Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now

This was not the story of a man named Stanley. It had been, once upon a time, but years had gone by since then, and now, Stanley wasn’t part of a story at all.

He was just an average man, living in an average city, working an average job. He woke up, ate breakfast, went to work, answered emails when his boss was around, slacked off with his colleagues when his boss wasn’t. At the end of the work day, he lingered a bit to talk with the receptionists who finished their shifts at the same time as him. Then, he’d go home, or go have a drink with some friends.

Stanley liked his life. Some might call it simple, but these people didn’t know how intricately entwined everything was, how easy it was for a simple choice to spiral into something more. Stanley knew, because he had been observing this—at first—novel concept very closely. The idea of consequences, actions leading to reactions that could cause even more reactions, a never ending chain of consequences that did not simply stop because a higher power said so. Everything kept moving forward, whether he wanted it to or not. And it was fascinating.

But what Stanley liked even more was how full of life the world was. How even someone that you barely met for a few minutes could have an impact on your life, how you could choose with whom you spent your time, how there were so many kinds of relationships, positive or negative.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as optimistic as you,” his colleague and friend Jane said. On that particular day, Stanley received a pile of unexpected additional work because of an error from one of their clients. A few of his colleagues came to express their pity, and left confused after Stanley simply waved it off with a smile, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Jane sighed. “See, this is what I don’t get. If I were you, I’d be banging my head against a wall. It will take you hours to go through every document again. And you look almost happy about it!”

‘It’s exciting! It’s an unexpected development!’ Stanley signed.

“Which should make it worse .” Jane pointed out with a raised brow.

Stanley shrugged. He understood that most people didn’t understand his never ending joy in the face of novelty, or his endless curiosity that lead him places most people would not even consider.

Opening doors just because they weren’t locked, climbing fences because it was feasible—which meant he had to try it—saying ‘yes’ to the most absurd propositions or, on the contrary, doing everything he could to go against what someone was saying. Not necessarily because he disagreed, just because he could.

He never really got into trouble for his unorthodox habits, mainly because a surprising amount of people were willing to go along with whatever an average white guy in professional clothes would do if he looked like he knew what he was doing. And, he also quickly learned what was truly off-limits, and what would just earn him a slap on the hand. One serious trip to the hospital was all he needed to realize how fragile his body was if he wasn’t at least somewhat careful. And no one would put him back together if he pushed it just a bit too far.

Not anymore. But he tried not to think about it too much.

And for the most part, Stanley liked his life. Even if there was something lingering, something uncomfortable, deep within him, that would resurface from time to time, like a hole that he could never really fill again.

It almost felt like nostalgia.

When the gnawing became unbearable, he listened to podcasts made by people asserting their opinions like they’re facts, and Stanley’s inability to respond would somehow help. He would feel annoyed or soothed, sometimes fuming or nodding at whatever was said, but whatever his emotion at the moment, there was always a layer of contentment under it.

Stanley never questioned it. He wanted to be satisfied with his present life, not to linger on something that was over and done with. If he ignored it, it would end up going away.

Even if it was still there years after leaving the Parable.

Even if sometimes, his thoughts sounded like a voice he hadn’t heard in years.

10 minutes before the end of the Parable

This should have been the story of a man named Stanley. Because it had always been, as far as Stanley could remember.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

He had walked through the right door, all the way to the maintenance room, and unplugged the ringing telephone. As he had done many times before, and as he’d do many times in the future.

“You’re not Stanley. You’re a real person,” the Narrator said, as he had every time Stanley took this path.

Of course he was a real person. The “Stanley” that should have been here, the ideal protagonist that would follow the Narrator’s beloved story, had never existed. They both knew that, and Stanley liked to think that the Narrator had made peace with it. And even maybe had grown to like this Stanley.

“Almost there! You'll take the door on the left, back to the correct ending, the story will have resolution once again, and you'll be home free in the real world!” Sarcasm was dripping from the Narrator’s voice.

They both knew it wouldn’t lead to any meaningful change, but the Narrator loved rubbing it in Stanley’s face. Stanley always assumed the increase in sarcastic tone for this ending’s monologue came from the fact that the Narrator knew he would have to deal with an unresponsive Stanley by the end of it, waiting for the reset in despair.

The Narrator hated this ending, and while it used to be one of Stanley’s favourite—especially when the Narrator really got on his nerves—the spite of it all had become less enjoyable and morphed more into sadness as he listened to the Narrator trying desperately to urge him to do… anything.

But Stanley was not immune to pettiness. And the Narrator had been grating at him lately, so down the path of the Not Stanley ending they went.

“Really, Stanley, this is quite childish of you. You know how much I hate seeing my story in this state. What was it this time? Was I not considerate enough? Did you dislike the fact that I made the broom closet disappear? This is what we call the consequences of your actions, and it would do you some good to realize that.”

‘If you’d leave the broom closet alone, we wouldn’t be here,’ Stanley signed, half expecting the Narrator to ignore him, as he was wont to do.

“ Really, so it’s my fault that you refuse to cooperate even once in a while? I wouldn’t have to take drastic measures if you didn’t force my hand all the time!”

Stanley rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the voice as it narrated a script he had already heard dozens of times. He simply waited, without really listening, as the Narrator shouted at him in his boss’s fake office, waiting for the reset that would place him above the room before the final reset.

“Speak! Say something to me! Explain yourself! You coward! You- Stanley? ”

Everything went dark. The Narrator’s voice resonated in Stanley’s head. Why did he call out Stanley’s name at the end? It wasn’t part of the script, and Stanley knew the Narrator had been sufficiently pissed off to not go off script. And why did he suddenly sound so unsure? Almost… scared?

When Stanley opened his eyes again, he was not in the parable anymore.

Chapter Text

Now

“—cause the referee was clearly wrong. A red card? Just for that? He didn’t deserve it! And—”

Stanley nodded, only half listening to Henry’s rant. He was more interested in the coffee in the other man’s hand. It should be cold by now, right? Henry was already holding it when Stanley walked into the rest room, and that had been several rants ago.

In the meantime, Henry had managed to exhaust an alarming number of topics, from his relationship with his wife, to how his kids grew up so fast and ‘ why didn’t they talk to him like they used to?’, to what Christopher dared to say to Jessica last Monday, and now, he had somehow reached the topic of yesterday’s football match. Or basketball match. Some kind of team sport.

Stanley had not contributed a single word to the conversation.

“—maybe a yellow card, if you’re reaaally stretching it. Or maybe—just maybe!—they should hire better referees.”

Stanley nodded again. When Henry had discovered that Stanley had a high tolerance for people monologuing to him, he had latched onto it and never let go. Stanley didn’t mind: he knew how to avoid the man if he really wanted to, and he was fine with being the office’s sacrificial lamb if it meant keeping the workplace somewhat peaceful.

Henry was not really liked, mainly because of his inability to let anyone but him contribute to what should be conversations. It made his presence unbearable for most people, but Stanley found something close to comfort in the lack of respect and the underlying annoyance, a mix which somehow made Henry on the verge of being tolerable.

In moderation.

“I mean, yes, they still could’ve won if they’d played like actual professionals, but—”

Another nod. Stanley had always wondered if Henry knew he was mute. Henry’s conversations with other people didn’t look that different from the one they were having, so maybe not. Maybe he just thought Stanley was a great listener, a shy or quiet man that enabled his never ending flow of words. Or maybe he hadn’t noticed that he had never heard Stanley’s voice.

“—but you know how referees are. I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

Henry finally raised his cup to his lips. As soon as the liquid touched his tongue, he grimaced, frowned at his cup, and abandoned it on the counter. Of course, he couldn’t empty it and throw it in the bin like a normal person.

“Anyway. Gotta get back to work. See you, Stan!”

Stanley waved at the retreating man while trying to keep his composure. He hated the nickname that Henry insisted on using. He was Stanley. He had struggled to find an identity of his own outside of the constraints of being a protagonist, but one thing he had always been sure of was that he was Stanley. This one simple name encompassed for him all the possibilities he managed to exploit despite restrictions, the small amount of power he could wrangle, and it was something he clung to tenaciously. He wasn’t opposed to nicknames, but the idea of someone else deciding how they should call him made his skin crawl.

Nevertheless, he had never bothered correcting Henry. It would have taken too much effort for probably no result at all. Because Stanley could recognize stubbornness, and more specifically, he could recognize when his own discomfort would not even be considered an argument against that kind of stubbornness.

Stanley reached for the abandoned cup, ready to throw it away.

It was cold.

**

When Stanley walked back to his cubicle, Jane was watching him approach with a frown that transformed into a smile, then a laugh. Stanley stopped. What was wrong with her?

Oh.

Right.

He went to the coffee machine to get coffee for her and him, and came back ten minutes later empty handed.

“Did you succumb to the Henry’s effect again? Got monologue’d at for hours and forgot what you came in for?” Jane asked between two giggles.

Stanley dragged a hand down his face. ‘Why does it happen every time?’

“Don’t worry about it, you’re doing me a great favor just by listening to the guy. It’s sad to say, but since you’ve been here, he’s become a lot more tolerable. Mainly because he doesn’t try to talk to me anymore.”

Stanley sighed, prompting even more laughter out of Jane. “Sorry sorry. But you have to wonder, why does he want to be listened to so bad if he doesn’t let the other person contribute? He could be talking to a wall, it would be the same.”

‘But it would be lonely,’ Stanley signed. He thought about the skip button. Talking and talking, but knowing there was no one to hear you, for longer and longer periods of time until you’re truly alone, until you don’t bother anymore. Stanley had trouble thinking of something more cruel than taking away this one way of communication, the one and only audience of a disembodied voice.

When Stanley left the Parable, did the Narrator leave with him?

Is the Narrator still talking? Urging on an unresponsive Stanley? Is he completely alone, talking to himself? Or did he give up talking at all, letting himself wither away eternally?

Did he replace Stanley with someone else?

For some reason, this last thought bothered him the most. The others made him feel a deep sadness and unease, but this one created a turmoil of emotions he could not quite identify. Sadness, yes, but also anger, resentment, and something like a hole in his stomach, a kind of vertigo that made bile rise up in his throat.

Why did he get all worked up about that? He was out of there, it wasn’t his problem anymore what his Narrator was doing.

Not ‘his’. ‘The’. It wasn’t his problem anymore what the Narrator was doing. It didn’t matter if sometimes he missed h—

“You alright, Stanley? You look upset.”

Stanley jumped, his eyes darting to Jane. She had her head slightly tilted, observing him with a crease between her brows.

He forced his lips to form a smile and waved in a ‘ don’t worry about it’ manner. Her gaze lingered for a bit before returning to her computer screen.

??? years before the end of the Parable

For Stanley, loneliness was never that big of a deal. Despite what the Narrator always said, Stanley wasn’t really alone. There was (almost) always a voice in his head, narrating, monologuing, and slowly, it almost turned into conversations.

It took some time for Stanley to discover that he could actually feel lonely here. Each reset also seemed to reset his emotional state, meaning that the lingering emotions disappeared once he stepped out of office 427 again.

But during that time between the conclusion of an ending and the moment Stanley set foot out of his cubicle, he could feel everything clearly. And sometimes, when he reached an ending in which the Narrator was completely absent, he’d wait, letting every emotion run through him without the interference of his only companion.

And he’d feel it. The yearning for something else, the deep loneliness that gnawed at his bones, the certitude that there must be a way out, there must be people somewhere, not just him and an ambivalent voice in his head.

And then, he’d trigger the beginning again. And everything would slowly go back to normal.

Chapter Text

Now

It was Jane who got him into playtesting. Jane got him into a lot of things, actually, but she got him out of situations even more. 

They met when Stanley joined the company they were now both working for, and he quickly took a shine to her when she revealed to him that she knew ASL. In a way, she had been the first person to meet him halfway when it came to communication.

Jane was always willing to “yes, and” Stanley’s various ideas, but she also knew when to stop him when it could get him (or her) in trouble. If Stanley wanted to push a single button eighty-eight times, well, who was she to judge him. But if that button was the elevator’s, or the fire alarm, she would quickly step in. 

Never once did it cross her mind to ask why Stanley was the way he was: he was her friend, and that was all that mattered.

Stanley was also one of the few people that made work bearable for her. Jane did not like her office job, but she figured she probably wouldn’t like any other job either, so she put as little energy as possible in her tasks (which were mostly data entry, so it wasn’t that hard) to dedicate herself fully to her hobbies. She cycled through most of them periodically, except for her one constant: video games. Whether by playing or creating them, she had developed such a passion for the medium that she managed to infect Stanley with it over time. 

Stanley wasn’t that much into games, but he had picked up enough knowledge to find playing enjoyable and to understand the base mechanics of how games worked. Which was when Jane decided to make him play her games. 

“This is probably very clunky because no one really tested it yet, so don’t hesitate to be brutally honest. Oh, and if you find bugs or glitches, can you tell me where and how it happened?” 

When Jane said those words, she did it more out of habits than because she expected actual feedback. Maybe a simple ‘it’s fine’, or ‘I liked it/ I didn’t like it’, but not much else. She knew Stanley didn’t play that much, all things considered, and did not know anything about game design. 

What she got instead was a detailed report of every aspect of the game Stanley could think of, from the parts he found the most fun to opinions on the font used for the interface.

But what really got Stanley going were the bugs. He detailed where and how they occurred, what he did that lead to them, as well as if he could recreate the bug or not after a reset. 

It turned out that Stanley really liked going through a same level dozens of times to try every possibility just to see if something new would happen.

Surprisingly, it worked well, so well that Stanley started to also test games made by friends of Jane, then games made by friends of friends, until he built a reputation among the community of indie developers Jane was part of.

“You need to start using some kind of social media, I can’t keep referring to you as ‘my friend, the playtester who may or may not accept to try your game’ to other people,” Jane said.

‘I already have an e-mail address. That’s enough.’ 

Jane sighed. “But people still contact you through me because they don’t know how to find it.”

After a long debate during which Stanley categorically refused to create any kind of account on any platform, Jane relented. It was decided that his e-mail address would be displayed on her website and socials. 

“Do you want me to use your real name or a pseudonym?”

‘Pseudonym.’ Stanley signed. He was very attached to his name, but he didn’t like the idea of it slipping out of his control, which is what it would feel like if it was just sitting somewhere on the web. Then, as it was the first thing that went through his head, he specified: ‘Jim.’

“Alright, Jim it is,” Jane said with a chuckle.

??? months before the end of the Parable

‘Do you have a name?’ Stanley wrote on the whiteboard in the meeting room. He’d found that the best way to get the Narrator’s attention was to interact with his environment. For some reason, the Narrator really hated to see his props moved around, or to have Stanley not do anything that would lead to an ending. And of course, anger was the best trigger to get him to go off script.

“Stanley scribbled aimlessly on the white—a name? Why would I have a name?”

‘Most people have one’ Stanley wrote, as if ‘most people’ was a concept he could even understand. Surprisingly, the Narrator stayed silent until Stanley was done writing. That was a thing Stanley had noticed recently. The Narrator had somewhat mellowed out. He was still prone to monologuing, but sometimes, they could have conversations. Not equal conversations, the Narrator still dominated them, but conversations nonetheless. 

“Well, I’m not most people. I’m the Narrator. It doesn’t matter what my name is, what matter is what I am.”

‘Have you never thought of getting one?’ Another thing Stanley had discovered was that the Narrator’s two favorite topics where his story and himself. Unfortunately, he was very good at talking about himself without actually saying anything.

“Stanley, that’s absurd. Why would I want something I don’t need?” There was a short pause. “Actually, that’s an excellent idea. I could choose a name. Oh, how exciting! So many possibilities, how will I ever be able to only choose one? No, wait. I don’t have to choose one. I can choose multiple names. Yes, very good, I can choose as many names as I want, Stanley! I can be John, or Peter, or Robert—or I can be John, Peter AND Robert! How fun.”

Stanley smiled. He liked it when the Narrator got excited like that, when he was full of a kind of childish wonder that Stanley couldn’t help but find contagious.

“But if I choose as many names as I want, then there’s no excitement in having a name. I could have all the names in the world, which would be the same as having no name at all. But choosing only one name is so limiting. Urgh, I’ve changed my mind, Stanley. This name debacle isn’t worth it. Let’s just get on with the story, shall we? I want to put this disappointment behind me.”

Stanley placed the marker back where he found it. The Narrator’s sad voice left a small pang in his heart, and just for today, he felt like humoring him.

He went up the stairs to his boss’s office, patiently waited for the narrator to finish speaking before entering 2-8-4-5. To his surprise, the Narrator didn’t follow the script this time.

“You know, Stanley, most names are given to people. Not a lot of people choose their own names. And, since the choice is pretty limited here, maybe I should ask you what name suits me.”

Stanley blinked. It was rare for the Narrator to offer him something like that: a gesture that proved that Stanley was more than just a tool for a story, a pull that brought them closer to an equal footing. He felt warmth spread through him as he fought against a smile. Really, he couldn’t resist an opportunity like that. 

‘I don’t know. Probably something pretentious like Archibald or Philip.’

“Pretentious? I don’t— what could possibly make you say that? And for the record, Philip is not a pretentious name. That’s just a normal name. If you don’t want to take this seriously, then don’t say anything at all. Really, I don’t know why I bothered asking you in the first place. I should know by now that you only strive to antagonize me!”

This time, Stanley didn’t resist. He doubled over with laughter, not caring about what the Narrator would create as consequences.

“And you find it funny? Of course you do, you love seeing others suffer, you egoist.” The words were harsh, but there wasn’t any venom behind them. Stanley could almost hear the edges of a chuckle, making the Narrator’s tone dance up and down.

Stanley forced himself to calm down, but he didn’t hide the smile still plastered on his face. 

“Ah, Stanley. It’s hard to stay mad at you when you look so happy.” The Narrator said, his tone almost wistful.

Stanley didn’t answer, but felt his smile grew wider.

Chapter Text

Stanley was having a good day. He didn’t get a single red light on his way to work, no one touched his food by the time he was on break, and he even managed to calm Jane down when Henry interrupted her during a meeting. He did let her pour salt in Henry’s coffee, however. That was less likely to get her fired.

All in all, it was with a spring in his step that he entered his flat that evening, threw his bag on the counter and collapsed happily on the couch. With his feet higher than his head, in a position that would not stay comfortable for more than a few minutes, he reached for his phone and absent mindedly opened his mailbox.

Among the few unread messages, one in particular caught his eye. It wasn’t anything special, just another request for a playtest—something he was more than used to. What made him pause was the fact that he did not recognize the name.

From: “TNFTSP” [email protected]

Even after racking his brain for some time, he couldn’t remember Jane ever mentioning someone named like that. Granted, he was not the best with names, but generally, there would be some spark of recognition when he saw them written down in front of him.

His eyes drifted back to the screen.

The rest of the email was pretty standard, albeit slightly rude. Apparently, someone had recommended Stanley to whoever this person was and they ‘ expected someone serious, who would provide professional work’.

Stanley raised his brow. He playtested for free, as a hobby , and mostly for Jane and her friends. So the tone he was used to coming from developers was not… that. Annoyed, but nonetheless intrigued, he sent a quick message to Jane.

S: Do you know TNFTSP?

[image: screenshot of the email]

J: lmaoooo you seriously got contacted by TN??

J: thats so funny

S: ??

J: hes kinda

J: special

J: almost never online but will drop an insanely

long rant in response to some random thing

someone said on Discord

J: im not a big fan of the guy lol

J: wait I can send you his games

Four links appeared, all leading to steam pages, so Stanley opened the first one. It seemed to be some kind of murder mystery, a genre Stanley wasn’t really interested in. He barely looked at the game’s information before scrolling down to read the reviews.

Not recommended.

Got bored halfway through. Watched a playthrough to know how it ends and it turns out the game doesn’t even tell you why the murder happened?? That’s literally the point of a murder MYSTERY! I’m glad I didn’t waste my time finishing it.

Recommended

A nice little game that doesn’t take too long to get through. The story is not that original, but it’s short enough that you don’t get bored. If you like stories that keep a part of mystery, this is the game for you.

Not recommended

This game tries to be clever but just manages to sound pretentious.

Stanley scanned a few more reviews, but it quickly became apparent that most were far from glowing. He closed the page and moved on to the next. Unfortunately for him, the two games after that were just more of the same: a mystery with an apparently not so great story and reviews that oscillated between ‘alright’ and ‘truly mediocre’. All three games seemed to be a different take on a same kind of mystery, with philosophical bouts that often came out sounding more pompous than deep. Clearly, they hadn’t convinced a lot of people.

With a sigh, Stanley opened the last tab. It was the most recent of all the games, simply titled “Loneliness”.

This time, Stanley knew immediately that something was different.

The other three were all but forgettable, which made this one stand out on every level. It was the first game to have a clear aesthetic: an abstract landscape dominated by white, with small patches of bright colors. It wasn’t the most original design, but it strongly contrasted with the previous three and their dull palette.

The reviews were overly positive, with long paragraphs linking their own personal experiences to the game, and sharing thoughts that bordered on the overemotional.

Stanley blinked a few times and went back to the messaging app. As he did, he noticed that Jane had sent him messages while he was perusing the reviews.

J: his last game got pretty popular tho

J: not popular popular but yknow

J: niche popular

S: Loneliness?

J: yeah that one

J: kinda hurts my ego to say but its really good

S: What’s it about?

Stanley watched impatiently as the three little dots danced on his screen. For once, Stanley was very thankful that Jane never hesitated when it came to spoiling games because she knew Stanley would be a lot more likely to play unfinished games than finished ones anyway.

J: basically you’re this kind of white creature

J: and you keep trying to form connections with other colors

J: but you never really manage and always stay white

J: and at some point you realize that yellow is the one color thats missing

J: because the creature used to be yellow bc it was friend with yellow

J: but yellow disappeared and now the creature’s all alone and desperately trying to recreate a similar connection

J: this is a shitty summary but basically colors made me cry

Stanley looked at the game’s page again. He was intrigued, that he could recognize. But there was only one good game out of four. And clearly, it wasn’t the guy’s preferred genre. Maybe it was just a fluke?

Stanley narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.

It was also TN’s last game, so maybe he was taking his games in a new direction. But maybe he wasn’t, and would go back to his old ways now that he had one success. Or it would convince him to definitely change his methods and goals.

Stanley hoped it was the latter. He hadn’t even played the game, but he liked to think he would get on with someone that knew that kind of loneliness, the kind Stanley was too familiar with. The kind that took years out of his life, when he was trying desperately to recreate an echo of a connection he could never share with another person.

Because he could not even explain to anyone what he was missing, could he? With time, he had realized that his former situation had been wholly unique and that no one would understand living with a voice as his only companion, as his only frien—

His eyes glossed over the reviews. Stanley was intrigued. And he had always been one to follow his curiosity where it lead him.

Nodding to himself, he opened his mailbox again and began to type a reply.

??? years before the end of the Parable

In the beginning, the Narrator would follow the script to a T, no matter how many times Stanley did the endings again and again. But at some point, it changed. At first, it was just a word or two thrown in there.

“Aha, you’ve made it to the bottom of the Mind Control facility. Again. Welcome!”

But the amount of off-script words quickly grew alongside the Narrator’s annoyance.

“But Stanley didn’t want to go back to the office. He wanted to wander about and get even further off track. Stanley, I must say, the frequency at which you take us on this path is worrying. What do you find so interesting here? Is it the line? Do you want more yellow? Or is it the fern? Maybe if I added some fern to the office you would finally start to consider cooperating with me.”

Stanley made it a point to choose the Narrator’s preferred ending as little as possible.

Except when he took pity on the man, of course. Just to make him feel slightly better. That was the only reason.

It was not because he could feel the Narrator glowing with satisfaction afterwards, his voice taking a hint of joy that he couldn’t really hide, even if right after, Stanley chose an ending the Narrator hated.

After all, Stanley could not see the Narrator as anything but an annoyance. A thorn in his side, a pebble in his shoe. But the thing was, if the pebble is your only company, you start to get attached to it.

Especially if the pebble can hold a conversation.

Well. If the pebble can monologue.

Even then, there had always been a conversation between them, it was just that Stanley limited his own contribution to actions most of the time. Not because he didn’t want to communicate with words, but because the Narrator didn’t let him. Stanley tried to sign a few times, but it was completely ignored, because the Narrator only accepted one kind of conversation: actions that impacted his game. And there was no reason to speak if it had no impact on the story. Who would Stanley even talk to? It was the story of Stanley , not of Stanley and his good pal the Narrator. The premises of the story where literally that Stanley was alone here. It would completely defeat the purpose of the story if Stanley had someone to talk to .

The Narrator never said so in so many words, but Stanley didn’t need him to. He was still loud and clear.

Chapter Text

It did not take long for Stanley to receive TN’s game after his initial approval of the offer. But despite his seemingly high expectations, the developer had not actually asked for anything specific. TN had simply sent the game without any further explanation, and since the original email hadn’t contained any details about the game or the work, Stanley felt a bit lost. He had no description of the goal of the game, no indications on whether the man just wanted Stanley to play the game or to really search for bugs. Nothing.

It did not deter Stanley. He would do what he did (and liked) best, and if TN wasn’t happy with it, well, that was not his problem. It was Saturday, so he had all the time he needed to play as much or as little as he wanted.

But as he downloaded the files, he had to admit that it was somewhat of an unprecedented situation. It was the first time he would play a game he knew so little about. Hell, it was the first time he didn’t even know about a game’s creator. After all, most of the games he played were made by friends, or friends of friends. And all he knew about TN was that Jane did not like him. Which wasn’t saying much, because Jane had a low tolerance for people in general. What surprised him, however, was that she was willing to admit that she enjoyed a game made by someone she didn’t like. And knowing her and her tendency for pettiness, it either meant the game really struck a chord with her, or she actually liked the guy more than she would admit.

More likely the former, Stanley thought as he read TN’s first email again.

Shrugging, he closed his mailbox and started up the game. He was met with its title, A Manor Of Perspectives, and a pretty standard menu. Stanley was used to games still being a bit rough around the edges when he got them, but it felt like this one was doing everything to not appear that way. It looked meticulous at first glance, maybe a bit too much, because it made every small UI flaw stand out even more. Stanley took note of it, and started the game.

He was dropped in front of a gigantic house in first person point of view. Once inside, he could go wherever he wanted, and found letters scattered everywhere.

The first he opened seemed to be a kid’s drawing, and after interacting with it, Stanley noticed that his point of view was now much closer to the ground, as well as more colorful and brighter. It was a simple change, but the surprise Stanley felt delighted him, and he started to understand the advantages of actually discovering a game without any prior knowledge.

He quickly gathered how the game worked: the letters were written by previous inhabitants of the house, and reading one would put him in the time period and in the shoes of the character who wrote it.

After some of his usual testing and prodding, Stanley had gone through enough perspectives to start to piece the story together, and did what he usually did not do: he started actually playing the game.

He followed all six main characters throughout their time living in the manor in the 19 th , 20 th and 21 st century, their moments of joy or sadness, the evolution of their identity, of their ambition, and inevitably, the moment they left the house forever.

It was after his second ending that something changed. Messages appeared, hidden away, and seemingly written by none of the main characters.

‘ Where are you?’ hidden behind a door.

‘ Why did you leave?’ spelled by the floorboards’ grooves.

‘ Was I not enough for you?’ formed by the flowers in the garden, as Stanley looked out of the window on the second floor.

‘ I exist only for you.’

Stanley closed the game. He had not gone through everything the game had to offer, as he usually did, but at that moment, it felt unbearable to even look at it. He opened his mailbox and stared at the blank space that was supposed to become his report to TN. A part of him wanted to grab the developer, to demand answers—but to what questions? What did he want to ask? Stanley didn’t know. He felt like the game had spoken to him, said something that he couldn’t hear.

Or that he didn’t want to hear.

There was something not quite right about the game, or about TN, and Stanley couldn’t put his finger on it. He felt a deep unease that made him want to forget about the game, and at the same time, to open it again right now and search and understand .

Instead, he stared at his blank email, letting his thoughts drift in and out of his conscious mind, feeling empty and overstimulated simultaneously.

He didn’t know how long he stayed in this limbo before a rhythmic buzzing startled him out of it. He reached for his phone and checked the new message he had just received.

J: still on for tonight?

Stanley jumped to his feet, his eyes darting to the clock. 6PM. Relieved, he slowly let out a sigh. He had not completely lost track of time and would be on time for his evening drinks with Jane and her friend.

With any luck, it would serve as a good distraction.

Bars were not Stanley’s favorite place, but he could recognize that this one was quiet enough to be comfortable. Jane, Alan—one of Jane’s developer friends—and him were cramped around a tiny table. Stanley let the other two carry the conversation, both because he still felt remnants of his earlier unease, and because putting Alan and Jane in the same room would guaranty a conversation focused on video games. And even if Stanley liked Alan and his games, he could not follow any of his conversations with Jane for the life of him. Programming was too far removed from playing for Stanley to take an interest in it, despite Jane’s early attempts at getting him into game development. But he liked the melody of their voices, it was calming.

“Speaking of which,” Jane said, and Stanley realized he had no idea what ‘which’ was referring to, “did you do the TN’s thing or not, in the end?”

Stanley nodded. He knew he should offer some details, but it felt almost too personal to talk about the game.

“Oh, so you are playtesting his game?” Alan asked.

Staley blinked. ‘How do you know about that?’ Stanley wrote on his phone before showing it to Alan.

“I’m the one who recommended you,” Alan said. That was one mystery solved, at least.

“Urgh. So you’re the reason Stanley has to put up with him?” Jane asked.

“Oh, come on. He’s not that bad.” Alan said.

“Hey, Stanley, a little support would be appreciated. You agree that he’s horrible, right?”

‘I don’t really care if he’s horrible or not. I only care about his game.’

Jane let out an affronted cry, prompting laughter out of the two men.

“You do know he’ll come to the meeting, right?” Alan asked.

‘The meeting?’ Stanley asked before the conversation could escape him again.

Alan frowned slightly at him. “Yes? The one our little group of game developers have every year?”

Jane groaned. “And TN comes every time, unfortunately. I can’t stand him online, and it’s even worse in person.”

“Stop being dramatic. You had a good time last year.”

“He was being tolerable for once, and I’m assuming that’s because he hadn’t had any success yet. I can’t imagine how insufferable he’ll be this time around.”

With a sigh, Alan turned to Stanley. “You’ll reel her in, right?”

‘Am I invited?’ Stanley asked, surpised.

Jane snorted. “Are you really asking if you’re invited to a meeting of developers when you’re the one who tested like most of their games? Of course you’re invited. It’s in one month. You better be ready.”

There was an apologetic smile on Alan’s face. “I think everyone would appreciate to have one more person capable of stopping a fight between Jane and TN. We don’t want another incident.”

Stanley tried to offer a knowing smile, but it was dampened by his dread at the idea of meeting TN in person.

Chapter Text

Stanley yawned for the third time in about as many minutes. Monday mornings were always hard, but this one especially so. He had spent the previous day playing A Manor Of Perspectives, or at least trying to . Going through the first sections of the game was bearable, but he couldn’t get past that without stopping for at least an hour or two, after which he would start everything from the beginning again.

The good news was that he had become very familiar with those sections, and had thus enough material to give some feedback to TN. A good chunk of his report was about one bug in particular that allowed him to go through a wall in one of the room, and more often than not lead him out of bounds. He had tested it multiple times and managed to go through every time. His attempts were partially fueled by the same reason that stopped him from going to far in the story: ‘breaking’ the game felt like a good way to distance himself from it,

Stanley had really wanted to get the report done before the end of the weekend, as a way to put it all behind him, so he hadn’t gone to sleep before the email was finally sent. Which had taken longer than expected because he kept hesitating over the most basic sentences and observations. In the end, he went to sleep so late that it could have been considered early morning.

Which was why he was now fighting to keep himself from falling asleep on his keyboard. Even if it sounded way more alluring than searching if the word ‘AI’ appeared at least sixteen times in the text he was trying to proofread.

“I can’t believe TN even stole your sleep hours. This guy’s really an asshole,” Jane said, rolling her chair to his cubicle.

‘I did that to myself, I’m the only one you should blame.’

“No. It’s his fault, somehow.” Jane glanced at Stanley’s computer over his shoulder. “You forgot a ‘E’. ‘machine larning’ isn’t a thing that exists.”

Stanley sighed and signed a quick thanks before correcting the typo. He was sure he had read this specific sentence a dozen times, but his brain refused to understand any of the words on his screen.

‘I just want to go back to sleep. And if someone could get me some soup, that’d be cool.’ The only reason his head wasn’t already buried in his arms was that he needed them for communication.

“I’m not taking care of you on a Monday. Gotta ask your mother, my guy. Or your partner. But you don’t really date, do you?”

Stanley tilted his head slightly. Dating was something he had considered a few times, actually, back when he had wanted to try all the ‘normal’ human experiences. But it was the one thing he was afraid of being disappointed by. The promises of romantic love seemed grandiose and unrealistic. To let someone get close to you, understand you in a way no one else does, share your life with them, well, he could understand the appeal. But he didn’t think he could ever let someone get to that point. Because he wouldn’t—and couldn’t— explain the Parable. Because he wasn’t a typical human.

Because he would be unable to stop comparing them to him .

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? The Narrator had never made an effort to really get Stanley. In a way, he didn’t have to, the forced proximity did the legwork for him. Just the two of them, for years, in the same empty space? They had no choice but to get to know each other.

And yet, the end result was the same. There was no one who knew Stanley as well as the Narrator did, and Stanley liked to think he was the only one who knew the Narrator so well.

He wondered what their relationship would have been like if they’d both been human. Could they have become friends? Or something else? Probably not. Stanley would have never spent enough time with the Narrator to really get to know him. They’d have remained strangers.

Stanley felt a pang in his stomach.

**

As soon as Stanley reached home, he collapsed on his couch. It took him a while to find the courage to get up again, and when he did, the sun had already set.

He thought about cooking, but gave up as soon as it crossed his mind. He would just eat whatever food he could find, as long as it didn’t require any kind of preparation. Like a banana. With bread.

Good enough.

By force of habit, he ended up sitting at his computer, staring at his home screen. He was too tired to do anything, and frankly, the best course of actions would be to immediately go to bed. But since he had already turned it on, he could at least check his mailbox.

At first, he was glad he did.

There was an email from TN waiting for him. Stanley opened it, feeling both wary and excited about it. Despite everything, he was quite proud of his report, and expected some gratitude in one form or another.

He did not get any.

The message was angry, to put it mildly. It was repeated multiple times that “no sane player would do any of these actions, so they would have no reason to encounter these bugs” and that he never had any problem, so maybe the problem was Stanley himself.

The biggest paragraph was dedicating to the wall bug, and how no one would even think of following the sequence of actions that lead to it and clearly, what was Stanley even thinking about when he did that?

Stanley would have been offended if he wasn’t so dumbfounded. Did TN understand what the goal of playtesting was?

Maybe Stanley could see why this guy had such a bad reputation now.

Stanley pressed the “answer” button, ready to tell this man what he really thought. But after a few lines, he stopped.

Whatever. He wasn’t even really angry. If anything, this whole thing was pretty funny.

If this guy preferred his game bugged and clunky, that was not Stanley’s problem. He was a little sad to see such an interesting game go to waste, but if the developer was like that , then that was just how it had to be.

He deleted his reply, turned off his computer, and went to sleep.

**

The table was silent. Or, as silent as it could be in a bar in the late afternoon. Stanley sipped his beer as Alan and Jane read the rant Stanley had received a few days prior in his mailbox.

It was interesting to observe. Alan’s second embarrassment rose hand in hand with Jane’s anger. By the end of it, red colored both of their faces, but for very different reasons.

“This guy’s lucky I don’t know where he lives,” Jane said, tone clipped.

“I promise he’s not that bad once you get to know him. He’s just… susceptible,” Alan said without much conviction.

“Why would anyone want to know him if that’s how he acts with complete strangers?”

Alan flinched, grimacing.

With one last disgusted grimace, Jane gave the phone back to Stanley. “If you want to blow up TN’s house, just know that I fully support you.”

‘I’m not mad. If anything, it’s pretty funny,’ Stanley replied.

“Funny?” A few patrons turned around at Jane outburst. She cleared her throat and continued, quieter: “Have you lost it? I’m sorry for letting you spend so much time with Henry, it ruined your tolerance for bullshit. By that, I mean that you’re way too tolerant.”

Stanley shrugged. Henry was nothing compared to what he was used to. If anything, TN’s rant made him almost wistful. He hadn’t been on the receiving end of such a rant in a long time.

‘I’ll form an opinion when I meet him face to face.’

“Urgh. Don’t remind me of that. I feel like I’ll regret the old TN, the one that would fight against players because they didn’t ‘get his game’ or ‘play it correctly’. Now, he actually has a reason to act pretentious.” Jane sighed.

“I don’t think it’ll really change anything,” Alan said. “He hates Loneliness. That’s why he started developing the next one so soon after it. The only thing he hates more than the game is the success of the game.”

Jane sniffed. “That makes no sense. This guy spent years chasing success and now that he finally made a good game, he hates it?”

Alan rubbed his neck. “I think he wanted his earlier games to be successful. This one was more for him than for other people. The only reason he hasn’t taken it out of Steam is because we keep telling him not to.”

“Weirdo,” Jane mumbled.

While the conversation kept on going, Stanley suddenly felt his phone vibrating. He tuned out the others’ bickering and looked at the screen.

An email. From TN.

With no subject, no written message. Just a link to the game again.

**

Stanley got home earlier than he had anticipated. He had pretended to be tired to excuse himself and rush back home. Once inside, he turned on his computer and downloaded the new version of A Manor Of Perspective. He didn’t know why he felt so eager. Probably because it wouldn’t feel like a waste of time if some of the bugs had actually been fixed.

They weren’t. He went through his checklist and noticed that pretty much nothing had been changed. Why would TN send the game again is he hadn’t made any fixes? Was it to spite him? That would be childish. No, it was most likely a mistake. Maybe he didn’t mean to send this version.

Or maybe he didn’t mean to send it to Stanley.

His list was fully checked by the time he got to the wall bug, and without much surprise, he still went through the wall.

But.

This time, instead of simply being out of bound, he started floating…and an object appeared in front of him

A letter, written by none of the already existing characters, but by one that preceded all of them.

Was he… a ghost?

This new point of view was still very limited, nonetheless, Stanley tried to explore it in its entirety. It seemed to be about an old woman who refused to leave the house despite her old age and everyone around her trying to get her to move out. In the end, she died alone, forgotten, her legacy reduced to a ghost slowly withering away.

It was heartbreaking, at first, but the warmth spreading through Stanley’s body quickly overtook it. This existed because of him, because of his actions. It was a wonderful consequence, a beautiful series of events that he had participated in.

And for some reason, above all that, what tightened his throat was the fact that TN had reconsidered, changed his mind and worked with what he was given. That he had, in a way, put the game before his pride, and proven that he was more worthy than Stanley had started to believe.

Stanley couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot. He opened his mailbox, copied and pasted his previous report and only deleted the section about the wall bug. And pressed send.

Just because he was happy didn’t mean he couldn’t still be petty.

??? weeks before the end of the Parable

Stanley ran his hand across the computer. Then the wall, the printer, keyboard, floor. Everything felt the same. It felt artificial. Dead.

“Stanley, you’ve been going in circles for a while now. I’m started to worry about you. Did the last reset trigger something abnormal in you? If so, you need to tell me, because we can’t have you suddenly malfunctioning. We can’t lose our protagonist.”

Stanley looked at his reflection in the window. He placed his hand on it, and watched his actions be mirrored by his other self.

‘Can you have a body?’ Stanley finally signed in the empty air, looking up at the ceiling.

“A body? Stanley, I think we already talked about not getting things we don’t need.” The Narrator said.

‘Can you feel? Like, physical touch?’

“Hmm, you could say that. I know when you touch something and how you touch it. I guess you could call that feeling .”

Stanley nodded. He sat on the floor and started running his fingers on the cold surface.

“Stanley sat on the floor and—what are you doing?”

‘Can you feel that?’

“Yes, I just told you I could.”

Stanley slapped the floor. That hurt. ‘And that?’

“I don’t like repeating myself, Stanley, I thought I was pretty clear, earlier. Do you need an educational video on speech?”

‘I meant, does it feel… different?’

The Narrator sighed, exasperated. “Look, I don’t feel the way a human would. I just know what you do. Does it feel different? Well, it is different. But it’s not more pleasurable, or more colorful, or smells better one way or the other.”

Stanley nodded. Maybe the Narrator’s lack of feeling explained why all the textures here felt the same. The Narrator had stopped at visual cues and never considered how most things don’t feel the same.

Once again, Stanley ran his fingers on the floor. ‘This is pleasurable to most humans.’

He mirrored the motion on his own skin to demonstrate.

“Really?”A pause. “Do it again.”

Stanley didn’t question it. He let his fingers graze the floor, again and again. The Narrator was silent, but Stanley could feel that for once, it wasn’t because he was waiting for Stanley to get on with the story.

Chapter Text

It was as he was observing the waves of people going from one room to another that Stanley realized how much he had underestimated the number of people coming to the meeting. It wasn’t crowded , per say, but the space was arranged in such a way that it was easy to lose sight of someone.

Jane had had to stop Stanley from making a beeline for the buffet table, even though he knew she was also eyeing the table greedily. Instead, he had been steered into conversations with people he more or less knew, and ended up engrossed in a conversation with another playtester until Jane found him again some twenty minutes later.

Meeting people had been his favorite part of the evening so far. Generally, they would at first keep a somewhat polite but blank expression, until they looked down at the others’ badges, lit up, and started a conversation on a topic or another.

It was funny to realize how many of these people didn’t know each other faces, but immediately recognized pseudonyms. Some did recognize Jane from previous meetings, but Stanley was a newcomer from their point of view, and he was surprised at how many of them had heard of him.

He looked down at his own badge. “ Jim – Playtester”.

He had never regretted the pseudonym until this moment. Yes, it had been a stupid choice at the time too, but it had been easy to ignore when he only had to read it. Right now, however, people actually said the name out loud to refer to him, and he hated it. It was hard not to flinch every time. And he could have chosen any name. So why did he even choose this one? Furthermore, most pseudonym weren’t even names, so it could have just been a random word, which would have been way less annoying.

But if he started telling people that actually, he’d rather go by Stanley, it would also be weird, right? Or was he overthinking it?

Stanley rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming, so he decided to let go of this train of thought for now.

He could be Jim if it was just for one evening.

Besides, the more pressing issue was not his name, but the fact that he had to do so much typing on his phone that it was now practically dead. Once again, Stanley longed for the day when people would know ASL.

He was sitting on the floor near the outlet when Jane joined him with two plates of food.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I took a bit of everything,” she said as she sat next to him.

Stanley accepted the plate with a thanks and they started eating in silence.

‘Hope I’m not missing anything important.’ Stanley signed.

“Nah, you’re fine. These meetings are just an excuse to get together and complain about things.”

‘You already do that online.’

“Maybe, but there’s no buffet on Discord.” She popped a hors d’œuvre in her mouth. “And it’s fun to see people you’d never meet otherwise.”

Stanley nodded. It was a good opportunity to socialize, he could agree with that. He also wished he was doing it instead of sitting on the floor, hidden in a corner of the room. He glanced at his phone. Battery at 13%. A sigh.

“You can use mine if you want. My battery’s still full and I’m not expecting any call or anything.”

Stanley perked up. That sounded much more enjoyable than to wait for however long it would take for his phone to charge.

Now in a better mood, they quickly finished their plates and got to their feet.

“Come on, we still need to find Alan. He’s gotta be in there somewhere,” Jane said.

Weaving through the small crowd, it did not take them long to spot Alan in the back, speaking with another man. Jane mumbled something under her breath, something Stanley couldn’t quite understand, but seemed to radiate annoyance.

Both men turned around at their approach. Alan with a friendly smile, and the other man freezing suddenly, gaping at them.

Stanley frowned. He had never seen this man before. Short greying hair, glasses, black turtleneck, probably older than Stanley, but with features that made it hard to really estimate his age. Despite his quite unremarkable physique, he hold himself as if he owned the place, with an open chest and a straight, almost rigid back.

His observation was cut short by Alan’s introduction. “Ah, you’ve already met Jane, and this is—“

“Stanley?” The name was whispered with a soft, fragile voice, behind which Stanley could hear a hint of hope. There was no mistaking that it came from the other man. Yet, when Stanley heard it, his eyes drifted to the ceiling.

“Well, that confirms it really is you. Only you would hear someone talk to you and pay attention to anything but your interlocutor. Stanley, I am standing right in front of you.” The voice had shifted, trading its vulnerability for a self-confidence bordering on arrogance.

Slowly, Stanley let his gaze travel back down to the man who was currently speaking with the Narrator’s voice. With the Narrator’s tone. And cadence.

For a brief instant, Stanley was back in office 427, in the simulacrum of an empty workplace, with nothing to do except following or disrupting the same story, again and again and again—

“It’s nice to know some things never change. Really, Stanley, I’d almost say I’m happy to see y—”

Stanley punched the Narrator in the face.

There were a million questions running through his head, but they were all muted by the pain in his hand. Why did no one tell him how painful punching someone was? Well, even if he’d known, he still would have done it anyway. It had not been a planned action, but rather an subconscious reaction that he wouldn’t have been able to control, even if he had wanted to.

The Narrator had stumbled backward, but somehow, he still managed to keep talking.

“Okay, wow, what’s it with you and breaking things? Do you ever stop and think for a moment? First my story, and now, ow ! I cannot think of a single thing that would get you to act this way.”

‘Not a single thing?’ Stanley tried to sign, but quickly remembered his hand was still hurt. He squeezed it against his chest and shut his eyes tightly.

“Do not sign cockily at me, Stanley, I can’t see clearly what you’re saying because someone decided to punch me.”

Thankfully, Stanley only needed one hand to give him the finger.

The next few minutes were a blur. One moment he was standing opposite the Narrator, the next, he was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, surrounded by people who kept glancing warily between him and the Narrator. The latter was in a similar situation, but kept far, far away from Stanley.

“I knew it! I knew you were angry! I respect it, of course. You did what I’ve wanted to do for years.” Jane’s voice traveled to Stanley’s ear, which made him stop staring at the Narrator to turn towards her.

‘What on Earth are you talking about?’ Stanley signed slowly, careful not to injure his hand any further.

“About the email? Unless you had another reason to punch TN?”

It took an embarrassing amount of time before the cogs in Stanley’s head really started turning.

Oh.

Oh .

The Narrator was TN. Of course.

He let his gaze travel back to the man, who appeared to be in some sort of argument with Alan and a few other people. He kept trying to get up and they kept pushing him back down. From where Stanley was sitting, it almost looked like childish bullying, but knowing who it was made him think that they were probably preventing the Narrator from coming to him.

Stanley got to his feet, which caused a few panicked in his own corner of the room.

‘I’m gonna talk to him’ he signed to Jane, who relayed it to the others. Clearly, it did not calm them down, if anything, it had the opposite effect.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna punch him again,’ he added and, without checking how his words were received, he walked away.

Surprisingly, no one stopped him, but the people who saw him approaching wore matching panicked looks. Their moment of inattention allowed the Narrator to slip away, and before anyone could do anything, the Narrator had his hand on Stanley’s shoulder and had started speaking again.

“Well, I won’t say this is what I expected today. But I should have known to expect the unexpected when it comes to you, Stanley. What’s important is that we’re both here, together, again. Let’s go, then.”

Stanley tilted his head, and focused on the warmth spreading through the point of contact on his shoulder. The Narrator had always felt more real than reality itself. But here, in this moment, he just felt reachable. It was strange to associate the Narrator with warmth, with something so human. It felt… nice. A feeling Stanley wasn’t against, at the moment. Like a confirmation that he had, indeed, found the lost piece he had stopped looking for.

“Stanley? Did you hear me? Come on, off we go,” The Narrator said, pulling Stanley out of his thoughts.

‘Go where?’

The Narrator chuckled. “To the Parable, of course! We still have so much work to do together. You, me, maybe the bucket, if you behave.”

Stanley shrugged his shoulder, dislodging the hand that was still there. ‘I’m not going back there.’

“Don’t be ridiculous, what else could you possibly do? Did you forget the title? It’s not The Mariella Parable, or The Narrator Parable. There’s nothing without you!” The Narrator sounded desperate, a kind of desperation Stanley had only heard the many times he had decided to climb the stairs next to the zen room.

It broke his heart.

But it wouldn’t persuade him.

‘Can you force me to go back?’

“Theoretically, yes. Maybe. But it will be much, much, much easier if you go willingly.” There was a hint of hope and uncertainty in his voice.

So, no. Stanley nodded slowly. ‘I’m not going back. I’m sorry.’

He turned around and left, ignoring the voice calling out his name louder and louder.

Chapter Text

The car ride was silent. Stanley was looking out the window and ignoring Jane’s gaze he could feel burning on the back of his head.

He had walked out of the meeting straight to the parking lot, and had only calmed down when he had reached Jane’s car and realized he would have to wait for her if he didn’t want to walk all the way back home. 

Thankfully, Jane had emerged not long after him and they had gotten into the car without a word. Stanley was grateful for her silence, even if he knew it wouldn’t last. Maybe he should say something, or lie, or do anything that would reassure her that he hadn’t completely lost his mind. Because even if Stanley could be considered unpredictable, he was never violent.

Why had he reacted like that, anyway? Did he forget the guilt? The nights spent wondering if the Narrator was alone in the Parable? Or if he was still alive at all? 

No, he had not forgotten. Quite the opposite. It was easy to think of the good moments when the Narrator was nothing but a memory. Those moments when the Narrator had been decent—kind, even—when the story took a backseat and it was just the two of them, reaching out to each other. It was easy to let the past disappear behind rose colored glasses when it was just that: the past. 

But when he had heard that voice again, not in the privacy of his own mind but in the present, with him, in front of him, even (and wasn’t that a thought!), he had remembered the rest. The frustration, the bad endings, the contempt, the manipulation, the bargaining—

It had felt good to punch him, it had felt good to finally give back a fraction of what the Narrator had done to him. How many times had he wished for such an opportunity, back in the Parable? 

And yet. Why did Stanley feel like someone had ripped his heart out and left it in that meeting room? A part of him wanted to go back and grovel at The Narrator’s feet, beg for forgiveness and let him take him back there, whatever that really meant. But that part was the one who had daydreamed about meeting the Narrator again, who had expected someone that wasn’t actually the Narrator, but a version of him warped by nostalgia and regret.

Lost in thought as he was, it took Stanley a few seconds to realize that the car had stopped moving. There, just outside the window, stood his apartment building. He blinked a few times and finally turned to face Jane.

She did not say anything, but there was this undecipherable look on her face, like a forced blank mask. Whether she was hiding her emotions for his or her benefit, Stanley did not know. But he did know that if he waited much longer, the mask would slip into worry.

‘I’m sorry for cutting your evening short,’ Stanley settled on. 

“Eh, it’s fine. I got to see everyone I wanted to, and I’ll see them again in no time.”

Surprisingly, it did not sound like a lie, which caught Stanley off guard. Silence filled the car once more. Stanley took it as his cue to get out, but Jane grabbed his arm before he could reach for the handle.

“Can I ask you something?”

Stanley shifted. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk—he really needed to make sense of the situation one way or another—but he couldn’t do it right now without something exploding or shutting down within him. ‘Tomorrow?’

She sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow, 12PM.”

He nodded. Finally, Jane offered a hesitant smile. 

“See ya, then.”

After getting out and waving one last time, Stanley watched as the car disappeared down the road without making a single move to get into his apartment's building. An unremarkable home for an unremarkable man, that had been his thought for years. It used to sound comforting. Now, he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

His simple new beginning had been ripped apart, and he almost feared what he would find behind his apartment door. A completely different arrangement, a white mannequin, disappearing furniture… 

Stanley didn’t feel grounded anymore. As if the Parable was bleeding into reality, even though the Narrator was the only proof of anything coming out of it, and had that even really happened? He had punched a somehow humanoid Narrator, right?

He had definitely punched something, the pulsating pain in his hand was a clear reminder of it. And it was that uncomfortable tingling that stopped him from going back to his apartment.

Because that would be the logical course of action: he had come home after an eventful evening, so the first thing on his mind should be collapsing on his bed. It was what expected of him, and right now, he couldn’t bear any expectation. Instead, he turned around and walked aimlessly until he reached a park, found a tree and climbed it. It was uncomfortable and unsteady, and that was exactly what made it reassuring. 

Right. Now, he could think.

The Narrator was TN. It made a lot of sense, and at the same time, it was completely absurd. He could imagine the Narrator making TN’s first three games. But he couldn’t see him making Loneliness, and even less A Manor of Perspectives. 

Or, at least, Stanley refused to believe so.

TN was an asshole, yes, and shared too many similarities with the Narrator for it to be a coincidence. But TN could also self-reflect, TN could—somewhat—learn from his mistakes, TN could accept that characters had to leave the Manor, in the end.

TN wouldn’t have asked Stanley to go back to the Parable.

Right?

But what did Stanley truly know about A Manor of Perspectives. He hadn’t even finished the game. Maybe every character was doomed to go back to the Manor, maybe the Manor dragged them back in, who knew?

Stanley didn’t. He hadn’t been strong enough to finish it when he hadn’t known who the creator was, and he was even less likely to do it now. 

The Narrator didn’t seem to have changed, not really, but it could all be a facade. When Stanley had come face to face with him, Stanley had reverted to the mindset he had in the Parable. He wanted to believe that the Narrator had done the same, and that he hadn’t really meant what he had said.

Because even the most stubborn mind couldn’t remain impassive when transformed in such a way. He was now flesh and bones, and Stanley knew that it must have had some impact on his mind. The question was, was it positive or negative?

Stanley had lived the transition to this world as chaotic but overall a net positive. But Stanley was also the more human out of the two of them: he had always had a body, he had always had the ability to feel and to see and to long for social interactions. The Narrator was a voice, maybe a building, probably neither. 

And he had sacrificed everything he was just to find Stanley again.

But was it for Stanley or for the Parable?

Chapter Text

“So I’m guessing you somehow knew TN before the whole playtesting thing?” Jane asked, leaning against the back of her chair. For once, they weren’t at their usual bar, as the place didn’t seem suitable for a discussion like that. Not intimate enough. Instead, they were sitting around a small table in Jane’s kitchen.

At first, Stanley had thought of asking Jane to come to his flat, but on top of the complicated feelings that had arisen the night before, he had also realized that he wouldn’t be able to flee his own home if he was already in it. Meeting at Jane’s house meant that if he really needed to, he could simply leave.

Stanley nodded. ‘We lost contact years ago. I’ve always wondered what happened to him.’

It wasn’t really a lie, but what more could he say? He wasn’t about to start talking about the Parable, he’d sound insane. And he also couldn’t say that the Narrator was probably, definitely not human, that would be even worse.

“That’s wild. Must be hard to suddenly be thrust in front of a guy you hate like that.”

Stanley frowned. ‘I don’t hate him.’

And it was true. Stanley felt many, too many things about the narrator, but hate wasn’t one of them. Annoyance, displeasure, frustration, yes. But hate? That was beyond the realm of possibility.

“You don’t? Do you often punch the people you like or only the ones you haven’t seen in a while?” Jane squinted. “Should I be worried?”

‘He’s a special case. He’s… ’ What was he, actually? How do you define a relationship between the only two beings in existence? When the entire world revolves around the two of them, around their choices, around their conflict and cooperation—how can one even explain with such a limited medium like human languages what it is, what it feels like? When the only person you know can change the course of your own actions as they see fit, but also needs you just to exist, what then? ‘He’s a friend.’

Jane stared at him blankly. Stanley realized that it was not the most convincing thing he could have come up with. The way his hands hesitated while answering probably didn’t fill her with confidence either.

Before she could retort anything, however, a knock on the front door stopped her, quickly followed by the sound of the door opening. Alan’s voice rose from the hallway.

“Stanley, why didn’t you tell us that you knew TN?” Alan said, grabbing a chair and sitting next to Jane. Stanley had been the one to invite Alan to their small meeting. Partially because he was his biggest link with TN, but also because he was way more of a neutral party compared to Jane. Now, Stanley wasn’t sure it was such a good idea anymore, because having both of them staring at him felt a bit like he was going to be interrogated.

‘I didn’t know it was him,’ Stanley signed. He wasn’t in the mood for typing, and his hand still hurt a bit when he used his fingers like that, so he counted on Jane for the translation.

“What happened, after we left?” Jane asked Alan after relaying Stanley’s message.

“A lot less chaos than expected. TN just… stopped?”

A pause. “Stopped what?”

“I don’t know. Functioning like a normal human being, I guess. He just stood there, not saying a word to anyone. The only thing that made him react was when someone asked him about what was going on with Jim. ” Alan put air quotes around the name.

“And?”

“Well, it seemed he hadn’t realized that Stanley and Jim were the same person. It was like a sharp jolt to his system. I mean, it looked sharp to me, but I don’t think anyone else noticed. Everyone thinks it was some playtesting drama, and no one realized you actually know each other.” There was an odd glint in Alan’s eye, faint traces of what would have looked like betrayal if Alan hadn’t been as kind and forgiving as he was. Stanley wasn’t sure if the reproach was directed at him or at the Narrator. Or at both of them. “I was close enough when he started rambling, so I heard most of what he mumbled. He just went on and on, ‘Stanley this’ and ‘Stanley that’. But frankly, if you asked me what he was actually talking about, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

Stanley grimaced. It was clear that even though Alan didn’t have any context for what was happening, he was still a lot closer to the Narrator than anyone else Stanley knew. Close enough to interpret the Narrator’s reactions, or to let a hint of worry color his words.

Stanley tried to think of the few times when they had talked about TN, but he didn’t remember Alan ever mentioning him as a friend. He didn’t remember him saying anything really positive about the man either, except to defend him against Jane. And even then, did he stay so neutral as a way to appease Jane by not being too laudatory, or was it because Alan was a good guy and defended him out of principle? The former implied some closeness between them, but the latter was almost as likely.

Then again, Alan knew that TN hated Loneliness, implying some insight into TN’s life that could be interpreted as a sign of friendship. The idea gnawed at the edges of Stanley’s stomach, a discomfort he refused to acknowledge.

Were they friends? Could the Narrator have friends?

No, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. But TN could.

Was TN just a persona, or was it what the Narrator had become? Did it even make sense to still differentiate the two?

In hindsight, his email exchange with TN had sounded exactly like something the Narrator would say, so there couldn’t be that much difference between the two, despite all the years that had gone by.

Wait, email exchange?

Stanley hastily reached for his phone, drawing the attention of the other two. This whole time, he had had a direct way of communication with the Narrator without knowing it. And the Narrator now knew it too, which meant he must have gone back to his old habits, one way or another. Stanley would open his mailbox and find one or multiple long-winded, strongly worded—

Nothing. His mailbox was empty. Not a single message from him.

In the few seconds it had taken him to get his phone, it had not occurred to Stanley that this could even be a possibility. And had it taken him hours; he would not have considered it either. The Narrator would never pass an opportunity like this, because it was what he was , of course he would try to reach out, of course he would do everything to talk to Stanley.

But he hadn’t. And Stanley knew it wasn’t simply a matter of time. There was something underneath.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna contact him?” Jane asked over his shoulder. She had seen him open his mailbox, but his pause afterwards had been interpreted as hesitation, not disappointment.

If the Narrator wanted to be contacted, he would have done the contacting. That was how it had always been: even if Stanley tried to run away from him, the Narrator was the one who decided which door opened and which closed. Ironically, even the playtesting had been initiated by him.

It had always felt like the Narrator was the one who chose when or how Stanley and him interacted. But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Even in the Parable, Stanley had found ways to reach out, and more often than not, he was the one doing it for anything non-Parable related.

And Stanley hoped this would not be related to the Parable in any way.

There was a part of Stanley that had wanted to drag it on, to delay it as much as he could. He was not afraid, nor was he unwilling to see the Narrator again, but there was this fire in him, a flame he thought had been reduced to mere ashes, but were actually embers, patiently waiting for a bit of air to ignite again.

It was the part of him that made him take the right door, jump off the cargo lift: the thing that wanted to go against the Narrator’s wishes just for the sake of it.

But in a world where they were both reduced and elevated to being human, it wasn’t fair to apply resistance that would only make them both suffer.

Stanley had sent a proposal. In less than five minutes, he had gotten a reply. A meeting was arranged on the day itself, in a café in town. Neutral grounds, untouched by any hurtful memories.

Stanley was late. Or, more accurately, he was on time, but it felt like being late. He forced himself to walk at a reasonable pace instead of rushing down the street, and stopped by the window when he reached the rendez-vous point.

He was surprised to spot the Narrator immediately, sitting at a table in the back, half hidden by other tables. He was fidgeting with a piece of paper, a show of restlessness that seemed antithetical to the Narrator’s being.

Stanley pushed the door open, and watched as the Narrator’s eyes shot up to meet his gaze. There was surprise in them, as if he hadn’t expected Stanley to actually come. Or as if he was surprised by his own surprise.

Back in the Parable, the Narrator had always known where Stanley was, and on the rare occasions he hadn’t, it had only been a matter of time before Stanley was once again within reach. But here, as far as Stanley knew, the only thing that alerted him to Stanley’s presence were his own limited human senses.

As Stanley approached the table, he could see, actually see, the emotions flashing on his face. Surprise, hope, fear, hesitation and, finally, a calm reserve. He sat himself opposite the Narrator and basked in the (still) novel concept of having the Narrator in front of him.

“I assume this means that you are open to discussion?” It wasn’t really a question, and it didn’t really call for an answer, but Stanley still nodded.

The tension that Stanley had mistaken for self-confidence left the Narrator’s body with a relieved sigh. The Narrator sat straighter, and Stanley wondered if he knew he was doing that, or if as a somewhat newly made human, he wore his emotions on his sleeve because he didn’t know how to hide them.

“Right. Well, I am glad that you’ve finally come to see reason. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. Sooner or later, you would have realized that I only want what’s best for you.”

Ah.

So maybe there hadn’t been that much introspection on the Narrator’s part after all.

‘I’m not going back to the Parable. I already told you.’

Stanley expected a burst of anger, maybe a show of sadness. What he got instead was a chuckle and a shake of the head.

“Come now, Stanley. You know that in the end, that’s what you will do. Because you need the Parable.”

‘I don’t. Maybe the Parable needs me , but I don’t need it .’ Stanley was aware that they were not really talking about the Parable, but as long as the Narrator refused to extricate himself from it, he would refuse to give in.

And Stanley didn’t need the Narrator, Stanley wanted the Narrator. Which was completely different.

Wait, where did that thought come from?

“Ah, Stanley. I had forgotten how much you enjoy meaningless choices and burying your head in the sand. I can’t say I particularly missed it.” There was a hint of frustration slipping in his words.

‘I’ve spent years out of the Parable, and I’m completely fine. Better, even.’

“Irrelevant. This is not real, Stanley, it is nothing more than another out of bounds mishap. This one was admittedly longer and more tedious than usual, but in the end, it will all go back to how it used to be.”

Stanley slapped his hand against the table.‘Back to how it used to be?’

“Yes!”

‘How could it ever be back how it used to be when I’m not who I used to be, and neither are you?’

“Nonsense. You’re still Stanley, and I’m still me.” The hint of frustration was now verging on anger. Good.

‘I am Stanley, a man with an actual, real job, with friends, with a real life!’

“Is it friends you want? I can give you friends! Human ones, even, since the bucket apparently means nothing to you.”

‘No, you can’t. A friend is not something created for someone. It is a relationship, something you have to build. Otherwise, it’s nothing but hollow.’

A pause. The Narrator’s gaze was piercing into Stanley’s, but the latter refused to back down.

When the Narrator spoke, it was slowly, enunciating each word clearly. “Is that what you think my work is? Hollow?”

Stanley mirrored his tone with slow, careful movements. ‘I never said that.’

“Didn’t you? Do you think what I created can’t be enough for you? When everything I ever did was for you , to satisfy your nonsensical choices and undying need to break what I made. Again, and again, and again. I accommodated you so many times, and what do I get in return? Ungratefulness.” The Narrator was close to shouting, close enough that Stanley stilled his hands, too stunned and taken aback—and furious —to even manage a coherent answer.

“Stanley, you won’t lose any of what you did here. It will just be like any other reset.” Now, there was gentleness in his voice, a careful step in the direction of a wild beast that could bite at any moment.

It sounded like condescension.

How could it ever be like any other reset? Yes, Stanley would keep his memories. But he wouldn’t keep his emotions. Like any other reset, all the turmoil of emotions would quickly fade into the neutral state he fell back in at the start of every loop. He would stop feeling the anger, the happiness, the contentment that characterized his life until they faded into nothing but a fact in his brain. He would know he had been angry, but he wouldn’t feel it anymore. And with everything he couldn’t feel, it would stop the longing from coming back.

How convenient.

How infuriating.

The denial of his self, and for what? An endless loop of false endings? Is that the trade that the Narrator was proposing? Shoving Stanley back into a box he couldn’t fit in anymore?

‘You think you can force me back into a role ? It’s too late. You can’t get me and the Parable anymore. And since you’ve clearly made your choice, find yourself another protagonist.’

This time, when Stanley stomped away in a clear and uncomfortable parallel to their previous meeting, the Narrator did not say a word. Nevertheless, Stanley could still feel his eyes on him.

It was only hours later that Stanley realized that the Narrator had not once looked away from him during their whole conversation.

Chapter Text

Stanley knew he was acting irrationally. He knew Jane didn’t deserve such a cold treatment, he knew he should have answered Alan’s many unopened messages. Even Henry, the office’s resident prick, didn’t deserve how Stanley had sent him packing during their coffee break.

He was angry, and he refused to do anything to change that.

Instead, he chose to stare at his computer screen and try to shut out the rest of the world. It was hard, given that checking a presentation for typos was not the most engaging thing Stanley had ever worked on, and his mind kept trying to find stimulation elsewhere.

Needless to say, Stanley was not being very productive.

The morning painfully dragged on, so much so that Stanley started to get tired of his own attitude about halfway through. At exactly 12PM, he got up and headed towards the elevator to go eat out with Jane, like he did every Wednesday. It was only after a few hurried steps that he realized he hadn’t said a word to Jane the whole morning.

He was about to turn around when he noticed that Jane had followed him nonchalantly, as if nothing unusual was happening. All she gave him was a raised brow at his sudden stop, and that simple movement shattered his anger in an instant, leaving him clinging to that small offering of normality.

Because if Stanley was being honest, he didn’t like being angry, and the only reason he had stayed that way for so long was to avoid any other emotion.

Twice now, he had had to face shattered hope and crushing disappointment, and it hadn’t hurt any less the second time. It felt like talking to a wall while also being convinced that actually, this time, maybe the wall would change its mind. But it wouldn’t, because it was a wall , and wall didn’t even have minds. So he buried every last shred of emotion under a thick coat of anger, and called it a day.

Unfortunately, Stanley was bad at staying angry, reset or no reset. And he didn’t like making others suffer for something they had no parts in.

Jane didn’t say anything during the elevator ride, or as they crossed the lobby, and she didn’t react when Alan appeared by the entrance door. That was not part of their Wednesday routine. Stanley blinked in surprise and slowly came to a stop in front of his friend.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you like that. You weren’t answering my messages, I was started to get worried,” Alan said, rubbing his neck. He was still wearing his work clothes—a rare sight for Stanley—which added to the strangeness of the situation.

Not caring for a live translation, and too empty to take out his phone, Stanley simply pointed to Jane as if to say she was with me the whole time, you could have checked with her that I was still alive.

Alan furrowed his brows, confusion written all over his face, which annoyed Stanley even more.

Somehow, Jane understood enough of the message to answer in his stead:

“I told him you were clearly not fine. Thought you might appreciate the company,” Jane said with a shrug. And weirdly, Stanley did appreciate. The sentiment, more than the idea of actually being with people. But still, if he had to be with people right now, he’d rather it was with these two.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Jane said as they sat at a table in a small restaurant, not far from their office.

Stanley’s first impulse was to deny, to insist that he was fine, and that there wasn’t anything to talk about. But that wasn’t the truth. There was something to talk about, and he realized, surprised, that he wanted to talk about it.

‘I had a chat with TN,’ Stanley signed. Jane winced immediately, soon followed by Alan after Jane translated his words.

“Was he his usual asshole self?” Jane said with her own usual contempt.

‘That’s a way of putting it.’

Alan made a face. “Are you sure of that ?” There was a tilt in his voice that made him sound slightly doubtful. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Stanley twitch.

‘Quite sure , yes. He said some horrible things to me. He denied my personhood, as if he thinks a truncated version of me is better than who I actually am,’ Stanley’s movements were fast and sharp, and even if Alan had to wait for Jane’s translation to understand the words, he understood the sentiment immediately.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. It’s just that TN told me basically the same thing about you. It’s confusing, I don’t actually know what you guys talked about.” A pause. “Not that you have to tell us!”

“I’m much more inclined to take Stanley’s side on this, I don’t need to know what they talked about to know that that’s definitely something TN would say,” Jane said.

But Stanley barely heard her words. What did Alan mean? Stanley had never denied the Narrator’s being , he wouldn’t even be capable of it. The Narrator was the one in control, as he always was. It was ludicrous to think that Stanley could hold that kind of power over him.

It sounded more like one of the Narrator’s guilt trips that he loved so much when he considered that Stanley was misbehaving.

‘I’m sure the Narrator has a lot of things to say about me, he always does,’ Stanley signed curtly, as if throwing the words in the other two’s faces.

In his annoyance, it took him a second to notice that Jane hadn’t translated anything, and he quickly realized that Alan was also looking at her quizzically, waiting for the communication to be restored.

Jane had her mouth slightly opened, ready to talk, but her brows were furrowed, as if trying to piece something together. After a short silence, she closed her mouth and tilted her head.

“What’s that sign? Is that his name?” Jane asked, and recreated the sign that Stanley had inadvertently used. A flick of his hand, as if mimicking someone writing with a pen. The sign he had always used for the Narrator.

‘Yes,’ Stanley answered without any further explanation.

Maybe it was silly to have a sign for the Narrator. After all, Stanley didn’t need one to address him, and he didn’t have anyone to whom he could mention the Narrator. And yet, Stanley had still wanted something to call him, something that wasn’t the sign for narrator, because ‘narrator’ wasn’t exactly his name, it was too reductive . He was so much more than a simple voice, but he also couldn’t be contained by a word, so the only name he had was a sign, something unspoken and unpronounceable, but something that designated him as a person and not as a tool.

“Huh. I’ll try to remember it,” Jane simply said.

Stanley realized that the Narrator probably had a name, now. Not TN, but something else, something that could appear on legal documents. Alan probably knew it, and maybe some other people too. In that moment, the last thing Stanley wanted was to learn it.

“I meant what I said.” Alan’s voice took Stanley out of his thoughts, making him realize that Jane had finally translated his earlier comment. “He seemed really devastated. Whatever he told you, I don’t think he meant it, or maybe he didn’t realize what he was saying.

‘I don’t care,’ Stanley lied. ‘And I don’t think he does, either. He cares about himself, and by extension, his work. He sees me as a part of it, that’s all.’

“I don’t think that’s true. I don’t know the ins and outs of your relationship, but he wouldn’t be so hurt if it was as superficial as you’re implying. To me, it all sounds like a big misunderstanding. Do you really want to end it all over something like that?”

“I think you should end it for much less,” Jane mumbled into her drink. Stanley ignored her.

‘End it?’ Stanley snorted. ‘I don’t think this is the end. The end is never the end is never the end. I can only wish for it to be that simple.’

The words felt so wrong, so detached from reality that Stanley expected the other two to call him out on his lie, to laugh in his face. Their reaction was much more confusing. They exchanged a long look, a silent conversation that Stanley wasn’t privy to, and that made him all the more anxious with each passing second. After some time, Jane finally spoke:

“Do you remember when we were talking about TN’s games, when he contacted you for the first time?”

The non sequitur threw Stanley off, and all he could find to answer was an honest, ‘What?’

“Did you play any of his finished games?”

‘What? No. Why would I?’

The other two exchanged a look again. Jane wasn’t translating anything anymore, but Alan seemed to be able to follow without any issue. Nevertheless, Jane was the one to carry on:

“It costs me a lot to say that, because it could make you change your mind, but you should play Loneliness. ”

Chapter Text

The world was empty. That was Stanley’s first thought. A light grey void, a shade just dark enough to discern the small white blob that represented the player. Although there was a kind of porosity of the blob and background making them not quite blend into each other.

It had taken Stanley a whole day to convince himself to play Loneliness . According to Jane, it was TN’s one good game, and something that could change Stanley’s mind—on what, he wasn’t sure. Jane still considered TN an asshole despite liking the game, so he didn’t understand what his friends’ angle was.

More than finding the Narrator’s redeeming qualities, it was his friends’ weird reaction that truly intrigued him, and it served as the small push he needed to install and start the game.

And what he found was a lot of emptiness.

Likewise, the sound design was surprisingly discreet. No music, only a soft, swishing sound when the white blob moved. Knowing that the game was made by the Narrator gave Stanley expectations, especially when it came to how loud and in-your-face it would be, despite everything he already knew about the game. The Narrator didn’t really do quiet, did he?

So far, the game was surprising in its simplicity, even if it seemed closer to clunkiness than to an actual artistic direction. Somehow, it still worked.

At first, there wasn’t much to interact with, and the first few minutes were spent following one direction at random in the never ending greyness. Stanley almost missed the first grey blob he encountered, as it was almost fading into the background. All it did was say a single sentence:

“ Wasn’t I what you wanted?”

Shortly after that, he found another one:

“ I can’t be him.”

He passed several more, all different shades of grey, all saying one of the two sentences.

When Stanley did stumble upon something else, it felt almost overwhelming: a sudden eruption of multiple colors so bright that Stanley’s first instinct was to turn away. When he turned back again, the colors were mostly gone, and the ones still there had transformed into small colorful blobs that looked out of place against the gloomy background.

His first interaction was with a bright pink blob, and it was complete gibberish, strings of words that felt like they should make sense but didn’t. The player character could answer, but his dialogue options were not words, but two colors: white and bright pink. Stanley tried to select the white option, no result. The pink one, however, triggered a small triumphant sound, and a small legible piece of dialogue.

“ That’s me! I love myself!”

When Stanley tried to speak to the blob again, he discovered a new dialogue option: yellow. The yellow option prompted another small sentence from the pink blob.

“ I’m sorry, I do not know who that is.”

No more interaction were possible with this blob, so Stanley moved on to the next, a neon green one. It also spoke gibberish. This time, Stanley had three options: green, white and bright pink.

He tried the green, as matching the blob’s color had worked last time. It didn’t this time, but the pink one did.

“ Do you think they’d want to be friend?”

A thin thread appeared, linking the green blob with the pink one.

It didn’t take long for Stanley to understand the mechanics. Each blob would be uncomprehensible until Stanley found the correct color to answer with based on his interactions with previous blobs, thus creating a link between blobs which took the form of a multicolored string that went from one to the other.

Then, and only then, the yellow dialogue option would appear, and the blobs would offer a small piece of dialogue about yellow.

“ I am sure you will be reunited.”

Or,

“ We are plenty. Why this one?”

Or,

“ I hope you will find him.”

Or,

“ Maybe he can’t be found because he doesn’t want to be.”

Or,

“ Have you considered that this might be the end?”

The answers ranged from hopeful, to compassionate, to skeptical—but whatever their reaction was, none of them seemed to know yellow.

Most of the time, the white option was useless, which left a pinch in Stanley’s heart every time. But what truly broke him were the times when it wasn’t. When a blob would react positively to the white option, when a small colorful string would link his white blob with another one for a few instants. It never lasted: after a few seconds, the white blob would always sever the link.

Nevertheless, Stanley continued to try to create connections for his little blob, but every attempt lead to the same result: the white blob refused to get attached. Or, maybe, failed. Of course, Stanley was stubborn, and still went for the white option, even if nothing good ever came out of it.

After some time, because of all the connections created between the blobs, the world had become much more colorful, with barely any visible grey anymore. Now, the white blob stood out much more, in a way that made him seem both more present but also out of place.

In this colorful environment, it was almost surprising that Stanley managed to notice the faded yellow trail. It was simultaneously hidden and in plain sight, easily overlooked but also so obvious. Because yellow was the one color that was completely absent from the game, except in the final dialogue option for every character. Finally seeing the color in another context felt like hope, like a crutch he desperately wanted to clung to and never let go. Because if he couldn’t create connections for his blob, and if all the other blobs didn’t create connections with yellow, then it was obvious that it was because yellow was meant for white.

Wasn’t it?

Stanley obviously had to follow it, and the irony of once again following a yellow line was not lost on him, even if this one was very different from the adventure line. It felt like it didn’t want to be followed, fading away as soon as Stanley approached it. And it wasn’t a continuous line, but scribbled words forming a nonsensical run-on sentence.

— can you have a body are you listening to maybe to you this is somehow its own branching path that most people have one—

His brain was itching, but Stanley couldn’t truly figure out why. He recognized some of it as lines from the Parable—which he could almost hear spoken in the Narrator’s voice—but he couldn’t quite place the rest. Slowly, the voice of the Narrator in his head became clearer and clearer, and he realized it was because the Narrator’s lines were increasing in frequency.

Of course, the man couldn’t stop himself from putting so much of his own ego into his other game. That shouldn’t be surprising.

— and what is it with you and look at that fern were in the right corridor or something pretentious like Archibald or Philip and—

Stanley stopped. He remembered that conversation. When they had talked about the Narrator getting his own name, those were the names Stanley had suggested. He went back and looked at the other seemingly random words. They were not random, they were Stanley’s, from their time in the Parable. Things he didn’t remember saying, but that stayed with the Narrator, the same way Stanley remembered all the things said by the Narrator.

A cold shiver ran down his back. His words were slowly disappearing from the line, replaced by the Narrator’s. In any other context, Stanley would have interpreted it as the overbearing presence of the Narrator taking over his life. But at that moment, he could feel the despair in the words becoming messier, less legible. It wasn’t an invasion, it was a desperate reach for something that was slipping through his fingers. At the same time, the yellow faded slowly, before becoming barely more than a shade of white. Stanley barely realized where he was going, rushing after a line whose words had now spiraled out of control, into an endless litany that used to be so familiar, and so heartbreaking.

— the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never the end is never—

After some time, even the now white line faded away into grey, and when Stanley looked around, he realized that he had gone so far away from the colorful blobs that the world was once again a grey void, and even the line, his last shade of a companion, had disappeared. There was only one place where he could go, back to the colors, even if he didn’t really belong. But maybe it would be different this time, maybe now, he knew what to do, what to expect. With that goal in mind, he tried to turn around. Before he could, the screen turned black, and the credits appeared.

Stanley stared at his monitor.

I don’t think this is the end. The end is never the end is never the end. I can only wish for it to be that simple.

That was what he had said to Jane and Alan, shifting distress into anger. And now, he was confronted with its parallel, a desperate hope suffocating until there was nothing left, until every alternative felt so far away that it wasn’t worth it to try anymore.

As the very short credits rolled—mostly the same initials repeated again and again—Stanley thought about what he had said the day before. Convincing himself that he didn’t care because he thought that was what the Narrator thought of him, deep down.

But the Narrator did care, so much. Stanley couldn’t believe he had needed a video game to realize it. Something so far away from what he expected from the Narrator, something that came from his heart and not from his ego.

It didn’t convince Stanley to forgive. But it did make him want to understand.

Chapter Text

In a tentative show of trust, and as a mean to prevent himself from running away again, Stanley had invited the Narrator to his apartment. A choice he was sure to regret, while being the only option: it slightly raised the chance of this encounter not going terribly. It sure motivated him to be a bit more accommodating, in any case. The glass wasn’t even half full, but Stanley still focused on the small amount of water in it.

Convincing the Narrator to come had been surprisingly easy. Although it was hard to judge the Narrator’s state of mind through a simple and dry email. Still, Stanley thought he could detect some kind of restraint. Wariness, maybe.

The Narrator arrived exactly on the dot—with such accuracy that Stanley wondered if he had been waiting on the doorstep before ringing the bell—and as soon as Stanley opened the door, he barged in, forcing Stanley to almost jump out of his way.

Stanley stamped on his annoyance before it could truly develop. Because that was a thing he had noticed during their short time together: the Narrator moved as if unaware of the physical world until he was forcefully reminded of its existence. There was an energy to his movements, a vivacity that would carry on, undisturbed, until he inevitably collided with something, at which point he would freeze for a short instant before resuming whatever he was doing before. This attitude extended to his own body, and Stanley wondered if he was conscious of the very human things he did—his very expressive faces, or his fidgeting—or if that was another one of his struggles with existing in this form. It gave him a kind of presence, an absence of fear that could masquerade as confidence, but that Stanley now understood as mere cluelessness, a residue of his former immateriality.

After his energetic entrance, the Narrator barely walked a few steps before stopping. Not because he had bumped into anything, no, just to remark, “This is not how I imagined your place.”

‘ Your’ .

The simple fact that the Narrator recognized that something could be Stanley’s reassured him. Because that meant the Narrator could put some distance between them, maybe enough to consider Stanley an actual person, separate from him.

The idea made something flip in Stanley’s stomach, a feeling he couldn’t classify as good or bad, and that was better left alone.

They ended up in the living room, in a silence that would have been less weird if they had chosen to sit instead of standing awkwardly, or if the Narrator had stopped staring at Stanley for at least a second or two. But no, Stanley could feel the eyes following his every movement, every twitch of the finger, in the same way as during their last meeting. He was starting to wonder if the Narrator even blinked.

The Narrator was waiting, Stanley realized. He was gauging the situation, maybe because he really didn’t know what to expect. Which was fair, given that neither had been very forthcoming in their respective emails. Or maybe it was because Stanley hadn’t communicated anything since the Narrator had come in.

‘I played your game.’

“Yes, I’m aware, I sent it to you for a reason, if you recall.” The Narrator said in a short, clipped tone. He crossed his arms, raising yet another barrier between them.

‘ Loneliness, I mean.’

The Narrator blinked. Stanley watched with wariness and a certain amount of interest as every inch of the Narrator tensed up.

“Why?”

It took a few seconds for Stanley to collect his thoughts. Too long, because the Narrator had started speaking again.

“Why would anyone play it, let alone you? It’s an unfinished mess that doesn’t deserve the title of ‘video game’.”

‘I disagree. I liked it.’

“Stanley, I do not need to bother explaining what I generally think of your tastes.”

‘I’m not the only one thinking it.’

“Are you referring to the Steam reviews? They’re deluding themselves. They think they see things that are not there, giving too much leeway to something that’s nothing more than… confusion incarnate.”

‘I think you don’t realize how much of you is in it. How much you’ve said.’

“None of my games are about me . And, even if it were, so what? Do you think it’s good because it’s personal? How voyeuristic of you.”

‘No. I know that all of your games are personal.’ And they’re not always good, he didn’t say, but the Narrator rolled his eyes anyway, as if he’d heard it. ‘I think you just don’t realize which part of you are in it.’ A pause. ‘Or, rather, you didn’t.’

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

‘I can see the through line between Loneliness and A Manor of Perspectives. You’re channeling your… ideas in a more controlled way. It’s deliberate, now.’

Silence. The Narrator narrowed his eyes.

“Did you make me come all the way here to talk about my games? Is that what we’re doing now?”

It’s the safest way to talk about you. ‘Yes.’

The Narrator let out a sigh, so artificial that Stanley had to fight not to raise an eyebrow. With unneeded theatrics, he sat himself on the sofa and waved his hand nonchalantly.

“Fine. What is so important about a bad and unfinished game that you had to drag me here?”

A fake casualness, probably an armor to protect himself. Something he hadn’t had the previous times. He hadn’t needed. Stanley realized that the Narrator expected to get hurt, somehow. Expected something bad. And yet, here he was, waiting for the sword of Damocles to fall.

How strange.

‘I didn’t realize how difficult it was for you to be… this.’

A huff. “What an impressive show of eloquence. This what, Stanley?”

‘Human. It was liberating for me, so I assumed it must have been the same for you, but...’ He trailed off, letting his hands over in the air, unsure of how to finish his thought.

“How can you even bear it?” There was a slight hollowness in the Narrator’s voice, a small crack in the facade.

‘It was a much smaller leap for me than it was for you.’ A pause. ‘You said you could go back to the Parable if you wanted to. Did you?’

The Narrator straightened, but it didn’t look like fake confidence anymore, more like a small jolt to his system. “Yes. One or two years ago. But I couldn’t stay there. I still hadn’t found you.”

‘Was that the only reason?’

A snort. “What other reason could I possibly have to come back here? ”

I don’t know, but I wish I did.

There must be something.

Please.

Stanley didn’t say anything. The Narrator’s eyes were still on Stanley, but they were somewhat softer now. Gone was the facade, replaced by something that looked too much like defeat for Stanley’s comfort.

‘Why did you come here?’

“I told you, I hadn’t—”

‘No, I mean, why did you accept to come here, in my apartment?’

The Narrator shrugged. “I know you think I’m stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together. If you’re not coming back with me, if I can’t have my story, I might as well give a proper ending to this one.” The Narrator paused. “I’ve survived so far. I can keep doing it.”

‘I don’t want you to just survive.’

There was a pause, before the Narrator answered:

“It’s all I can do. You said I should find another protagonist, but that’s not possible. There’s no Parable without you; believe me, I tried. And I’m nothing out of the Parable. you’re condemning it— me —to emptiness. But that’s what you want, Stanley, isn’t it?”

Stanley breathed in, slowly. He held his breath for a few seconds before letting it out. This was the point where he would get angry. And the Narrator would only follow. An impulsive need for conflict, because that was the drive of stories, wasn’t it? And they couldn’t help but fulfill their roles. Even Stanley, who prided himself on finally reaching humanity, kept taking the bait so easily.

He took another approach.

‘Have you tried living in this world?’ Stanley asked instead, with as much calm as he could muster.

“Think for a second, Stanley, what do you think I’ve been doing for the past couple of years?”

‘Surviving, you’ve said so yourself.’

“Tomato, tomato. It’s all the same.”

‘It’s not.’

“Being human is limiting. Uncomfortable. And I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Or comfortable. There’s always too much, but also not enough. There’s no way to live like this. How do you think I feel, going from an omniscient point of view to such a reduced one?”

‘A reduced point of view, but of a much bigger world.’

The Narrator grimaced. “It’s not my world.”

‘It could be. You’re comparing everything to the Parable instead of even trying to see the positive in this one.’ The Narrator opened his mouth, but Stanley stopped him from speaking with a sign.

‘Give it a try. A real try. If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll reconsider your initial offer. I promise.’

“I don’t see what good that would do, but fine. If that’s the only way to make you—”

The Narrator didn’t get to finish his sentence before Stanley closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around him. An almost inaudible “Oh.” escaped from the Narrator’s lips, and he stayed there, frozen in place. It was a bit of an awkward position, because the Narrator was still sitting and Stanley had almost lunged at him. Nevertheless, not for one second did Stanley think of letting go, even tightening his embrace instead, with his chin resting on the Narrator’s shoulder. Stanley could feel the warmth radiating from the other man under his ironed shirt, and slowly, the Narrator relaxed and tentatively let his hands lower at his sides.

The room was silent, except for the Narrator's slightly shaky breathing.

Chapter Text

Despite everything, the world remained stubbornly unmoved by the events that had taken place in Stanley’s flat. Nothing really changed. Maybe colors were a bit more vibrant, and maybe it was a little easier to breathe, but other than that, life went on.

Stanley turned off his alarm clock, got dressed, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth and left for work. He said hello to the receptionists, tolerated Henry’s rant for a while, grabbed a coffee and went to his cubicle.

Everything was completely ordinary in a way that it shouldn’t be, which made Stanley feel silly for expecting otherwise.

A small thud informed him of Jane’s (late) arrival.

“You’re in a good mood.” Jane had dropped her satchel on her desk and was watching Stanley with a mix of amusement and confusion. All she got in reply was a thumb up and a smile.

For the first time in a while, work did not feel like an excruciating task and Stanley actually managed to be quite productive, reducing significantly the pile of stuff he hadn’t managed to get through given his recent state of mind. He even took two coffee breaks instead of one, and indulged himself by bringing Jane soup from the coffee machine, which almost ended up splattered on her screen when she realized what it was.

Really, everything was back to normal.

“Your phone’s buzzing again,” Jane stated.

Well, almost normal.

Giving his number to the Narrator had seemed like the normal thing to do when he had gone back to...wherever he lived. After all, they couldn’t keep using emails to communicate, Stanley didn’t like to think of the clutter it would create in his mailbox.

Given the number of texts he had received in less than twenty-four hours, he knew he had made the right choice.

At first, the Narrator had tried calls, probably the worst way of communicating when your interlocutor is mute. He had then switched to voice messages, which Stanley refused to listen to at work. So, voice-to-text messages it was.

Because God forbid the Narrator chose a communication method that didn’t involve listening to his own voice. Of course.

Stanley did not answer them unless they actually contained a question of some kind, and the Narrator seemed content just chattering away and fighting with the technology.

— Write. No not write you imbecile, write. I said write. Right. Ah thank you, as I was saying—

‘That’s just the Narrator. I can put it on silent if you want.’

“No, no, I don’t mind but… it’s TN?”

‘I played Loneliness. You were right, it did change my mind. ”

“You two made up?”

‘I guess, yeah.’

“That’s great! For you, I mean. I’m now in the minority when it comes to opinions on TN.”

‘You’ll get over it.’

“For future reference, I can tolerate his presence once a week if I’m in a good mood. No more than that.”

‘How charitable of you.’ Stanley ducked as the cup flew to his head. It was now thankfully empty, the last drops of soup having flown out before reaching Stanley’s cubicle.

Ignoring her own soup-related shenanigans, Jane went on: “So, what happened?”

Stanley dropped the cup in his bin. ‘Nothing much. We talked.’

“A humongous feat in itself.”

‘I know. I realized that what I took for arrogance was closer to… unhappiness.’

“You sound like Alan.”

Stanley shrugged. ‘Alan was right to give him some grace.’

“No. I didn’t mean it in a good way. I don’t think unhappiness should be an excuse for his behavior.”

‘I wasn’t looking for an excuse, I was looking for an explanation. And I found it.’

“If your explanation is enough for you to forgive him, then that’s an excuse, in my book.”

‘I never said anything about forgiveness. I’m still angry with him.’ A pause. ‘There’s always a good reason to be angry with him. The difference is that I’m feeling more than just anger. So it would be reductive to only focus on the anger.’

“That doesn’t sound like a healthy relationship.”

‘I don’t think ‘healthy’ is an achievable goal for us.’

A heavy silence fell on them. Jane was staring at him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

A lot, Stanley wanted to answer, but he knew it would not be received well. He opted for a shrug, which was not really well received either, but was enough to make Jane turn back to her screen with nothing more than a deep frown.

Stanley picked up his phone. A wall of text greeted him, most of it idle chatter that he read diagonally before finding anything of interest. In his quest to Make The Narrator Enjoy Life, he had suggested a bunch of things for the Narrator to try, and the result were far from conclusive so far.

TN: I tried to “take in some sunshine” as you put it and now I have a headache. What kind of medieval torture were you trying to put me through?

S: How long did you stay in the sun?

TN: One hour and six minutes.

S: Drink water.

TN: Do you truly think you can order me around, Stanley?

Stanley let out a sigh. He could easily imagine the Narrator going outside and never reaching the enjoyable part of it due to overanalyzing everything and spending way too long in the sun to the point of sunburn. It was hard to balance the amount of information he had to give to the Narrator to insure he would actually do the intended thing. Correctly.

His phone buzzed again.

TN: Water has never tasted so good. I understand your initial goal now. I don’t think the end justifies the means in this case, but it was still a clear improvement compared to the beginning.

Well. That still somehow counted as a win. Maybe.

“Hey, can I ask you something else?”

Stanley’s eyes shot up to meet Jane’s. She was leaning forward on her elbows, with an inquisitive look on her face. Stanley nodded.

“In Loneliness. The yellow character, that never appears. Was that...?” She made a vague gesture in his direction, one eyebrow raised.

Stanley pinched his lips, which was answer enough for her.

The sudden slap of the table earned Jane a few dirty looks from their surrounding colleagues. “I knew it! Hah! I need to tell Alan he lost.”

‘Please, don’t bet on my personal life.’

“I’m sorry. It was too tempting.”

‘You don’t sound sorry.’

“I am. I’m also twenty dollars richer.”

‘You only bet twenty dollars?’

“Alan didn’t want to bet at all, I had to go low.”

‘I want 50%.’

“Alright, that’s fair.”

It did not surprise Stanley to find the Narrator on his front step.

“Ah, Stanley, I thought about that water thing. It turns out any kind of thirst makes water taste really good! But I’ve decided being thirsty was not worth it just to experience it, considering what it does to my throat. I do wonder if human life is just a series of bad things that serve to make the good things look better by comparison. I cannot say I really enjoy it.”

Stanley glanced at him as he turned the key in the lock. The Narrator’s face was red, not alarmingly red, but definitely “tourist-in-Italy-that-forgot-their-sunscreen” red.

‘I should have told you about sunscreen.’

“Come on, Stanley. Do you really think I don’t know about sunscreen? Of course I do! I simply, erm...”

‘...forgot you were human?’ Stanley asked and pushed the door open.

“Of course not, don’t be silly. I can never forget my condition. I simply overlooked some aspects of it.”

‘Sure. Let’s put it that way,’ Stanley signed before entering.

And just as naturally, the Narrator followed him inside.