I am awake.”

Stanley opens his mouth, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. He swallows, and whispers, “I am awake.”

“I’m okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. Deep breaths. In, out,” The Curator repeats the cycle, and her soothing voice, along with her demonstration, helps him immensely to calm down fairly quickly.

“Can I let go of you?”

Stanley nods tentatively. “Thank you,” He says hoarsely.

“Of course. We are always here to help,” The Curator smiles at him, and lets go of his hands.

“W- where’s Bear?” He asks, worried for the stuffed animal.

“Who is Bear?” The Curator asks, puzzled.

I gave him a stuffed bear as a gift. Timekeeper explains, and addresses Stanley next.

She’s on the ground beside the bed, Stanley. She fell off when you were asleep.

Stanley looks where they indicated, and spots her on the carpet, face down. He bends down and picks her up; he sighs in relief, and takes one more deep breath, wiping at his cheeks. He’s okay now; he’s with the people he feels safe with. The Narrator isn’t here.

Mariella laughs lightly. “That’s so cute!”

Stanley pouts playfully. “She’s mine.”

“Definitely. We should give her a little hat,” Mariella says thoughtfully, a finger on her chin. “Or a bowtie.”

Stanley hums, looking at Bear. Bear smiles back at him. “I think a purple hat, to match her paws and ears.”

“Of course.” Mariella nods. “What kind of hat?”

Stanley thinks for a moment. “What about, one of those hats without a top? I think that’d look good on her.”

“A visor?” The Curator asks. Stanley nods.

“Alright! TK–”

Already on it.

Mariella smiles, and a few seconds later a little purple visor that fits perfectly appears on Bear’s head.

“I love it,” Stanley smiles happily at his stuffed bear. “She looks great.”

“Soo adorable,” Mariella agrees with a nod.

“Agreed. It suits her wonderfully,” The Curator says, and Stanley feels that warm feeling in his chest again.

Of course, it’s interrupted by the tugging sensation making itself known again, pushing that warmth away. His smile wavers.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Mariella asks with a frown, concern etched in her voice.

“N- nothing.” Stanley glances at the black screen on the wall. “...Thinking… about the– you know.” It’s the best excuse he could come up with, and it’s not like he’s entirely lying. He pulls the covers completely off of him and stands up.

“Would you like to talk about it?” The Curator invites in a friendly voice, though not patronizing. Stanley hesitates.

“Uh, well, just. You know. The Narrator,” He mutters, shrugging. “And… the staircase.”

The Curator looks at him with sympathy; Mariella looks confused.

“Stair-” She begins, but stops herself, seemingly deciding that now isn’t a great time to ask.

“And… the void,” Stanley murmurs, even quieter.

“What?” Now the Curator looks confused.

He shakes his head. 

“Stanley, did you… did you go into the void?” Mariella asks hesitantly.

He nods quietly.

“O- oh. Oh, Stanley, that’s… what the hell?” Mariella asks, not accusingly, but incredulous. “How in Heaven– how did you get out of there?”

“Timekeeper got me out, just in time.” He sighs wearily. “The door was about to close, but they got me out. I didn’t know what would happen. I just thought it was another room behind the door… a weird one maybe, but… I- I didn’t know. The Narrator didn’t warn me about it.”

“Of course he didn’t. Of course he didn’t,” Mariella mutters angrily. “That stupid, fucking son of a bitch.”

“Mari.” The Curator puts a hand on her shoulder.

Stanley backs up, slightly. He knows, realistically and from experience, that Mariella isn’t angry at him, that they won’t ever berate him or be angry with him, but the image of the nightmarish Narrator still lingers. That mocking voice still sits in the back of his mind like a parasite, so he backs up all the same. Even after months of spending time with the women, he still can’t fight that instinct. It just makes him feel worse.

Mariella relaxes, and sighs. “Sorry, Stanley. I’m not angry at you.”

“I know that.” He does; he wishes his body agreed with him. “I don’t want to linger on this, though. Can we go to the other room?”

“Yes, let’s go,” The Curator gets up off of Stanley’s bed, and Mariella walks to the door. Stanley grabs Bear again, and follows them out.

They don’t bring up the nightmare again, and Stanley is glad. Though, he can tell things are a little more tense. Only slightly, but he can tell in the way Mariella hands him the red box, and how they’re slightly quieter than they usually are when they play a game of cards. The Curator attempts to fill the silence, but Stanley knows.

None of them have mentioned the Narrator in months. Now that he has been, though, they are all more aware of the fact that the man is in that office, and the white door glares at them harshly as a reminder that sooner or later, Stanley is going to have to go back to wake him up. None of them say it, but everyone is thinking it.

Stanley doesn’t want to go back. He knows though, of course, that the end is never the end, and that he will. It’s only a matter of time.

—

Stanley taps his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he assesses the assortment of supplies on his bed with Bear sitting right beside him, a few days after the nightmare (or at least, allegedly that long). He’d produced an easel to have a flat surface to paint on the canvas, and a few pallets with paint inside. If he needs any more colors, he’ll just summon them from the box that sits on the ground next to his bed. On his bedside table there’s a cup of clear tap “water” and paper towels next to it, in easy reach. Various brushes of different sizes sit next to him, as well as a pencil to sketch his plan.

First painting, for Mariella: he’ll do a scene from one of her more favorable novels that she had told Stanley about. He has the book next to him as well, across from him on the bed, if he ever needs to look back at it for reference.

Stanley jumps, slightly, at the buzz in the back of his skull that interrupts his concentration on planning, and turns his head to the side to read the words on the black screen.

What are you going to paint?

He reads the words, and they disappear.

Sorry, Stanley, I didn’t mean to interrupt your thinking.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Stanley says honestly. He smiles. “You just startled me a little. I’m gonna paint two things, for Mariella and the Curator. I wanted to make them something special,” He explains to them. “For all that they’ve done for me. So, for Mariella, I’m gonna paint a scene in one of her favorite novels,” He nods to the book sitting a few feet away from him. “And for the Curator… I was thinking a scenery, like a forest, or a bunch of flowers. Something to do with plants or flowers.

That’s wonderful.

Warmth spreads through his chest at those words. “Yeah?”

Yeah. They’ll love it.

He sighs. “Would they like it enough to… keep it with them after I’m gone, you think?”

Definitely; they’d treasure it. They care about you a lot, and you care about them.

“Yeah, I do. They’ve helped me so much,” He says, his voice wavering slightly. “Which is why I want to do this for them.” He’s given the women plenty of gifts before, of course, but he wants this one to be special. He’s going to make these paintings the best he’s ever done before.

Another thing comes to mind. He frowns.

“But, uh, I don’t want them to know about this. Or grow worried if I’m in here too long.” Shit. “I can’t just disappear from them with hardly any explanation until this is done, can I?”

Probably not.

I can always distract them, and keep them from worrying. I’ll tell them you're working on something privately.

“I’d rather you not tell them what I’m doing, to be honest.”

I won’t. I won’t even tell them you’re painting. And they trust me enough to say if something is wrong, and if they really do need to check on you. Don’t worry about it, alright?

Oh, and, if you do need a break, because it might take a while, you can always come outside and spend time with them, okay? You don’t have to finish it all in one sitting.

“Okay, I appreciate it. Thanks a lot, Timekeeper; you’re great,” He smiles, squeezing Bear’s paw a bit.

Same to you! Like I said, I’m happy to help! If you need company, too, feel free to talk to me whenever you’d like. :) 

“Noted,” Stanley says. He looks back at the poster-sized canvas, and grips his pencil.

Time to get to work.

Chapter Text

After several hours (allegedly) of painting, he’s about halfway done with Mariella’s gift. Stanley hadn’t talked to the Timekeeper too much during it; when he was waiting for sections to dry, though, they made conversation, which was nice. Stanley did take one short nap when a larger portion was drying (he was a bit hesitant at first, but he luckily didn’t dream), which left him feeling refreshed and ready to work some more.

Before, Stanley had gone through a few books that he knows Mariella enjoys, but eventually chose one he’d caught Mariella chuckling at a few times while reading, with an intriguing plot that Stanley quite liked as well, when she explained it to him. She said she thinks this one must have come from the real world, with how much it describes the outside and “Earth” as well as aspects outside of it: actual places like Heaven and Hell, which makes it even better (None of them were exactly sure how much information, though, was simply fiction conjured from the authors’ minds and what was reality in the real world, though the Timekeeper did help in informing them that they were pretty sure angels and demons didn’t exist on “Earth”, only humans).

He flipped the book and thought a bit about what the optimal scene might be, and eventually chose one that included the angel, someone Stanley knew reminded Mariella of the Curator. His name was ‘Aziraphale’, a name which he thought gave nice vibes. The scene would be something cheery or funny, of course, but unfortunately, Stanley realized he didn’t know what a lot of objects and places described in the book actually looked like.

Oh well, he’d thought. He’d just have to make do, and use his imagination quite a lot. He reminded himself that Mariella most likely didn’t know what they looked like either, and felt a bit better after that.

So, a scene with the angel in it, not too bad. He’d chosen one, after some deliberation, that he thinks Mariella would really like, as she likes animals as well.

It’s coming along pretty well, Stanley would say. He had trouble in a lot of bits– and had to use his imagination to come up with the look for quite a few, if not the majority of things in the scene (especially the people). Enough looking at various fact and picture books on the shelves, however, has definitely aided in imagining how things might appear.

He’s been able to ignore the tugging feeling in his gut (everywhere, really)– like there’s a rope attached to the inside of him and someone is pulling on it from the other side perpetually; or rather, he is the rope– up until he nearly finished most of the angel and background.

Stanley nearly has his brush to canvas now, staring at the other people in the painting, when he flinches violently and drops his brush on the mattress. He doesn’t move to pick it up, breathing heavily.

Stanley? What happened?

Stanley doesn’t answer them, though he briefly glances to the words on the screen, his eyes flitting back to his canvas, but hardly seeing it. He does his best to even out his breaths.

That time… wasn’t pulling. That wasn’t a force simply moderately tugging on his figurative rope, uncomfortable but not causing pain– that was a yank. And a hard one at that. That was painful. Not terribly so, but painful in the way he’s playing tug of war and the opposing side had pulled so hard his body was jerked forward.

That doesn’t sound too far off of what happened just now, actually.

Stanley swallows, still not talking. It’s okay. It’s okay, he tells himself, because that was just one little yank, and it stopped. It won’t happen again, right? Everything’s back to normal now– well, as normal as he can be with a feeling like this.

Tentatively, he picks up his paintbrush and dips it back into the color. Slowly, he brings it closer to canvas, and his hand hovers over where he was going to resume. It starts shaking after a few seconds, and he brings it down quickly. He’s lost his focus.

Fuck. Stanley hates losing concentration when he’s in the middle of doing a task. It takes a lot of effort to pull his mind back into it straight away, and sometimes can’t do it immediately. He has to take a break, come back so his mind isn’t elsewhere and he isn’t half-distracted while trying his hardest to go back to whatever it is he was doing. It’s frustrating, sometimes.

He sets his brush down more gracefully into the cup of liquid on the small table, and stares at his work.

It isn’t too bad, Stanley thinks. He hopes it’ll turn out really nice, and it’s coming along well so far. He hopes Mariella will like it.

Who is he kidding? Of course she’ll like it. Anything Stanley makes for the blonde, she accepts it wholeheartedly and with a friendly, sincere smile on her face, and he knows she’s kept at least most of her gifts. The thought makes Stanley smile.

“Oh!” Stanley turns, remembering suddenly. “Uh, sorry, Timekeeper.” He scratches the back of his neck apologetically. “I forgot you said something.”

That’s alright. What happened there, Stanley?

“Well, um…” He trails off.

It was the feeling wasn’t it?

Stanley opens his mouth, the word no forming on his lips. He stops, though. He doesn’t want to lie, especially to them. He always feels bad lying to the Timekeeper. And sometimes they can spot when someone’s lying to them, anyway. For a non-human and non-corporeal entity, they’re surprisingly good at reading faces.

Stanley closes his mouth, and makes a bitter noise of agreement. “But it’s okay. It was just once. It won’t happen again.”

Rather, if it does happen again, Stanley’ll be better at hiding the flinch. He’s good at hiding things, anyway.

The screen is blank for a moment.

Okay.

You know I’m there for you, alright?

Stanley swallows thickly. He still gets somewhat emotional when he’s told something like this.

“I know.” His voice comes out a bit hoarser than he meant. Luckily, the Timekeeper doesn’t acknowledge it. They don’t say anything more, and Stanley forces the feeling welling up in his chest away. He stares at his painting some more, than looks down at the brush.

It’ll be okay. It’s not over. I’m not going to leave anytime soon. The thought doesn’t make him feel much better.

Stanley needs a break for a few minutes. He’s been painting for a little while now, and he wants to spend time with his favorite people for a little bit.

Stanley puts his supplies to the side, grabs Bear, and gets out of bed.

“I’m gonna take a small break,” He informs the Timekeeper, who responds with a swing of the green door open, and Stanley smiles. Halfway through the door, Stanley pauses and, as an afterthought, grabs his harmonica off the shelf and walks through the women’s bedroom and into the main living room.

–

Several hours later, possibly most of the day if he had to guess, Stanley is almost finished with Mariella’s painting; that’s when it happens again.

He doesn’t flinch as strongly as last time, and disguises his sudden, slight involuntary jerk of his body by putting down his brush and stretching his arms slightly. Stanley was prepared for it to occur another time; it doesn’t make him feel any better with it actually happening again.

Fuck shitfuck–

Right. Don’t panic. It’s fine. The Timekeeper didn’t even notice this time, and Stanley is able to pick up his brush and force most of his mind on the painting again. Though the thought still lingers in the back of his brain, stubborn and indifferent toward his wishes.

The Parable is getting more insistent.

It’s itching for another reset, and the more Stanley resists, the more it’ll torment him.

It isn’t like the Parable is sentient. Stanley would be able to feel, and know, if he was connected with something that thought as freely as that; it’s simply the way it adapted over the many years; sort of its defense mechanic. But it might as well be to him now, with how much it’s blatantly disagreeing with its Narrator, and hellbent on torturing him until it gets what it wants.

Okay, perhaps “torture” is just slightly extreme a description, but Stanley doesn’t really think it’s that far off.

He tries to focus on his painting; it really is turning out well. The people in the painting, with the main subject of course: the angel holding a gray rabbit in his hand and smiling brightly, are fairly realistic, with brush strokes visible yet aids in a more stylistic choice, and honestly makes it prettier than a hyper realistic painting would be, in Stanley’s opinion. The background is pretty much the same, albeit a tad more realism added.

With that in mind, he slips back into the peaceful motions of brushing paint on a canvas, and thoughts about the Parable and all else fade into the back of his mind.

–

He’s finished. Stanley makes a couple more minor additions to some details and scoots back, admiring his hard work. He sets down his brush and breathes deeply.

“It’s done.”

It looks amazing.

Stanley glances to the monitor, grinning. “You think so?”

Totally. Are you going to give it to her now?

“Nah. Both together. When the Curator’s is finished, I’ll give it to them.”

Makes sense. Do you want to take a break?

“Hmm.” He’s eager to start the brunette’s gift, but, he realises bleakly, he doesn’t actually entirely know what he wants to paint for her. Yes, he wants to paint flowers and plants for her, but he doesn’t want it to be just any old flowers or plants. He wants it to mean something; to be special.

“I don’t… actually know which plants I want to paint for the Curator,” He says hesitantly.

Well, you want it to mean something important, right?

“Yes.”

Certain plants and flowers have certain meanings. You can choose one that might represent your friendship, or something else.

Stanley’s face lights up. “Yeah, you’re right!” Eagerly, he scoots off the mattress and reaches for the yellow box next to his bed. He thinks of a book on plant meanings, and produces just that. He sits back on the mattress and opens the book, now on his lap, intent to find the perfect plants.

After a while of searching, Stanley knows just what to paint.

Feeling confident once again, he goes about setting up a blank canvas for a new piece of art. Gingerly, Stanley sets the medium-large finished painting to lean against the right wall, and opens up the wall to the sink to wash his hands. He catches his reflection in the mirror. Long ago, he’d looked at himself and felt a wave of bitterness (and maybe something close to disgust) wash over him, but now, he doesn’t feel any of that. Maybe even a hint of cheerfulness. He really has improved during his time here. Stanley smiles, and turns back to his bed with a good feeling.

Thankfully, that feeling lasts. It lasts for a while, as Stanley gets comfortable in the familiar pattern of his favorite hobby once again.

Of course, however, his contentment can’t stay forever. 

The tugging has increased noticeably. It isn’t quite a perpetual yanking yet, and luckily, even though his body sometimes feels like it, he’s not getting involuntarily dragged over to the white door. It isn’t like that, he doesn’t have to concentrate to be able to stay in one place; it just feels like a constant game of tug and war.

Yet, it’s gotten worse. To the point of being so uncomfortable and reminding Stanley of the point to his cruel existence, that it is starting to hint on the edge of pain.

Actually, no.

Heaven, it hurts. Badly. He shouldn't lie to himself anymore. But that pain is so much more and has come much quicker than he anticipated, or wanted.

And he realizes with a horrible, sinking feeling, that these paintings really will have to be parting gifts for his friends.

No, no no no no–

Stanley feels stinging in the back of his eyes. He squeezes them shut, and opens them, forcing it down. That habit still hasn’t quite escaped him.

He knew this was going to happen. He always knew this was going to happen. Stanley had doomed himself the moment he agreed to stay for a long time. He subjected himself to this pain. It’s easier to live in a painful world, ignorant to that bliss you could have instead, than losing what you know to be so much better and being forced back into that hell.

And the Narrator is hell.

“I have to go back,” He says aloud, his voice thick with emotion; a simple statement.

Oh.

Nothing else for a moment. Then:

Okay.

When?

“After I give them the paintings. I can’t do this anymore.”

They’ll understand. I’m really sorry. I wish I could bring you some solace.

“It’s okay.” They both know it’s not. “Don’t apologize; you did all you could.”

The screen remains blank. That’s okay, Stanley reassures himself. They aren’t ignoring you. There’s not really much else to say, is there?

There really isn’t. So, with a dejected sigh, Stanley looks back at his canvas, does his best to gather himself up, and resumes painting.

–

Stanley stares at his finally finished product, after many breaks and the occasional visit out of the room– he hasn’t told them of his planning to leave, and asked the Timekeeper not to either; he isn’t ready. He should feel proud. And he does, partially, but mostly all he’s thinking is:

It’s finished. It’s finished and I have to go back now. I have to leave. It’s finished and I need to go back to him now.

He can’t stay any longer. The Parable won’t let him.

Stanley takes a deep breath, and tries to focus on the painting itself. After going through the book of plant meanings, he’d decided on a small meadow full of chrysanthemums, periwinkles, and orchid flowers during a modest sunrise, with a small river bending around a large oak tree to the left, slightly overlooking the meadow. The flowers looked nice nearby one another, Stanley reflects, even if they might not exactly grow next to each other naturally. It doesn’t really matter, either way. Like the Timekeeper said, it’s the meaning that counts.

How wonderful it would be to see this view in person, Stanley thinks to himself.

After some ruminative moments, Stanley dismantles his makeshift work area, cleans up completely, and, after some consideration, goes about writing the meanings of all the plants used on the back of the canvas. Then he carefully sets the painting next to Mariella’s, after taping some paper to the back to momentarily cover the words. Side by side, they look wonderful. He hopes they’ll make up for the bad news that would come after the women receive them.

He sighs deeply, and collapses on his back into the mattress, not bothering to move the covers, but grabbing Bear and placing her by his head. He stares up at the ceiling. He wonders if they’ll get rid of this room when he leaves. What use would they have for it anyway? Stanley turns his head to look at his shelves and all the little crafts and knick knacks he’d collected (or just conjured up from a box), as well as other objects, and the harmonica. He doesn’t want all of it to go to waste. Then again, maybe they never mattered in the first place.

Maybe none of this meant anything at all.

No. Stanley forbids that thought. This did mean something. He’s happier than he has been in so long, maybe his whole existence here. He’s learned a lot, both about himself and many other things he enjoys, and about the people he cares about. He’s learned what it was like to love, be loved, and he won’t let that go to waste, even if they decide to remove many things that remind them of Stanley.

Besides, it wouldn’t be Goodbye goodbye. There would always be that white door, more than accessible, and with just a thought and a turn of the doorknob he can visit his friends at any point. Plus, the Timekeeper would be with him.

And maybe, this experience with them might be able to help me handle the Narrator better. I’ll think of something I can do to make it less difficult. I don’t have much of a choice, really.

Slowly, Stanley sits up, then stands.

He takes a shaky breath, and moves to pick up the finished paintings.

It isn’t goodbye, not fully, he tries to remind himself.

Stanley walks into the women’s bedroom and the wall melts away. Then why does it feel like it so much?

Stanley walks into the living room, smiling a bit hesitantly. The occupants of the room turn to look at him, and he feels his smile grow more sincere at their kind expressions.

“Hey, uh,” He forces his words not to get choked. He wishes he weren’t feeling so emotional about this. “Made you guys something. I… worked on it for a while, so I hope you like them.” He holds the backwards facing canvases up, and the two wave him over, looking excited and pleased. Stanley feels his heart pang, but makes his way over to the couch and sits down between them, leaning the paintings face down against the coffee table.

“More paintings for us?” Mariella says, delighted.

Stanley nods, smiling as best he can. “Yeah, but, these are more special than the other ones. I did my best on them; I wanted it to be a gift for all you’ve done for me here. You know, more so than any other ones. So, I painted both of your favorite things. Well, things that you really like, anyway.”

Mariella’s grin brightens even further; to Stanley’s right, the Curator’s smile wavers. Stanley doesn’t notice.

“First, Mariella.” He turns to her. “You like books, of course, so I decided to paint a scene from one that I know you really like, so I chose the one with the angel that reminds you of the Curator, that you’ve told me about.”

She nods, recognizing the one he’s talking about.

“And a scene that’s cheerful, with him, because well, I don’t wanna give you something depicting something sad.”

He reaches for the painting, turns it over, and hands it to her.

“Wow!” She exclaims with a cheerful laugh. “Aziraphale at Warlock’s party! Heaven, it looks so good, Stanley, thank you. I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Stanley grins, scratching the back of his neck. After all this time, Stanley isn’t quite fully used to such a positive reaction to something he did (or made) himself.

“And the Curator.” Stanley turns to said woman and presents her her own painting. The Curator looks at him curiously, before accepting gladly.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” She says softly, looking down at it. Stanley smiles.

“I chose certain flowers, and the oak tree, because they represent different things that, well, agree with us. All of us. I wrote the meanings on the back, you just need to tear off that paper covering it.”

The Curator, with a warm smile, carefully tears it off and intently reads the meanings Stanley had scrawled onto the back.

If anything, the Curator’s smile widens, though Stanley notes a hint of sadness in it, too. His own smile wavers slightly.

“Do you, uh, like it?” He says, a bit nervous now.

The Curator looks at him, and Stanley sees the sincerity in her expression. “Of course I do, Stanley. This is wonderful; I love it. And the meanings of the plants you chose are equally wonderful.” She hesitates. “However, it’s simply…” The Curator searches his face. “I hesitate to say this… Is there– a certain reason as to why these are more special out of every one of the gifts you have made for us? And now?”

As if on cue, some horribly timed cue, Stanley feels that yank again. He does his best to hide the involuntary flinch it causes, and fidgets with his hands. “W- well.” He really didn’t want to say it this soon; but the Curator is clever. Oftentimes, she can see right through Stanley’s cheerful facade, and while Stanley isn’t pretending about anything now, she can certainly pick up hints.

Mariella catches on. Tone serious now, she suggests, “Stanley, is this a goodbye gift?”

“No! It isn’t– not like that.” Stanley closes his eyes. “Look, I just–” He can’t lie anymore. Not to his best friends. “It wasn’t intended like that when I started it. You’ve been wonderful to me, you both have.” Stanley looks between them, and the Curator offers her hand; Stanley takes it, and squeezes. “I wanted to make you something that’d make you happy because you’ve made me–” He inhales and sighs shakily. “But I have to go. So yeah, they are… parting gifts, I suppose. I’m sorry. I- I still hope you’ll keep them, I did work hard… but I need to go back. I can’t stay here anymore.” Please don’t ask me why. Or why now.

It’s silent, for a few moments. Mariella and the Curator look at each other somberly, and the Curator nods, turning back to him. “Alright, Stanley. And I promise, we will keep them safe, okay? We’ve kept all of the things you have made for us; we won’t start discarding them now.”

“We understand,” Mariella adds, laying a comforting hand on his arm. “We’ve loved your stay here, and I’m so glad that we could help you, but we knew that going back was inevitable.”

“I’m sorry,” Stanley says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

The Curator sighs. “It isn’t your fault. And we shall always be one door away, yes? Even if you go back now, you can freely visit any time you’d like.”

Stanley knows that. But for some reason, he feels as if when he goes through that door, he won’t be coming back anytime soon. He nods anyway.

The brunette smiles. “Are you planning to go back soon?”

Tentatively, he nods again.

“I think… I want to change my outfit before I leave, though. Then I will.”

Stanley hasn’t changed clothes since he got here, still wearing the same blue sweater and brown pants (and goofy socks). He hasn’t really wanted to, and the women reassured him that if he didn’t want to then he didn’t have to.

Now, though, with him going back, he thinks an outfit change might be in store for him.

They nod, and Stanley heads back to his room.

What would you like? I can get you pretty much anything.

Stanley hums. He wants something long sleeved, and comfortable. Perhaps colorful too, but not super bright or flashy. And a pair of comfortable pants. He tells the Timekeeper as much.

Got it!

After a few seconds, an outfit appears on the bed, folded, and Stanley picks it up gratefully, inspecting it. It’s a regular crew neck sweatshirt, and with a striped, slightly muted rainbow colored pattern. He feels on the inside of the shirt; it definitely will be comfortable. The dark grey pants are relatively comfortable looking, too.

“Uh, you can see me while changing, can’t you?” He turns to the monitor.

Technically yes, but I won’t be looking , if that makes sense.

Stanley shrugs. He doesn’t really care too much. “Okay.”

I’ll open the mirror for you so you can see your outfit when you're done. Let me know if they don’t fit; I’ll alter them.

Stanley shoots a thumbs up to the air, sees the wall open up to reveal the sink and mirror, and looks down at the sweatshirt.

He shrugs off his current sweater, and discards it on the floor next to him.

Then Stanley… catches something, when he looks down. What looks like two lines on his chest, and not terribly thin, either.

Stanley frowns, looking down again at himself, then heads to the mirror.

He observes his reflection and sees two horizontal lines– scars?– on opposite sides of the upper-middle part of his chest. What in the world?

He realizes then, that these probably came from his previous human life. What would cause him to have scars on his chest, though? He knows large cuts create scars, or course, but if he was bleeding out that badly from his chest at some point as a human … wouldn’t that have killed him?

Stanley doesn’t know what else could be the case, and he doesn’t know that much about fatal wounds or cuts or anything like that in the first place, anyway. The last time he changed, in that closet, he’d closed his eyes when he took off his employee shirt, both for reflex, and because admittedly, he didn’t want to see his chest bare like that.

At least this is actual, physical proof that I did have life before this. Whatever may have been the cause for it, the thought somewhat reassures him, in kind of an odd way.

Stanley turns back around, and hurriedly puts on his sweatshirt. It is comfortable, and a bit large, but he thinks that actually makes it better.

“Timekeeper?” A moment, then:

Yeah?

“Do you know any reason why… someone– would have something like, scars on their chest? Or maybe it’s not scars… but something like it? I know cuts can leave scars, but…” It doesn’t feel like simple cuts in some sort of accident would have left that. They looked… precise.

Well, I’m not sure Stanley. Maybe as a human, you did something or were in a situation that caused them? What do they look like?

“Can I lift my shirt?”

Yup.

Stanley lifts his sweatshirt just enough to show the horizontal lines/scars on his chest.

Hm. I’m not sure what would cause that, really.

Stanley lowers his shirt. “Alright. That’s okay,” He concedes, a little disappointed. It’d be nice to have another piece of information that told anything about what happened in his life as a human, but he supposes he won’t ever be able to get something like that.

Do you want to ask the others? I’m not entirely sure, but they might know since Mariella has read a lot of books. She may have heard of those kinds of scars.

Stanley hesitates. “No. That’s okay.” Knowing what it is might not make things better, anyway; it could have been caused by something bad. Plus, either way, it won’t change anything. He doesn’t know the man that got these, anyway.

All Stanley knows, and has, is who he is right now. And right now, he’s okay with that.

Alright then. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.

“It’s okay,” Stanley says honestly. “Really. You need to stop apologizing to me so much.” He smiles a bit to let them know he’s being lighthearted. They don’t respond.

After a few moments of waiting, Stanley decides to put on the rest of his outfit, and exits his room for the last time.

Going back to the living room is hard. It’s such a simple thing, just walking a few steps forward, but Stanley hesitates right outside his door. He doesn’t want to leave; of course he doesn’t want to. Yet, staying with them longer now will only make the leaving more painful.

He doesn’t move for several seconds, opening and closing his fists tight until finally, because the tugging is getting too unbearable at this moment, he wills himself to go into the main area.

Stanley smiles wordlessly at them, a little brokenly, and waves. He walks to the white door, not speaking. The women follow him to the door; Stanley gets ready to turn it.

He stops, his hand on the doorknob for the first time in months. Stanley turns back to his friends.

“Thank you so much,” He says earnestly. He can’t say it enough. “For letting me stay. I liked it here.” He pauses. “And thank you Timekeeper. I really can’t thank every one of you enough.”

Mariella shrugs and smiles at him, just as earnestly. “It was no big deal, Stanley. We loved having you here.”

“No, no it is a big deal,” He insists, because he wants them to understand. “You taught me what love is.”

Mariella’s smile wobbles; he pulls Stanley into a tight hug. “We’ll miss you, Stanley,” She says into his shirt.

Why are they acting like this is the end? Stanley doesn’t understand. Rather, he does, but he doesn’t want to. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll think about you,” He settles on half-whispering, and hugs her back.

Mariella pulls away, wiping at her eyes, and smiles again. The Curator takes his hand, and squeezes them gently with both of hers. “Take care of yourself, alright? You’re strong.”

Yeah. I’m stronger now than I was before. I’m better than the Narrator; I can deal with him better.

The Curator lets go. Words appear on the screen and they all turn to look.

Would you like to take Bear with you?

“Oh, yes!” Stanley says, brightening. “I’ll like that.” Maybe she can go in the bucket. If not, he can set her somewhere on either desk in the office, as a reminder or a comforting presence.

Great, I’ve put her there. :)

“Thank you,” He says again. “Well, I’ll… see you guys again, sometime.” He refuses to think about the prospect of this being the last time he’ll ever see them; that would be silly. It wouldn’t be for a little while, yes, but it won’t be never.

The women bid farewell; Stanley turns back to the door and takes a deep breath.

He opens it; the familiar room appears. Stanley steps across the threshold, into The Narrator’s office. After these months, walking into the office simply feels like an ordinary routine again. That doesn’t sit right with him, and Stanley is tempted to swiftly turn back. He doesn’t feel any different. He thinks he probably should.

He should, shouldn’t he? The tugging feeling hasn’t dissipated, though perhaps faded just a bit.

Stanley’s eyes fall to the desk and empty chair, waiting for someone to occupy it. Ah, right.

Slowly, Stanley closes the door, and ignores the fact that he feels like he just sealed his friends off. He lets his hand slide off the knob and walks slowly to the– his chair.

By the way, Stanley?

“Yes?” Stanley says, a little flatly. He’s looking around the dreadfully familiar office (resolutely keeping his gaze off the central monitor), sees the bucket, the papers and notes attached to the back wall that he doesn’t have any interest in reading, and Bear is sitting on the small table with the– honestly relatively useless– lamp.

He tears his gaze away from the contents of the room and looks at the right monitor, again, blatantly ignoring anything in his peripheral vision.

I’ve fixed everything that was altered. You know, before this? Right before I told you the truth, in the Control Room. I reset it back to the way it was before. He doesn’t have anything.

“Oh.” Stanley blinks. He did forget about that, momentarily. Not completely, but it hadn’t been on his mind in a while. “Thank you; I appreciate it.”

No problem. Are you going to be okay, with this now?

Stanley sighs, a bit frustrated. He knows the Timekeeper is just looking out for him, and a part of him is grateful for it, but he knows how to handle himself. He’s done it before, he can certainly do it now. And he doesn’t have any other choice than to be okay with it. Stanley doesn’t want to act scared anymore.

“I’m okay, really. Thank you, but you don’t need to worry. I have this.”

And he does. Or at least, he thinks he does. He’s come up with a solution. Or, half a solution. Most of a solution as he can.

He imagines a box. A storage box, or one like they had in the Curator’s and Mariella’s room. Either way, something to contain things, preferably with a lock. Stanley’s idea is to imagine, whenever he feels that spark of rage or necessity to snap at the Narrator, or some bad feeling coming from the Narrator acting selfish or arrogant, he’ll toss those negative feelings into the storage box for it to be cast aside, and allowing for only the positive thoughts to be surfaced.

Now, Stanley realizes that there are flaws to that plan. He also is aware that this seems like another way of suppressing or bottling his emotions, and that may be true. But the fact is, what else can he do? He doesn’t have any other option to try and help himself if he’s going to be in the presence of the Narrator, and he doesn’t have a choice with this either.

This way, at least, he’s aware of what he’s doing, and he’s doing it in a somewhat healthier way than before. He’s acknowledging that box of negative emotions, but he’s not opening that box. He’s not letting those contents through.

Stanley hopes, with this strategy, it’ll be easier to contain himself and focus on the positive, if the negative is in sight but locked away, so he can’t reach it.

Hopefully it works. Stanley doesn’t think it’ll completely cure any anger his interactions with the Narrator will no doubt elicit, but it might help. It might help, and that’s all that Stanley can ask for right now.

Stanley takes a deep breath, pulls his chair out, and sits down in it.

The effect is immediate. Stanley gasps quietly, not because of something bad, but because weeks of that terrible, insistent tugging on his body dissipates in a matter of milliseconds. It almost startles him, how stark the contrast is. Finally, it’s gone. The relief of it is so strong Stanley can’t help a tired smile breaking out. He’s free, thank heaven.

And then Stanley’s gaze pans upwards, and his breath catches in his throat. For just a moment, he let himself forget where he is and what brought him here, in the palpable relief of being free from that tie.

The Narrator looks, well, the exact same as he did when Stanley last froze him in the office chair. Back rim rod straight, arms flat in front of him on the desk; he forgot how robotic it looked. He doesn’t like it; Stanley’s reminded of how he was in that position long ago.

Stanley takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, and studies the face of the Narrator, the man who hates him, who he was free from for months. And even though his face is blank, not even a hint of movement from the green streaks in his eyes, Stanley can’t help that little voice in his head that calls the man just a little bit handsome, or attractive, or pretty . He hates it. It makes him just as angry at himself as he is with the Narrator.

You can’t get angry yet. You haven’t even woken him up.

Stanley closes his eyes, imagines taking that anger and bitterness, discarding it into the box. He opens them and… actually, he does feel a little bit better. Not completely, but, well, focusing on the positive might actually work.

He doesn’t wake the Narrator up right away. Stanley thinks about the conversation he had with the Timekeeper, about how much the Narrator really matters, but in a different way that he’d expressed himself countless times. Stanley thinks of when he learned how closely they really intertwine. Without the Narrator, Stanley doesn’t have a story to follow. But without Stanley, the Narrator has no one to enact his story with.

And with them circling each other so heavily in this world… Stanley knows it should be better. For both of them. There is the possibility for it to be better. Against all odds, Stanley still believes that it can be better. If they truly do need each other this much– and they do– then why can’t it be better?

So: he wants to try again. To make the Narrator willing to see, to not act so superior to Stanley because, for all intents and purposes, and despite any other person here, Stanley is all he has and the Narrator is who Stanley has.

He needs to try and make the Narrator see him for how he is; at the very least convince him to make a compromise, to try and get on his good side, or even just neutral.

He knows how much it backfired last time. But hell, with Stanley knowing what he does now, continuing to exist like this with him without making any effort to improve their relationship will only cause him to feel worse.

What could he do differently this time that might be able to win the Narrator over? Last time, he’d allowed himself to trust the man into a deal crafted by him– that would have ultimately gotten him fucked . Stanley grimaces. He isn’t willing to trust the Narrator again so easily. Perhaps, if Stanley could give him information… but how would telling the Narrator anything about his situation make him less inclined to hate Stanley? Besides…

“You– you don’t want me telling him… any of it, right?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the Narrator when he asks the question.

No, not now, please. That wouldn’t go well, I promise.

Stanley sighs, reading the words. “Okay. Okay, yeah… I won’t tell him,” He promises.

There has to be another way that Stanley can, inadvertently at least, convince the Narrator to listen to him, and not dismiss him or treat him like nothing he offers will ever be good enough. Stanley knows his worth, now. He wants the Narrator to recognize it as well.

It’s a new beginning. Or at least, it is to Stanley. He has to remind himself that the Narrator will believe that almost no time has passed at all, and that the events of the Control Room had just transpired. That’s okay; he can work with that. He stares at the Narrator again.

After a long time, Stanley presses ‘Wake Up.’

Again, it isn’t a tremendous action; no music, dramatic fanfare, simply a man standing up from his seat. The moment feels enormously insubstantial compared to what the actual situation feels like. He’s dreaded this moment for a long time, yet it seems almost as if nothing has changed at all.

The Narrator stands still at the desk, and after a few moments, turns around and steps towards the door with a disappointed look.

Stanley doesn’t talk as the Narrator walks out of the office, and takes a few steps into the hallway. The steps are hesitant; not with fear, but cautiousness, as though weighing the situation and his options.

He walks a few more steps forward; Stanley snaps out of it. Right. Attempting to get on the Narrator’s good side requires complying to the rules of this story. He knows where the last time he tried this led to of course, but this time is different. He’s going into this with a new mindset; a healthier one. Stanley can do this. He can. It’ll be difficult, but Stanley is determined.

So, after a hesitant, admittedly shaky breath, he speaks the beginning dialogue.

"All of his coworkers were gone, what could it mean?"

The Narrator doesn’t falter. His expression is cool now, not grumpy or dismayed. Stanley doesn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or not, especially since the Thoughts Screen hasn’t even activated yet.

He knows that to the Narrator, it’s only been a few seconds since he’s heard Stanley’s voice. It’s weird to think about, but he knows it’s true. That being said, the fact that he seems utterly at ease despite, in his mind, what just occurred a few seconds ago, might be cause for some worry.

Stanley can’t do much about it though, so he just hopes for the best and keeps going.

"He decided to go to the meeting room; perhaps he’d missed a memo."

The delivery isn’t great, and he doesn’t want to say the script word for word. That feels like complying a bit too much to feel comfortable.

The Narrator’s features darken momentarily, but he walks on, still. They approach the two doors room. Stanley says his lines, them coming automatically to him.

“When S- he came to a set of two doors, he entered the door on the left.”

Stanley wonders what ending the Narrator will pick. After the event in the Control room, he honestly couldn’t guess where next the man would be inclined to visit. Somewhere somewhat positive probably, but he doesn’t know–

The Narrator walks through the left door.

Stanley pauses. He doesn’t close the door. The Narrator hesitates in his steps as well, and Stanley stares at him with a familiar wave of incredulousness and anger.

Are you actually kidding me? What kind of audacity did this man have to go through the left door after what, at least to him, just happened. Stanley doesn’t say anything, momentarily too stunned for speech.

The Narrator takes that as a good sign, though. With a faint smirk playing on his lips, he continues down the path confidently.

You have to play along. He doesn’t want to. He certainly doesn’t want to fuel the Narrator's notion that Stanley is just okay with him going through the left door when long ago he was forbidden, right after the man had betrayed his trust and lied to him.

Stanley just manages to hold down an incredulous laugh that threatens to escape. What the fuck.

Stanley closes his eyes; focuses on breathing. He pictures the anger of the Narrator doing this going into that imagined box and locking it away. It only somewhat helps.

“But there wasn’t a single person here either. With a wave of disbelief, he decided to go to the boss’s office, to find an answer there.” Stanley knows the delivery of the line is flatter than it should be, but he doesn’t care. The Narrator stops for a moment, hesitating, but walks out of the meeting room anyway. He still doesn’t think anything to Stanley.

The Narrator makes it to his boss’s office; Stanley says the lines. He recites the entire small speech about the Protagonist being shocked and unraveled, having memorized it long ago, while the Narrator listens on with a satisfied expression. It’ll help. You don’t argue with him, and it’ll help in the long run. Arguing will create more conflict, you just need to go along with it now, and after this you intervene.

Stanley doesn’t want to just follow everything the Narrator does, of course, but perhaps if he agrees with the Narrator on most things, then the man will warm up to him a bit. Would that work? Stanley isn’t completely sure, but he thinks it’s worth a shot.

Stanley isn’t at a complete loss, but he doesn’t want to be complying with the Narrator’s demands, spoken or not. What he wants, truly, is to shove it in that arrogant man’s face, to tell him the truth about “his” damn story, and that Stanley is half of what keeps this place alive. He is the reason that the Narrator became sentient over time; that this story was able to be told by him. That information will surely knock the smug look from his face, and that bastard will be forced to accept the reality that Stanley isn’t the fucking pest that the Narrator can stamp his foot on, unimportant and unneeded.

But unfortunately, Stanley can’t tell that to him. So he’ll make do.

The Narrator enters the elevator, and Stanley takes a deep breath when the loading screen appears, and continues with the script (albeit with some minor alterations for every sentence) without the Narrator thinking anything to him.

Stanley forces himself to stay on script throughout the entire ending, and sure enough, the Narrator hits the OFF button, and Stanley recites the freedom speech with as many botches to the intended script as he can to still make it seem believable.

The Narrator enters the cutscene, and a few moments later, Stanley resets.

He doesn’t press ‘Wake Up’ immediately, then.

Stanley reaches over and grabs his bucket, pulling it to his lap and letting the refreshing and reassuring feeling wash over him for the first time in months. Stanley sighs, and stays like that for nearly a minute, before forcing himself to let go and put it gently back on its pillow.

He feels much better, now. Stanley turns around to look at Bear, sighs with a tired smile, and turns back. Admittedly with a bit of hesitance, he presses ‘Wake Up’.

This time, when the Narrator wakes up, he walks immediately out the open door, into the neighboring room of cubicles, and pulls a chair out from the nearest desk. Sitting down, Narrator crosses his arms and legs in the office seat, and Stanley fights the urge to scoff at him.

“What. ”

I have to say, Stanley, I am pleased that you decided to stick to the story, but… well, that delivery was lacking a certain… oomph. If you’re going to tell it, you need to do it properly. You sounded bored out of your mind, and well, we can’t have that. If it is about what happened before the last reset, well, I don’t see any reason why you should be clinging onto bitterness, Stanley.

You seem to have fixed it yourself– The Narrator rolls his eyes. – So I see no reason as to why it needs to affect you or the story now.

Now, when we tell the story next time, it needs to be with excitement, Stanley. You need to mean it. I know you’re not an actor; you’re much too talentless to be a proper one anyway, but it’s almost like you dreaded speaking every line! I can’t let my work go to waste because of your laziness. So, when we do this again, I want you to really try and bring your inner narrator out. Copy what I have done in the past. Surely even you can manage that.

“You–” Stanley balls his fists tightly. Just breathe. Calm down; anger goes in the box. He takes a deep breath.

“Okay, sure.” He forces out. 

Stanley remembers then, a while ago, when the Narrator suggested he practice the lines, and Stanley had dismissed him. ‘ Never too late to practice, I say.’ He rolls his eyes.

He gets an idea. Not a fun one, but overall helpful to his goal, he should hope.

Mentally preparing himself for what he’s about to do, Stanley forces the words out before he can think sensibly about this.

“Well… I actually have been wanting to… practice, the lines, like you suggested.” He scoffs mentally at himself. “But I haven’t… found the time to. Maybe…” What the fuck am I doing. “Maybe you could help me? Give me some tips?”

The Narrator perks up, uncrossing both his arms and legs and delightedly straightening up. He clasps his hands together and sets them in his lap. Stanley wants to learn more about his favorite subject, after all. The man will find any excuse to talk about his favorite things, and is always pleased when, rarely, Stanley shows any interest in them, which means he can talk about them more. Self-absorbed prick.

Oh yes, of course! Finally, you are truly showing some genuine appreciation for my story, Stanley. Granted, you always should have, but at last, this is the moment where you really take action to show that you adore my work. I– well, I’m proud of you for asking this of me. I know it must have taken a lot of courage.

Oh my heaven shut up. "Thanks.” He says flatly, not even reading past proud. He’ll suffer through this, as long as it gets the Narrator to sincerely warm up to him. Talking about his interests, well, that always puts him in a good mood. Hopefully in a good enough mood that he’ll forget he completely hates Stanley, at least for a time. Little steps.

The Narrator stands up, looking way too pleased for Stanley’s comfort.

So, I shall go through the Freedom Ending and instruct and guide you on how to properly recite the script, until you can do it flawlessly! How does that sound?

Like hell. “Great,” He says in a forced cheerful tone, storing the bitterness in the box. “We can do that.”

What in the world are you doing, Stanley?

Stanley looks over at the right-hand monitor, and smiles weakly. The Timekeeper doesn’t say anything else. Stanley turns to the bucket, and sighs. This is going to suck.

He glances at the Thoughts Screen.

Excellent.

Chapter Text

Stanley regrets every one of his choices.

Whatever. He’s in it too far to back out now, after a couple dozen resets, and the Narrator might be even more pissed at him if he did, which is the opposite of what Stanley’s trying to accomplish.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to stop this, though. It’s exasperating, kind of humiliating sometimes, and Stanley can’t pretend that going through the Narrator’s intended ending so many times, while staying completely on script (the Narrator isn’t allowing any “slip ups”) and with the same presumed enthusiasm (or attempting) as the Narrator always did feels too… immersive? No, not that. But it makes Stanley uncomfortable. This ending was the one that caused Stanley the most pain for a vivid period of time when he was the Protagonist; obeying the Narrator all the way down to every single word and acting as his puppet willingly, and then his “freedom” being wrested away right after seeing those fake trees and land and sky, knowing that this was the closest he’ll ever get to escaping the office and seeing the real world as it is…

Before, when the Narrator went through the Freedom Ending right at the beginning of their swap, it bothered Stanley, but not as much as it did now. With how much he’s experienced outside of a role as the simple Protagonist of this game now, it feels almost like an old wound being torn open or exposed.

The ex-employee breathes in deeply, and takes the risk of asking to stop. It’s been sixteen resets, and Stanley thinks if he has to complete one more right now he might scream. “Narrator, can we maybe… call it good?”

The Narrator stops walking, halfway up the stairs to the boss’s office. He’s been more pleased with Stanley the last few resets, which he recognizes is both a good and bad thing, even if it’s something he wanted.

“I mean, I’ve done it right?” He tries for a convincing argument. “I can say it well now.” Stanley hates asking the Narrator for permission.

Yes, I suppose, but “well” does not equal perfection, Stanley. Besides, you’ve stopped in the middle of the run, unprompted! Is that how you think a narrator operates? Didn’t you want this?

Or did you just do it to mock me. Of course you would. The Narrator sneers.

Stanley fights the urge to say, “You really think I wanted this?” Of course he would, and does. The man is too egotistical to believe that Stanely wouldn’t want something made by him.

“Yeah, sure,” He says reluctantly, trying to force the bitterness from his voice. “But don’t you think we’ve done it one too many times? We could take a break.” Stanley winces. Bad wording there: “don’t you think?” Asking the Narrator’s opinion about this is a surefire way to keep doing things his way.

The Narrator pauses, thoughtful. He shrugs, then. Sure, Stanley. Why not. You’ve nearly got the script down. I’m in a good mood, so we may take a small break.

“Really?” Stanley asks, surprised.

The Narrator rolls his eyes. Yes, really. Unless you’ve changed your mind now; I wouldn’t put it past you.

What did you have in mind?

“Uh…” Stanley racks his brain. He hadn’t actually expected the Narrator to agree in taking a break from going through the Freedom Ending for a while, until the man deemed Stanley’s narration perfect. But this is good. Really good, actually. Maybe suffering through all that monotony was actually worthwhile.

Fuck. What would be something to do? Something that wouldn’t make the Narrator totally hate me, but something I wouldn’t mind either.

Stanley? You really don’t have anything in mind? The Narrator taps his foot on the steps impatiently.

There isn’t really much to do here, that isn’t already here and hasn’t been done already. So, Stanley supposes, why not do something new?

“Hold on,” Stanley warns.

He presses ‘force reset.’

Once Stanley wakes him up again, the Narrator jumps to his feet, looking incredulous and somewhat pissed. Stanley grins a bit at that expression. It feels nice to catch the Narrator by surprise, annoy him without immediate backlash.

Why the hell did you feel the need to do that?

“Well, I was thinking…” Stanley projects his voice to sound thoughtful. “Maybe you could jump out the window, and we could do some things there.”

The Narrator looks skeptical. Why?

Stanley sighs. “For a break. Just for fun. We never do anything new here.”

And jumping out the window is new?

“Just trust me.”

The Narrator scoffs. You know I never trust you. Trusting you with an idea would be like trusting a dog to teach a toddler.

“You agreed with me earlier; you have to do this,” Stanley reminds him. He’s aware that he might be pushing the Narrator, but he has to admit, it’s kind of fun messing with him like this.

I do not have to do anything.

The Narrator sighs irately. Very well. I’ll do it. But only because I know now you’ll keep incessantly nagging me until I agree.

“You know me best.” Stanley says somewhat dryly, though with a hint of newfound cheerfulness.

The Narrator narrows his eyes. He seems to come to a conclusion, and scoffs, rolling his eyes.

You’re a pest, Stanley. Nonetheless, he walks outside the office and in the direction of 434’s desk.

Stanley grimaces for a moment, trying not to let the insult bother him. He stores the slight hurt in his conjured box and forces himself to half-grin when the Narrator climbs onto the empty employee’s desk, and jumps out of the window, landing on the white floor below.

Okay, we’re here now. What did you want to do? The Thoughts Screen reads as the Narrator stands and waits expectantly.

Stanley thinks for a moment. “How do I get your guitar?” He didn’t see it in any of the rooms he went to, so he really has no idea where it could be.

The Narrator scowls immediately. You are not holding my guitar.

Ugh. Buzzkill. Stanley wonders if he can conjure it up. If not, he supposes he could resort to conjuring a harmonica. That would definitely piss the Narrator off.

In that case… maybe he shouldn’t. He’s tempted to, though.

He presses Produce, thinking of the Narrator’s guitar, and thoroughly hopes he’s not toeing a serious line with the man here.

A guitar appears on Stanley’s lap. It’s a simple, light brown wooden one; a bigger, brown version of Mariella’s and Curator’s ukuleles.

This instrument, though, is adorned with a few stickers on its body; Two stickers of the Button That Says The Name Of The Person Who Pushes It, one of an office computer, and another one of the Bucket Destroyer.

Stanley’s grin widens. He holds it up and, remembering what the women taught him a while ago, holds it properly in his lap. He strums once.

The Narrator immediately shoots up, anger plastered on his face and evident by the streaks whirling in his eyes again. Stanley! What the hell did I just tell you?

“Come on, Narrator, won’t you let me try to play it?”

The Narrator pinches the bridge of his nose irately, pushing his glasses up slightly. Why did I ever agree to take a break with you?

“Because you wanted a break too. Now, I wanna try and play this thing. What were the chords to that song?” Stanley doesn’t want to sing it, definitely; he doesn’t especially love that song that the Narrator sings haughtily to mock him, but just to tease the Narrator this time, because he really can’t resist.

“Maybe I can write my own song.” Stanley suggests, the thought entering his mind then.

What are you even on about, boy? What has gotten into you? You think you could write a song?

Stanley shrugs. “Maybe. I could try.”

I’ll bet you are terrible at singing.

The Narrator… is probably right about that, actually. Damn it. He sighs.

“You’re no fun.”

The Narrator looks incredulous. Stanley strums again, and the swirls pick up in the Narrator’s eyes again.

You put that thing down, now. I don’t want your slimy fingers on my possession, Stanley. You’ve already tainted enough as it is. My script, my office, my damned role in this blasted game! Do I really need to spell out for you how much detriment you spread just by touching things? You think you’re so clever. You’re no cleverer than a bug.

Stanley sets down the guitar abruptly. He should have known better than to start treating the Narrator with any sort of friendly fire. It’s his own fault, really.

Stanley closes his eyes, stores away the hatred bubbling in his gut from the insult, and opens them.

“Okay. Okay, sure, whatever. I put it away.” He’s suddenly tempted to smash the guitar to pieces on the ground. Stanley refrains, as hesitates with his hand hovering over the Demolish button.

Wait. If I press this, will the guitar actually be destroyed?  He doesn’t see any other buttons to make it disappear, though, so he presses it anyway. Distantly Stanley wonders now just how exactly the Produce button works for specific objects that already exist like this.

Good.

Fuck you.

Stanley takes a heavy breath. “Well… what do you want to do then?” Maybe doing something the Narrator suggests will help to alleviate his recent ire. The Narrator crosses his arms, still irritated.

I have no idea, Stanley. You chose the one room in the office with literally nothing in it and nowhere for me to go. And it’s not as if I can just leave.

Stanley makes a cross noise. All he really wanted was to break the tedium of the Narrator repeating the same ending over and over, anyway…

He looks down at his lap, struck with a thought. Is how the Narrator had felt when Stanley himself, when he was Protagonist, had run through the same endings so many times in a row like this? Even hitting triple numbers, with no slight break in that repetition… for however long it took either Stanley to snap out of his mental spiral or numbness, or the Narrator to break and block that ending off before even he figuratively lost his mind in the hopeless monotony of the same narration over and over and over…

Stanley grimaces. He hates to think about it, but he did put the Narrator through some shit too, didn’t he?

He put me through hell first. It isn’t my fault.

That’s what he tells himself though, right? But well… the Narrator is also sort of a victim to this place, even if he doesn’t know it. He was trapped here, forced into this world with a sentient mind without his volition.

It doesn’t justify what he’s done, Stanley thinks gloomily. If Stanley had had help in the first place by the only person metaphorically at his side, he wouldn’t have spiraled as much, and put the Narrator through what he did. If the Narrator had chosen to comfort Stanley instead of scorn him, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the need to make the man feel that fraction of hurt either. Still, it wasn’t fair; he doesn’t want to make up excuses. Making up excuses for hurting someone would be acting like the Narrator. Stanley has hurt him deliberately, or tried to, as much as accidental inflictions.

He squeezes his fists on his knees.

I do NOT feel guilty for the Narrator.

Even so…

A murderer is still culpable for killing, even if he seemingly had the right motivation for it; even if the victim may have deserved it.

Stanley closes his eyes and pictures his box, but feels a buzzing poke inside his skull before he can do anything more.

Stanley?

Stanley reads his name from the Thoughts Screen, and peers back at the Narrator, whose expression is almost afraid, the look not overruling that irritation still written in his body language.

He grimaces. Right. Another thing he’s done that has scarred the Narrator forever.

“I’m here.” He doesn’t apologize, but he sees the way the Narrator’s face relaxes, swirls  slowing down and relief is prominent for a moment, then that usual ire paints his face, like he doesn’t want that relief to show.

I didn’t ask for you to disappear, boy. Can we get out of this place? I never realized how dreadfully bright it is from your point of view; it’s starting to get on my nerves.

“Yeah,” Stanley agrees tiredly and resets without another word. He grabs the bucket from his right and pulls it into his lap as he resets, breathing in that warmth and reassurance with a small smile. Heaven, he’s grateful for it.

Stanley wakes the Narrator up, hoping that maybe the man will decide to keep the break from the Freedom Ending going.

He doesn’t. The ex-employee doesn’t protest, but this time, he does really make an effort to copy the Narrator’s tone and enunciations while reciting. Not because he wants to, but because Stanley just wants this over with, and the only way to convince the Narrator is by copying the dialogue to his version of perfection.

"This was exactly the way, right now, that things were meant to happen.

And he was happy."

Reset. Stanley breathes in during the loading screen, and lets it out. He sincerely hopes that that run was the last one. He’s pretty sure he got that down to nearly perfection.

Wake up.

The Narrator stands up and steps out of the office, a triumphant smile on his face. The expression allows Stanley a sigh of relief.

Well done, Stanley. I’d say that was nearly perfect voice acting! Not, wholly perfect, I’d say, as you really cannot match my level of voice acting skill, but well enough that I think we’ve finished here.

Oh, thank fuck.

“Gosh finally. Thanks.”

The Narrator narrows his eyes.

Finally?

“Just because it took a while. Glad I finally finished,” Stanley fixes quickly. He wouldn’t put it past the Narrator to run the Freedom ending again out of spite.

Hm. Well, I suppose, to pass the time I may as well do other endings.

“Okay,” Stanley agrees; not like he can’t, anyway. Wherever the Narrator chooses to go, Stanley is pretty much powerless to stop him.

–

Several runs later, the Narrator traveled to the Vent Ending room, played through the Games Ending a few more times, and tried out the Elevator Ending a few times as well. The man had complained about the press conference being too loud and bright for anyone and it only gets worse the more times he visits it, which Stanley had found both irritating and slightly amusing.

All in all, it’s been some smooth runs. Nothing terribly wrong has happened, perhaps an argument or two, but that’s really to be expected. Nothing much has changed in the Narrator’s behavior thus far.

Which is why Stanley is so exasperated.

Why doesn’t he seem to be making progress? Stanley knows it might take a while for the Narrator to warm up to him, but he innately isn’t especially patient, and the ex-employee acting as amiable to him as he can without seemingly making a dent of progress is only more and more discouraging.

His strategy is working somewhat, at the very least he thinks. At any insult or sliver of annoyance with the Narrator not listening to him, Stanley locks it away in his imagined storage box, and he’s done a decent job of being able to ignore that box and focus on the positive side of things (if, sometimes, he thinks the box is getting increasingly fuller and leaving him with a heavy feeling, as much at himself as their situation). Which admittedly, isn’t much right now.

He’s in the middle of resetting and waking the Narrator up now, and has found his gaze turned to the white door on his left.

It would be so easy just to ignore the Narrator, and open that door to his friends, and stay with them again. He likes it there. Not every moment with the Curator and Mariella is a struggle to get along like it is with the yellow-eyed man.

He’s tempted to. He even thinks perhaps he could wake the Narrator up, leave the room and go stay with his friends while the Narrator sits in the office alone, probably tormented by his thoughts and unable to leave. He could lock him in the office, and then it’d be just like the Skip Button. The Narrator would spiral, and maybe after that when Stanley came back he would be more complying, willing to do anything to get Stanley to stay again–

I ought to do that, he thinks involuntarily.

“No,” Stanley recoils his hands from his lap, disgusted with himself. That– was he seriously thinking about subjecting the Narrator to something akin to torture just to get what he wants out of him? He tears his eyes away from the door, and stares at the Narrator.

“He doesn’t deserve that,” Stanley berates himself out loud. “No one deserves that.” Is he really starting to think like the Narrator now? Heaven, he hopes not. He’s had dark thoughts before, but not ever wanting to subject the Narrator to his worst fear because of some frustration.

That’s something he would do to Stanley, wouldn’t he? And Stanley will not be like him.

The ex-employee balls his hands tightly, and wakes up the Narrator.

—

It’s been several weeks to a month since Stanley has left his best friends. He misses them enormously, and has decided to keep Bear in visible view by the corner of his eye to keep reminding him that pleasant times do exist.

Luckily for him, the Narrator finally seems to be making progress in his warming up to Stanley; not that he seems to notice, but Stanley doesn’t mind very much.

The man has berated him less frequently, and hasn’t been as condescending or patronizing. He still is, though less frequently; improvement. It’s slow going, but it’s something. Usually the times where he and the Narrator get along well enough to have a friendly interaction only lasts a few minutes before the man is back to his usual grumpy and irate self, which agitates him. The Narrator’s mood can flip on a dime; it’s frustrating. But for the most part Stanley’s strategy of staying on the Narrator’s good side, acting friendly and fulfilling requests (as long as they aren’t too unreasonable) seems to be working somewhat. And for that, he’s almost glad.

The optimistic part of him tells him that this is evidence that it’s sure to work out after all. The realist side of him says that this is only the start, and getting the Narrator to genuinely be positive with him for more than a few minutes at a time will be hard, and take a lot more time to accomplish.

Though of course, Stanley prefers to turn to his optimism.

"When he came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left." Stanley recites the dialogue, second nature to him now. A part of him still loathes to say it, but he’s tried to look at remaining on script from a positive light, too.

Stanley knows there will always be the two roles to fulfill here: The Protagonist and The Narrator. Stanley doesn't want to be The Narrator, of course; he isn’t meant for this role. He’s not great with his words, doesn’t desire to tell any stories and especially not this one. But, he thinks, the Narrator also isn’t meant for his part. He doesn’t wish to be the silent one; it’s obvious he despises it. The Narrator doesn’t like to be the one responsible for making decisions, and no matter what Stanley wishes or believes, the man was coded for the role of his namesake. He wasn’t ever meant to be the Protagonist. Just like Stanley wasn’t meant to have his purpose.

But now, the Narrator has no choice to fulfill it, and he’s playing his part well enough, if reluctantly. Stanley thinks this whole ordeal would be so much more arduous and difficult if the man had simply refused to move or never completed an ending, so Stanley may as well complete his role, too. It makes everything easier for everyone.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. It’s helped him feel better about having to speak the script to help placate the Narrator, as well as locking those exasperated feelings paired with the story away in his imaginative box.

The Narrator walks through the door on the left. Before, Stanley might’ve protested this action, but attempting to placate unfortunately requires some trust to be put in the unknowing participant, even if it’s not very warranted. So he trusts that the Narrator isn’t going to go straight for the Freedom Ending, and doesn’t argue straightaway.

He doesn’t protest up until the Narrator walks past the hallway with the ESCAPE warning plastered onto the extending wall.

“Narrator, what have I said?” Some part of Stanley thinks it’s sort of ironic that while the Narrator, when he was The Narrator, always urged Stanley to his desired ending; when Stanley is The Narrator, he does his best to convince the Narrator to go anywhere but there.

The Narrator scoffs in disgust. Do not treat me like a child, fool.

“It’s impossible to say anything to you without you taking it as an insult to your dignity,” Stanley notes irritably.

That’s exactly why you are meant to be silent. You make for a much better Protagonist when you're quiet.

‘Better puppet, you mean,’ He wants to say. Stanley keeps his mouth shut. After all this time, the Narrator still thinks of Stanley as his property.

Ignore it. It’s okay, even if it’s not okay, just put it in the box and lock it up–

A shaky breath. Stanley tightens his jaw. “Would you rather me be silent now?”

The Narrator smirks, and a few words appear on the Thoughts Screen, certainly the start of an agreement, but they taper off. The Narrator, reluctantly, hesitates.

“I can leave you alone here, if you hate my voice and my presence so much. I can do other things.”

The Narrator scowls now. You KNOW I detest being alone, Stanley.

“I know. It’s reasonable to be scared of it,” He says, not sarcastically. He ignores the protesting words that pop up–

I am not scared, you imbecile.

–and continues. “So I bet you’d rather hear my voice than nothing at all, even if you hate me,” Stanley concludes, quite reasonably.

The Narrator’s expression hardens with rage. He strides across the catwalk and just about slams the white button lighting up the enormous room.

I do hate you.

“I can still leave you here.”

The Narrator’s face twists in a silent snarl. You think you're so clever, trying to pull me into a trap. You made me like this. It was your fault I was left alone like that.

You have no idea how agonizing it was. If you had experienced even a fraction of what I was left to cope with, you might actually try to understand. Your voice doesn’t reassure me in any way, if that’s what you believe, so don’t think yourself so high and mighty.

The Narrator presses the next button after crossing the catwalk some more, a little softer, but with no less rage attached to the action. He starts to walk to the next, before Stanley comes to another decision.

“Tell me about it,” He offers, tone level.

The Narrator halts. The swirls in his eyes slow a tad, and Stanley notes some of the anger leaving his face at the offer with a small pang in his chest. After so long, even though Stanley doesn’t feel guilty anymore, he still feels sympathy for the man. How could he not?

What?

“Do you… want to tell me, about anything? Get it off your chest?” Stanley sighs.

For maybe the second or third time Stanley has witnessed, all traces of anger leave the Narrator’s face. His body is completely still. The iris streaks have slowed to their idle floating, and the man looks somewhere between surprised and… distant? Scared? It still feels incredibly foreign to see that expression on him, not paired with some sort of annoyance.

Then he seems to regain his composure, and the indignation and vexation return.

And just why would I tell you anything?

“Because I’ll listen. And I know you want to tell someone. It sucks keeping your thoughts bottled up,” Stanley can say that with certain conviction.

You are the reason I was forced to spend what felt like an eternity alone. You are so selfish; you wanted to get out of that place as quickly as you could, yes? Well perhaps for you it felt so, but never once did you consider that the “quicker” you felt it was going, the longer it felt time was stretching for me? I despise you, Stanley.

‘Well fuck you too,’ He thinks, but doesn’t vocalize. “I get it.” He’d tried to stay then, he really did, to offer some respite, to let the Narrator cope with someone in that room who could hear him, but admittedly, Stanley was afraid. Afraid and angry. He was angry at the Narrator for putting them both in this situation, and putting Stanley in an impossible place like that. And he was afraid; frightened that the Narrator would do anything to get Stanley to stay longer in that room and not push the button again, including by physical force or harm. So he’d pressed the button, and when he came back he pressed it again, almost immediately, again and again. He’d repressed the guilt of it until it came crashing into him near the end when that soulless mantra had entered Stanley ears, and he’d walked across the endless stretch of sand, alone; simply a drop in the ocean of isolated suffering the Narrator couldn’t escape.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Repression had been his best coping mechanism since the beginning, after all. Presently, Stanley breathes in.

“You hate me for it, I get it. I put you in that situation. But I didn’t have a choice, okay? And now, if you want to talk about it, you can.” Stanley watches as the Narrator's expression shifts through different emotions, and he doesn’t move. A bit worriedly, he opens his mouth, though thinks, somewhat hopefully, perhaps the Narrator is just pondering about what to vent to him about. Stanley closes it and waits.

~

The Narrator’s thoughts were circling. He hasn’t left his chair in… he doesn’t know how long. A few decades? Centuries? Longer, perhaps? He used to pace. His legs never ached; he would pace in the cramped office for decades at a time, sometimes talking or mumbling to himself and sometimes in dreadful, empty silence. But he’d stopped, and he doesn’t remember why. 

Either way, the Timekeeper has long since given up on convincing the Narrator to even stand.

He’s staring at the screen, at Stanley, half seeing the man occupying the same room for… however long he’d been there.

Why did he hate Stanley, again? The Narrator wants him to come back, desperately wants to have some reprieve from this terrible loneliness– is it loneliness, he’s feeling?– but some part in him reminds him that Stanley is the enemy. Stanley is selfish. When, if Stanley comes back, he will only leave again, and the Narrator will be alone. Stanley doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

What does it feel like to not be alone? He tried talking to the Timekeeper at first, but it wasn’t the same. He needs to know someone is listening to him, part of that requires physical reaction, perhaps a response, and the Timekeeper could only give one of those.

The office worker comes back into focus. He’s stopped zoning out. The Narrator is used to zoning out. He mostly likes it, he thinks. But the moment when his awareness returns is always frightening, of various degrees  each time.

A spike of resentment rises in him at the first clear sight of Stanley. Why?

He doesn’t remember. All he knows is that Stanley is the reason he’s alone right now. Perhaps that’s reason enough to hate the immobile man.

The Narrator looks away. He looks at the left monitor, frozen on Stanley’s office for the past millennia. It doesn’t offer him any respite.

In fact, a spike of resentment rises in him at the sight of the empty office. Why?

He doesn’t remember. He recalls the story, of course; his purpose here. He worked hard on constructing it, and, desperate to keep those memories of the story, he’s obsessed over every little note ever written in this office in the past, and has written more. However, he’s been in this chair for so long, the Narrator realizes he only remembers fragments. The thought should scare him. He feels as if he should be afraid of losing pieces of his most prized work. But he doesn’t. Perhaps a hint, but he feels more numb than anything. When was the last time he felt anything but numb?

A spike of resentment rises in the Narrator, and he turns his gaze back to the center monitor. The terrible Skip Button; it’s the reason he’s here, isn’t it? Stanley pressed it, but the Narrator made it, did he not?

The Narrator opens his mouth. He has not spoken a word in a very long time. What if he doesn’t remember how to speak English?

The thought sends through a cold feeling of dread, emptying into his heart. Then rational thinking catches up; he’s thinking in English. He cannot forget how to speak. Regardless, the Narrator closes his mouth.

A spike of resentment rises up in him. He detests Stanley. For what? Leaving him, certainly, but he feels it’s more than that. He wants Stanley to return, but a spike of resentment rises up in him, at the thought of Stanley being brought to awareness. Why? Perhaps it’s because the man is selfish. The Narrator doesn’t recall.

A spike of resentment rises up in him. He doesn’t remember why, but he feels a deep weariness at the sensation. He’s tired of being angry.

A wash of sadness overtakes him. All he’s ever been is angry, isn’t that true? The Narrator wonders if he will ever be happy again. He’s been here for countless years, and he knows the end of it won’t be the end. It never is.

A spike of… something passes through. He can’t quite tell. Freedom? That word comes to mind. Freedom means happiness, yes?

A spike of resentment rises in him. Why? He thinks he recalls… Freedom is rarely ever reached. Why is that? The Narrator turns his eyes hazily to the monitor. Stanley is the reason, he thinks. He’s unsure. Perhaps it’s why he hates the man.

A wave of longing passes over him. He wishes he could reach freedom. It’s related to his story; that he is sure of.

Does it matter? Surely it does. It’s why the Narrator exists, after all.

A spike of resentment rises in him. Why?

A wash of sadness overtakes him. Why?

A feeling of longing, desperation, something something something that he wants to feel, wants to reach, but unsure if he’ll be able to, over this terrible numbness spreading throughout his entire body.

The Narrator slumps in his chair, head pointed up. His eyes are open, yet vision unfocused.

“The end is never the end is never…”

…

“-Arrator?” Stanley’s grating voice comes back into focus. He sounds somewhat nervous, infuriatingly.

The Narrator becomes aware enough to project his thoughts, feeling a little fuzzy and with residual… emotions of those memories. They’re painful. He doesn’t want those memories, but of course, leave it to Stanley to resurface his old trauma.

W– what?

He’s still a little out of it. Miraculously, or perhaps not, the Narrator still remembers the few days– minutes? Weeks?– leading up to the moment he began that empty mantra he would end up repeating for centuries, until back then, he couldn’t hear himself saying it but now knows he still was…

A lot of the time spent locked alone in his office is blocked out in his mind. The Narrator… likes to believe it’s for the better, but doesn’t prefer to ponder on any of it in the first place.

“I think you zoned out. You… were thinking about it, I’m guessing?” Stanley sounds somewhat apologetic.

The Narrator crosses his arms.

Yes well, I did spend quite a long time ruminating when I was alone, anyway.

Stanley seems unsure how to respond to that, because he stays quiet.

The Narrator heaves out an exasperated sigh.

You–

“Do you want to talk about it? It might help,” Stanley repeats the offer, voice wavering only slightly. “I think it would.”

The Narrator furrows his eyebrows, a creeping feeling of suspicion climbing toward his back.

Why would you want to help me?

“Because… I- it’s not good to hold it in, alright? And even though you’ve been terrible to me, keeping that level of trauma in is just not good for anyone, so… I’m letting you talk to me.” He sighs. “Just, at the very least, refrain from being a dick to me right now. I could use a break.”

The Narrator opens his mouth on instinct, still exasperated, but snaps it shut immediately. He must still be hazy, if he’s opening his mouth to speak right now. The blatant reminder, again, sends a familiar feeling of wrongness and disgust through him.

Though, the Narrator hesitates. He hasn’t vented to the Timekeeper about any of it, and certainly not the Curator. Yet the Skip Button events still affect him today. He’s not sure if he wants to admit it out loud, but the Narrator knows that he hates being uncertain about anything.

After a long moment, he comes to a conclusion.

~

No.

The translucent screen reads off, with the Narrator himself marching determinedly toward the next white button with his face skewed in crossness.

Stanley isn’t surprised, but sort of disappointed. ”Fine.” He doesn’t argue. If the Narrator decides not to vent to him, Stanley won’t be able to sway his conviction. Besides, if he kept insisting, even he’d admit that’s annoying.

Perhaps it’s for the better, anyway. Stanley certainly isn’t good at comforting, and he’s not sure if he wants to be the one to comfort the Narrator, either.

Stanley watches as the Narrator presses the button to the elevator, walks through the room with the buttons and screens, and to the room with the ON and OFF controls. Stanley doesn’t speak the lines to it, and the Narrator does not project.

Stanley’s prepared, exasperatingly, for the Narrator to immediately press OFF, like he has many times before. He sighs mentally at himself; this is what he gets for trusting the man.

But then the Narrator approaches the controls, and he hesitates. His hand doesn’t raise, in either direction, and Stanley stares at him suspiciously, brows drawing together.

“What are you waiting for? Just press the OFF button so we can get this over with,” He says, annoyed.

The Narrator scrunches up his nose, waits a few more moments for reasons unbeknownst to Stanley, and then reaches quickly to press down aggressively on the OFF button.

Stanley scoffs, audibly this time, and makes the door open immediately. The Narrator scowls at him, though doesn’t project anything still.

The door lowers, and the Narrator walks through the door, and the Protagonist was happy.

Stanley doesn’t say any of the words. He’s so tired of saying them. He thinks he’s recited it so many times now it’s ingrained into his skull.

The game resets, and Stanley wakes the Narrator up, feeling resentful. Now he knows, at least, not to let the Narrator even go down the left door again. Full mistake on his part, really.

Though this time, the Narrator doesn’t even go through the door past the first office complex. He stops in the middle of the room and balls his fists.

Look, Stanley. To be truthful, I did not actually plan to go down the Freedom Ending that time.

Stanley’s expression relaxes in surprise. “You… didn’t?”

The Narrator doesn’t look happy about it, but he shakes his head.

Tell me, how does the Countdown Ending look from your perspective?

“You… you were going to press the ON button?” Stanley remembers how he had hesitated at that final choice. “Why didn’t you do it then?”

The Narrator adjusts his glasses, the familiar scowl plastered on his face.

Change of plans. Because of you. I’m not going down that pathway again, and I’d doubt you’d let me, anyway. You’re so dreadfully stubborn, I wasn’t even sure if you’d let me go that time.

Now would you answer my question?

“Why would you want to know?” He asks distrustfully, with a sliver of irritation. The Narrator wants to know what the Countdown Ending feels or looks like from Stanley’s perspective… undoubtedly to taunt him about it. That ending is nothing but the Narrator taunting him, making a joke and a show of his struggles and franticity. It’s not like he would want to experience that himself.

The Narrator shrugs.

Curiosity.

“You realize I hate that ending, right? You’re not exactly kind to me then.”

The Narrator crosses his arms in response. Please. You know I’d never choose to be kind to you. And obviously you hate it; that’s why I enjoy it so much. But I want to know what it’s like for you. How imposing really is that timer? How dreadful is running around in that room, music blaring, lights flashing and my voice threatening you? I simply want to know, Stanley.

“So you can use it to your advantage if we ever swap back?” Stanley accuses crossly.

When we do. The Narrator scrunches his nose. I am not staying like this forever. I’ll get back to my office one way or another.

“Don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’m not as gullible as you may think.” Stanley refuses to let himself get tricked by the Narrator anymore.

I find that hard to believe.

“I don’t care what you think.” He feels the statement is mostly true. “And I’m not telling you about that ending from my perspective. And I’m not letting you go down that way again.”

Pity.

The truth is, Stanley isn’t nearly as affected by that ending anymore. It used to hurt, yes, quite a lot. Certainly, it served the purpose the Narrator had intended the first dozens of times, but now, Stanley’s been through the ending with that large timer meant to instill fear and adrenaline enough times that it’s sort of lost that effect.

It’s usually the runs that the Narrator strays off-script, whether with the physical aspects or the monologue and starts to make it personal, that it really gets to him. Though the man doesn’t do that too often anyway, and now Stanley knows he can flip through the thick booklet on this desk and see the entire speech written out, word for word. The idea makes the whole thing seem even less intimidating; simply words on a paper.

Doesn’t mean he still doesn’t hate the idea of it, though. It’s almost as if he thrives off Stanley panicking.

Who is he kidding?

The Narrator loves to make him terrified; it’s one of his favorite things. If Stanley were dangling off the edge of a cliff, over a choppy sea with jagged rocks underneath, he’d grab Stanley’s hand only to wait, then let go and watch the brunette fall with nothing but cruel pleasure, perhaps even delight.

Of course, that’s nothing new.

They continue with the story. The Narrator walks through the door on the right.

—

Through the blue door again. The Narrator really has taken a liking to the Games Ending. Why, Stanley has no idea. But it’s a lighthearted enough ending that he doesn’t really mind. Perhaps that’s why; it’s not so vitriolic or monotonous like some of the other endings.

“What do you like about this ending, Narrator?” Stanley asks conversationally. He’s been at the attempt to start as many amiable conversations with the Narrator as he can since the whole Skip Button and Countdown Ending conversation several days ago; sometimes he is successful, and sometimes the Narrator isn’t in the mood for lighthearted conversing and either doesn’t respond or lashes out in irritation.

“I mean, why do you keep choosing it so much?”

A bit more thoughtful expression crosses on his face as he steps toward the blue door for the second time (Stanley sees his eyes flicking to the red door, as they’re wont to do whenever the vertical-pupiled man goes down this path).

I suppose there’s no particular reason I enjoy this ending as much as I seem to be. I don’t enjoy when you go down this path obviously, because in order to, you must disobey every single order I give you, but… it is ingenious enough for me to run through.

There’s more freedom in this ending, is what I mean.

The Narrator scowls before he gets teleported back to the room; Stanley doesn’t miss the irony of the wording.

The Narrator turns around (hesitates for a fraction of a second, Stanley notices, his eyes lingering to the door ahead) and heads to the open door previously behind him. He turns the corner of the next hallway.

And

The single word appears on the yellow screen, and nothing else. The Narrator glowers.

“And?” Stanley prompts affably.

The Narrator does not project anything else while he walks through the winding halls, that familiar scowl on his face, until he reaches the end of the platform in the succeeding room.

The Narrator puts his arms over the rails and leans forward onto them.

And nothing. I just fancy going down this pathway, that is all.

Stanley thinks back to all those times he’s caught the Narrator’s eyes lingering on the red door for perhaps a moment longer than necessary.

“Does it… have to do with the other room?”

At this, the Narrator’s already slight scowl deepens.

That is none of your business, Stanley.

“...I think it is my business too,” Stanley says hesitantly, knowing there’s a half and half chance of this ending with the Narrator either opening up a bit, or withdrawing even more and lasing out, “Seeing as we’re pretty much the only two people here.”

The Narrator’s face relaxes for a moment, then he glares at the air.

No, it is not, you impertinent brat. You don’t know when to shut the hell up and take a hint, don’t you? Of course, it was unreasonable for me to assume you can do either of those things in the first place without me having to pretty much spell it out for you.

Stanley scoffs quietly. Lashing out, it is then.

“Okay. Sorry,” He says lightly. He’s done that more frequently as well; apologize. Another thing he believes will help the Narrator to warm up a bit.

It doesn’t really help that each time he does, he’s reminded that the Narrator has never apologized for any of his verbal abuse. Though at least, coming from Stanley, it seems to pacify him most of the time. He’ll take what he can get.

The Narrator’s glare doesn’t let up, and after a few moments Stanley teleports them back to the two doors room, this time with the third option, before the automatic timer runs out.

They go through the sequences, and the Narrator lets the baby burn after just a few button presses, and Stanley teleports them to Firewatch.

Stanley had managed to squeeze out the vague plot of this game from the Narrator a little while ago, and has held a new appreciation for the tower and the world beyond ever since. He’s been trying to convince the Narrator to venture out into the open territory, but the man is adamant about staying within the invisible boundary of the area.

The Narrator seems to be in a bit of a more cheerful mood (a little less grumpy than usual, at least) as of late, but still, Stanley really doesn’t think he’ll be convinced to explore. Nevertheless, he might as well try.

He waits until the Narrator is at ground level, and prompts him.

“Narratorrr…”

The Narrator rolls his eyes, already anticipating the question. I’m not going out there.

“Please?” Stanley asks. He doesn’t even really care about seeing the world that much; he just wants the Narrator to agree to do something new and frightening for a change (even though the Narrator would certainly refute: ‘I’m not frightened, Stanley, do not be an idiot. I’m not frightened of anything.’ Yeah, right).

Stanley hums. “If you go out and explore, what could happen anyway? If you get n– feel weird, or get lost, or just want to go back because, I’ll just teleport you back to here! No big deal.”

He narrows his eyes. And how will I know you’ll keep your word?

“Because I’ve been wanting you to do this, and if I don’t keep my word, you’re never going to do this again,” Stanley reasons. “So why would I?”

The Narrator crosses his arms. He looks ahead, scanning the land in the open world with wary eyes, for a long moment. Eventually, he drops his arms with a heavy sigh.

Alright.

“Yes!” Stanley exclaims, pumping his arm up.

Only if you swear to keep your word, that if I say to teleport me back, you do so. And I may change my mind at any point.

“Yeah, I will,” He agrees sincerely. He’s smiling triumphantly, the biggest smile he’s worn in weeks. Stanley’s finally gotten the Narrator to go out of his comfort zone, and into the open world, no less!

The Narrator walks forward, tentatively, and reaches the point where the brick walls flare up automatically. Stanley reverses the action just as quickly. The Narrator hesitates, trepidation evident in his expression.

“Ready?”

The Narrator scowls. Don’t patronize me, Stanley.

He waits a few more seconds, then steps beyond the invisible threshold, and blinks a few times.

Then he starts walking forwards, gaze kept to the ground at first. Moments later, he seems to remember something, because his eyes snap up and he looks around as he walks.

Stanley grins at the win, but doesn’t say anything.

The Narrator looks distastefully at the environment around him, and Stanley resists the urge to chuckle.

Stanley, promise me that you’ll keep your word and teleport the moment I say to.

Stanley reads those words, then his eyes catch on promise. An agreement resides on the tip of his tongue, but he pauses, recalling, quite suddenly, the ‘promises’ the Narrator had sworn to keep to him when Stanley was trying something new or out of his comfort zone. Just like this situation. An irrational burst of ire flares up in his chest.

Immediately Stanley tries to keep it under control; he closes his eyes and attempts to picture his box when he feels another buzzing poke, and opens them annoyedly.

Stanley. You promised me.

“You promised me a lot of things before too, didn’t you?” He bites back hostily before he can stop himself.

The Narrator raises an eyebrow. What the hell are you on about?

The words simply tumble out, like a flip had switched in him; memories of the Narrator breaking nearly every one of his promises to Stanley taunt him. “What– what are you talking about? You never keep your promises! Why should I keep mine?” Rational thinking catches up with him: Why am I saying this? What am I doing? There’s no reason to be like this, it was only a word.

Still, he’s angry now. He doesn’t even know why that one word has sparked so much emotion in him, but it’s already spread and what the Narrator projects next only deepens that poison.

Why the hell are you acting like a petulant child all of a sudden, Stanley? You’re obviously not worth enough to have my promises kept to you, if I hadn’t made myself clear on that topic before.

The Narrator turns around swiftly. Teleport me back, now. You swore you would keep your word, Stanley.

“Why should I? All you’ve done to me is lie, ” He protests sharply. The Narrator sneers.

Maybe I wouldn’t lie to you if you actually behaved as you are supposed to, when I give you orders and ask you to do simple things for me! But as it is, you’re a disobedient brat, and I have no obligation to keep my word to a sheep.

The Narrator begins walking briskly back, but brick walls rise up from the ground a few feet ahead of him and the Narrator is forced to grind to a halt.

Lower the fucking walls, Stanley. I’m not playing around with you, boy.

Impulsively, Stanley hits the teleport button and a blink later, the Narrator is standing out in the middle of a wild field, no brick wall in sight.

“See how it feels when my promise is broken,” He says scathingly.

The Narrator looks around wildly. His eyes dart from stray tree to tree and to every rock bigger than one of the office computers around him. He stumbles backward, an unusual look of fear overtaking his face for the moment.

Stanley!

The sight of the Narrator’s stricken face and wide eyes snaps Stanley back to reality.

…What in the world is he doing?

All the anger drains out of him near-instantly. “S- shit—“ He sputters, blinking rapidly and realizing how much he just fucked up. Why the fuck did he teleport the Narrator away?

Stanley teleport me back RIGHT now!

The Narrator doesn’t move, his body completely rigid. His eyes continue to flit around at everything in the area. Anger starts to filter through his expression, but it’s clear that fear and shock have rooted him to the spot.

“Narrator, I’m—“

Shut the fuck up and obey me, you brat!

Stanley swallows and teleports him back into the watchtower.

The Narrator stumbles backward and grabs onto the edge of the blue desk, breathing heavily. Stanley sees from up close that his eyes are still darting, constricting and dilating as the swirls race in his irises, and from far away his knuckles trembling with their grip on the table. Stanley thinks he must’ve really underestimated the extent of the Narrator’s fear of open worlds, then realizes that the man must be shaking with fury as much as panic.

Restart the game. Restart right the fuck now, Stanley.

Passed shock now, his face has solidified entirely into rage, and Stanley’s stomach sinks in dread the longer he looks at it, knowing there’ll be no easy way to reverse this stupid outburst and the damage it’s evidently caused.

“Wait, I just—“

The Narrator’s shoulders straighten, and he lets go of the desk, his fists squeezed tightly into balls, and looking like he wants to punch something; probably Stanley’s face if he could.

Do you think I give a shit about your pitiful excuses, you pathetic idiot? Was that entire argument of you trying to convince me to go out into the open simply a ploy to have me lower my guard?

“No! Really.” Stanley groans. “I got angry, rightfully, and I acted impulsively. I didn’t mean to, okay?”

The Narrator scoffs. Of course you didn’t mean to. You refuse to take any responsibility for your impudent and childish behavior. You’re nothing but an immature child. Now restart the GAME, Stanley.

Stanley tries to keep calm. Maybe he should just quit reading the yellow screen altogether. He closes his eyes, but can’t concentrate on locking away the panic and frustration and ire of the last few minutes when his skull buzzes unceasingly with the Thoughts Screen producing more demanding words. He wishes he could turn the blasted thing off. Stanley knows he could, but reasons that that would be worse in the long run, so he really can’t.

He resets, fed up with the Narrator’s shit.

That was… a lot.

The Timekeeper’s monitor reads a few seconds later, when Stanley doesn’t show any signs of moving, just sitting and staring at the Narrator, feeling glum and resentful.

Stanley turns his head and scoffs irately. He tilts his head back, still hating himself and wishing he could go back to that moment where he really thought this was going to turn out all right.

“It was my fault,” He says with his head still tilted back, looking at the ceiling. After a moment, he lowers his head to face the monitor.

It wasn’t your fault, Stanley.

“It is, though,” He disagrees, fingers curling in his pants fabric. “I’m so stupid. Why did I do that?”

The screen is blank for a moment.

I think… it’s because you saw, or the Narrator did, something that triggered a reaction in your mind, and you acted without meaning to.

“That doesn’t make sense. I… I knew what I was doing.”

Yeah, but it still wasn’t your fault.

Stanley half-groans in frustration. “Doesn’t make a difference, though, doesn’t it? He’s going to be pissed when I wake him up.” Stanley hates himself. So much time spent working hard not to snap back or react to one of the Narrator’s stupid reprimands or insults, attempting to stay nice and friendly with him when the man returned none of the courtesy himself, all destroyed with a single moment of emotional outburst.

When Stanley inevitably wakes him up, maybe he’ll have a slim chance of fixing this. He doubts it.

Shit, he thinks dejectedly, I’ve fucked it all up again.It’s all he can think, the sentence looping in his mind over and over. He’s never going to break this cycle. What hope does he ever have to try and get the Narrator on his side, genuinely? Even when it seemed like the Narrator was in a good mood, it was never for Stanley. Stanley is never going to be the cause for an earnest smile from the Narrator. The end is never the end for a reason. 

About a month of progress, down the drain. It finally seemed like it was getting better, but it crashed back down again.

Right back to the beginning.

Chapter Text

“L- look, okay, I’m sorry–“ Stanley begins once the Narrator is out the door of the office, after he woke the yellow-eyed man up. He detests apologizing to the Narrator, especially since the man never says it himself; just another reason for Stanley to resent him. But if he’s ever going to get back on track, back anywhere again, he needs to say it first.

The Narrator, of course, doesn’t take it well. He bares his teeth furiously and opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

Fuck you, Stanley. And here I was foolishly thinking you were going to be something other than the typical selfish brat you are. You never do change, do you?

“I have changed,” He protests, before he can stop himself. “I- right. I should not have done that, and I’m sorry! I know you’re s– you hate the open world, okay? I can make up for it.”

The Narrator responds with a doubtful scoff. And what do you believe you could do to ‘make up for it’?

Stanley’s mouth opens and closes. He honestly doesn’t have a clue what he could do to reverse the Narrator’s malice now. He’d stored the dismal and resentful emotions both at himself and the events that just transpired in his visualized container before he woke the Narrator up, but he’s starting to think he didn’t store enough away, because the negativity trickling back to him now feels stifling, and he doesn’t have time to shove it back in and ignore it.

He’s beginning to think his strategy might just backfire on him, now.

“...I don’t know,” he admits. “But- But if you want me to do something…” Even when he says it, he knows that’s a bad idea. “I’m not switching places for you though,” He remembers, and says firmly.

The Narrator grinds his teeth together, evidently trying not to lash out. Stanley really doesn’t want to read the next words that appear on the translucent screen next to him, but he does anyway.

The only thing I’d want you to do right now besides give me back my place is walk into that void and never look back.

I don’t need your presence.

Stanley’s eyes widen as he comprehends those words, and it… that hurts. It feels a hard slap on the face, reading that. Despite his attempts before to not care about what the Narrator thinks or says, those words carve into him with a dagger, small and sharp, and he feels his eyes starting to sting. His breath hitches, because he recalls that void; it hurt like nothing else.

Stanley’s voice wavers. “You’d really want me to… to just walk in there?”

The Narrator looks down, his face serious, and nearly expressionless save for his eyes, which holds almost as much anger as Stanley feels hurt. He can always read the Narrator’s emotion in his eyes.

He looks up, face unchanging.

I would be delighted.

All his optimism comes crashing down in a single instant. Stanley blinks. Unable to hold them any longer, a few tears fall down his cheeks, and he looks down. This isn’t what he wanted.

What he wanted was never going to happen.

“I just wanted us to get along, Narrator. Was that really too much to ask?” He says, a tad quieter.

Stanley sees the Narrator scoff immediately in his peripheral vision. In the corner of his eye, he also spots Bear, and pulls her in to sit in his lap. Unfortunately, her presence doesn’t make him feel much better.

He can’t exactly ignore the Thoughts Screen, when it causes that feeling to buzz in his skull until he turns his eye to it. So reluctantly, he does again.

Playing that card, huh? Trying to guilt trip me? Well, it’s not going to work. You know that doesn’t work. I would recommend upping your game, Stanley, but I don’t care that much, let’s be honest.

“You’re so- so unbelievably selfish.” Stanley's voice wavers again. He squeezes Bear’s paw.  “How inhumane can someone get?”

Well, for starters, I’m not human, Stanley.

“But you think like a human! Your mind works, at least somewhat, like a human’s. You were made by–” Stanley snaps his jaw shut. He swallows heavily, and glances at the right monitor guiltily. “Never mind.”

The Narrator’s eyes narrow suspiciously. Were you just about to say that I was made by a human?

The Narrator’s face abruptly switches then; he smirks, amusement painting over previous anger.

Stanley, I have always existed. I predate you by a thousand years. I have accomplished more than you ever will in your feeble existence, tenfold.

Stanley opens his mouth after a moment, but then his skull is poked again. He looks at the screen, fingers digging into Bear’s paw with a weary vexation.

Unfortunately, I got stuck here with you after I made you. I would just love to leave you here to rot, and go anywhere else. I’ve had enough of you. But you and I both know I can’t leave. We’re trapped here, as much as I loathe to say it. I know every inch of this place, and not only this office building, and there is no way out.

Stanley laughs suddenly, humorlessly, somewhere between hysteria and disbelief. He lets go of Bear’s paw and grabs a fistful of his hair as instant, incredulous anger wraps around him tightly, not even noticing when Bear falls off his lap and hits the ground. “Yes, there isn’t! And it’s such a shame for me because if I could go through the pod I would’ve left a long fucking time ago, but since there’s no way out of here I just wanted to try to get along! You think you know everything do you, about this place and about me , well clearly not!” They keep going in circles about this, not just now, and Stanley’s getting tired of it.

Stanley stops shouting and sees that the Narrator is rigid. “What?” He asks harshly.

What pod, Stanley. What the hell are you talking about?

Shit. Add that to the list of Things Stanley Should Not Have Said. He really needs to stop blurting out without thinking first. He’s been getting much more impulsive lately, something Stanley notes with something akin to self-concern. He didn’t used to be like this– or, he didn’t think so.

Stanley lowers his hands to the desk, rapping on it quietly with his knuckles, restlessness or uneasiness churning through his gut. “It’s nothing. I was angry, saying stupid things like you say I always do. Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.” He’s still pissed off, though.

The Narrator stares at a desk, expression like stone (though swirls racing in his irises give away his certainly fast-paced thoughts).

And how do you get to this ‘pod’?

Stanley can’t suppress a groan of weary frustration and he stops tapping his knuckles on the wooden surface. “Look, forget I said anything. I was trying to get a reaction out of you. It doesn’t mean anything,” He lies.

I don’t believe you. I’m going to go down the Freedom Ending if you don’t tell me exactly where to go to find this thing.

“Petty as always,” he scoffs. The Narrator narrows his eyes on the screen. Stanley hesitates, thinking of a way to back out of this. “And you claimed to know every inch of this place, right? So how could there be an escape pod you don’t know about?”

You never mentioned it being an escape pod, Stanley.

Fuck, why does Stanley have to keep messing everything up?!

Because that’s what you do- you always do no matter what, His brain supplies unhelpfully, suspiciously sounding like the Narrator. He grinds his teeth to keep from verbally expressing his ire.

“I made it up, alright? Just drop it.”

And miraculously, the Narrator does. He maintains a thoughtful expression, and after a little while, continues with the story as always. Stanley breathes a sigh of relief– he’s glad that slip up didn’t cause any sort of irrevocable damage. The Narrator hopefully won’t bring it up again, and neither will he.

—

A few days (or the vague estimated equivalent of a few days) later, Stanley notices the Narrator’s been acting slightly unusual, something that minutely concerns Stanley, more for himself than the yellow-eyed man. He seems more concentrated, less focused on riling Stanley up or telling him off for something he deems warranted, and is looking around in more obscure or hidden parts of the building, eyes lingering on anything that may be considered skeptical and returning to those spots after resets.

It’s been several resets since the slip up about the pod, yet Stanley has a sinking suspicion that the Narrator did in fact, not let it go, and that he’s looking for it now.

But on the off-chance that he actually isn’t, Stanley doesn’t want to say a word lest he raise that argument again; he just pretends nothing is out of the ordinary. Luckily, the escape pod is obscure enough, and he finds it very unlikely the Narrator will actually figure out how to activate the ending.

Stanley is actually kind of curious what happens to the Narrator when he goes down that path. Obviously he doesn’t just disappear during the run, but the Narrator clearly didn’t know it exists, so it can’t just be that he’s muted while Stanley goes about the ending.

It’s intriguing, but Stanley is in no hurry to find out. The opposite really; he’d be quite content with never knowing. Things are already bad as it is, Stanley doesn’t think it could get worse from here, but if anything could it would be the Narrator finding the escape pod.

Presently, the Narrator walks upstairs to the boss’s office. This is the second Freedom Ending he’s done in a row, and Stanley huffs crossly when the Narrator crosses through the doors to the receptionist desk.

“So original, you,” Stanley can’t help but remark sarcastically. “Your beloved Freedom Ending? Damn, it’s been so long since we’ve done this one! I hardly even remember what happens in it.”

You’re a bratty child, Stanley. 

“You’re a petty narcissist, Narrator.”

The Narrator grants no response in words to this, which gives Stanley a lick of satisfaction, and he closes the double doors a few moments after the man walks through them (though he doesn’t think about how the man gives them a second, thoughtful look before turning to walk to the keypad). Stanley recites the dialogue– the only way to get the stubborn bastard to ever move– dryly, and the Narrator inputs the code. They continue on, and reach the Freedom Ending. Stanley goes along with it even though it feels like nails are being hammered into his brain every single time they go down this path now. It isn’t up to him though, unfortunately.

Stanley resets, and nothing unusual happens. This ending went how almost every single other Freedom Ending, but he can’t help but get the feeling of something seeming off.

Stanley waits, a tad trepidatious, then presses Wake Up.

The Narrator doesn’t immediately walk forward. He stands in the office for several seconds, a concentrated look on his face.

After a bit, Stanley grows restless. “Narrator?” He asks pointedly. The Narrator hesitates, then takes a step towards the door; Stanley opens his mouth to speak.

The moment both feet cross the threshold however, the screen cuts to the THEENDISNEVERTHEEND loading screen.

Stanley blinks, mouth closed. He feels his face relax, though he doesn’t remember ever scrunching it. The Narrator is back in the office chair, immobile.

“…What just happened?“ He asks hesitantly to the screen on his right, brows drawing together in wary suspicion.

Shit.

The monitor is black for a few more seconds.

Well, I think you’ll just… have to find out when you wake him up.

Stanley pinches his brows now. “Way to give me a straightforward answer,” He says, mildly annoyed. The screen says nothing.

He swallows guiltily after a few seconds. “Sorry. I’ve been frustrated lately.”

I know, Stanley. I’m sorry.

Stanley’s jaw clenches slightly. He still hates it when the Timekeeper apologizes to him, as though it’s their fault for something crappy happening to him. Stanley doesn’t blame them for anything. Though, he thinks he hates it so much because he can understand what the Timekeeper is feeling, and it isn’t fair. They shouldn’t feel guilty about anything.

Which probably means I shouldn’t feel guilty about stuff that’s not my fault, he thinks, unhelpfully. Now is not the time to process stuff like that right now. Stanley doesn’t want nor need to in the present moment, so it can wait. He pushes it to the back of his mind.

Tentatively, he wakes up the Narrator.

The Narrator comes to immediately furious. The first thing Stanley thinks is, I’ve fucked up haven’t I. Definitely nothing new. He’s getting tired of this, too.

STANLEY.

Stanley has enough self-control to suppress another groan.

“What now,” He says testily.

The Narrator throws his arms up in a rage, pupils constricted and streaks racing. He looks more enraged than when Stanley had trapped him in the open world. The ex-employee opens his mouth in shock.

You never told me about the escape pod before. WHY did you never tell me about that blasted escape pod, you imbecile?!

Stanley closes his mouth, realization striking him in the face. He turns angry; the audacity of this man.

“Is… is it so hard for you to believe I wanted to keep something that I knew you didn’t know to myself? You claim to know anything about everything, and there was a place I knew about that you didn’t!”

You are not supposed to withhold information from me. You are not ALLOWED to, do you hear me?

“I am not your pet!” He snarls.

The Narrator scoffs. Something pokes in Stanley’s skull and then buzzes; he closes his eyes. He wants to tell the Timekeeper to get rid of the Thoughts Screen, but he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t. It wouldn’t solve anything, and he needs to be able to communicate with the Narrator to make any sort of progress.

The buzz becomes more insistent, Stanley reluctantly opens his eyes and reads.

You believe that, don’t you.

Stanley grinds his teeth to keep from shouting back again. Not only is the Narrator verbally abusive, he is so utterly dehumanizing it makes Stanley feel sick.

He takes a deep breath and attempts to store this terrible feeling bubbling inside him, the same one that does every time the Narrator insinuates or even straight up tells him that he is something to be possessed.

“You can insult me however the fuck you want, Narrator, but I have autonomy. You don’t control me–”

Stanley glances right at another poking sensation. I’m surprised you even know what that word means.

Rage pushes him on.  “And right now, I’m the one who can control you ,” He says, seething. “I can change your code. I can make you my pet if I wanted to, can make you someone completely different. If I was a sadistic control freak like you. I’m not though.”

The Narrator sneers. You think I don’t know that? Exactly. You wouldn’t. So I’m not worried. Now, let’s go back to this bloody Escape Pod, shall we?!

Stanley balls his fists tightly, frustrated at both the Narrator and the fact that that terrible feeling is still bubbling inside. Okay okay. You just need to lock this up, store it, just shove it away like you did in the office; what is wrong with me–

“No! I don’t need to tell you everything!”

Yes, you do. You ALWAYS do, because I am the Narrator. I am the creator of this place; you’re nothing but a puppet of a man on my strings! You have nothing, your only job is to press buttons. I’ve told you countless times; you’re a nobody. Because of that, you must tell me everything you find I might not know of, which includes that Escape Pod!

Stanley’s nails dig slightly into his flesh; he exhales shakily and forces through his teeth, “Just shut up about the stupid pod. It doesn’t work anyway, I doubt with even both of us it would work! It’s just there to taunt, alright? There’s nothing to it. It leads nowhere. It- it says its escape but it’s just nothing okay? So forget about it!”

I do not care what it is or it’s for Stanley, I care that you didn’t tell me about it beforehand! I am supposed to know the inside and outs of this place, and you discover an entire new section and had the gall to never INFORM me of it!

Stanley stands up from his chair, but his head still buzzes. It’s so terribly infuriating; it blocks out any attempt to visualize the box in his head. He can’t think with the Narrator projecting like this, and it keeps going. It hasn’t stopped. The Narrator keeps berating him about the Escape Pod, when Stanley already hates the Escape Pod. Sometimes he went there to escape, to be alone, but it always unsettled him, and it always made him angry and upset and he hates it.

Ignore the hatred. It’s not important right now, you haven’t thought about it in a while, just lock that up.

He desperately wants– needs to lock up the anger building inside him; he needs to in order to speak coherently without shouting and escalating the conflict further. But he can’t clearly picture the imagined box. And when he does manage to see a hint of it, the buzzing makes him recall everything he put in it, and he forces his eyes open before he can focus on that.

Stanley’s eyes are screwed shut and he sits down, hands digging into his thighs.

It’s okay, it’s okay, He assures himself, even as he can feel the start of stinging in the back of his eyes. It’s okay, don’t get worked up, don’t yell, you’re the better person. It’ll be fine just ignore just ignore ignore–

This is too much. Stanley is overwhelmed; he needs a break to calm down, but nothing he can say now will placate the Narrator, and nowhere he can go will stop the dreadful buzzing as long as the Narrator keeps projecting. Everything just keeps building, Stanley opens his eyes and looks at the screen for a second, but it doesn’t help and, and—

Boxes, containers, are used in several ways. Primarily to hold stuff in, though, and to keep them safe, or hidden away; tucked out of sight. Stanley is doing just that, or, trying to, at least.

Containers, usually, are neatly kept, meticulously crafted in a way that everything can be sealed in nice and tight, separate from prying eyes. Stanley believes he’s imagined just that, but really, can anything existing in simply a mind be contained completely out of sight from its owner?

And when there is too much pressure applied, too much stuff being crammed into its space, when it finally cracks under the overwhelming weight of it all, the barrier holding everything in is erased.

Stanley has crammed too many emotions into this box. He can pretend to lock it away; he can visualize that key or that lid being slammed shut so nothing is accessible, but it was always there. Building.

And the Narrator won’t stop; he keeps berating. How long can he go on for? Stanley tries not looking at the words on the screen but this execrable buzzing in his skull when he turns away for just one second is overbearing, and he’s trying to keep it together, trying to hold it in as insults and vitriolic berating flies across the screen. Though Stanley is calm, he can be calm but it just won’t stop and the Narrator will never stop this, but Stanley is better, he’s the better person-

Until…

–Are you even listening to me, boy–

Crack.

That container shatters.

“STOP!” Stanley screams at the monitor as he slams his hands on the desk, waves of sudden, (not sudden. This was inevitable from the start) unyielding fury rolling, tearing through him like vicious riptides. He yells as loudly as he can, and with as much force as his voice can muster, and the Narrator can’t help but flinch at the volume, his hands automatically flying up to cover his ears. He forces them down, and glares. The sight only fuels Stanley’s newly roaring rage.

And just what happens when that box is finally broken, beyond repair?

“I have put up with this for too fucking long! Before, I get along with you for a few moments, and then you go back to your shitty immature self without caring about what I may think of it. Not even touching after you apparently found that stupid fucking pod! Just shut the hell up!”

All the contents come pouring out at once, with nothing there to stop them.

From the moment Stanley made that container, he’d doomed himself to break.

“I’m fucking DONE!” Stanley slams his fists on the desk again, hard enough for the wood to splinter slightly at the edges. Shooting pain travels up his arms like knives, but he doesn't care. He swallows back a building sob and manages to do nothing but breathe heavily even as he feels burning behind his eyes; he forces that away, too.

The Narrator looks shocked, and for a moment there is nothing on the yellow screen. Stanley breathes hard, waiting.

Stanley–

“Not a fucking word! Don’t you think a single goddamn word to me unless it’s to APOLOGIZE! ”

The Narrator stops, simply looking bemused at that, a look torn between that and amusement. Stanley grips the table’s edge, knuckles white.

Apologize?

“Yes! Have you ever heard of that fucking term in you life you sadistic son of a bitch?! I’ve done nothing but try and help us, and you’ve never said sorry to me, for any of your horrible behavior!” His voice wavers, full of nothing but rage and long-term pain and what he hopes isn’t desperation.

The confusion is gone; amusement is the only thing painting his face now, like Stanley is simply a petulant child throwing a tantrum, demanding for something he knows he’s not going to receive. The Narrator crosses his arms.

Stanley, we both know I never apologize for anything I say or do. Why would I? You certainly don’t deserve it.

“I said shut up!”

Stanley is bordering on hysteria, as the contents of his imagined container are finally spilling out and he can’t bring himself to pick it all up. More only comes streaming out, and he’s left to deal with it all when he can’t even fucking think through the anger and anguish that clouds his mind, staring at that stupid goddamned amused face.

All while a little voice in his head keeps repeating: you snapped you snapped you fucking snapped you say you weren’t going to you were going to be the bigger person why did you do that why why why—

Stanley.

Stanley glances at the monitor where the Timekeeper says his name, probably trying to pull him out of this the best they can.

Stanley breathes hard still, and he realizes he’s shaking. He attempts to steady himself, raising and pressing his legs to his chest.

His anger hasn’t dissipated yet, though, not in the slightest. Waves of long-term bottled up rage pour out, and he and the Narrator are left to deal with the consequences.

“Apologize!” Stanley’s desperate shout breaks.

The Narrator smiles, like he finds this funny.

No, of course not.

Stanley legs out a half scream, half sob of frustration, as he grabs fistfuls of his hair, grips tight enough to cause sharp stinging on his scalp.

One, two lights flicker above on the Parable ceiling.

The Narrator looks up, smirk dropping. A door slams open and shut nearby; the Narrator whirls around to find that multiple office doors are being opened and slammed shut in quick succession. The green swirls begin to float faster in his eyes, and his pupils dilate as he stares at them with growing realization, and more lights flicker, faster now.

Stanley squeezes his eyes tightly, then opens them. His breath hitches, but he still can’t stop the pouring of raw, undiluted fury and misery and franticity from his chest and soul as he stares at the man who hurt him continuously and still won’t apologize.

And slowly, one by one, office supplies lift themselves off of the desks, as well as mugs and various pieces of paper. They don’t go flying, but the Narrator backs up, and jumps when a door slams particularly loudly behind him.

Stanley, stop this immediately!

“Not until you say fucking sorry to me!” Stanley’s voice breaks. He doesn’t care if the Narrator means it now. He doesn’t care if the Narrator is ever merciful with him again, he just wants the man to apologize to him, even if it’s a lie. Stanley is worth an apology, surely. If nothing else, he is worth this.

A few pens go flying across the room and hit the wall with a loud thud. The lights flicker more violently, and the filing cabinets have started opening and slamming shut over and over again noisily, with papers flying out and scattering across the floor, some floating in the air.

The Narrator just stands there, the shock of it having warned off, and he only looks angry now, the expression so painfully familiar. He stares at the chaos in outrage, as the office building he believes he created devolves into chaos.

Get a hold of yourself, you pathetic man. You have forgotten just who you are to me. I do not care.

Stanley reads the words and squeezes himself tighter, and if anything, the supplies only fly across the room faster. The doors are slamming so hard against their frames that little splinters are flying off, and one filing cabinet has completely flown out of its drawer. It lands with a crash into the divider wall in front of the copy machine. Papers are everywhere, and the Narrator has to duck to dodge some stray pens or the pencil sharpener on 432’s desk that hit the wall with surprising speed.

Stanley!

Stanley only glances at the monitor for a split second, to alleviate the poke in his skull. He doesn’t even try to stop. Stanley squeezes his eyes shut again.

“I know you don’t care! Say it anyway!” He spits out with so much force and venom that he hardly recognizes himself; he opens his eyes. Stanley sobs again, wrenchingly and openly when the Narrator simply turns his nose up, his arms still crossed. Stanley doesn’t want to be like this, but he can’t control himself; not anymore.

Stanley please! Try to stop it; something bad will happen.

“Stop talking to me!” Stanley shouts venomously. The Narrator looks confused again. Guilt for shouting at the Timekeeper tugs at him instantly; he didn’t mean to.

“Say sorry!”

No.

“That isn’t fair!” He cries, tugging his hair now. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck you, you bastard!”

So much sheer hatred, and agony, and emotion , built up from so much time bottling it away in his imaginative container spill out, indicative in the way the office building is nothing but a hopeless whirl of chaos.

Stanley thought he was doing better, thought he found a healthier way to help himself cope, but now it’s all he can do to keep himself from standing up and physically wreaking havoc in here. He looks at the central monitor, witnessing the Narrator twisting and ducking and veering to avoid getting hit by various flying objects.

And Stanley panics, now. He never wanted this to happen; he never meant to get this angry. He lost restraint, and the Parable did with him. The desks haven’t flown into the air, but it’s only a matter of time as he sees the copy machine wobbling slightly. Stanley’s eyes are wide as plates.

And at that moment, he recalls something said to him a long time ago: “You really can’t help destroying things, can you? Everywhere you go, you contaminate. You taint and impair, with your impulsive decisions and your immature actions. You are utterly destructive.”

Please, no. I don’t want to be destructive. I don’t want to destroy everything, please stop, stop stop stop please–

It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop, and the Narrator looks equal parts frantic and furious as more words race across on the yellow screen, and in his movement and silent yelling at Stanley he doesn’t see the pair of large, orange scissors hurtling directly towards him. Stanley does, in all the havoc and whirlwind of office materials, but he can’t get his mouth to move as it flies closer and closer and Stanley cannot stop it. The Narrator twists and frantically projects at Stanley to get him to stop, but he doesn’t run away, as the scissors only pick up speed and–

Slice.

The Narrator freezes. Words seize on the yellow screen. The scissors don’t even slow down; they hit the wall with racing speed and fall to the carpet, then stop.

The Narrator does not move. Stanley is afraid to say anything at all. Nothing ceases completely; Stanley’s mind is still much too chaotic, but as it seems to lag, things around the office seem to slow gradually. The rage lingers of course, but it feels distant now, floating above him as sinking dread replaces it.

The Narrator does not move. Stanley watches as a thick substance that can hardly be called liquid pours out of a large gash in the Narrator’s cheek; a substance of three distinct, bright colors: red, green, and blue.

The Narrator, after a paralyzing moment, moves an arm. He raises it ever so slowly to his face, and gingerly grazes his fingers on the deep wound, not giving any indication of the certain pain it must cause. His fingers come back coated in the substance and it drips heavily onto the yellow carpet in a steady stream. Stanley can see just how deep the gash is– he can just barely make out the man’s jawbone- from being forced to observe it from every perspective, and he feels his heart beating faster. It nearly feels hard to breathe.

The tension in both offices is nothing short of suffocating. Stanley can’t bring himself to speak. The Narrator flicks his hands sharply and only some of, what Stanley presumes is his blood, comes off.

They wait in silence long enough for nearly everything to settle down. Some stray supplies and papers still fly across the room, but nowhere near the Narrator.

“N- Narrator?” Stanley asks, filled with a nauseous trepidation, his voice small and hesitant and hoarse, so unlike the rage filled shouting from just minutes ago.

The Narrator’s eyes harden significantly. He looks murderous, and it sets Stanley on edge because the Narrator looks so horribly angry, but a calm sort of angry; a quiet rage that is more terrifying than a scream of violent fury. One that is like a viper rather than a tiger, small and silent, waiting, and when it finally strikes, piercing its victim swiftly and cleanly.

The swirls in the Narrator’s eyes have nearly ceased altogether.

Yes.

Stanley?

An eyebrow raises and Stanley swallows. He doesn’t think the Narrator has ever bled before.

“I- I…” The words die in his throat; he doesn’t know what he could even say to help this situation.

The Narrator’s eyes retract to thin slits, and the light green streaks resume their swirling, picking up speed rapidly.

You. What.

Stanley does not reply. What would he do, apologize? There is absolutely nothing in this existence that would lead Stanley to consider that option.

The Narrator is rigid. He balls his fists, expression terrifyingly furious but at the same time so horribly calm. He looks to the door leading to the next office room; it’s swung wide open.

The Narrator marches to it, and enters it.

Stanley watches the Narrator walk, and it’s like that snaps him out of a trance. His malic returns, not as much as before, certainly, but fury resumes boiling in his chest.

“Where are you going?” He demands, tone calm yet ire bleeding through. “Why are you leaving. Where will you go now?”

The Narrator does not answer him, and merely keeps walking forward.

Stanley sneers as the Narrator enters the meeting room, goes up the stairs to his boss’s office, face stoic and horribly calm now despite the trail of multicolored ‘blood’ behind him and the frantic swirling in his eyes, and the slight trembling of his tightly balled fists. It only enrages him.

"You’re going to get your intended ending, I bet, right? Following the story again, aren’t you?” He bites with viciousness not yet dissipated, and forcefully pushes ‘next door o/c,’ to shut the normally wide-open door to the entry to the receptionist’s room preceding the boss’s office.

He continues, not giving an absolute damn about the fact that he wounded the Narrator; Heaven knows the man fucking deserves it. “Because that’s all you fucking care about, huh?! The story, the narrative, the script; you just have to follow it and ignore me? Well then, I’m not speaking my lines, so what are you going to do? What will you do if I don’t open that door?”

The Narrator arrives at the closed door with a slightly raised eyebrow, and Stanley doesn’t budge. He expects the man to demand or command him to open it, but he merely stands there calmly.

Open the door, Stanley.

“No,” Stanley snarls. “I’m not doing shit for you.”

The Narrator’s face twists into a sneer, nearly matching Stanley’s own, unbeknown to him.

Stop acting as a whiny, dramatic child and open the door, Stanley. 

Stanley scoffs. “Why the hell do you think I’d do that? You think I’ll listen to your demands anymore, just because you insult me? I want you to apologize to me, and then maybe I will open this door. Until then, you get fuck all.”

The Narrator barely even reacts to this, which only infuriates Stanley more; he ignores how wrong this reaction of the Narrator now feels.

Open this blasted door, or I will kick it down myself.

Stanley makes a frustrated noise, and snarls, “Do you even know how to kick a door down?” Moron, he adds silently.

To this, the Narrator gives a tiny smirk, still ignoring the thick liquid continuing to run down his cheek and drip on the floor.

No. But I shall gladly do it with all the force I can muster until I have broken through this wood. You wouldn’t like that, I presume. Surely you know why, yes?

“Oh, you mother fucker,” Stanley hisses.

The Narrator’s lips curl upward further.

So? Are you going to open it, then? Or shall I begin kicking it down immediately?

Stanley seethes silently. Of course he wouldn’t care if Stanley was in pain, or that he’d broken some of “his” map, as long as he got his way. Every kick to the door would feel like a mirrored, sharp kick to the chest, with the amount of pain presumably depending on the force of the kick and the collision.

Fine. There’s not much harm to it, and he knows the Narrator is going to win either way. Stanley concedes and opens the door.

The swirls in the Narrator’s eyes calm. He drops his slight smirk and regains his stony expression in a second, terrifyingly calm once again.

Stanley opens his mouth to question it, immediately skeptical with alarms ringing in his head, but the Narrator silences him by walking forward and turning, interrupting Stanley’s previous anticipation that the man will go straight ahead with no hesitation.

“What… what are you doing?” Stanley asks, trying to sound accusatory, but even he knows that the intended tone was not produced.

The Narrator doesn’t respond, and, with no expression painting his face besides a blank, hardened stare, he walks towards the executive bathroom, giving no indication of knowing about the substance still leaking from his injury.

Stanley’s brain seems to short-circuit in his head. He doesn’t think he could speak if he wanted to. The Narrator stops in front of the door to the executive bathroom; his eyes harden with resolve.

Stanley stares at him in disbelief, wide-eyed. Hurt maybe, too, but mainly disbelief: a sort of horrified bafflement.

Surely- surely not. The Narrator wouldn’t do this to him, would he? Surely he’s just doing this to get a kick out of Stanley; he can’t be actually serious, even though Stanley has been around the Narrator for so long, and knows his customs, knows enough that the Narrator is never a person to joke around like this.

The Narrator, after not a second of stalling, reaches out and grabs the handle firmly, and opens the door. He steps into the bathroom.

Stanley’s throat tightens further. He feels like he can hardly breathe, like the air is getting thinner and thinner and it’s harder to form a coherent thought.

After– after everything he went through, after what he knows lies beyond?

Surely he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t go that far, he wouldn’t do this to me, even if I’m me.

And Stanley watches, with weighted, paralyzing dread and silence as deafening as a dropped bomb, as the Narrator advances to the sink…

…and picks up the nearest photograph.

Chapter Text

As the Narrator appears in the vent, Stanley realizes very belatedly that he could have hard reset to avoid all of this. In all his hysteria, it hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now it seems so painfully obvious with the fact being that now, there truly is no way out. Stanley knows, reasonably, he shouldn’t be angry at himself for it, as he hadn’t been in his right mind then either. But that feels very hard to do now, with what he knows lies far ahead.

Paired with the fact that the Narrator is walking steadily, determinedly out of the vent, with Stanley utterly powerless to stop him. He knows the controls won’t work, nor either reset button. If they had, the Narrator would have restarted the game long before the skip button got too unbearable.

The skip button. Stanley feels like he’s going to be sick, as the Narrator exits the vent and doesn’t even pause for a single moment in the wooden room; he walks straight ahead through the pointed arched door ahead.

The Narrator pauses when he arrives outside, and looks around at the greenery and outdoors for a moment, a strange expression on his face– something between regret and wistfulness. Then he lifts his hand to his cheek, and it hardens in determination; he starts forward again, pace quickening, and that’s the moment that Stanley’s heart truly drops.

The Narrator really wants to do this to him. He went through countless years– centuries– in isolation, and he has no qualms about subjecting Stanley to the same psychological torture as he had been forced to endure. That he never really, truly recovered from– never came back the same person from.

A sob sticks in his throat and Stanley’s hands go limp in his lap, and he watches defeatedly, and utterly drained as the Narrator walks through the next, pyramid-like building; not even glancing at the objects on the podiums or walls, in the room that at first served as a pleasant and wishful reminder of times long past, but now only stands as a cruel mockery of what could have stayed happy (of course they weren’t really happy, but the memory zone had presented it that way), how happy they were before the tragedy that came next.

The tragedy that Stanley is doomed to go through next.

The Narrator does not project, and Stanley does not speak. It isn’t fair. Stanley doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t do anything to deserve this. This is beyond something cruel. It’s vile. God, how he wishes he’d stayed with the Curator and Mariella.

The yellow-eyed man walks determinedly into the next building, pace never slowing once. He never displays any signs of pain in his cheek either, even as he leaves a small trail of his blood substance behind as he walks steadfast. The three colors never mix, always stay distinctly separate, something Stanley would find mildly intriguing if they were anywhere else.

He enters the subsequent room that proudly exhibits the next glorious review of the ‘original game’ (which Stanley thinks is another cruel irony; there was no original game. This is what’s always been. But the Narrator believed otherwise, and because of his attempt to take pride in something he thought was corrupted, he was put in a terrible, unimaginable situation). The Narrator doesn’t move; he stops in front of the plastered review and reads it. Stanley looks at him, trying to deduce any hint of regret or even worry on his face, but there’s nothing. The Narrator, well and truly, has made his decision on the matter.

After several seconds of waiting, the door to his right opens, and the Narrator walks through calmly. He passes the stairs leading to the other part of the Memory Zone, which doesn’t make Stanley feel any better. Either the Narrator wants to prolong this as long as possible for him, or simply wants to read the next review plastered on the center wall ahead.

Stanley takes his eyes off the screen now, unable to bear looking at the Narrator for any longer. He can’t bring himself to look at the Timekeeper’s monitor either, too full of guilt; now that he’s snapped, and the contents of that box were poured out, he feels utterly hollowed out and exhausted.

The Narrator had gone into this with such a positive mindset the first time; Stanley doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that he already feels so dejected, and it hasn’t even started yet.

Heaven, Stanley just wants a break.

And I’ll get one, for the next eternity. I’m going to be sitting here, in this exact position, for the next countless years.

Stanley stands abruptly as he sees, out of the corner of his eye, the Narrator entering the now-opened door to the Steam-review area of the Memory Zone. He balls his fists, eyes widening involuntarily. No, no, no, no- “-no no no, please,” He says to nobody, in a small voice. “I can’t–” He looks up to see the white door, its simplicity seeming to mock him. He knows the door won’t open if he tries. He can feel that as much as deduce it with a horrible logic.

The Narrator’s walked a few steps into the new section, and newfound desperation grips at Stanley’s core and he rushes to the white door, grabs the knob and turns it, thinking frantically of Mariella. He pushes it; it doesn’t budge.

Stanley tries again, his efforts futile. He whispers again, “Please , please come on. That isn’t fair, this isn’t– this isn’t fucking… F- fuck.” Stanley’s hand slides off the doorknob in defeat; he gives up. Slowly, he turns around.

The ex-employee walks towards the chair again. He spots Bear on the ground under, and stares at her. For some reason, this is what finally causes tears to spring in his eyes. He wonders if the Timekeeper told Mariella and the Curator of his new predicament; he hopes not. He wouldn’t want them to worry about him.

Not like Stanley would ever know. That dreadful room is already burned into his mind. He doesn’t want to think about how many years he would be staring at it, waiting for the Narrator to come back and knowing he wouldn’t for a long, long time…

Stanley sits down, slowly. He doesn’t pick up Bear; can’t muster the strength to. He feels sort of guilty, but not enough in the swirl of messy hurt and hate and misery and dread inside him for him to act on it. Aggressively, he wipes at his eyes, and stays silent.

He watches as the first thumbs-down review falls forward to the ground. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and asks in a helplessly pleading voice, because he doesn’t know what else to do, “You know what you’re doing, right? You– you– I mean, this–”

The Thoughts Screen appears for the first time since the Narrator entered the Memory Zone: Shut. Up, Stanley.

“I hate you,” Stanley hisses out fiercely in a low voice, his tight fists trembling with anger as much as fear and dread.

Of course the Narrator understands what he’s doing. He went through this himself. He knows, firsthand, exactly what he’s going to put Stanley through, and perhaps that is the worst part about this. Stanley looks down at his lap, leg bouncing anxiously, as thoughts swim in his head and the Narrator marches on; ones he doesn’t voice:

You’re so horrible– I did nothing to you. I did nothing to warrant this, I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and you know that, you sick bastard, I would say you deserve this but even you don’t because no one does, but you still deserve terrible things. I hate you and why did I get stuck with you– why did it have to be you–

Stanley’s leg freezes. He looks up suddenly, eyebrows drawing together slowly. Jaw tightening, he stares at the Narrator as he arrives at the subsequent negative review. The Narrator stares at it with a hardened face, swirls not quite racing but coming close in his yellow irises. The door opens a few seconds later, and the Narrator marches through it undeterred.

Experimentally, Stanley presses the Hard Reset button: nothing. He expected as much. Gingerly, he reaches below and across the panel to Produce. He thinks of a small wooden plank, barely an inch or two in length, and presses it; the object appears ten feet away from the Narrator’s side. The Narrator doesn’t notice. Huh. So certain controls do work.

Interesting.

Stanley pulls his hand back, a dangerous thought forming in his head. He deserves something terrible. Heaven, does he deserve it.

The Narrator draws closer to that awful Cookie9 message (and the lake) that started it all, and something in Stanley panics, instinctive alarm bells going off. His eyes catch on the waters fully now, and they narrow as Stanley stares at it.

The Narrator wants to put him through this. By heaven, does Stanley not want to go through the skip button but if he doesn’t do something to prevent the Narrator then he will have to.

Stanley’s leg bounces again, the idea in his mind taking shape.

He… he deserves to be hurt in some way, too. He’s awful, has hurt me so many times and is going to do this… and if I’m able to produce an object…

Stanley sees the Narrator get closer. He starts walking down the stairs, a tiny smirk slowly appearing on his face despite the gloomy environment; Stanley wonders how the hell the Narrator can start to feel smug, because does this not remind him so terribly and vividly of his trauma? Does he really want to see Stanley suffer that badly?

Evidently, yes.

Conviction slides into place in the ex-employee’s head. He grits his teeth. No more acting nice. The Narrator does not deserve it; Stanley doesn’t care anymore.

The review sinks into the ground a few seconds after the Narrator arrives at it, and Stanley does not move a muscle.

The yellow screen pops up: Stanley. You know what you’re supposed to do. Produce the room.

“You really expect me to craft my own hell?” Stanley scoffs, because he needs to fight back; agreeing immediately would be suspicious. But the incredulousness is still genuine. Just when he thought the audacity of this man couldn’t get worse.

The Narrator rolls his eyes.

Yes. Obviously. Now do it Stanley. You cannot restart the game, you know that. I’ll wait however long it takes for you to produce it; it’ll be just like the skip button. Though the actual skip button is our only way out of here. You don’t have any option but this.

“Fuck you,” He throws in, for good measure, and then (admittedly, there’s a small hitch in his breath when he thinks of it) presses Produce. 

A simple platform rises up out of the water, much smaller than the area of the original skip button room, but there in the center of it stands the plinth. And on the plinth, in a mockingly enticing glow, is the skip button. Stanley presses Produce again, and a long wooden board leading to it splashes up to the surface.

At the sight of the button, immediately Stanley sees the Narrator’s eyes widen slightly in fear, his iris swirls pick up speed, and his smirk instantly vanishes; but not a second later, his frown turns askance. He gestures to the platform irately.

What the hell is this? You are utterly incompetent; I’m not an idiot, Stanley.

“Yeah, but I’m too nice to hurt you purposefully, remember?” Stanley retorts with venom that is all too sincere. He’s pointedly aware of the substance still dripping down the Narrator’s cheek, but ignores it and hopes the Narrator takes the bait all the same.

The Narrator looks ahead, seeming to weigh his options. His expression is contemplative, with Stanley’s own being concentrated.

Then, after several seconds, the Narrator’s lip curls up in a smirk again and he walks forward, apparently coming to the conclusion that Stanley really is too weak to hurt him.

Too bad for him, then.

Stanley doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even feel a small wave of satisfaction at the action. He watches with an even gaze as the Narrator walks on the board at a steady pace; the man reaches the middle of the wooden bridge soon enough.

And Stanley presses Demolish.

There isn’t time for the Narrator to react before he hits the freezing water– and Stanley knows it’s freezing, knows all the details of that lake as soon as the Narrator comes in contact with it.

The Narrator sinks a few feet under the surface, mouth wide open, and coughs on instinct. With the next inhale he chokes immediately, and begins to thrash in blazing panic. For a few seconds he does this aimlessly, pupils blown wide with panic written across his face. He’s clearly trying not to inhale again, but Stanley sees that he gasps moments later, likely involuntarily, and is thrust into another futile coughing fit under the water.

The surprise and shock of it wears off soon enough though, and the Narrator regains some semblance of control in his limbs again. Frantically, he attempts to swim upward to breathe, instincts no doubt haywire.

Well. Stanley can’t have that, now can he? Feeling completely calm, and without taking his eyes off the Narrator, he presses Produce, and a sheet of wood covers the entire surface of the lake, rendering the water pitch black for the Narrator and blocking off the only source of relief from the agony of being stuck underwater.

Stanley can still see, clear as day as though no light had been blocked off, how the Narrator immediately tries to reverse his efforts, in a desire to not hit his head on the now-solid barrier.

He still thrashes, legs frantically kicking underneath him and the Narrator’s face is contorted into sheer pain and terror, with visible conflict being added to the mix as he tries to fight his instinct to swim upwards, towards what would normally be reprieve. Stanley watches on determinedly, not taking pleasure in his clear pain, but focused.

The Narrator deserves this. And he does.

The Narrator claws at his neck now, attempts to both instinctively breathe and stop himself from inhaling both clashing together and failing with his inexperience of ever being underwater; his agonized choking becomes evident.

His visible irises are now simply a blur of yellow and green, streaks racing so quickly from such panic; Stanley knows his wound must be burning too, and he realizes that this isn’t enough for him. This is not enough pain to match the amount that the Narrator has, over so so long, inflicted upon him.

The Narrator is drowning, yes, dying slowly and painfully in a void of swallowing darkness, but it isn’t enough.

The lake is freshwater, Stanley notes then.

Let’s make that salt.

He knows it worked immediately, indicative of the way the Narrator’s eyes instantly widen to the size plates now, the pain in them glistening as clear as shattered glass.

The Narrator’s face contorts further in torturous pain; he bumps his head on the wood above him helplessly and opens his mouth to scream or shout, but of course, water floods into his airway and fills his lungs further. Instinctively he tries to cough again, which leads to another cycle of choking. His hand goes to his cheek, and he flinches violently upon contact.

Stanley watches on with focused indifference, perhaps even coldness, as the Narrator struggles frantically and uselessly on the screen in front of him. His expression never changes. The Narrator deserves this. He had hurt Stanley in so many different ways over the course of time since their story began; he’d exploited his power, abused his abilities as a wordsmith to twist into Stanley’s mental and emotional weak points and make him feel more alone and helpless than he ever would have otherwise. There was almost nothing that the Narrator couldn’t have done more to make Stanley’s unwilling existence in the Parable hell. He’d done it over, and over, and over,

and over, and over and over and over and the end was never the end it was never the end –

But this was the ultimate act of betrayal. The Narrator had crossed a lot of lines, but this was the worst one. It’s only fair that Stanley finally return the act.

Some time passes, and nothing new particularly happens, and Stanley’s thoughts never veer towards sympathy, nor does he relish in the man’s pain; he simply watches on neutrally, in silence, as the Narrator finally gets what he deserves.

And then… some more time passes, and nothing new still happens. The Narrator keeps thrashing with the same instinctive terror as the start of him falling in and with equal agony as when the lake had been converted into saltwater. He still struggles, and doesn’t seem to be getting any weaker.

Stanley isn’t exactly well-versed on how bodies work, and how much a body can withstand, but he has a feeling that after about a minute or two, especially since the Narrator has had no experience in water, that he should be struggling marginally less by now. He should… he should be dying, shouldn’t he? After this long, the human body starts to decline from being submerged for so long. It should start dying by now. Shouldn’t it? Or at least show some physical signs of growing weaker…

And Stanley isn’t quite concerned yet, he doesn’t exactly feel guilty upon thinking this, but puzzled, and his narrowed eyes and drawn eyebrows start to slowly relax as he watches the Narrator suffer for several more seconds, not seeming to grow any weaker.

Another half a minute passes, with nothing substantially changing. His face is still painting the picture of his agony, and the Narrator is still choking with his nose and cheek undoubtedly burning horribly from the salt in the lake.

Now Stanley grows a bit concerned. The Narrator… he does deserve this, yes; he’s hurt Stanley so much– Stanley is justified in returning a piece of that.

However… This is going on for a lot longer than Stanley thought it would. The Narrator is still in copious amounts of pain, and has been for the past minutes, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down.

The Narrator deserves this, though.

Yes, and Stanley doesn’t doubt that fact, but… no.

He doesn’t want to feel guilty for the Narrator.

I’m not going to feel guilty for him, Stanley thinks tenaciously, and his eyebrows draw back together, and he focuses his attention on the lasting pain in the Narrator’s eyes, but this time his leg bounces. He should be dying, shouldn’t he? He should be struggling less and less as his body gives up or he gives up, but he certainly isn’t, and Stanley is starting to grow just a bit apprehensive.

Then the Thoughts Screen appears suddenly, minutely startling him.

Stanley–

A few seconds go by, and Stanley’s gaze flicks to the struggling Narrator– who now has his eyes screwed shut, though still in evident pain– and to his slight right, where the yellow screen disappears, but then reappears soon after.

Please–

He waits longer, and the Thoughts Screen doesn’t reappear. Stanley doesn’t know what to do. The Narrator should have fallen unconscious by now… shouldn’t he have? Was Stanley wrong in assuming this would be over in a few minutes?

…Oh, shit– Stanley swallows, forcefully evening his breaths. He’s not going to panic; he doesn’t regret thrusting the Narrator into this slow death, but now he’s not even sure if the Narrator will die at all, and he can’t reset. How long can this go for? Surely the Narrator has to die at some point, right? Obviously, he has some physiological functions, and there’s no way he can’t succumb to them eventually, right?

Quickly, he presses the button on the panel to mute himself.

“Timekeeper, can he die? When– when is he going to die?” He asks hurriedly, eyes the slightest bit wide now. He still doesn’t regret this, he won’t, but he hadn’t anticipated the Narrator suffering for this long with no reprieve.

The screen is blank for a few moments. Stanley turns his gaze back to the Narrator who still thrashes, without any indication of slowing down soon, and swallows heavily. He feels a poke in the back of his skull, and reads the words with a sinking feeling.

He can die, but it’ll take longer than a regular human night. His body is stronger; he probably won’t die for several minutes, though I’m not entirely sure.

“Is– is there any way you can reset?” Stanley asks, watching the Narrator, the beginnings of dread creeping up his spine.

No. This place overrules my ability to reset; the Narrator made it that way. Otherwise I would’ve restarted the moment the Narrator walked into the Memory Zone.

But, Stanley. This is good, isn’t it?

I mean, he’s hurt you so much. I know you hate him, and I do too. This is justified, right?

“I– yes.” Stanley responds, not without conviction; though uncertainty, minute as of now, doesn’t cease to sprout its roots and dig uncomfortably into his skin. He’s starting to have inklings of doubt now, watching the Narrator unceasingly thrash as his drowning seems to continue on endlessly. The man on the screen opens his eyes again, and desperation shines through them, not overshadowing the open fear still lingering.

Still, Stanley does not demolish the wooden barrier between the Narrator and the surface of the cold water. Nor does he wish the lake back to freshwater. He still isn’t completely guilty; but perhaps leaning toward the edge of ambivalence.

But then another minute goes by and the Narrator’s agony still appears horribly fresh; now Stanley’s gut twists into something more like self-deprecating penitence.

The Narrator was right, wasn’t he? Stanley can’t bring himself to hurt deliberately without hating himself for it.

Feelings are stupid, Stanley knows, but this is one of the times where conflicting emotions are really inconvenient.

He can’t bring himself to look away while the Narrator continues to struggle, and while that guilt is beginning to trickle steadily in his chest like cruel liquid fire, making him swallow heavily, he does not allow the Narrator to surface.

It is between the Narrator dying or the skip button, and Stanley still has enough self-preservation to know that this is the better option. Perhaps it’s selfish, but he doesn’t care about that.

Yet he does. And he hates that he cares. He wants to relish in the Narrator’s pain, knowing that he caused it and the Narrator deserves it, but instead it makes his stomach twist the longer it goes on, the longer Stanley stares at the helpless, drowning man who keeps struggling in vain because instincts won’t let him do anything but. The Narrator is of course, in some ways, terribly human; a curse Stanley is well accommodated in.

And Stanley sits and watches, able to help but unwilling, as a sense of poignance grips his core, all feelings of justified triumph draining out of him steadily.

How did this all happen? I did it again. Nothing is ever going to work out between us. We’re doomed to repeat this cycle. Why did I ever think I could fix things? Achieve anything worthwhile?

I finally got to hurt him back, but now I feel as terrible about it as I do requited. And I hate that.

Stanley only watches on, emotions of exhausted anger and remorse clashing together in his chest, making his heart squeeze and leg bounce, when finally, the Narrator shows signs of slowing down. Slowly, hands slide off his neck and legs slow in their frantic movement. The Narrator’s eyes haven’t glazed over; he’s simply given up now, or has grown too weak to continue struggling fruitlessly.

And the point in which the Narrator starts to sink is when the guilt fully settles in, along with the sheer self-hatred for feeling that guilt. Why does he have to be like this? He doesn’t want to share the Narrator’s quality of relishing in the pain of a person he hates– but he equally despises being empathetic toward essentially his abuser like this.

When the Narrator inevitably reappears in the office, also, he will no doubt seek revenge for this forced slow death, and Stanley thinks he knows how he’ll enact it.

Stanley opens his mouth, unsure if he should say anything. He elects not to, and closes it. Fingers fidget with each other, and he knows how cold the Narrator must be, if he hasn’t already been numbed to it.

He screws his eyes shut, feeling like a failure.

After another near minute of waiting, the game forcefully resets.

~

The Narrator wakes up at Stanley’s desk and springs to his feet. Instantly he gasps, despite there being nothing but fresh air sucked into his artificial lungs. Good, fresh air. He clutches his throat and swallows; takes a deep breath, two deep breaths. The residue panic subsides quickly enough, as there isn’t anything for his instincts to go haywire anymore here.

He isn’t out of breath by any means, but the Narrator relishes in the oxygen his inhuman lungs filter, and revels in the fact that there’s no salt, breathing doesn’t burn, it doesn’t hurt beyond anything he has ever felt before. He isn’t choking futilely, and isn’t cloaked in a terrifying ocean of black anymore; he can see.

The Narrator takes his hands off his neck and touches his cheek. It doesn’t burn like nothing else either; it’s completely healed. Not even a scar is left. He’d never bled before that.

Stanley doesn’t speak, which is perfectly well. The man had better keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him.

Some vestiges of weariness still cling to him, but now, to say that the Narrator is angry would be an understatement. To say the Narrator feels murderous would be an understatement. To say the Narrator feels the angriest he ever has in his existence; that every inch of him is brimming with the hot emotion and threatening to overwhelm would be a bit more accurate, but still, in his opinion, an understatement.

He doesn’t see red. The strong, fierce emotion does not take over his consciousness or his body, and he is not blinded by it. The Narrator is not designed that way. His emotions don’t affect him as physically and grip him as tightly as humans’ does.

With that being said, the Narrator is thinking as clearly as he does in any ordinary circumstance.

He is thinking clearly, and he wants Stanley to hurt. He wants Stanley to feel the hell that ex-employee had given him. He wants nothing but the cold bite of revenge.

The Narrator balls his fists, squeezing them tightly. He can control himself. It would be childish, immature to stomp his feet and storm out into the open room. Stanley already knows what it feels like to be severely insulted by the Narrator, and made to feel as the ungrateful roach he is. It would be impulsive to start figuratively screaming at Stanley, throwing vicious insults, berating him and pouring his rage out using carefully crafted words that are designed to cut deep. He’s done that before.

No, no; the Narrator is not impulsive. He is methodical; strategic. He knows there are other ways to inflict pain than verbal abuse, however effectively vicious that method can be.

The Narrator takes slow, controlled steps towards the door, hands still squeezed tightly into fists. He steps out of the office. He wishes Stanley were physically present so the Narrator could hurt him directly, but alas, that would be impossible. That’s okay, though. The Narrator is good at adapting; he knows how to work around an obstacle and still get what he wants.

The Narrator isn’t prone to physical violence, either. It isn’t the method he prefers when expelling his rage or anguish or any other strong emotion that wraps around him so wholly. To say he’s never lashed out physically would be inaccurate, but it isn’t the first thing he turns to.

He isn’t physically violent, normally. But just like with most things, there are exceptions. This is one of them.

His steps are methodical, and still slow, but steady. He walks to desk number 431, unplugs the keyboard from the computer, and picks up the typically heavy object. It’s not heavy, though; not for him.

The Narrator picks up the computer, and throws it to the wall. It flies across the room, hitting it with tremendous force. The Narrator’s strength is abnormal– he hadn’t used all of it, or the computer would have shattered on impact, no doubt. It falls, screen faced down and sure to be at the very least cracked significantly. The wall has a vaguely circular web of cracks in the wallpaper and wall itself now, but the Narrator doesn’t care about that.

He hears a muffled cry of pain all around when the computer makes impact with the yellow wall, like Stanley had pressed his hand to his mouth. He’d been expecting this, then. Good; Stanley isn’t that much of an idiot. The Narrator doesn’t change his expression. He feels a wave of satisfaction at that noise, yes, but he doesn’t show it. He sets his jaw in determination, letting Stanley know he’s hellbent on continuing. Stanley still doesn’t talk.

He walks over to the computer, quicker than before but with still controlled steps; slow enough so that Stanley has time to wait and dread the next attack.

The Narrator stops to the right of it, and flips it over with his foot, screen-up, as if it were simply a book cover he was turning over. He imagines Stanley tensing, perhaps his fingernails digging into his palm or still pressed to his mouth, waiting for and wanting the Narrator to get it over with as quickly as possible.

That wouldn’t do, though. The Narrator is going to take his time with this. He should have done this a long while ago.

He stares down at the now pitch-black screen, and observes the cracks and fractures in the corners, and one particularly bad series of cracks on the right side. He hums quietly, thoughtfully.

Then he stomps with great force onto the right side of the screen, his foot completely shattering it.

This time there’s a sharp, involuntary gasp; he can hear Stanley’s heavy breaths for a few moments, before they even out and go quiet again. 

The computers are not substantial parts of the Parable, compared to other objects and rooms. If one is disturbed, The Narrator can’t feel it much, as compared to the cargo lift in the warehouse.

But when one is being broken, when any object at all is receiving significant damage, that’s when it starts to become important. Any object bigger than a mug will hurt just as much as a hole in the wall being punched through, if the Protagonist damages it severely, on purpose; the Parable will treat it the same. It all feels like a stab or a blow to the chest, the pain depending on the amount of damage to the object.

There are disadvantages to just about everything that also has advantages, and this is one of them, being connected to the Parable. That was the annoying thing the Narrator found about being linked to this game.

However, it certainly doesn’t annoy him now.

He lifts his foot and stomps on the broken screen again, in the same spot, digging his foot in and twisting it.

He hears another intake of breath, shakier this time. He doesn’t take his foot out, instead pushing down harder, using perhaps more force than he intends because his foot is actively sinking slowly down. He hears the crunching sounds of glass and plastic and wires being destroyed under his foot, and he continues to twist.

“N- Narrator. Stop,” Stanley finally protests, clearly forced out, in a pained half-whisper, panting.

The Narrator lifts his foot slightly, pauses momentarily, and brings it down again harder, his shoe halfway inside the computer now. There’s a much louder cry of pain now; Stanley hadn’t been expecting that.

He takes a moment to project to Stanley:

You did not stop when I was clawing at my throat, choking and in clear agony. You continued on for minutes while I was dying painfully, when you could have easily let me breathe, one way or another. You didn’t, however. What the hell makes you think I will?

“Please,” He says quietly, strained, and makes something like a hiss between gritted teeth when the Narrator responds by twisting his foot further and pressing down.

The Narrator lifts his foot, and brings it out of the inside of the desk computer. Fine. He’ll allow Stanley mercy, if only for a tiny moment. He is in no way planning to stop completely. Stanley deserves this.

He switches to his words instead, something he is an expert in.

You are evil, Stanley. You cannot comprehend the amount of wickedness and vice that you contain; it is insurmountable. You are the pinnacle of turpitude. Look at yourself; sitting pathetically, in that chair, safe and not attempting to justify yourself in any way because you know you are insignificant; your word means nothing. You deserve everything I’ve done to you, ten times over. You–

“I’m sorry,” Comes that voice from everywhere, loud and clear and slightly forceful, like he’s urging the Narrator to take the words in.

The Narrator scoffs immediately.

No you’re not.

He hears an infuriating intake of breath, Stanley stuttering slightly on his words. He speaks louder this time. “I- I am. I am sorry, genuinely. I… I hate apologizing to you, it makes me feel like you’ve tricked me, or manipulated me into it. But right now, I’m thinking clearly. You were right–” Stanley cuts himself off with another sharp inhale and continues on hurriedly, though earnest. “I guess I am too nice to let you get hurt. Because heaven knows you deserve it, you were about to… to do that to me and you hurt me just now, and I still feel guilty for hurting you for some damn reason!” His voice breaks off. Stanley breathes for a moment before continuing.

“I shouldn’t, but I do. I put you through that, and I’m sorry. A- and I don’t care if you believe me or anything, but I just… needed to say it. Okay?” A pause. The Narrator has not moved. “Right,” He mutters. “J- just, please,” His voice drops down to more of a whisper, imploring, “Please don’t do that again.”

…What?

Stanley must be lying to him, trying to get a rise out of him, right? There isn’t any actual way the man feels guilty for hurting the Narrator, after everything the Narrator has done to hurt him…

It doesn’t make any sense. The Narrator has never felt a single drop of guilt, not one inkling of remorse to anything he’s done to Stanley, in all these years.

The Narrator hates Stanley. He despises him, in every way that he possibly can. He detests how fragile Stanley is, mentally and physically. He loathes the way the employee so proudly disrespects his story, his making, his creation he worked hard on for so long, crumples it into a ball and tosses it out the window, as if his script is nothing but papers of meaningless words on it, sentences that hold no weight, bear no relevance to anything at all. He hates the way Stanley is so obnoxiously curious, and yet when the Narrator hands him an answer to a question on a silver platter, the man rejects it and fights it like the ungrateful and thoughtless brat he is.

He is well aware of how he treats Stanley, well aware that the way he abuses the power he holds over his employee is very much morally incorrect. The Narrator is plenty aware, and he continues to do it. He knows what he is to the man, and he owns it. The Narrator takes advantage of his sovereign, and uses it to twist in Stanley’s weak spots; which there are, fortunately, so very many due to what he is and who he is– human.

Humans are bound to make mistakes; the Narrator knows this. He knows enough about humans to know that it’s completely normal, healthy even, sometimes, that they take their emotions out in different ways; will, in certain situations, feel them so completely that it might take over their body and consciousness. Humans are susceptible to feeling things so wholly they cannot control it. They are inevitably, at some point, going to retaliate in any way they can if they feel angry, sad, lonely, terrified at something they do not understand. Something they do not feel comfortable in. Something they despise. They can’t help it; that intrinsic defense mechanism deeply rooted within the contents of their feeble, fragile minds.

The Narrator knew this, and he took advantage, and he did not feel guilty. He loved toying with Stanley, making him feel things that were inevitably going to get him in trouble, bound to make the Narrator detest him even more for the decisions he makes in response to them.

The Narrator loved tormenting Stanley. He never even considered how dangerous that may be, until now.

Because if Stanley feels guilty about hurting a being like him; if he apologizes for causing pain to the very person one would consider his torturer, then what kind of a monster does that make him?

The Narrator can’t identify the feeling, at first. It’s tiny, too, initially. A miniscule thing, pulling at his heart and he doesn’t understand what it is because the concept of it is so alien, he never would have thought it possible a few resets ago.

It’s guilt. The Narrator realizes this with a start; a kind of looming dread, a kind that one gets when they are facing something they could never be prepared for.

As soon as he identifies the feeling, it spreads. It grows, and he swallows as that feeling and tugging in him grips on tighter, sprouting roots and doing laps in his chest, digging into his skin and heart and gut and stubbornly settling there.

He hates it immediately. The Narrator has had this feeling for mere seconds, and he already despises it. He tries to shake it off, does his best to let go of this annoyingly stubborn feeling by thinking of the past. He thinks, Stanley has done so much to hurt him, often intentionally, as well. Stanley has disrespected him and his story, thrown himself off that staircase, gone down a path which renders him unable to progress and leaving the Narrator to wait for nothing as he stares at the two doors, more than he has bothered to keep track of.

Stanley had subjected him to thousands of years alone, a torture so profound and agonizing that he was never the same afterwards, and still affects him, and had just drowned him, for fucks sake! He’d sat there, unharmed and completely safe, as he watched the Narrator choke and cough and claw at his throat, and thrashed, and then Stanley had converted the water to salt, making the already painful experience ten times more torturous. He had not removed that wooden cover, which would have allowed him to surface and catch his breath and for the pain to have subsided at least slightly.

He thinks about it, focuses on it, on the pain and the shit that his employee has put him through, but it only makes him more angry, more baffled, when the feeling doesn’t leave.

‘I still feel guilty for hurting you, for some damn reason. I shouldn’t, but I do. I put you through that, and I’m sorry.’

Those words come back to him, replay in his head, and make his heart pang. He doesn’t understand this. Why is he feeling like this, when before he never cared, he never did feel a single bit shameful in how he has treated his Protagonist?

The Narrator looks down at the broken computer on the ground, and swallows thickly.

Yes, Stanley had done awful things to him, but only because the choices were presented to him, weren’t they? It is only in that man’s nature to try something he had never before, to follow a pathway he was curious about, that he could never have known what it held for him, for both of them, in the end. It’s only human instinct to lash out against a threat, to do anything to fight against something that traps him, puts him in a corner and doesn’t let him escape. Fight of flight, it was, and the latter option was not available, so Stanley did the only thing he could to defend himself. He’d gnashed his teeth, had scraped with his claws at something that was harming him; he had used whatever outlet he had access to try and protect himself, to repel that threat, the threat that kept pushing him, utterly callous to his well being.

The Narrator realizes this, and that feeling grows stronger. He realizes this, in a singular moment, and… he thinks…

Perhaps…

Perhaps he should apologize.

The Narrator tightens his jaw. He still hasn’t moved from his position; he remains standing next to the broken computer, frozen, and the Narrator is extremely aware of how Stanley must be observing him closely, analyzing any expressions that might allow him to gauge what he’s thinking. He couldn’t guess what Stanley possibly could be pondering himself, but he knows for certain the man would never expect the Narrator to apologize, and, if he did, he wouldn’t take it seriously.

And the Narrator understands that. It would be pathetic, completely pathetic and meaningless if the Narrator said something remotely similar to ‘sorry’ right here, now, after everything that had happened. The Narrator does not apologize for his behavior. He does not apologize, genuinely, for his actions to Stanley. Nor does he in any way want to, even now. Stanley knows as well as he does that the Narrator doesn’t– didn’t– feel guilty for anything he’s done in this realm.

The Narrator does know one more thing, though. One more thing about humans that is extremely important to them, allows them to understand one another, to realize that the other person at fault is genuine, that they really want to make a difference; they want to apologize. He knows that to humans, actions speak loudly. They speak much louder than words, meaning more than a feeble ‘sorry’ could ever in a thousand years. Humans treasure actions, often more than words, with the words spoken; and the right action, the right decision could mean everything to them.

Guilt, like anger, has a funny way of making someone do something they normally wouldn’t. It has a knack for causing a person to push themselves further than they ever would have in ten lifetimes just to gain back the trust of one specific person, to make that guilt go away because it really is unpleasant to feel. They would do anything to make themselves feel better, depending on how strong that guilt and remorse is, depending on how much they had hurt that person.

And the Narrator knows, he knows just how much hurt he has put Stanley through in this world.

So he makes a decision.

Slowly, the Narrator takes a step toward the door. He takes another step, exiting his office, and he walks steadily forward, not looking back. Stanley doesn’t make a noise, doesn’t give any indication that he is watching the Narrator. But the Narrator knows better.

Stanley doesn’t talk, and the Narrator keeps moving forward, growing more confident with each step, but also, feeling less and less sure of himself as the seconds pass, another feeling he isn’t used to, and loathes.

Nevertheless, he keeps going. The Narrator really is just as stubborn as his Protagonist.

Stanley opens the two doors once he reaches that room. The Narrator enters the right door. Stanley closes the doors behind him without a word.

He knows Stanley is watching him closely, as the Narrator steps onto the cargo lift, keeping his gaze up and sure. Stanley does not say anything as he jumps off of the lift, onto the metal catwalk below. He does not speak as the Narrator walks through the hallways, steady and sure and confident.

He does not speak when the Narrator enters the room with the red and blue door. He opens the doors for him, but he doesn’t make any noise.

The Narrator projects to him, feeling hesitant now. That feeling continues to crawl under his skin.

Stanley, in that room and the staircase… not all of it was simply acting, you know. Despite what you might believe.

The Narrator does hear, then, the tiniest hitch in breath as he takes a step toward the door on the left.

And, choosing resolutely not to think about it as he steadily puts one foot in front of the other, the Narrator enters the red door.

Chapter Text

Stanley watches in something like perplexed disbelief as the Narrator enters the red door, after so long witnessing him avoid it like the plague. Grimly, he had a feeling he understood why, and never… he never actually thought the Narrator would walk through the left door. Even– especially now. After Stanley’s shaky, contradicting apology and the Narrator standing still for at least a minute afterward, face impossibly stoic, his heart had sunk to the lowest it possibly could, and then some, thinking with hollow certainty that there was no way back from this. He had fucked up as much as he could, and that apology– that the Narrator would probably despise anyway– had been the last nail in the coffin, even if he meant it. There was no chance in repairing their relationship now, assuming there was ever one in the first place.

So imagine his surprise when, not only did the Narrator not start figuratively yelling at him for having the gall to apologize after what he did, but the Narrator had walked– with it being impossible to tell what he was thinking– to the red and blue doors, and then finally projected to him something that Stanley would have never expected from him.

‘Not all of it was acting, you know.’

What the fuck did he expect Stanley to do with that information? Feel guilty? It would make sense for the Narrator to be trying to guilt trip him, but now ? Why?

Stanley had opened his mouth while the Narrator took a step towards that door, but then closed it as the lights had dimmed the moment both feet had crossed the threshold, and Stanley closed the door behind him.

Now the Narrator walks through the repeating halls and Stanley feels his voice die in his throat. He looks up, despite there being no visible light source for the office anyway. But for some reason, it had dimmed, nothing else, leaving Stanley completely confused.

After a few loops, the Narrator approaches the open door with the light shining on it, and Stanley finally gets the courage to speak.

“Why?” He asks, somewhat hoarsely, and the Narrator doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t hesitate when walking through the darkness that reminds Stanley an awful lot of the void.

The Narrator crosses the walkway to the Zen Room, and Stanley gasps quietly when the man steps foot in it.

Like a switch is flipped, the lights dim even more, but it isn’t too dark to feel uncomfortable; just the opposite, actually. A low, soothing hum floods the room and Stanley feels a wave of calmness, of reassurance, of peacefulness– not so unlike when he picks up the bucket and holds it in his arms for long enough– that radiates through him, and settles onto him like a warm blanket. He recalls the feeling of Mariella hugging him, and the urge to cry twinges in his chest; he pushes it down.

And as the floating balls of light appear in the actual Zen Room, circles of soft blue lights appear and dance lazily on the walls.

For a moment, he takes it in, absorbing the impossibly quiet yet tranquil moment, and forgets what it’s like to feel sad, angry, hopeless. He could feel like this forever…

But then Stanley recalls the room beyond, and the staircase, and the urge to cry is amplified.

Of course. The Narrator wants to punish him, right? He supposes destroying the computer, making Stanley feel as if someone was physically beating him to the ground, wasn’t enough. He wants to lull the ex-employee into a false sense of security, then destroy it mercilessly.

“Please don’t,” He whispers, though he knows that won’t stop him. The Narrator merely stands there, in the middle of the room, and quite peculiarly, begins to look somewhat sad. He tilts his head back, soaking in the soothing presence, and Stanley can’t help but do the same, though he doesn’t want to. This room, he realizes, forces you to remain calm, and feeling so… comforted. It’s cruel, but of course, how could Stanley think of it like that in this moment, when nothing but warmth and serenity fill his senses?

He supposes that’s why the Narrator hates the staircase so much. Stanley feels as if the Narrator left right now and this feeling disappeared, he would never be happy again.

He tries not to take it in, to let it get to him, to let it hurt him in the end, but he can’t.

He just– heaven, he just feels so happy. Stanley breathes in deeply, looking around as the colorful lights shift hues. He feels a soft smile break his face. Stanley hasn’t felt happy in so long, not really, not since he left his best friends, and… this room emulates such comfort; how could he not take it all in? Revel in it while he can? It’s going to end at some point, he knows, so the least he could do now is give in and let the warmth surround him, feel the emotion he’s been denied for so much of his fated existence.

A tear falls down his cheek, then another one. He wipes them away with a small sniff, then looks around the dim room with lidded eyes, wishing this could never end.

Stanley exhales quietly, closes his eyes, and waits for the Narrator to break this peace.

…

Stanley opens his eyes, and looks at the Narrator quizzically. By no means does he want the man to hurry up but… why isn’t he moving? Doesn’t he want Stanley to suffer? Perhaps the Narrator just wants to experience the serenity of the room himself for a few more moments. He wouldn’t blame the man… but heaven; there, it had never lived up to this.

He opens his mouth to question the Narrator, but the Thoughts Screen pops up then with his name on it. He swallows.

~

The Narrator finds, to his slight disappointment, that on Stanley’s end this room is much less rewarding than it is in his office. He also thinks, perhaps, maybe he wouldn’t deserve the same measure of loveliness anyway. He sighs, and looks to the ground. The Narrator hesitates, then projects.

Stanley?

There’s no response for a few moments, and the Narrator closes his eyes and looks up again, breathing in deeply. He opens them just as the man replies:

“Yes?” It’s a quiet, short response; the Narrator figures his first time experiencing this room from the other side of things must be exhilarating for him. The Narrator prepares himself. Well, here goes nothing. I cannot back out now, can I? He hesitates again. He wishes he wasn’t doing this. He knows that if he didn’t do this, he would hate himself even more though.

Stanley… I- I need you to know… I need you to realize now that…

He swallows.

I’m sorry. For how I’ve treated you.

Silence, for a moment. Then:

“...What? W… What are you talking about?”

The evident confusion in Stanley’s voice only serves to have his heart pang further, and by god does he despise it. Regardless, he continues. The Narrator told himself he would confess this; he must go through with it.

Stanley. I am aware– more than aware– of how I have treated you in the past; poorly. It’s… it is an understatement, believe me, I know, however… I am starting to realize that… Perhaps I was wrong.

I am sorry, Stanley. Truly.

He looks up, the wonderful balls of light floating up beyond the restful darkness. A deep, bleak sort of sadness takes hold of him, and he suspects that if he had tear ducts, his eyes may have started watering. He wishes he didn’t care like this.

“I… I don’t understand. Why are you… apologizing to me?”

The Narrator furrows his brow at this.

Do you… believe you do not deserve apology? He isn’t so much concerned, though, as he is confused, because what kind of response is that to someone feeling remorseful for their behavior?

It takes a moment for Stanley to reply again. “No, no that’s… that’s not it… but- but it’s you. I have never heard you say ‘I’m sorry’ before, except maybe off-handedly once or twice or if it was scripted. W- why now? Why would you choose to apologize now? You’re trying to manipulate me, aren’t you?” Stanley’s tone turns biting, accusing towards the end, but it’s muted from the clear befuddlement he holds as well.

The Narrator sits in the center of the room. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his palms on them, trying not to feel silly or childish, being in this position. Frankly though, he’s tired of standing; he’s tired of a lot of things, he realizes.

No, I am not tricking you, Stanley, nor am I manipulating you. I am being sincere, genuine.

The Narrator hesitates again, wholly unused to the thought and the words coming from him. But…

I’m sorry. I really, truly, am. And… I want you to recognize that. Will you please try?

There’s no reply. Silence elapses for several minutes, and the Narrator closes his eyes again. The sorrow is still there, like a pit at the bottom of his heart, but more of a melancholic feeling, perhaps an effect of these quiet balls of light. The soothing feeling this place emulates may be less potent here compared to his office, but it still is rather nice.

And yet, his guilt is growing stronger by the minute. The Narrator doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this new emotional development, the way it tugs persistently at his heart and mind and consciousness, leading him to dislike his previous actions and himself for it. He wants to be rid of it. He wants Stanley to just speak so that he may have a distraction against these traitorous feelings. He can’t bring himself to detest the man for it, though; he wishes he could.

Finally, the man talks, tone tentative at first, but thick with emotion.

“You… you think, that a simple apology can erase what you’ve done?” His anger slices through the air like a knife, no longer loud and tumultuous, but quiet, controlled; sliding under his skin and piercing his heart more than if Stanley had reacted with immediate rage.

“You think,” Stanley continues, his hatred and anger growing louder with every word, though his voice shakes, “that- that after everything, after you hurt me, continuously, you yelled at me, you made everything worse– after I was already confused and n- nothing made sense, you made it seem like a sin to act how anyone would in my situation. Or childish, and you scolded me! You hate me, and you only cared about– your fucking story, for years!” A shaky inhale through his nose. “For years I was trapped and knew hardly anything, and instead of helping me, you only served to make it worse! You are so fucking evil.” Stanley’s voice wobbles more heavily then, and he pauses for a moment. Breath regained, he continues, slightly quieter.

“You are incredibly narcissistic, arrogant, a- abusive, and you think you’re so superior to me because I was powerless and you had control of everything. And you think saying– saying sorry to me will make me forget everything you’ve done to me…? I’ve hurt you too, I know, this room is a goddamn example of it, but you have done far worse to me than I could ever think to do to you.”

Stanley’s voice never travels beyond raised then, yet somehow that makes the berating worse. And if that last sentence doesn’t puncture his heart even further, the Narrator doesn’t know what would. The Narrator wishes beyond anything he could go back to how he was before all this, and not care about a single thing that Stanley has to say or might be going through, and to not have to deal with this messiness of emotions. He wants to scoff and berate him back. He wants to wave Stanley off, dismiss him for being so overdramatic and petty he had to make a speech about it.

…But he can’t. That stupid tugging in his heart, that guilt, won’t let him. Why did this have to be so complicated? Surely Stanley could just forgive him, and they could move on, and be done with this entire unnecessary talk. Why, out of any other time, did he now have to develop remorse? It’s a weakness, a scoffable vulnerability, and the Narrator is anything but weak. Yet he cannot make it leave.

He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on the beautiful balls of light. He can do this. Stanley deserves sincerity from him.

I know that, Stanley. I know that me simply saying ‘sorry’ to you cannot make up for my actions, nor can it erase them. I have no excuse for what I have done to you, and I recognize that.

God, when did he become so soft? It disgusts him. He clenches his jaw, trying to sort his thoughts properly.

Will you–

It’s not–

He sighs.

I’m not asking you to forgive me presently, but, perhaps some day in the future?

The response is somehow both hesitant and sure. “...I don’t know. I don’t think I should forgive you, after everything, even if you mean it.”

The Narrator snaps, entirely fed up with all this; with Stanley. He is actually choosing to be nice to him for once, and the man has the audacity to go off and act ungrateful for his generosity! The Narrator does mean it, yes, but it’s almost like Stanley is trying to aggravate him on purpose!

Why must you be so stubborn, Stanley; I am apologizing to you, like you bloody wanted! I said I was sorry, and I told you that you do not have to forgive me. Can you truly just accept my apology so we can move on from this?!

A beat of silence.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Stanley sounds disgusted with him. “You– I- I thought you were actually trying to be sincere with me! You told me you meant that apology, yet you go and dismiss me again?! How fucked up can you possibly be?” His voice rocks with fury so prevalent, and even though he’s less hysterical than the last outburst in the office, the Narrator winces.

Oh, hell, Stanley. I–

He’s regretting snapping now. Damn his stupid heart for making him feel this way. He doesn’t do regret. What the hell is happening to him?

I shouldn’t have acted like that. It was wrong, and quite frankly, dumb, and I- I’m not used to this, Stanley. You must understand this–

He lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face, and lays his back down on the ground slowly, resting his arms at his sides after securing the spectacles back on his nose. The Narrator looks up into the blackness, his guilt wrapping and slithering around his heart, squeezing it– him – like prey to be suffocated, threatening him with a deeper remorse and hatred of himself if he does not bow down to it. He has no choice but to capitulate.

I’m sorry, Stanley.

“Yeah… you shouldn’t have acted like that. Just because you apologize to me, doesn’t mean I need to forgive you. You should know that,” He can hear the emotion in Stanley’s voice, and his heart is squeezed once more.

Will you ever choose to forgive me, my boy?

Silence again, for a moment. The Narrator holds his breath, infinitely worried that Stanley will say no. That the Narrator has caused far too much damage; that he’s beyond redemption and doesn’t ever deserve forgiveness for his transgressions. Then:

“Maybe I’ll consider it someday. If you can prove to me you mean what you say. I still…” He trails off.

The Narrator lets his breath out deeply, immense relief washing over him anyway. The guilt loosens its grip on his heart, but it isn’t gone. Stanley said he needs to prove it, whatever that means.

How could I prove to you that I’m being sincere?

“Well… we are stuck here forever. You have years to keep your word to me. For starters, I don’t want any more berating, patronizing, no more mocking me or threatening me… I am tired of it. And if you keep doing it after today, obviously you aren’t sorry… I am not worthless, and I’m not your goddamn puppet . You know–” A pause, and he continues on, more vicious, but still not violent. “You wouldn’t even be here without me, okay? So don’t treat me like a possession of yours. I’m more than that… So much more than that, but you’re too blinded by your arrogance to see that!”

The Narrator furrows his eyebrows.

What on earth do you mean ‘I wouldn’t be here without you’?

“I- You…” He hears a tiny sigh. “I was told that if I escaped, really escaped the Parable, or died permanently, then you… you would fade out, and so would the Curator and Mariella, and the entire Parable. I have to exist here, or eventually you would fade out of reality.”

The Narrator sits up, his jaw dropping a bit. He gets a hold of himself, and closes his mouth.

Was it the Timekeeper that told you this?

Stanley curses under his breath. “Yes… they told me not to tell you but… well, I suppose you know now.”

The Narrator is beyond bewildered. How could that be possible, if the Narrator had created him; why wouldn’t he be able to exist without the office worker? Stanley has to be lying to him.

That doesn’t make sense. I- I remember creating you; I have a distinct memory…

The Narrator is aware his eyes are widened minutely, as he struggles to dig into his mind, to gather the memory seemingly tucked away from him. He can describe it perfectly, remembering with clear distinction him coding for days on end, creating Stanley’s model, consciousness, and getting ready to start the game. But at the same time… he can’t. He can’t picture himself doing that. It doesn’t make sense. The memories are suddenly fuzzy, and the longer he tries to concentrate on them the further they seem to drift away.

No. I definitely remember Stanley, I made you, I created this world, this Parable, it wouldn’t be here without me. So why can’t I recall? The memory is blurred; I can’t quite pinpoint it.

“I…” Stanley starts, but trails off, seemingly unsure of what to say.

Don’t you try to tell me what I don’t know, Stanley, you know tantamount less than me. So don't attempt to belittle my knowledge, He projects with as much viciousness as he can muster through words. Stanley is silent.

“Okay,” He says quietly. That response unnerves him more than he wants to admit to himself.

The Narrator closes his eyes tightly. If he concentrates enough, surely the memory will come to him, crystal clear as day. It’s been a while, a long while, since he created and started this game, so that must be why he can’t picture the memory clearly. It has to be, or Stanley is trying to deceive him. But what would the man gain from lying, anyway? To see the Narrator distraught, perhaps? To see him struggle and show vulnerability, because he supposes the man hadn’t got enough of it from drowning him, and craves more.

Stanley… What else did the Timekeeper tell you?

“...Some things I am keeping private.”

The Narrator’s face twists; Rage makes its way through his veins once again, the profound emotion he’s well-versed in coursing through them with growing speed and amounts.

Stanley, you–

No, he cannot say that. He isn’t allowed to insult the man, or demand or threaten him anymore. Besides, what would there be to threaten now? Stanley certainly isn’t scared of him anymore.

The Narrator takes a deep breath to attempt to calm down. He focuses on the glowing balls of light, this time a vibrant magenta, floating seamlessly up into the endless dark above him. He tries to force the panic down. Panic, because this can’t be right, and Stanley is purposefully withholding vital information, information that could mean something profound, and the Narrator detests not knowing things. He should yell at Stanley, pressure the man into giving it to him, or something of that nature. For some reason though, he doesn’t.

The Narrator sighs heavily, eyes closed again. Not long ago, he would’ve pushed the subject until Stanley eventually gave in and told him exactly what he’s keeping, but now he finds he genuinely doesn’t want to do that.

What is happening to me? The Narrator thinks to himself again. He doesn’t like it. He feels… weird, shaken up and vulnerable.

Goodness, Stanley has made me soft. And that, is definitely a thought the Narrator never would’ve imagined he had, in all his time of existence.

Okay. Keep it to yourself, then. If you ever want to share however, I’ve got no qualms in hearing about it. Quite the contrary, in fact.

“Really?” Stanley asks, surprise evident.

Yes.

I won’t push you.

“Wow… you- you really must be sorry then.” The Narrator rolls his eyes, but he admits, it’s not as serious in intent as it could have been.

Was that not what I have been saying to you?

“Yeah, suppose so… I just thought it would take longer for you to resist biting at me.” The Narrator quirks an eyebrow, and sits up again, this time crossing his legs.

I feel rather offended, Stanley. You’ve known me for my stubbornness, haven’t you? In no way am I going to jeopardize my resolve simply because I could not resist the temptation of my usual habits. I mean what I’ve told you today, and I won’t forget It. I just… I ask that you tell me someday. I don’t want to be left in the dark, you realize.

“…You’ve- you’ve definitely changed since you drowned in the Memory Zone. Maybe all that water inside your head scrambled your brain.” His tone hints at tentative amusement.

The Narrator chokes on a breath, his eyes widening in alarm.

God, Stanley! If you’re trying to get me to break my word, it won’t work. But you don’t have to go full throttle like that, especially this soon. I assure you I would be having nightmares about that if there ever was a possibility I could dream.

Stanley chuckles at this. The Narrator is shocked that Stanley could be so nonchalant about the entire subject. What transpired at the Memory Zone was certainly traumatizing, for Stanley as well as the Narrator, he would imagine.

He can’t bring himself to care that much however; he’s actually more surprised at the sound of Stanley’s laughter. He doesn’t remember the last time he heard the man’s genuine laughter, if he ever has, and while the reason may be a little twisted, it actually… kind of warms his heart. Good grief. I am getting more soft by the minute, it’s disgusting.

But, perhaps it isn’t so bad after all. He cracks a smile, without entirely knowing why, maybe simply at the absurdity of it all. He can’t bring himself to hate Stanley for it, because, well, frankly, he doesn’t blame Stanley as much anymore. It was painful, yes, to an extreme amount, but ultimately he understands why the other man did it.

He sighs. Smiling does actually feel a bit pleasant. Maybe someday he will even think fondly of Stanley.

Now doesn’t that notion sound truly ridiculous.

I really, truly do not understand you, Stanley. How can you bring yourself to laugh at such a subject?

“...I don’t really know. Maybe it’s because of the room… It makes me feel good.”

The Narrator gives another tiny smile. See what I meant?

“Yeah, I do. I wonder what would happen if I held the bucket in here too…?”

The Narrator’s eyes widen again.

No, Stanley! Don’t you dare do that, what on earth are you thinking?! That much reassurance and tranquility, we have no idea what might happen if you contain that much euphoria at once! Perhaps you will explode from the goodness of it all!

Stanley laughs, louder this time. The sound makes him smile, minutely, again.

“Okay, okay, you’re probably right. I won’t pick it up, promise.”

Good.

Silence. The Narrator’s smile melts. He grows uneasy again. Stanley doesn’t speak again; he understands that. It takes more effort to talk, here, with the blissful emotion the room forces into you. It’s why the Narrator himself spoke very sparingly when Stanley entered the room. But still, he doesn’t like it now.

Stanley?

He feels helpless, out of control like he doesn’t typically feel. The Narrator hasn’t been in control for a while now, but this feels different. It feels like another piece deeply rooted in him is slowly breaking off, but perhaps not in a bad way. Sometimes it’s good to have something break off. Some things are good to let go.

Yet still, he doesn’t like this new uncertainty.

Stanley hums in acknowledgement. He finds the sound doesn’t grate on his nerves quite as much as it did before.

What now?

He hums again, and a few moments pass before Stanley answers.

“I’m not sure. I suppose… I suppose we need to talk about it…”

The Narrator swallows. He lays his back down again, hands over his heart.

Talk about what, exactly?

There’s so much to talk about, the Narrator thinks. More than I would like to. More than anything, he wishes he had his voice back, though he finds the feeling isn’t stemmed from as much anger as it formerly had.

“About… any of it.”

The Narrator sighs irritably. He would like Stanley to give him a straight answer, give him anything to go off of. But, he reflects, Stanley might feel just as lost as he does now.

He thinks back to all the times he yelled at the man, pressuring him to move on with the story. The memories spark a new wave of guilt spreading through him. He sighs again, this time dispiritedly.

God, I hurt you so much, didn’t I.

“Yeah. You did… You know you did,” He replies coldly.

I do. I wish I didn’t feel guilty for it. I never cared before. About you. What you felt. What I was doing to you. I made you feel belittled and stupid, intentionally. You were nothing but a toy to me.

Silence, then Stanley makes a noise of irritation. “Why would you tell me that?”

He stares at the inky blackness above, the balls of light floating up in his peripheral vision.

Because, Stanley. I… I feel guilty now. And I hate it, but I do. I wish I didn’t do that to you now.

“That isn’t enough to make up for it.”

He wishes it was. A part of him still wants to dismiss Stanley, to pretend he’s simply manipulating the man into a false sense of hope and sincerity, but he can’t.

Guilt still curls around his gut. It won’t leave. He already apologized; why won’t it go away? When will it dissipate?

I regret… I regret almost sending you to the skip button.

“Yeah, it’s good you regret it. That–”

I know. Believe me, I know how horrific that would have been for you.

“And you still wanted to anyway.” Bitterness seeps through Stanley’s tone, spreading over to the Narrator’s chest as well.

I– I was angry, Stanley! You know, you had ruined my office. I was rightfully enraged at that moment!

“Nothing about that– was rightful. And you– you were enraged? I was in… in more emotional fucking pain than I had been in a while, and that’s saying something. I told you, I was trying to get along with you.” His voice cracks, something splintering as he says it. “I just– I wanted us to be happier, so I tried. I took in all the things you kept saying to me, and all the times you dismissed me with another… stupid remark. I was trying so hard not to snap at you, and you never did anything but exacerbate all that was building up in me, because of you. I actually believed I could make a difference. But it never led to anything.” The man’s tone leads to something of hopelessness.

And something splinters in the Narrator as well.

If you had, if you had told me earlier Stanley–

“Don’t fucking lie to yourself. Telling you earlier wouldn’t have made a dent in your behavior,” He bites, then breathes in shakily.

“Are you going to go up the staircase?” He asks, voice suddenly holding much more vulnerability.

No, He answers automatically. He doesn’t have any desire to travel to that wretched staircase.

A relieved exhale sounds throughout the room.

“Why did you come here, then?”

To apologize, Stanley. I thought it’d be obvious.

He makes an irritated noise. “Yes… but why here? It could have been anywhere else. I thought you were going to hurt me more, Narrator. The computer wasn’t enough for you.” Resentment wraps around the sentence. The Narrator winces slightly as another bout of remorse snakes through his chest. Perhaps coming into this room straightaway had the opposite effect the Narrator had intended.

I… regret what I did with the computer.

Stanley scoffs.

I do, Stanley! The Narrator projects, a sliver of irritation crawling back to him. The man remains silent.

How am I supposed to be sorry if you never believe me?!

“I don’t think I can be at fault for not automatically believing you when you start to show empathy, especially in this room… I want to believe you, but you should be able to understand why I don’t.”

So you don’t believe me. You don’t believe that I’m sorry.

“I… I don’t know what I believe. I think, you seem like it? I told you– it would take time for me to decide… but, you’re also good at pretending to seem like things. You withhold information, too.”

This isn’t fair. An indignant, soundless growl leaves his throat. This is the first time the Narrator feels guilt, truly feels it– it wraps around his bones and feeds on him insatiably, pinging the back of his mind, and he hates it beyond anything– and Stanley still doesn’t wholly believe him. Won’t give him the opportunity to make it leave.

He’s working out what to say to convince Stanley again– this isn’t going according to plan– when a sharp inhale comes from all around.

“Like– and the void.” Clear pain grips those few words, enough to collapse the Narrator’s current train of thought. Oh, right. He’d… forgotten about that.

“Why?” Nearly a whisper, almost pleading.

The Narrator didn’t have any excuse for that one, really. He didn’t mention it to Stanley because simply, well… he didn’t believe Stanley would have ventured into the pitch blackness. He had thought the man had to have some limits to his curiosity, right? Evidently not.

And later, when Stanley had told him he did go through there, the only reason he cared that the man somehow survived was because otherwise the Narrator would be stuck alone, which was always infinitely worse than being stuck with Stanley.

The Narrator stands up then, fingers fiddling on clasped hands behind his back. He gives a weak, trying smile.

I, well… surely– surely being in the void wasn’t so execrable, right? He attempts, recalling that the only thing the Timekeeper warned him about going into the void was that he would eventually fade away, and wouldn’t be able to escape the moment he set both feet in there. Most likely it had just been haunting for Stanley, or frightening. Perhaps he was just making a big deal out of it, to guilt trip the Narrator.

“No. Yes. It was. Fuck you, I–” Stanley inhales shakily. The Narrator projects at that moment, smile dropped.

It was a long time ago, Stanley, maybe it would be best if you simply let it go. I’m certain it wasn’t as bad as you think it was.

“It was! Do you want to know how horrible it felt; I thought I was going to die. I almost did, as close as I can come to it anyway. It was fucking terrifying, Narrator, one of the worst few minutes of my existence and perhaps it would be best to let it go but I can’t, and you do not get to say I’m being dramatic. I can promise you I’m not. I just– I hate you so damn much for not telling me about it beforehand. I hate you for a lot of things, but that–” His voice breaks off. “I was so horribly close to dying, worse than dying; you can’t imagine how I felt then.”

…Well, you–

“Don’t you dare try and tell me that it’s my own fault!” Stanley shouts, raw anger spilling over his words. “Maybe some of it was, but take some fucking ownership yourself! You could have warned me about it, and you didn’t, and because of that I was almost trapped there forever.”

Well, you didn’t get trapped there. What do you want me to do about it now, Stanley? I can’t exactly warn you about it now, can I?

“Obviously not. But I– I just–”

Stanley sounds more distraught by the minute, and the Narrator realizes just how much pain he must be in for those emotions to so strongly override that calmness being in the Zen Room forcefully provides. His face relaxes, irritation draining out of him with worry replacing it.

I’m sorry, Stanley.

Stanley’s frantic stuttering cuts off.

I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t realize how much pain that void put you through, that you’ve been carrying because of that.

“You didn’t care when I came back from it...” His voice is quieter; it grows hostile next. “You only care now. Only after all this happened… So why should I believe you want to change?”

I don’t want to. The Narrator answers truthfully, hands dropping to his sides.

Stanley’s ire and confusion is nearly palpable as he replies. “W- why– then why– what the fuck do you mean?”

Let me finish, Stanley. I don’t want to change how I treat you, I believe it’ll be dreadfully tedious, all that caring. Learning to care.

The Narrator scoffs soundlessly, but continues.

But I also do now. I think, I want to help you. Even if I don’t… The Narrator gestures around himself with mild frustration, trying to find the words. Even if some part of me wishes to remain the same.

“You think?” Stanley says dryly.

The Narrator ignores him. I’ll try. At the very least, I feel… I feel guilty now, for hurting you. I want to make up for it, even though a part of me does not. Do you understand? Give me a chance, please.

“You’ve said that before,” He says bitterly. “You’ve promised before… I- I don’t want to fall for another one of your schemes.”

The Narrator grits his teeth, annoyance merging into hotter anger now. Can’t Stanley just listen for once?! It takes all his willpower not to shoot venomous words at him, tell him that fine, if you don’t want to ‘fall for it’, if you don’t want to believe me then perhaps I won’t change. Perhaps I’ll stay hating you, I already do you ungrateful piece of–

He takes a deep breath, and restrains himself. The Narrator is not impulsive.

I am not tricking you. I refused to apologize for so long, even when it meant my own office devolving into chaos– do you think I would give in now simply so you would let your guard down?

Stanley doesn’t respond for a moment, which the Narrator hopes is because he’s considering it.

“Okay. Okay fine. I–” An inhale. “I can try to… I want to believe you, okay? But surely you can understand why I’m having trouble with it, right?”

That isn’t fair. I’m being genuine, now!

“No, I– that’s– fuck, Narrator I can’t get anywhere with… we keep going in circles– with this!” Stanley bites in frustration with shaky breaths.

That isn’t my problem, Stanley! You keep bringing up issues that have already been addressed. I’ve apologized, I know I’m wrong and I have said so, there’s nothing I can do about it right now, and it’s you who keeps dismissing me! Perhaps if you–

“No… Not 'perhaps if I’ anything. I’m not the problem here!”

And I am?! The Narrator takes a large breath, trying not to scoff. I’ve acknowledged that I’ve done wrong!

Ugh; it still hurts him to think that way. He doesn’t admit to err, either.

I’ve apologized to you!

“That’s the most basic, decent thing you could do to me,” The words are forced out through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t change anything.”

A sharp inhale, again, before the Narrator can project viciously back. “It doesn’t– it does mean something… but you can’t expect saying sorry one time for everything that you’ve done to me fixes everything!”

I’ve said it multiple times Stanley.

“You know what I meant.”

What do you want me to do then? How am I supposed to right a wrong if you won’t give me the chance to? You know I’m not used to this. He crosses his arms. Never would have thought it possible resets ago.

A huff of dry laughter through his nose. “Sure.”

He waits another moment, then grows annoyed. The Narrator begins to pace.

Will you answer my question, boy?

Silent for another moment.

“I…”

The Narrator raises an eyebrow.

Yes?

“I… want– I don’t want to be here anymore,” Stanley slowly says.

He stops walking. What? Why not?

“Because...” He makes a frustrated noise. “I can’t– I can’t think properly. It takes effort just to think about this stuff to talk to you, to sort out my thoughts about– all this. The room messes with me.”

I thought– I thought perhaps you might have liked it in here.

The Narrator feels a strange sort of twinge in his chest, not unlike the feeling of showing someone one of your favorite things, and they turn out to dislike it.

“No, no I… I like it.” He hears an intake of breath. “It’s- It’s nice. I really like it…” He says, voice growing softer towards the end. Something like relief washes over him, which leaves the Narrator slightly bemused.

Alright. Well? You understand why I don’t like to leave it, yes? Why throwing yourself off that dreaded staircase leaves me unwillingly in shambles?

“I… fuck- fuck you, Narrator.”

The Narrator throws his hands up, utterly exasperated.

What the hell do you want me to say to you?! Everything I tell you now leaves you angry. I thought you didn’t want to be like me?

“Don’t compare my behavior to mine,” Stanley says sternly. “You’re playing the victim again.”

I am– was the victim in those circumstances!

“...In– in a way, maybe, sure. But you– you never stopped to think about why I would be going there? What, you think I liked killing myself slowly and painfully…? I sure as hell didn’t!”

Then why would you?!

He knows the answer before Stanley says it, of course, having realized it already. But he’s still pissed off again.

“Because I was tired! Or I was– I was angry or I just wanted you to stop being so angry at me, to feel the way I felt when you were hurting me! It isn’t fair, Narrator, just– just realize that not everything is about you...”

I didn’t think that way, He projects bitterly, though feeling slightly more shameful again, now.

He sighs, adjusting his glasses.

Look, I… I’m sorry, okay Stanley? I realize, obviously I’m not the best at this, and it might take me time to… change my habits. My thinking patterns. But I am sorry.

He looks at the balls of light, feeling sadder than he has in a while. His eyes are lidded.

I am sorry.

He’s met with more silence, but the Narrator doesn’t feel bitter about it. The peacefulness this place provides, the very nature he instilled in Stanley’s bucket– though not as much of course– does its best to flood out any negativity stewing in its resident’s mind. It can be toxic just as much as rehabilitating, though he had hoped rather for the latter, in this case.

“That’s not enough,” Stanley’s voice comes, raw and thick with emotion.

I know, He projects solemnly. I wish it could be.

“Apologizing over and over… won’t make a difference.”

I think it will. But to some extent you are right. I hurt you. I want to make it right, now.

A beat of silence, and he hears a quiet sniff. Tendrils of guilt squeeze the Narrator’s pathetically beating heart.

You deserved better. Than me.

“I know.”

A wave of irritation threatens to pass him at the reply, but he swallows it down. He doesn’t project any more.

“I want to leave. But I also want to stay here…” Stanley admits, after some time. “I don’t want you to go to that staircase, either.”

I won’t. You can hard reset, can you not?

“Oh… right.” A huff of dry humor. “I keep forgetting about that.” He pauses. “I still… I still don’t want to leave right away, though.”

That’s okay. We can stay here.

The Narrator thinks that perhaps Stanley deserves some happiness, after all this.

Take as much time as you need.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t get better right away. Not that Stanley expected it to, exactly. But he thinks maybe… finally he could think of this as progress. The Narrator still has slip ups, and Stanley still gets annoyed, leading to a stubborn argument, but for it to all be perfect immediately would have been an unreasonable expectation

When Stanley had finally reset, with the Narrator (as gently as he could) reminding him that they needed to leave at some point half an hour later, he’d been worried that all their progress would go down the drain.

The Narrator had said sorry, he had tried to do better and had been kinder to Stanley than he really ever has before, but it was all in that room. The room Stanley knows always makes the Narrator more placid, a little more lenient and not quite as harsh. As soon as they left it though, Stanley was afraid the Narrator would reject everything he’d said now that there wasn’t an invisible force making the two of them calmer than they would be otherwise. The equanimity would be gone; the Narrator would go back to hating the man like he always did.

But it wasn’t like that, to Stanley’s immense relief. The Narrator had kept his promise, and it almost felt like a vivid dream, because he’d thought it was all over. He’d thought he fucked it up to the point of no return. Stanley was already hopeless, and everything that happened only proved that nothing could ever change between them. But then it had, so quickly that Stanley couldn’t believe it was truly happening.

Every argument or petty insult made Stanley afraid that their progress would collapse again, but it didn’t.

Now it’s been a few weeks since that conversation, and things are improving more rapidly than he would’ve ever thought possible.

The Games Ending continued to be the Narrator’s chosen ending. Of course, he didn’t go that path every reset, but he favored it over most.

And now, he was about an hour and a half into the baby game, something even Stanley hadn’t beaten yet because it was much too tedious for him.

“You’re really set on doing this for the four hours, huh,” Stanley grumbles.

Shut up Stanley, I’m concentrating.

He rolls his eyes at the words on the yellow screen. Before, this remark might’ve been more irritating to him, but he knows it holds less real bite than it would’ve in the past.

He doesn’t physically hear the obnoxious beeping sound, but it’s almost as if he can, his brain producing an echo of the sound for him as he’d heard it so many times before.

Stanley hums. He’s sick of sitting here, watching the man press a button over and over.

“I’m going to leave,” He announces.

Go ahead.

“And since I’m leaving, I’m going to add the puppy now.”

The Narrator’s eyes narrow as he continues to press the red button.

Very well. I can’t stop you, anyway.

“Yup,” Stanley agrees, and presses Produce.

He stands up.

Where are you going?

“Visiting my friends.”

Stanley hasn’t seen the Curator and Mariella in so long, it feels like years. He missed them a lot.

“It’ll be quick.”

Are you sure?

“Yeah. We’re making decent progress.” Stanley sighs tiredly. “Thank heaven.”

I’m glad you’re making up. Never would’ve thought you would. Guess it only took me finally intervening to fix things. I should have done this a long time ago.

Stanley frowns. “It’s… well, it wasn’t all it took.”

Nothing was going to change if I left you there. You know that.

“Well… the important thing is that you did it. Don’t worry yourself because you didn’t do it before,” Stanley says. He hesitates. “I’m going to have to go back at some point though, right?”

Stanley has had some conflicting emotions, both in the present and the past, but right now he knows that going back to being the Protagonist, with the Narrator in control of him again is something he dreads to think about. He doesn’t want his autonomy taken again.

A few moments of figurative silence. Then:

I’ll think about it. You go talk to Curator and Mariella; they miss you.

Stanley grins. He crosses to the white door, and thinks about his friends. He turns the knob and walks into his friends’ living area.

He watches as the women turn their heads in sync to him. Stanley thinks he probably just interrupted a conversation, and opens his mouth to sheepishly apologize, when both of them stand up and approach him with smiles on their faces.

It’s still a little hard to accept that some people can be this happy to see him.

“Stanley!” Mariella says, and leans in for a hug. Stanley obliges, and smiles back when they part.

“Welcome back,” The Curator smiles. “We haven’t seen you in quite some time. Are you doing alright?”

“I…” Stanley nods his head after a moment. “Better, actually. Sorry I didn’t… didn’t visit you guys earlier. I’ve… had a lot on my mind.” He scratches his neck sheepishly.

“No need to apologize, Stanley.”

“We’ve figured you had your reasons for not visiting us sooner,” Mariella says.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Stanley looks at them, who look back with empathetic eyes, and he remembers what it’s like to feel loved again. A lump appears in his throat.

He also figures they deserve to be caught up to speed with what’s happened between him and the Narrator.

“A… a few things have changed, since I saw you guys.”

The Curator frowns in concern. “Like what?”

“Not– not bad. Good, actually.” He sighs. “Do you… want to know?”

“Of course. Let’s sit down,” The brunette says, and leads them to the sofa. It’s blue now, Stanley observes. He looks around. Not much has changed in appearance of the area, but he notices the plants are different now too. Some of them have color.

“I won’t be able to stay long… I’ll probably have to leave after this, actually.”

“Alright,” She accepts without question. “Now tell us… what has been going on?”

Stanley tells them. They listen attentively to the full story of what led up to the Narrator finally apologizing to him. He glosses over a few details, mainly the worst of it, but says enough for them to get the full picture. It’s hard, but they deserve to know. They’re residents in the Parable, too.

When he’s done, they’re quiet.

“So… he’s– he finally regrets, what he’s done?” Mariella asks. Stanley nods.

The Curator remains silent, a thoughtful look on her face.

“He understands that it does not excuse his previous actions, yes?” Stanley nods again.

“He knows that. I’ve made sure he knows that.”

A small huff of laughter from the Curator. “So he’s finally listening to you, huh. Took him long enough.”

“Took me drowning him for him to realize.”

Mariella looks at him with a somewhat amused expression.

“Dare I say he deserved it,” The Curator responds with a small smile.

“Yeah… he did,” Stanley says, unwillingly recalling the fact that if he hadn’t done so, he would've been subjected to… millenia in isolation. Maybe even longer. The thought of it is horrifyingly unimaginable.

They must notice the smile slipping off his face, because Mariella takes his hand.

“Hey. The important bit is that it’s over, right? You didn’t go through the skip button. It’s okay.”

Stanley takes a deep breath. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Stanley stays with them a little longer, he can’t help it, but eventually he tells them he needs to go back. Stanley doesn’t know the next time he’ll visit again, either. Hopefully sooner.

They bid him goodbye, and he opens the white door, entering The Narrator’s office once again. Stanley sighs.

“I’m back,” He lets the Narrator know once he sits down again. The Thoughts Screen appears a moment later.

Good to know. I suppose I’m almost finished, then?

“Mm. No, you have a few more hours to go. I just came to let you know that.”

The Narrator almost fumbles with that response. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

Damn it, Stanley! If I’d failed because of you, you–

“No,” Stanley warns. “Don’t think about it.”

The Narrator scoffs silently.

You think you’re so special now, do you.

With a flicker of annoyance, he responds. “I was joking. Don’t mess up now. You only have a few minutes to go.”

The Narrator looks extremely satisfied with himself.

“Unless of course, I block the button right now and make you have to start over.”

Don’t you DARE think about doing that, you imbecile.

“Watch yourself,” Stanley warns again.

He’s glad the Narrator is so preoccupied, otherwise Stanley knows he would have retaliated harshly.

The Narrator slams on the red button crossly.

Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, Stanley. I am not a child; I am above you, not the opposite. I don’t answer to you, you pathetic man.

…Never mind, then. Apparently the Narrator is perfectly capable of multitasking.

Stanley takes a deep breath to quell the urge to fight back. “You’re not above me, and you know that. Now just, just keep playing. You’re almost done.”

The Narrator smirks, and a few seconds later, the screen goes white.

Stanley pays attention now, because he’s never actually seen this ending. Black text emerges on the white screen. He supposes he’s seeing what the Narrator is seeing.

The text addresses him, praising him and… apparently declaring that it’ll carry his spirit through a River BLXWXN? And he’ll spend the rest of eternity doing improv comedy?

Stanley sits there, utterly bewildered at this text on the central monitor. Is this really what happens after four hours of pressing two buttons repeatedly?

And then the text says, I love you.

Stanley’s lips part in surprise. The words disappear, and white floods the screen for a few more seconds before Stanely just resets. The Narrator wakes up a moment later and exits his office. He looks triumphant.

“All that for some text on a white screen, huh?” Stanley remarks.

Shush, Stanley. It isn’t about the result, it’s about the message playing the game gives you along the way!

“Really? What have you learned from that?”

That pushing a button, and two after the halfway point, for four hours straight is exhausting. I truly don’t know why you like the things so much.

It’s worth it however, because I accomplished it when you hadn’t even made it past the halfway point.

Stanley rolls his eyes. He was perfectly capable, he just hadn’t had the patience to finish it. Of course, though, the Narrator insists on being better than Stanley at pretty much everything.

And buttons are just fun to press, it isn’t his fault. Stanley sees a shiny button; all his instincts tell him to push it right that instant. Besides, he was coded this way. Nothing that he can control.

Stanley thinks of another topic that’s been on his mind recently.

“Narrator…”

The Narrator looks annoyed again at his tone. What, Stanley.

“Would you… be willing to try venturing into the open map this time?”

He looks even more irritated now. After what happened last time? Absolutely not.

Stanley sighs. He thought as much.

What’s so terribly important about me exploring there anyway? You know there’s nothing of value in that open world.

“I know, but…” He hesitates. “It’s just, if you do, well I… I know you might trust me again.” It’s not much of a confession, but it still feels kind of important.

The Narrator crosses his arms.

I don’t trust you.

“You trust me now more than you did before.”

The Narrator sighs irritably. No, I do not. Just because I want to make up for what I’ve done does not mean I trust you, at all. You are a terrible person to trust, Stanley.

Just look at where trust got us, hm? It ended with me hurting you physically and you drowning me.

“Yes, but now we’re doing better.”

The man crosses his arms. Better for you, perhaps.

“The hell do you mean by that?” Stanley asks defensively.

This whole thing is convenient for you, I understand, but not for me. I’m stuck with you telling me things you know I never would have allowed before, that make me seem like a child to be scolded. I do loathe to be disrespected like this. But of course you don’t care, do you?

Fucking hell, Stanley thinks. He tries not to snap back, “It’s not supposed to be convenient for you. You’re working to fix your mistakes. You wanted to do this,” Stanley reminds him. “I haven’t hurt you in the same way you hurt me. Obviously I fucking care. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Doing what, exactly? Because I don’t see any fucking progress being made, Stanley! The Narrator waves his hand in exasperation. I thought things were going to come out of this, but all that has is discontent between both of us!

“That’s not true, but of course, you’re only thinking about yourself. You’re the center of your fucking worldview, so if you’re inconvenienced, you think everyone else is having a miserable time and you make it my problem! I know you care, Narrator. We’re trying to fix what you broke. What was never there in the first place because of you,” Stanley says harshly.

It’s not being fixed! The Narrator gestures frustratedly. Why bother doing this if nothing is being repaired?

“Because you still feel guilty.”

The Narrator’s hands drop to his sides. He doesn’t project.

“I know you do,” Stanley continues. The Narrator’s scowl deepens.

I hate you, Stanley.

“Yeah, sure.” The feeling is mutual. “But we’re stuck here, together, and I’m all you have.”

No, I am all you have.

“We’re all we both have,” Stanley says fiercely. “So we might as well stop being at each other’s throats all the goddamn time. This is a product of your actions.”

The Narrator’s brow furrows more, then abruptly relaxes.

You’re right, I suppose. A sigh. I feel I’ve been a tad petulant.

“Will you apologize?” The Narrator hesitates for a few seconds, then relents.

I’m sorry.

“Thank you.” Stanley lets out a tired breath. “Just… take responsibility for your actions. We’re both trying to fix things.”

The Narrator looks up then, slightly amused.

Were you always this articulate? I don’t remember you being like this before.

Stanley hesitates. “The Curator and Mariella helped with that,” He says cooly, though a tad cautiously.

His eyes narrow. You visited them?

“Yeah,” he swallows.

How did they react? I haven’t… seen them in so long. The Narrator looks somewhat regretful.

“Well I– I sort of visited them for a while, a long time ago. We’re friends, really.”

I see.

The Narrator doesn’t project anything else. Stanley doesn’t continue the topic, and the Narrator begins to walk forward, resuming the story.

—

Stanley? The Narrator projects, standing in front of the cargo lift, almost uncertainly.

“Hm?”

How would you feel… if I went through the Apartment Ending?

Stanley sucks in a breath. The Apartment Ending has always been a touchy subject since his mental break and questionable coping mechanism with the ending.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Do you know what exposure therapy is? I don’t presume you do.

Stanley frowns, confused. “...No.”

Alright. Well, essentially, it is a technique to help individuals process and overcome their trauma by exposing them to it, bit by bit. Hence the name ‘exposure therapy’.

“How do you know that?” Stanley asks dubiously. How would simply going through the Apartment Ending help him overcome the negative ties he associates with it?

The Narrator shrugs. Same way I know what the plot of Firewatch is, I suppose. Among other tidbits of human information.

Stanley has the fleeting thought of the Narrator being a walking encyclopedia, then frowns.

“…Why would you want to help me with it?”

The Narrator shifts his weight, fiddling slightly with his fingers. Stanley still isn’t used to him showing signs of nervousness.

I wanted to make up for my actions toward you, yes? Of course, I cannot undo them, but aiding you in your trauma associated with the Apartment Ending I feel is a way I may help.

Would you like me to help you?

Stanley stares at the words, then when they fade away Stanley stares at the Narrator. He doesn’t know if he wants to. Since the ‘incident’, just being in the phone room causes him to freeze up, quicken his breaths and his mind to spiral because of the many, many times he’d gone through the ending in such a broken and desperate state of mind. Yes, the Narrator had forcefully pulled him out of it, but it’d done nothing to repair the damage Stanley had inflicted upon himself.

And now the man is offering to help heal that damage. By going through the ending himself until… until Stanley no longer had a reaction to it?

“I– how would that even work?”

I don’t claim to be an expert on this, so I might be wrong on some points, Stanley. Though I do believe first, I’m meant to give small exposures first, then work up to larger ones.

“Mhm,” Stanley hums in agreement. “How would you do that?”

Does that mean you’d like to do this?

Stanley hesitates. He doesn’t want to spiral again, not right now.

Though perhaps, since he’s detached entirely from the office building, the panic the Apartment Ending induces won’t be as potent.

“Okay. Sure.” He’s hoping, anyway.

The Narrator’s shoulders sag in relief. Stanley realizes just how much the Narrator really does want to make reparations for his past actions. He really is sorry; so sorry that he’s willing to help heal Say let’s past trauma.

The thought makes his chest swell in gratitude.

Alright Stanley, now that we are on the same page, I’ll tell you how we can approach this.

—

They start by simply going to the phone room. The Narrator tells the ex-employee to reset the moment he feels distressed when the man enters it, or wait a few seconds and then reset.

Stanley restarts about seven times before the Narrator could be in the phone room for longer than two minutes and garner no negative reaction from Stanley. Not one the Narrator could perceive, anyway.

Then he picks up the phone.

Stanley grimaces as the Narrator appears in front of the door. It opens a few moments later, and the sight of the white mannequin emerging from the doorway makes his fists ball in his lap.

He can maintain this. It’s fine.

Stanley? Do you need to reset?

“Fine," Stanley reiterates, somewhat forcefully.

The Narrator frowns, still waiting in front of the open door.

It’s okay if you need to; I’d understand.

Stanley sighs, frustrated. He knows the layout of this apartment like the back of his mind. Every inch of it is not quite burned into his mind, but something like it. It isn’t just the sight of the apartment that sets him on edge; it’s the memories associated with it, and the entire nature of this route.

Though, he supposes, that’s exactly why the Narrator is doing this for him.

Doing this for him, Stanley thinks. It’s a pleasant notion.

“I’m alright,” Stanley exhales. “Just enter the apartment.”

The Narrator takes a few steps inside, and Stanley observes apartment 427 from every angle. His jaw tightens as he maps the layout of the painfully familiar area with his eyes. Despite having avoided this place for so long, maybe years, he still recalls every detail of it.

Do you want to reset now?

Stanley tears his eyes off the screen for a second to read the words, then glues them back on. He’s intent on staring at the tiny room until it causes him no more pain.

“No,” Stanley says offhandedly. I'm doing better now. I’m not like how I was back then, when I went too many fucking times here. It’s different. The Narrator is different. Stop worrying, you aren’t the same–

The yellow screen interrupts his train of thought; the Narrator has his arms crossed in the monitor. Tell you what, Stanley.

To make ever coming back to this ending in the future easier for you, whenever I reassume my position as The Narrator, I will change the colors and perhaps even the layout of this room. Not the ending itself, but the apartment can be different.

“Really?” Stanley asks.

The Narrator nods.

“Thanks,” Stanley says weakly. He’s been looking at this room for too long. Stanley’s breath halts. He’s been staring at this room for too long. Just like when he couldn’t– when Stanley felt so helpless , so insignificant and eventually so numb, like a robot, staring at the same furniture, the same mannequin reset after reset as the Narrator droned on about Stanley never being anything in life, he wasn’t anything, he–

Abruptly, Stanley turns and hits the reset button to disrupt his impending spiral. He breathes out deeply.

“I hate that ending,” He murmurs. Stanley shakes his head. That part of your existence is over. Hopefully.

With a quiet, weak laugh, Stanley wakes up the Narrator.

“Sorry,” He apologizes when the Narrator emerges from his office, an irritated expression on his face. He explains a little quieter, “got too much. I’d rather not do that again.”

The Narrator’s face doesn’t soften, but it grows a little less stony.

I suppose that’s excused. Still, do try to warn me any time you restart. I would greatly appreciate it, you know.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stanley dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Won’t do it again.”

The Narrator scowls for a moment, then lets go of it.

No matter. Do you want to try it again?

“No.”

Ah, alright. I hoped it had helped, though?

Stanley scrutinizes the man. He seems… oddly desperate to help Stanley. Which of course, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps he’s still adjusting to the feeling remorse part of everything.

He sighs quietly. “It did, a bit,” Stanley admits truthfully.

Good.

The Narrator fiddles. Would you like me to go anywhere specific this reset?

“Hmm,” Stanley hums to convey that he’s thinking. “If we go into the window room, would you let me play your guitar?”

The Narrator scowls immediately.

No.

Stanley sighs in acquiesce. He expected as much.

He thinks about it. “We could… go down the expo hall. I haven’t seen that in ages.”

The Narrator shrugs.

I don’t particularly love the expo hall, if I were to be truthful. But, I suppose it won’t hurt.

Stanley grins.

—

Over the course of the next few weeks, things improve even further. Stanley even managed to make the Narrator laugh at some point.

It was a stupid, impulsive and crude joke about the bottomless hole not being bottomless after Stanley fell into it, and the Narrator had cracked an amused smile and let out a mildly surprised laugh despite telling him off for the immaturity of it. Stanley grinned, gratefulness spreading through his chest.

If I can make the Narrator laugh, it’s another step closer to becoming friendlier.

The Narrator becoming friendlier. Even after several weeks, it’s difficult for Stanley to wrap the thought around his head. All too easy, he recalls the times the Narrator berated him, mocked him, manipulated and toyed with him… and now…