Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley wasn’t bored.

Boredom never seemed to be a thing, to be honest, he had been created for this exact purpose after all.
His whole existence was about serving the Parable, serving the game with the assistance of the Narrator, and boring was never part of this existence.

Doing the ends all over again was something, an activity and even a job, he did with compliance. He even liked it somehow, he could choose which endings he wanted to do, whether it was the “right” or “wrong” ones.
There were some ends he didn't like at all, some the Narrator hated too, and others that were just a no.
It was the Stanley Parable, and they were both okay with it.
The same was going for the Curator, or the setting guy, or the other non-predominant characters.

It was their job, as they liked to think.

So when Stanley’s eyes fluttered open after having done the Not Stanley ending, he didn't mind at all.
Stanley wasn’t human after all, time and emotions were really different for him, basic human needs too. He couldn’t feel the same or simply be the same as one.
That’s why he didn't feel boredom, because boredom was a concept so important in the whole being human thing.

As always when a run was about to start, Stanley was looking at his computer, no orders, no co-workers, he knew that perfectly well.
Soon, he would get up from the uncomfortable office chair, open the door and would hear the first line of the Narrator, “all of his coworkers were gone, - what could it mean?”.
It changed sometimes, but that line was Stanley's favorite.
Maybe because it was the most familiar one.

So he did: he got up from the chair, opened the door and heard the Narrator’s sweet voice:

“...”

Hm, no. No he didn't hear it right away. Usually Stanley had to do one to two steps before the door behind him closed and the Narrator talked.
Not this time though. Stanley immediately lifted his head to the ceiling. Not where the voice came from (he mostly heard it in the walls) but where he liked to think the Narrator could be.
As he did, so, not only 3 seconds late from the usual, the familiar voice was finally heard.

“All of his co-workers were gone, what could it mean?”

He was about to keep up, to walk to the next scenario when something else grabbed his attention again.
The door.
Again, usually it was always perfectly framed. Never too late, never too soon.
So why the fuck the door was still open?

Stanley frowned, turning around to see the still opened door.
It was unusual. If certain parts of the different ending could change, the first one never did. Until now, apparently.
Stanley and the Narrator rarely talked about something else than the endings, and mostly because he didn’t talk so much.
Bugs could happen, soft-lock could happen and in those moments, Stanley could pronounce a few words because that wasn’t normal and what wasn’t “normal”, they needed to correct it, of course.

They were created for that, remember.

Looking at the door, expecting it to close any seconds now, Stanley wondered if the Narrator knew about this, and if he was as shocked and unsettled by this as him.
Yes, he thought, because their normality had been going on for so long that even the slightest change could shake them.

Seeing that the door would not close, Stanley decided to start walking again, wanting to do The Freedom Ending, one of Narrator's favorites. His absolute favorite was the Zending, of course, the zen room was his favorite place in the world, but we don’t talk about it.
Stanley felt like shit being so scared of going back there. He did the ending a few times only, compared to the other ones.

Entering the corridor right before the second part of the office, he lifted his head again, waiting for the second line.
Frowning when it wasn’t delivered in time again, Stanley hugged himself with his arms.

The door still hasn't shut.

And, with another 3 seconds delay, the Narrator spoke again.

“Stanley decided to go to the meeting room, perhaps he had simply missed a memo.”

As an office worker and a really good creation, Stanley was a patient man. That wasn’t the creation that made him like that, only the repetitive episodes and the knowledge of them stuck here.
He wasn’t stupid either, only soft-going. Stanley didn’t like conflict (like he didn’t like the Zending but- we don't talk about it). So patience sometimes made him not confront bizarre things. It was like that and Stanley followed, not that he could do much more, really.

But his patience could wear thin, especially when something felt wrong.
No, when something was wrong.
Narrator was as perfectionist as Stanley was patient, and that? Definitely wrong.

Entering the corridor that guided him to the two-doors room, Stanley couldn’t help but glance back at the opened doors behind him. That was not fun because hearing the door shut was a source of comfort, he definitely knew that he was safe.
This one came from a very bad joke that happened like a thousand resets ago.

Narrator made him think that something was following him and Stanley, panicked, ran to the broom closet and barricaded himself in it for days, or so he thought because time wasn’t that big inside of the Parable.
He stayed so long that his physical health was degrading a lot (His condition resetting within every new run) and the Narrator had to force an ending.
He never apologized but he never did it again either.

So Stanley wanted that door to close and if It was another joke of the Narrator, he would go crazy. Those opened doors scared him, was he followed? How could he be safe with something running around the unclose office?!
He wished for something to comfort him instead of his own arms.

Huh? Where was his bucket? Why didn’t he think about his precious bucket?

The thing going on with the delay and the doors made him go mad, definitely.
Stanley wanted to go back, to take his reassurance bucket which was working very very well usually but he also wanted to know what was going on, to do an ending and reset to something more accurate.

So sorry, bucket, but you’ll have to wait for a bit this time.

Stanley entered the two-doors room, glancing anxiously to the unclosed door, waiting for the Narrator to continue the story.
Again, three seconds of latence.

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

Oh, so he did know about the problem occuring. Good thing to know it wasn’t his imagination but it was also really strange, unusual, to hear the Narrator being so..how to say that, surprises? Concerned?
He entered the door on his left, and made his way to the meeting room, while hearing paper being shuffled almost aggressively.
Hearing those noises was a good thing because this wasn't a bad joke and Stanley knew the Narrator would do something about that strange bug.

“But there was no one here either and-” more papers being shuffled, a curse said under his breath, “Stanley I can’t keep up with this charade, I do not like what is going on.”

Uh-Oh, for the Narrator to stop in the middle of his track, that meant a forced reset.
A forced reset wasn’t good, they both didn’t like it and happened when there were no other solutions.
The Narrator didn’t like it because it screwed with his game and narration. Stanley didn't like it because every time they did, it hurt like hell.

Instead of that, usually the Narrator asked for Stanley to finish an ending or he was arranging the set-up when there was a bug but with the way this one was presenting, Stanley knew he didn’t have much more possibilities to counter the problem.
For once, he didn’t mind a forced restart if It meant not feeling followed and scared because right now, he wanted that frickin’ door to shut and leave him alone.
Stanley walked as far away from the door, and sat on one of the meeting room chairs, waiting for the Narrator to decide on a thing to do.
He didn’t want to keep going now that both of them clearly knew that something was happening.

With waiting came more shuffling, and more clicking too, he didn’t hear a lot of the clicking or pacing stuff but that always had been enough for Stanley to know that the Narrator had a human form too.
Sometimes, the sound of his voice was further away from what he thought was a mic, sometimes he could hear him pacing, especially when they needed to reset.
Stanley could also recall one time, only once, where he heard some munching sounds, the Narrator was eating. He wondered what eating felt like, because he didn’t need to eat and drink.
The distributors weren’t even functional and only served as a decoration.

There weren't a lot of things Stanley wanted to know, but eating and drinking was one of them.
That, and maybe the Narrator’s looks.
He didn’t exactly want to know how he looked, but he was still rather curious about it.
Not that it could happen anyway, but he heard him eat, so maybe in a long, long time (resets really), it could be possible.

“Ready, Stanley? I’m sorry I know you never liked the forced restart but I can’t do anything more, I'll make it up for you don’t worry. Maybe I could allow you an hour or two in the broom closet.”

The worker looked up once again, and nodded.

Then the forced restart happened, causing Stanley’s breath to be cut suddenly, like he was thrown in a washing machine and like he was being punched in the stomach.
The duration of it wasn’t clear, maybe half a second for the Narrator and a minute for Stanley, but how could they know?

The thing Stanley knew about the forces reset on the other hand was the great pain it sent him to. He didn’t have many other pains he could compare it to (not being human, remember), but it felt like his bones were crushed and repaired again and again until he opened his eyes in his work office.
It wasn’t worse than the -Zending- but we don’t talk about it!

This one forced reset in particular was worse than usual, maybe because Stanley already felt unease or maybe due to the bug.
So much to say that when he opened his eyes again, his heart was pounding and he was sweating, unable to take a deep breath for a few seconds.

When everything came back to normal, he looked up, surprised to hear the Narrator shuffling again and mumbling to himself, having forgotten to turn off his mic.
A new thing.

“Do not move Stanley, I have to take care of -that- before we can move on, feel free to rummage in your office, but don’t go out, would you?"

Chapter Text

Usually, Stanley would have done everything but listened to that kind of orders. He would have stepped out the second he was given the order to not move. Not his fault again, that was his purpose.
This time though, wasn’t usual.

Stanley crossed his arms on his desk, leaning on it, the memory of the forced restart clinging to his skin. Why was it so hurtful everytime? Couldn’t he just close his eyes and wake up here in the safety and warmness of his office?
He was a very patient man, really he could be, but one thing he couldn’t stand was pain or too many emotions.

He wasn’t designed to be a human, so he couldn’t act like one. Those basic human needs were so stimulating and irritating, how could people not go crazy because of them? A curious thing truly, and Stanley didn’t know the answer nor did he want it.
Once again, the Narrator didn’t turn off his mic, Stanley heard clearly him tapping fast, breathing a bit too fast.

The atmosphere around him was almost cozy, if not for the open door. It was bizarre to stay in his office, usually, he’d go around the building, searching for new ends, or ones he already did a thousand times. Just staying in place was okay, he was cool with it.
For what seemed to be the hundredth time, Stanley looked at the door.
That was the problem with emotions.
Stanley felt them less, because he wasn’t supposed to feel at all, but sometimes it happened. The Narrator knew about that (and it was the same for him too).

So sometimes, he could feel, and those feelings he shouldn’t have made everything ten times harder.
Like fear, fear came with obsession, and right now that was that door, the doors the Narrator made a joke about just one time.
There was the Zending and the Skip Button too but no, no way, we don’t TALK about it.

Emotions confused the hell out of him.

Stanley was observing the desk, the files, pens, decorations, post-its. It was incredible to notice the colossal number of things the Narrator added to provide that much detail.

In general, the Parable was entirely and meticulously detailed to the point it was truly impressive. That made Stanley think about emotions and how they could get very obsessive if they felt one of a kind. For the Narrator, it was the Game in itself, the strong need to adjust, to make more, to arrive at true perfection.
That was also their reason for why the bugs and things they didn’t expect were so frightening and atrocious to deal with.

Narrator wanted perfection, Stanley was used to perfection.

A few other muffled sounds caught the worker’s attention again, he looked up. Then The Narrator cleaned his throat loudly, making Stanley stand up right away, waiting for him to talk.

“I believe the issue is now fixed, time’s up Stanley, let’s go on with the story!”

Stanley nodded towards the ceiling, wondering if It meant something to the Narrator.
He stepped out of his office and, what a miracle, the door closed behind him, making him able to see the number 427 painted in big and yellow.
Good, better.

“All of his co-workers were gone, what could it mean?”

The voice on time, the doors closing, what a delight it was when it was correct.

Stanley began his way again, still wanting to do the Freedom Ending, since he couldn’t finish it, or even start it, the previous time.
He walked through the two open-offices and to the room with the two opened doors.

“Hum- Let’s not-, when Stanley came to a set of two opened doors, he entered the door on his left.”

Stanley stopped in his tracks, had something else happened up in the Narrator’s monitoring room? Surely, because nothing changed where he was. Was it related to the bug?
He entered the door on his left, his steps less long and more cautious.

“What is it again? Huh, this is driving me nuts, Stanley, would it be ok with you if I were to force a start again?”

The Narrator seemed a little bit more anxious, even if Stanley couldn’t notice anything in the area.
The worker frowned, looking up. He didn’t really want to, but something was wrong, so he couldn’t just say “no”. He nodded.

The second forced restart was worse. Way worse. He opened his eyes while choking, out of air, unable to give some to his lungs.
His hearing went off, his eyes went blind as the Narrator’s voice began to be very stressed and shaky.
Panicking wasn’t going to help him but he couldn’t see around him, nor hear, what if the door was open? What if he had to go through another force reset?

He couldn’t, it was hell, his body was being torn apart each time but why was it worsening?
What wasn’t working so bad he had to live that?
His hand went up his throat, clutching it, ripping the soft skin with his nails.
He didn’t have the physical abilities to throw up, but he would have done if he could have.
His whole body twitched, making him fell, his head hit the corner of the office.

He winced, the hit snapping him out of his panicked state.
He sat properly on the ground, hand going from his throat to his face to cup it. He exhaled a shaky breath, his lungs hurting a bit.
The pain that shook his whole body slowly faded away as he regained composure.

“Stanley, are you with me now? Good. I do not know what happened, though I do think one of the files got corrupted, it spread like ants everywhere, that was a pain to correct.”

Was it why? Stanley had to help himself with the chair to get up.
The Narrator’s voice was better, less shaky, more confident.
If it said it was good now, Stanley could feel relieved. He got told to hurry up and go on with the story and Stanley was in a way feeling glad to be able to do it.
He stepped out of the n°427 office once again, looking around more closely than usual to check if they missed any strange things.

There wasn’t, so he walked up to the boss’s office, he put the ultra-super-duper secret PIN code then took the elevator down to the Mind Control facility.
Soon enough, he was in front of the door which was supposed to open on the Freedom Ending, putting aside the Narrator’s other favorite room.
Because there were a lot of ghosts in the room attached to it. The End in Itself.

Narrator was buzzing with excitement while pronouncing his lines, with that deep voice and strong British accent.

Stanley could have smiled, if he was human.

And that was strange because he was pretty sure that his lips were twitching up right now. He just verified, and now his fingers were covering his mouth.

The door opened completely and Stanley finally entered the “freedom”.

“Stanley, step back.”

Stanley didn’t hear it, because the voice was muffled, so he kept walking.

“Stanley, I'm ordering you to step back.”

He stopped, and looked a bit desabused. He listened for the two runs that went wrong, nothing looked out of place.
He decided to not follow, most of the endings were there because he wasn't following the directives.
He didn’t want to go back.

“I’m gonna have to force an ending again, if you don’t step back!”

He didn't want to go back.
He didn't want to suffer too, though.
A war went on in his head, torned between not wanting to listen to him and mad he was threatening him, and scared about the forced reset.
What did he have to do to make him understand he didn’t want to suffer again, physical pain being beyond his understanding and was something he couldn’t bear.
He just had to walk five meters at most to complete the end and return to his office without any pain.

Normal endings were by far better. No pain, no respiration cut short, just a floating sensation, that he could maybe compare to a dream, walking on air.
It was a good thing, a better thing.
And the Narrator wanted to take that away from him just to cause more and more suffering.
He wanted him to die, choking on his own saliva, falling and hitting all his limbs and his head.

If that happened, Stanley would go to the Zen room, just to do the same, just to make him suffer like he was doing, because that was the only way he could return the favor.
Because he used the Zending to punish and comfort, and that went for both of them.

Stanley didn't notice he was walking, so lost in his thoughts.
He stopped again, turned back, guilty.
Guilt crawling under his skin, picking at his bones, eating his insides.
He shouldn’t think about the Zen room that way, they agreed to never talk about it.
But he couldn't stop remembering.

Slowly, he stepped back.

He looked up, hoping the Narrator wouldn't be too mad, would notice the apology he was trying to mimic.
Why was he apologizing for thinking of that thing? The Narrator didn’t know!
In a way, Stanley knew that a lot was unsaid, and he was pretty sure that the Narrator knew him very well, a look on his face could give him away.

“I fear it is too late.”

The Narrator’s voice was now only a murmure, he sounded defeated, almost sorry.

Stanley ran.

It was, indeed, too late.

Chapter Text

The second Stanley spent into the twisted dark hole that was supposed to take him back to his first point felt eternal.
Stanley screamed, cried, choked while being absolutely wrecked into pieces.

As his bones, his whole body was being crushed, Stanley wondered why, without being able to put his finger on the uncertain answer.
If an answer could explain and forgive the pain inflicted to his plastic.
Torrent of thoughts didn’t make it through his cries and pleas, the most predominant one being a call for help, a beg to end all of this.

Everything was dwelling on his emotions, emotions he shouldn’t feel but that kept coming on and off anyway, living by themself inside of his fake-heart. Heart that didn’t even physically exist so why was it growing louder and clearer just after his ribs?

Ah, god thanks it ended because Stanley was sure that if It was for one more milliseconds, he could've gone absolutely mad.
He wanted to talk, oh how much to express himself, maybe scream and cry some more, but he had to learn not to speak, even if It was way too much to keep to himself.
Telling someone wasn’t a bad idea, but it felt so wrong.
His throat ached as he was coughing pretty hard, a hand supporting his weight on the handle of the office chair.
His whole body was shaking so much that his hand slipped, he fell on his knees, scratching them.
He curled on himself, letting the despair getting the better off of him.

“Stanley..” called the Narrator softly, “Stanley, please get up, would you?”

He shook his head, pretty sure he would only fall again and hurt himself.
The Narrator wanted to make sure he was okay, but he certainly wasn’t.

Stanley felt miserable.

He crouched on the ground, still panting awfully. His legs couldn't stop shaking.

“Stanley?”

Oh god, he hated that defeated voice, the plea. He knew he had to stand to reassure him. He forced himself to sit back on the chair and lifted his head, addressing a small smile to the ceiling. His lips were dry, but it was fine: he needed the Narrator to know he was fine.
It was his very own fault: if only Stanley had listened the first time, they wouldn’t be there.

He feared that they were both at fault on that point.

Stanley gestured a bit before getting fully up, much more stable on his legs and trusting them a little more.

He was about to get out of his office before getting cut (again) by the Narrator.

“Wait, Stanley. Something occurred and..well the Parable isn’t exactly doing well right now, i'd like to take a moment to rearrange it without having to put you through the trouble of a forced reset again.”

Stopping in his tracks again, Stanley was surprised by both the words he heard and a strong desire to sigh.
That was strange.
The Narrator was sighing, a lot even, but that was for the sake of the story, a way to narrate and to indicate things by playing with his voice.
But sighing was a marvelous way to share emotions, here being frustration, and Stanley never had to sigh before.
This bug (that the Narrator just called something) had strange effects on them both. And Stanley didn’t know if It was for the best (or not.)

On the other hand, he was pretty sure that he did not want to step out and disobey once more.
For the sake of the Parable, his well-being and apparently for his own mental stability.
He had to swallow back the urge (Was it an urge, though, that too, he didn't know).

Not knowing was bad, no?

Definitely a tie on this one, maybe yes, most likely no.
While the Narrator went back working on his game (again), Stanley glanced to the open door of his office.
He was curious, he always has been curious. A copy of that human thing too, a good copy, making him able to find new endings.
Stanley knew that he wasn’t exactly human, but he also was the closest thing to one, created to perfect the Game, and act in it.

It wasn’t human emotions, so should he call it stanleymotions, emoley, perhaps stanemoleytion? Okay not the last one, even if he found that name really cool, it was a bit too long.
The point was here, those emotions weren't real but to him, they were, since he was the one feeling it.
A theory occurred to him, why was it so strange and paradoxal?
Because the Narrator too wasn’t human. Based on that, he couldn’t reproduce it to perfection like the entire physical and non-human related Parable.
Geometry, maths, objects, 3D, whatever he had needed for his project could be teached. But perception, emotions, wants. That was much more complicated.

That also had to do with the brain, hormones. Things both the Narrator and Stanley physically lacked.

So as a symptom, there was feeling way too much, lacking in others, and not being able to mix a few emotions (Stantions?).
Usually, a normal human-being the average adult, could feel both anger and sadness at the same time. Not them. They could feel joy and melancholia, not them again.

Emotions definitely couldn’t be learned just with a few articles from shady websites.

So Stanley was curious about that door, well, about what was behind that door that caused all the rufus.
He peeked his head through it after a long debate with himself on whether it was smart of him or not.
After having come to the conclusion that it was indeed, not that smart, he did it anyway.
Curiosity, let’s say that.

It was dark. Usually, a fake sky lightened the rooms through some windows but from where he was, he couldn’t see anything but darkness.

A shiver went down Stanley’s spine, without him understanding why. He was tempted to step back for half a second, but curiosity got the better of him and he tried to take a step towards what he knew of the office.
He half expected a scold from the Narrator but he didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing.
Maybe what Stanley was doing was wrong (he was sure it was) and that he agreed to stay put, but Stanley never stayed put. Like ever.

There was something out there, as called the Narrator, and Stanley wanted to know, sending him back to his questions. What was it? Did he really want to suffer again from the forced reset?
He couldn’t die, but he couldn't handle the pain.

Ah!
What a mess, Stanley despised bugs, or softlocks, or any games that involved being stuck.

Staying in the broom closet was perfectly fine, because it was such a cool place. Being with the bucket was fine because he loved the bucket. But the bucket was out there, stuck in the dark too! Poor thing. Those were fine because it was his choice. That? No. Nuh-huh, a big “no” written in gigantic yellow letters with glitters and maybe some of the neon light that the Narrator loved to put for the New Content.

He could quickly sneak out to take it, and then come back right away, no?
And If he lost himself (impossible) he could just ask for the Adventure Line™ and the Line™ would take him back there.
See? Nothing was wrong with Stanley.

He stepped out on the tip of his toes, trying to hear the lowest sound that could tell him the Narrator caught him in action. Nothing, another step and soon he was making his way through the office, right to get the Bucket.
There it was!
Stanley picked it up.

When his fingers were safely secured around the Bucket’s handle, he understood his mistake.
A growl made his throat vibrate as his body went numb in the quarter of a second.
His eyes were wide open, yet he couldn’t see anything at all.
What was happening so suddenly? The Narrator wasn’t even speaking!
He tried to move, he tried so hard to move but his stiff body wasn’t answering his calls. Just like the reset, it was painful. His fingers were clutching the handle so hard that his nails were digging painfully in his palms.

He soon realised that it wasn’t his sight that wasn’t working anymore, because he could clearly see the corridor’s lights going on and off like they went insane. No, everything in the room he was, turned black, no lights, no little sounds made by the computers, nor the green lights of those constantly turned on.

Soon enough, Stanley realised nothing in his body was working, Moving. He couldn’t breathe. And the atrocious thought of his own mortality hit him.
He was feeling, wasn't him? He could feel the pain and how terrifying that was, the panic, how badly he wanted the Narrator to speak and explain.
It was not a reset, it didn’t feel like one.
He was dying, but that made no fucking sense! He was a creation, a playing character, he could NOT DIE!

But maybe yes, since the lack of air erased his problems by making Stanley faint, his body still painfully still and tight.

He was in big, big trouble.

Chapter Text

He stated this already, the concept of not knowing could enter the case “maybe”, not knowing for the better, or for the worse.
In his case, just right now, he was considering a re-evaluation of his statement to put it in the case “not knowing is a big danger and I'm gonna lose my mind if I don’t get an explanation.”
It was a rather long case title but could you blame him?

When he came back to himself, it wasn’t really a wake up because waking up meant he slept before but there, it hadn’t been sleeping but more like his body collapsing to the ground, while the Parable was doing it at the same time.
The first thought after having recalled all his memories was about how absolutely stupid and how big of a moron he was.
His senses were still very dull and as sharp as a very old knife.

His eyes were very itchy and felt like they’d been burned, all his muscles still faintly ached.

Stanley slowly sat on his butt, looking around, heart throbbing behind his ribs. The lights didn’t come back where he was, but he could see some in the other rooms.

Stanley didn’t know what to do at all. Should he just wait? But this was not a reset, and the silence filling the atmosphere was frightening.
His fingers were still clutched tightly around the handle of the Bucket as he stood up, hugging the cold metal against his chest.
He didn’t feel reassured.
Maybe because it was the voice that could have that effect on him, not this stupid Bucket.
He frowned, noticing how nervous and on the edge he felt.

Apologizing mentally to his precious Bucket, he made his way in front of the two open doors, where the lights had been restored.
He sat on the chair in the corner, a little bit more comfortable now that he could properly see.
What could he do? Trying to wait was not a good idea, he didn't know how long he was out for but the Narrator wasn’t here and-
Despite all the things going on in his head, he was sure about one of them all; he needed to find the Narrator.
It was not an ending or a normal functioning inside the Parable.

He cleared his throat, swallowing a big lump.

“Narrator?” he murmured, his voice coming out raspy and dry. He coughed a bit, “Narrator? You good?” He tried again, raising his voice.

It’s been long since the last time he talked, and he could feel the rasp inside his throat.
The Bucket still safe and sound on his knees, against his chest wasn’t helping, but having a sense of normality felt good.
Meaning not everything was falling apart.

Stanley forced himself to wait a few minutes, perhaps the Narrator would come back, but when he finally accepted that maybe he wouldn’t, he decided to go back to his office. The two doors in front of him were still wide open, leading to all the classic endings, those he liked (the broom closet) or those he despised (the Zending and the horrible sounds of his bones crushing one against each other).
But he didn’t want to take the risk to block himself or anything.
His office would be safe.

Slowly, Stanley got up, leaving full of regret, the room still enlightened, to enter the ones with no functional lamps or computer whatsoever.
He knew them by heart, he could walk through them eyes closed, with not a single indication, drunk and high, but this was different and Stanley walked very cautiously, a hand around the Bucket, the other spread in front of him in case he was going the wrong way.
His vision being useless, his other senses were sharpened, and Stanley could hear a constant buzzing coming from the Narrator’s mics.
Maybe a few of the microphones, like the lights, went off and some of them didn’t turn on after the -what was it?- a collapsing?

His eyes narrowed when noticing that the computer in office n°427, his, was still on, and he could see a faint green glow.
He made it in front of it.

His fingers went to brush over the keyboard, pressing blindly a few of the touches. As usual, nothing happened.
Should he stay here until the Narrator fixes everything?
He wasn’t sure of anything, and the silence coming from the speakers was not helping him.

“Narrator?” He tried again, louder.

The silence answered him, and Stanley shivered.
He tried the computer again, nothing. Maybe he could try his vanished co-workers computers, some of them were on, on lockscreen or some random sheets pages.
He thought about it for a minute before deciding that he had to try something.
Stanley wandered off, searching for a computer to use.
Bingo! The computer of the 435’s desk was on and seemed to be working. He sat on the chair, leaned over the desk and tried to read whatever was written on the screen.

It was a simple sheet, with some random numbers and equations he couldn’t understand. There were names too, Jim, Mariella and stuff about the fictional (or not so much( company.
He tried to push some button, wrote “Narrator” just to see if It could do something.

When it was clear that nothing he tried was going to work, he sighed loudly (a relief, to not suppress the urge this time.)
He had a dozen other ideas to try, but most of them included having to go through the two open doors and without knowing if the Narrator could see or hear him, Stanley was afraid something even more wrong could happen.
If only he could call the Narrator, or just, know where to find him, it would be so much easier for them both.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, so Stanley had to deal with finding a way all by himself. Maybe the Narrator was trying to reach out too.

He scratched his face.

Reviewing what he already did, Stanley realised that he really didn’t have that much choice. Either he stayed there, waiting forever and ever (oh no, not that ending), or he faced his fears and tried to help the Narrator recover the Parable.
His choices seemed quite limited, and Stanley sure wasn’t smart enough to choose the right one by himself.

Okay so. Everything started by the delay between the normal timing of the lines and the Narrator speaking. Then the doors wouldn’t close (and they still didn’t close), and the problem was still there after a few resets. Then, big boom, no lights, no music (just anger?), and Stanley collapsed.
Did the Narrator fainted too?
The two men were connected to a level beyond Stanley’s understanding.
However, he was pretty sure that their mind had the same base. (The Zending right? The Zending to punish, to comfort, to apologize, and they could both play with the why and the who, the rights and and the wrongs.)

It was a paradox, right.

So Stanley was thinking that the same thing happened to the Narrator, causing the abrupt cut in their contact.
He briefly thought about trying the phone in the room after the cargo lift, the one that led to the mannequin wife and the apartement, but quickly put it aside.
If the computers weren’t working, there would be no way that the phone would work.
Besides, he didn’t have a number to call.

Room service, maybe. Should he try the reception? Stanley scoffed.

Silence, silence, silence, nothing else. No sarcastic voice to guide him, no laugh, no nothing and the buzzing sound coming from the speakers was beginning to seriously bother him.
Stanley got up again, whining every time he bumped into something.
Hell, he knew the Parable by heart! Why was he stupid and bumping into everything?!

He was frustrated, and angry, and so lost!

When he arrived in the room with the two open doors, Stanley stopped, again, ears alert.

Bip, bip, bip. What an odd sound.

He listened for a while, bip-bip-bip, each one of the loop was a set of three “bip-bip-bip” then half a second of latence, and the loop began again.
What was that?
It didn’t come from up there though, more like…
Stanley turned, this room was still lightened, and his eyes went to look at the closed door, which he couldn't open like a lot of other doors.

A ton lot.

If the doors didn’t shut behind him, maybe those doors could open? Stanley took a few steps towards it, a frown spread on his focused face. Putting a hand on the handle, he decided to not be afraid and pushed it open.

Huh? Why was it working?
His frown deepened.

The doors he could not open always tickled Stanley’s mind. Through some of the windows, he could see a parallel version of the office, much darker, blurry like a blue filter. Maybe it was the ways the Narrator used to rearrange things or maybe it was just to infuriate -players- Stanley.
Whatever was the reason why the doors and their ways were locked didn't matter, because it meant Stanley could do something on the Parable, he wasn’t stuck.

A wave of excitation and fear made him shiver and re-think of what he was feeling. Useful? Scared?
Too much was the wise words, he didn't feel exactly overwhelmed by emotions, it was…they were mixed, like a hard paste inside his organs and it was both incredible and horrendous at the same time.
He liked it, he didn’t like it.

Another paradox in the parable.
What else?
Stanley didn’t want to know, but he wanted to do something.

And maybe right now, the only thing he needed to do was gather enough courage and step into the new corridors.

Chapter Text

First thing Stanley did after stepping inside the new space was closing the door, then opening it again to check if the trick still worked.
It was so he closed it again, just in case none could follow him. How could he be sure that he was alone when the Narrator wasn’t here?

Prudence est mère de sûreté.

Yeah, whatever. A blue glow was lighting the spaces, and Stanley decided to follow them, for the first time admiring the normal ways from an outsider point of view. It was fascinating.
The beeping was louder but Stanley couldn’t understand where it was coming from. It was like the building in Itself was making it.

The building wasn’t exactly an autonom entity, it was controlled by the Narrator, who was giving the commands and orders from wherever he was, and the Building answered. Some things were out of their reach, like the Curator, the settings guy.
Stanley didn’t know everything because he was the -playable- character. Maybe the Narrator would answer some questions.
If Stanley found him (or the other way around), he would ask him a thousand questions, questions that were growing and growing each step.

His brows furrowed, seeing all the new and different textures from this part of the game. It was a real labyrinthe, larger, darker and overall it made Stanley feel small.
A small mouse, hiding in the walls, searching for something.

After having turned to the right, then to the left, and again to the right, right, left, and going deeper, he realised the beeping had turned into a humming that seemed to be distant.
Oh, now he was facing two staircases, up, and down.
He was searching for the Narrator, but what choice should he make?

He didn’t know, but he could think.
One time, the Narrator had sneezed loudly in the middle of his precious time with the bucket in the broom closet (bucket still hugged tightly against his chest). Stanley had froze, looking surprised, so much that the Narrator had felt the need to apologize.

(“Oh, my apologies, it’s getting cold up there.”)

And they went on with the story, Stanley clutching the Bucket who had now two very cool stickers on it. At that time, he didn’t read through the words but now? He had said “up there”, so Stanley could safely assume that the Narrator worked from somewhere higher.
Plus, it worked well with his personality. There was no way the Narrator wouldn’t be keeping an eye on the Parable from the top of the Building.
He was superior. He wasn’t the creator, but he had the power to change it, to model it, to create, to be it.

They were both the Parable, but Stanley served the Narrator, the Game and he made sure that everything went smoothly.

What would happen if the Narrator couldn’t get up, or arrange things? Stanley had to find him and help him in any ways possible.
He took the staircase on the right, going up, and began to climb it, a newly found determination twisting his insides.

Why was he feeling so much?

No time to think about that (he didn’t want to either).

Mirroring Stanley’s paths, the staircase led him to a larger room, and a set of two open doors. He took the one on his left, because it just made sense for him to follow the story of the Narrator, even if it was in that second dimension of the building.
It started to go downhill after he entered the mirror version of the boss’s office, because there was no PIN code, no secret room to access and no elevator.

No door either and Stanley didn’t find anything else, despite searching, eyelids half closed, focused thanks to the blue and purple glow.
He decided to go back and took the door on his right.
This way did not look like the game, it was longer, there was no room like the employee lounge or the cargo lift, just a maze of hallways and staircases going up.
And, even if Stanley’s chest was compressed by fear and anticipation, he kept going up and up.

At some point, Stanley had found his pace, breath short and heavy, a bit of sweat covering his forehead, some strands of his brown hair sticking on it.
He wasn’t exactly in poor shape, admitting that his constants were resetting each time, but on a basis, he didn’t need to do this type of exercises. And how much time had passed since the Collapse ?
His guess was around twelve hours, giving the time he spent stuck on the ground then his search for a way to find the Narrator.
And also given the fact he was starting to crave water and food, that wasn’t even available in the Parable, and he already tried.

Stanley was wondering how high he was now, and how much more he’d have to climb. There were hallways and stairs only now, there were no windows anymore. Was this space created on purpose for him not to try it? Or for the Narrator not to go down.
A little bit of both, Stanley thought.

After a while of just going upstairs, Stanley finally faced a new door. It was a detailed wood door, which didn’t look like the common office doors in the Parable, not even the ones in the boss’s office.
There was a golden key on the ground, just under the handle.
Stanley let go of the bucket and put it on the ground (after a few pets, of course) and picked up the key.
That also was a good indicator that it should bé the place he was searching for; there weren't any keys in the Parable, since the doors were controlled by the Narrator.
And look at what happens when he’s not here: Stanley was able to make his way here.

He felt peculiar, uneasy. What he was doing was a breach in their privacy. More than that, it was going to destroy the picture of The Narrator, the voice in the walls, the mastermind.

*

Before doing anything, Stanley sat on the floor right next to the door, trying to calm the growing fear messing up with his poor nerves.
His breathing was still short and he forced himself to take deep inspirations.
He wanted to wait a bit before making other decisions.
He only hoped that it was the right way and he wasn’t going to make the biggest mistake ever.

The perspective to meet the Narrator, to put a face on the words he now knew by heart was terrifying and unsettling. In other circumstances, Stanley was pretty sure he would have never tried to meet him.

Putting aside Mariella, he never encountered any other human beings or even living beings.

“My co-workers vanished, what could it mean? I’m a mouse who keeps hiding in the employee lounge,” Stanley whispered, biting the inside of his mouth.

Hugh, how could he gather enough courage to just go open the door? He missed the Stanley who didn’t care and didn’t feel so much and so various. That was awful. How could normal people bear that?

Stanley slid to lay his back against the door, ear against the cool wood.
He frowned, trying to focus on what he could hear behind it.
The same buzzing sound and the beeping from earlier, louder but still quite distant.
And a respiration, a rough one, that wasn’t his.

Heart pounding in his chest, he stood up, kicking the Bucket in the process without acknowledging and noticing it.

Stanley pressed his ear against the door another time, making sure he didn’t misheard. No, there was someone in that room! He immediately tried the handle, and to his surprise the door didn’t open.
He then tried the key, which didn’t work and he knocked on the door.
When he didn’t get any answers, he knocked louder, then just began hitting the wood.

“Narrator!” He yelled, followed by dry and painful coughs.

Right after, a strangled sob caught his ear and words, muttured words but it sounded like the Narrator.

“If you don’t answer within five minutes, I'll kick the door open!” Stanley tried to sound confident but his voice came out weak and pleading.
He knocked a few times, but no answers came to him.

His burning forehead brushed the wood, as Stanley fought the urge to ask the Narrator to open again. His chest still felt compressed, his throat dry and tight.
Maybe the Narrator never wanted him to come here, maybe he didn’t want to see Stanley right now, or maybe he was working to repair the Game.
But Stanley needed to see him, and he was selfish like that.
Selfish enough to seek the safety only he could provide, even if he was scared to meet the man.
Selfish enough to fight the fear just to see him, and more than that, to hear his words, the soothing voice.

Stanley let out a low sigh, nails scratching the frame of the door.

Finally, he gathered enough courage for this. Maybe he could try to use a bit of humanity.

Chapter Text

“Hugh.” Stanley groaned, massaging his right shoulder.
Trying to kick a door open was surprisingly harder than he thought at first.
He huffed, took a deep breath and tried again. This time, a crack appeared next to the handle, convincing Stanley that he could do it.

He turned to his left, to try the other side, pull down the handle, and hit the door another time.
Victoire! He did it! The door opened slightly!
A last hit with his feet finished to destroy the frame of the door, leaving the handle to hang pathetically.
Without any second thoughts, and looking to the bucket, Stanley barged in the room. It wasn’t dark like almost all the other rooms so far.
It was bright and spacious, decorated in a retro way and in the center of the room, consuming most part of the space, rows of computers and screens, who were all off.

There was a chair too, but it was laying on its side on the ground. One of the screens in front of the black keyboard was cracked, too.

Finally, on the ground, there was a man.
Stanley froze, realizing that it was, in fact, the Narrator.
The man was around fifty, black and grey hair slicked back but a dozen strands were out of place. His face had strict traits, a pale skin.

“Narrator?” He tried again, having the impression that that was the only word coming out of his mouth.
He kneeled next to the man, poking gently his shoulder to get him to react.
Looking closely, the right side of his face was bruised under his eye and down his chin, surely due to the fall.
Stanley hoped that he didn’t have a concussion.
He cautiously moved the man on his back to assess the wounds. It was some scraps and bruises, but he didn’t think it was that bad.

The Narrator opened an eye, then the other, looking at Stanley for a long second before recognizing him. He gasped and sat up.

“Oh dear, why are you here Stanley? Not that I'm not happy to see you but you shouldn't be here! How did you-

-The doors were opened, everything went dark and, I don't know what happened.”

The Narrator waved a hand in front of him to cut him and sighed loudly. Stanley felt relieved to see him alive and real, and really much breathing. He wasn’t alone and he could hear his voice and that meant the world.
The Narrator was his whole world.

Stanley put the chair straight and helped the Narrator to sit on it, watching his crouched posture. It didn’t feel normal and Stanley wondered if he had hurt his back.
He rested his elbows on his knees as Stanley stood awkwardly beside him.

“I don’t know what happened either. There was this delay, I'm sure you noticed it and everything here started to just,..”

He sighed again.

“I don’t even know how to explain this. Nothing worked and the device just exploded in front of my face. I lost consciousness for a bit, it’s really blurry.” He explained, the familiar voice sounded tired.

Suddenly at a loss of words, Stanley could only watch and hear him talk, hypnotized by the man in front of him.
He really was in front of him, from head to toe, and Stanley felt a mix of strange feelings in his guts. Of course he was intimidated and couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

“Stanley, are you even listening?”

He nodded a little bit too fast, and the Narrator smirked.
He made a gesture with his fingers for Stanley to come closer.

“Come here, I want to see you properly.”

Stanley took a few steps towards him, towering the man.
The Narrator grabbed the collar of his shirt to make him crouch his back so their eyes could meet.
The gaze scrutinizing every inch of him made him shiver. Stanley completely forgot he had a voice.
The left hand of the Narrator went up to his head, and he brushed his brown hair back.
Seemingly pleased by the sight of his own creation, he let him go.
He then pointed to the computer’s screens Stanley didn’t realize was now on.

“Look, here’s what I was trying to deal with before the,” his face scrunched a little, “well, let’s say incident.”

Stanley blinked, focusing back on what was important (and also, why he came up here in the first place.)
On the bigger screams, there was a plan of the Parable, but the imagery was distorted, colors too saturated.
The three screens on top of the first were apparently cameras, one was working but it was blurred and fixed on one point (it was the camera in the boss's office, they could only see the couch) while the others were just black.
On the right, it was some controls, the Narrator quickly explained it was for his mics, a few endings, the resets and the cameras.

Finally, on the left, there were codes, the other man didn’t say anything, but Stanley just knew that that was the coding ruling the Parable. Problem was the big red security triangle, with the word “error” written in it.

“See, I was working on that, and that was when you decided to got fetch the Bucket,” Stanley looked away for a brief instant, “My microphone stopped working, then it was some cameras and everything shut down at the same time. Bizarre, very bizarre.”

He sighed again.

“I just don’t know. And I hate it.”

Stanley frowned, wondering how he could be of any help. The Narrator was so far upon him that it didn’t feel right to hear him say that he didn’t understand something.
He came here to help though, there had to be something.

“Can you ask the Curator?” Stanley whispered, his throat was still hurtful, but he didn’t mind at all.
He was able to talk, to actually talk avec his Narrator! A dream (that he never thought about) came true.

The head of the Narrator snapped towards him, looking surprised, as he forgot that Stanley could actually talk. He had to admit, sometimes he did forget that this was a possibility.
In the Parable, talking wasn’t useful, since all the scenarios were dictated by the Narrator.
Regardless of the issue going in the other man’s head, he answered.

“That’s a good call Stanley, but since I can’t access anything here, we would have to go down to the Bucket’s museum,” he lifted an eyebrow, “And don’t think about taking yours, I won’t let that happen. I don’t know if she’s here or if it’s not working there too, but well, we won’t know if we don’t try, right?”

Stanley nodded, eyes catching the screens again. He could read “corrupted files” on one of them, but without understanding what that meant.
The Narrator still looked exhausted, pale, and bruised, and Stanley was feeling pretty tired from all the walking he had to do and his throat was aching.

“You really are an open book Stanley, it’s even worse in person. Yet you’re right, we should rest. And I have to take care of that face of mine. Follow tight.”

The Narrator stood up quickly and Stanley glanced at the open and now destroyed door. He wanted to go grab his bucket and close it, just to feel safe, but he followed the Narrator. He trusted him more, after those years of the Parable, he had to. But just in case, he’ll do that after wherever the Narrator wanted to go.
He led the way to what seemed to be a kitchenette, connected to the office just by a door.
It was small but that didn’t surprise Stanley.

The Narrator opened a small fridge and grabbed two blur bottles labelled “water”.

“There, drink, I can tell your throat is dry as hell, how inconsiderate of me.”

Stanley nodded as a thank you, and took the bottle, chugging down the water immediately. It was the first time he actually drank something, but it seemed to come just naturally, like a reflex.
The Narrator chuckled before opening his own bottle.
He then gave him some crackers, explaining between two bites that he kept that here because some ends in the Parable were long, and talking a lot strained his voice.
The crackers and kitchenette came after the Skip ending, though he didn't pronounce that word, brushing off the subject.

Once they were finished, they went back in front of the screen.
The Narrator sat back, wanting to check again as Stanley made his way to go grab the bucket and close the door.

“You do have a thing for doors. And for that -stupid- bucket. Gosh why did I give you that thing again? Come here, take a quick look and let’s go take a nap, you child. I hope you don’t mind a couch.”

Stanley turned his head to see that there was in fact a couch in the room, that he didn't see previously (a little bit busy with the Narrator). He looked at the screens as instructed, just to see a list of what looked like files.
The Narrator then gave him a bunch of information about it, how it ran the Parable, what he was worried about, but the office worker he was didn’t get everything if not anything.
One thing he knew for sure was the passion in the voice, and more than that now: the passion enlightening his whole face, his whole body.

Stanley couldn’t help but smile.

Chapter Text

Good thing Stanley was a good listener, because the Narrator was a talkative guy.

After having taken care of the scrapes on the side of his face, they both went to sleep. Sleeping in the tiny couch at first was awkward, it was their first time meeting and it wasn’t even comfortable but once they were settled, neither of them complained or moved.

Stanley had been the first to doze off, finally feeling safe and not afraid like he had been all alone down his own office, and soothed by the voice he knew too well, but also thanks to the fingers brushing his brown strands back. Of course it was the Narrator, it was the same gesture he had made when he asked him to come closer to look at him.

He was the first to wake up though, and he shifted a bit to look at the Narrator.
He chuckled.
It was so strange to be here, hearing the Narrator’s soft breathing, to learn that even out of the game, he talked as much, to hear his voice right next to his ears and not through the ceiling.
To have someone to look at when hearing that voice. That was an unexpected sense of normality, of their reality, in all the damages the Parable was suffering from.

Stanley didn’t know how much time had passed since, the time in here was stretching and stretching, they couldn't have any ideas how to count it either way.
Sleeping hadn’t really ease the profound confusion he was experiencing since the moment he awoke all alone.
It wasn’t good, because that confusion was the exact same confusion he felt when he pushed that (fucking button) and regain consciousness alone. All alone.
Knowing he wasn’t even the one that spent million, billion years alone in the world.

The confusion was also the same he felt climbing stairs, then jumping off of that platform, while hearing the Narrator's panicked voice.

Why was he thinking about those again?

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his head and glanced at the bucket, waiting by the computers. Stanley wanted to go grab him, but he was still in the Narrator's embrace.
Suddenly, a warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck and he looked up to meet the man’s eyes, half-opened.

“I don’t know how many times I'll have to tell you and maybe it’s due to the fact I know you better than myself but you’re an open book.” A shiver went down his spine. “What is it that bothers you so much?”

Stanley sighed, the turmoil in his guts finally going away.

“Some endings.” He simply offered, knowing the Narrator would understand. He ignored the pain in his expression. “Do you know why our feelings are so strange and messed up?”

The hand released him and the Narrator stood up, walking to the computers.

“So you noticed that too? Well I'll be honest, I don’t know why at all. Maybe it’s due to the corrupted files, maybe not.”

He slammed his hand on the desk, face growing ice cold. The expression faded quickly as he turned back to face Stanley.

“Shall we go now? We can grab some packs of crackers and a bottle of water, what do you think Stanley?

-Yes, let’s do that’” he agreed, still somewhat fascinated by the man in front of him.

Soon enough, they were both making their way back to the clear section of the Parable, Stanley clutching his Bucket, even if the Narrator shot it a dirty look. He still let him take the bucket. Small victories, small mercies.
Stanley was walking in front of the other man, used to long distance walks, while the Narrator behind him was explaining a few things about the Parable.
He was talking about his use of that hidden space when they arrived at the door that had led Stanley to find it.
He couldn’t help but be grateful when the Narrator closed the door behind them.

However, this time, Stanley decided to stay behind the Narrator, letting him guide him to the new content, luckily the elevators were working, then down to the museum dedicated to the Bucket.
Usually, the Narrator didn’t talk at all during this part of the end, replaced by the Curator. But this time wasn’t usual and the museum was so quiet.
A big space like this, half in the dark, half enlightened by white lights, was pretty scary.

If the Narrator was also unsettled, he didn’t let it show, instead searching how to regain his access to the Parable back.

He almost bumped into him as the Narrator stopped in his tracks.

“It’s no use to stay there, obviously we won't be able to hear her anyway.” He stated, irritation showing in his stiff posture.

“What about the setting guy?”

The Narrator rolled his eyes and shot him a glance that screamed he found him stupid.

“And how exactly do we contact him? His presence is triggered by setting the time. We don't have the opportunity to talk to him. Besides, if the Parable isn’t working, the epilogue can't even be triggered!”

Stanley clutched the Bucket tighter and stepped back, he didn't want to make the Narrator snap in front of him.
It was his game after all, he could only imagine how stressful it must be for him to see this world they were living in just not working. And not able to do anything about it too.

He really wanted to comfort him, but it might not be well taken.

The Narrator rubbed his cold hands on his face, mumbling to himself and pacing around the room.

“I don’t know! I just don’t know!” He exclaimed, turning back to Stanley. His face was an interesting mix between anger and defeat. Under the lightning, the bruises on his face looked darker.
Stanley watched with fascination the Narrator losing the little of control and patience he had left.
He threw his hand up, then back to the sides.
After two full minutes of that, Stanley gave up and put his bucket on the ground to go grab the Narrator’s arm.

“Listen, you gotta calm down, I don’t think it’s a solution to lose your mind right now.”

The Narrator rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes. That was almost outrageous.
He listened anyway and stopped rambling and insulting everything in his sight.

“How do you want me to ‘calm down’, my whole game, where we are living, my creation, is destroyed and is slipping out of my control!” He took a shaky breath and Stanley put his second hand on his shoulder. “Do you wanna know something? It’s been twelve real years. We spent twelve real human years inside and it’s the first time something like that has occurred and you want me to be calm?!”

Stanley embraced him a little bit tighter when it was clear that it was what the Narrator needed. He didn’t get everything he was saying, but he could almost feel everything in his chest and the burden really was heavy.

“I don’t even care that someone else’s playing because at the end of the day, it’s you and me! You, me, and the Parable. If it goes down, I'm going with it, because what’s my life without the game? Tell me! But you can’t. You’re the same as me.”

The Narrator leaned onto him, both of them didn’t notice his glasses slipping and falling on the ground, near the Bucket. Stanley wanted to talk, to find a way to comfort him, to tell him what he was saying wasn’t true. But how could he reassure him by telling lies?
In a way, he also knew that the Narrator needed to speak. That’s what he always did: his voice shared his pain, his happiness, his fear. And also Stanley’s pain, happiness, and fear.
They were colliding and Stanley almost choked at the impression when the Narrator wrapped his arms around his back, and leaned his forehead on the top of his head.

Maybe they were really one.
And maybe that was why he wouldn’t talk. He was made to listen for two, and the Narrator to talk for two.
Stanley was wrong on one point.

The Narrator didn’t need to talk. Because he needed Stanley the most.

Chapter Text

“You’re the same as me.” Muttered the Narrator once again, voice muffled by Stanley’s brown hair.

They were still there, one against each other in a tight embrace, skin hot and needy.
Neither of them could possibly move, feeling that this position was the closest of the Parable they could get.
Stanley didn’t think he was crying, because through the hug, he sensed the fear and the confusion, but not the distress.
They formed a whole, right here and now, and Stanley couldn’t help to think that this was everything the Narrator wanted to explain.

They were eachother whole and it was kind of funny that they had to go through a whole break down (both mental and physical with the game) to understand that.

Stanley firmed his hold on him, his own head coming on the man’s shoulder, taking a long inspiration. The Narrator smelled exactly like him.
He was sure that even in a crowd, Stanley would feel that they were alone, because he only had eyes for him.
The sensation couldn’t be more correct: they were all alone in the world.

There was, in this embrace, a critical sense of despair, lacking time even though they had all the time in the world. They were two parts of the same world colliding, never meant to meet but never meant to stay so far either.

Stanley didn’t know that the Narrator could look like that. Needing support, his support. Looking so weak, so fragile in his arms. He hated that, looking like a cruel nightmare.
When the Narrator’s knees gave up, it felt like they were fusing a little more, both of their arms firmly grabbing the other’s body, tightening, painful.

Nothing about them was measured.
Everything about them was raw, pure, a discovering, understanding of something unsure and fragile.
Something wrong and right at the same time they couldn’t lack but felt like it.

Confusing and frightening. Maddening.

Both the men didn’t cry. How could they?

It wasn’t just about the game anymore. A parable of that something, those emotions torturing them, towering them, guiding them.
It came naturally (Stanley never thought about hugging the Narrator, no, never) and so simple to follow and to succumb to.

As the Narrator's weight was completely supported by Stanley, he gently guided them on the ground. The man seemed to slowly calm himself. So many things were going on around, and they struggled to keep the pace.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered and Stanley simply laughed. There was nothing to excuse there, except having a bit of trouble with emotions. That was fine and normal. But again, it was a whole lot to undo.
The words went unsaid though, and the silence wrapped them in a comforting embrace. Sometimes, silence was all they needed, just a quick jump into nothing, a slow moment to think and sort their thoughts in a better place.
They could do this, right? They had to.

The Narrator lifted a finger, indicating he needed a moment.
A minute passed, maybe three, until he finally straightened his back and sat properly, a bit further away from Stanley, whose skin felt freezing now that he couldn’t get the man’s heat.

Huh, and now that was him that froze. Could he feel the cold and the heat so much before all of that? He wasn’t sure, as he just noticed that the cold was actually bothering him. It was a game. Why would the temperature matter? Did it matter before? The same for the touch he wanted back so badly.
He couldn’t recall anything from before everything collapsed, because he was pretty sure it was things he couldn’t bother about.

Feelings came with a lot of changes, some for the worse.

“Are we turning human?” He asked cautiously, seeking an explanation from the man he trusted the most. He searched one on his face.

“As if!” He laughed, “We’re not human, you don’t even have actual organs, how could it be,” his laughter fading, a more thoughtful expression made his face darkened, “We’re just experiencing a really weird thing because the Parable is down.”

If a parable could be down.
Maybe that wasn’t a big deal, but Stanley still doubted it, surely because the Narrator didn’t sound sure. And also because he was almost having a stroke in his arms just minutes ago.

Stanley knew the Narrator was unsure. He didn’t comment on it though, if he did, the man would freak out again and that would be a really bad loop to be stuck in. They needed to get out of here, maybe go back to the office and search for another solution. Since everything else wasn’t working.
What was working was their mind, soul? They couldn't have one. No?

Humans, so confusing.

Could it count as a parable (another) if the combination of coding and pixels that he was, was having an existential crisis? On his own really paradoxal existence?
Pretty sure he was in a game, in the Stanley Parable. And he didn’t have any other comparison, why was he so sure he felt human?!

He. Was. Not. A. Human.! For pete’s sake! No. For Stanley’s sake!

He groaned loudly at his own very stupid thoughts, noticing the immediate look the Narrator shot him. He was right on that; Stanley was an open book.
This time, the Narrator helped him up and without another word, they silently agreed on returning back to the office. One thing was sorted, at least. Stanley picked up the bucket not without a dirty look from the man and the glasses still laying pitifully on the ground.
He didn’t have it back just yet and shoved them in his pocket.
Coming down here had been a mistake. That was why they didn’t share a single word during their ascension back up.
The Narrator’s eyes avoided his, he couldn’t meet his gaze as Stanley kept his on the delicate frame walking in front of him.

Once back in the office, he sat on the little couch, watching the Narrator, still closed off, disappearing in the kitchenette and shutting the door behind him.
That reminded Stanley all the times the Narrator let him alone in the Parable, when he was being too insufferable. In the broom closet, in the employee lounge, and to a certain extent, in the Zending (it was his fault, why did he do that ending three times in a row? The third time, he had been let alone climbing and jumping again and again, hearing his bones crush, his laboured breathing.)

He never liked the moments he was all alone. That was the main reason why he went searching for the Narrator in the very first place.

Stanley sighed and put his head on the handstand.
What were they going to do now? A question he kept asking himself these days.

Chapter Text

Obviously, Stanley was used to the Narrator’s temper. He was easily mad when things weren’t going the way he wanted, but he was also very gentle.
It was because of the extreme emotions. Like Stanley, it was all or nothing.
So he was used to his outbursts, screaming, laughing at his distress, encouraging him to jump (which he did everytime, and oh god that voice, so authoritarian, always sending shivers in his whole body.)

He was used to his excitement, the Adventure Line™, the fern (somehow), the door 430 and its achievement.
He loved his long ramblings, even if the Narrator didn’t think so due to the skip ending, and to cookie9’s review.

Stanley wasn’t used, and didn’t want to get used to the mix of feelings, distress, and fear. The Narrator looked like he wanted to give up.
He came out of the kitchenette a while ago, ignored Stanley and sat in front of his desk, back crouched, head in his hands.
He wanted to go and hug him like in the museum, but it felt like the Narrator was going to dismiss him.

Biting his lips, playing with his fingers, Stanley was pondering whether to speak or not. It seemed that his voice had a magic effect on the Narrator because he never talked much. Every time he spoke though, he always had all the man’s attention.
He stood up, carefully approaching the Narrator like he was a feral animal.
He assumed the man heard his steps and went near the slumped form.
Stanley would lie if he thought he knew what to do. He had absolutely zero ideas what to say and how to help, he just froze (again) right next to him.

The Narrator was shaking awfully, to the point he could hear his teeth clacking. Was he crying? Stanley put a hand on his shoulder to try to snap him out of it.
However, the contact was not welcomed well. Not at all, indeed.
In the fraction of a second, the Narrator got up, jumping on his feet, startled, and he pushed Stanley hard.
He was forced to step back, trying to get back his balance, but his feet slipped and he fell.
Ouch-, his breath was cut off as pain spread through his knees and ankles, wrenched in the fall.

The brutality made it impossible for Stanley to realise what just happened as he stood up again, legs throbbing, as he reached again to the Narrator. He wanted to ask if he was okay, still not understanding that the man was the one pushing him to the floor.
His hand snapped back again, as the Narrator yelled: “Get away from me you coward!”.
Stanley flinched, when both of the Narrator’s hands on his chest pushed him again, but this time he quickly recovered from it and definitely stepped back.

The Narrator wasn’t crying, hell, he looked enraged, almost insane.
Stanley’s eyes widened.

“Why-,” he started with fear and confusion laced in his voice but the Narrator was quick to cut him off.

“You. I’m certain it’s because of you. How could I be so naive?” He said, slowly, words sounding harsh, “You did this, you took down everything just for the sake of your little stupid story!” He pointed Stanley with his fingers and took a step towards him this time.
Stanley swallowed his saliva, heart pounding in his chest.

“Do you find this funny? Just a little bit? Is it entertaining to you and all the people you want to distract? I find this personally pathetic. Destroying things, hurting others just for a bit of interaction, reconnaissance, perhaps?” He smiled, but it didn’t go all the way up to his eye. Stanley stopped back again, lips shut, unable to produce a single sound.

“Taking the appearance of a beloved one, to stab me in the back once my guard's down, isn’t that so incredible? A perfect plot, right? And all you need to do after is write. Such a simple love-story where nobody faces consequences, well it never crossed my mind, I'll give you that.”

Keeping taking steps back each times the Narrator walked to him, Stanley finally bumped into the couch and had to sit on it, as The Narrator crouched his back, face inches away from his, radiating anger from every pores of his skin.

“Tell you what, I won’t give up. Give me my game back.” He spelled out, almost like a purr. “This is mine. Stanley’s mine. The Game isn’t your creation. You’re just using it by destroying it.”

It seemed like the Narrator couldn’t be closer, but he was, towering him entirely, eyes cold, demeanor cruel. Stanley could feel his warm breath brushing the skin of his face, and almost the vibration coming from the words escaping his throat. He still was missing his glasses. Why was that bothering Stanley so much?

He didn’t want to be scared of the Narrator, not in those circumstances, that looked so alike to some of the normal Parable’s endings, ends he normally found endearing. Not here though, right now he felt like his scrappy mouth was going to open any moment to let him scream his guts out (yet he couldn’t physically do it).

He wanted to move, to slip away from him, to go to a safe place.

But the Narrator was one! He didn’t want to be scared like the child he never was!

“Speak. Up.” A finger was shoved on his chest, “Why did you do this?”

Shaking some sense in himself, Stanley figured out the best he could do was trying to desascaled the situation. He could figure out his emotions that were all over the place later.

“I don’t understand! What’re you talkin’ about?” He finally spoke, high-pitched, a bit too fast.

His finger went up his face, cupping his cheeks softly before tightening his grip on the side of his face, painfully. Three fingers were digging in his hair behind his ear, his thumb right under his eye as his left hand went on his throat to choke him, making Stanley huff.

“Lies!” he shouted, face contorted by anger and something else Stanley couldn’t put his finger on. Fear? No, but it seemed like it.
He didn’t understand how the Narrator couldn’t recognize him and he also wondered who he was seeing instead of his own creation.
Did he even see anything ? Or was it something else that he could sense? He talked about a story, and words earlier, which didn’t make sense since the Parable (their own story) was already written and couldn’t be more since, well, it wasn’t working.

Stanley didn’t try to resist and let him choke him, feeling oddly calm now that he understood that the anger of the Narrator wasn’t directed towards him particularly. And he still didn’t want to be afraid of the Narrator. He could kill him if he wanted, Stanley wouldn’t mind.
It was their dynamics.

And how many times did Stanley jump off of that platform? How many times did The Narrator made him explode in various ways?

Stanley half-smiled, vision fuzzy, covered by a translucent veil.
At the sight of Stanley’s expression, the grip lightened and he took a small inspiration, lungs (virtual ones, Fake ones, he really didn’t know anymore) feeling like they were crushed.

“I want my work back.” This time, the Narrator’s voice wasn’t so angry, he had back that defeated ton, the one that almost ended with a whine. The one Stanley heard in the worst endings. He prefered his madman voice.
He released him, not without a last squeeze on his throat, as almost jumped back, like Stanley’s body was dangerous. It may be.

He passed a hand through his brown hair, humidified by sweat, some strands sticking to his forehead and massaged his now sore throat.
Looking back to the Narrator, who was now about six feet away from him and the couch, he noticed the red covering his cheeks, nose and ears, alongside widened eyes and mouth slightly opened and twitched down.
A look of shock and surprise, why was that?

And he still didn’t have his glasses, Stanley was beginning to wonder what type of eye problem he had, not having noticed yet he missed them.

Stanley threw his hands up.

“I didn’t do anything to the Parable, I promise.” His voice made him flinch, his expression of shock deepening.

“Yeah well, I can see that because. Otherwise you would not be so..” he shut his mouth for a second, eyes going down, then up, “happy? Oh Stanley, we have so much more problems.”

Stanley’s eyes followed the Narrator, curious about the abrupt change from anger to shock. Oh well, the Narrator once again was right on something: they definitely had more problems now. Again.

What the fuck was going on in his pants?

Chapter Text

Stanley was absolutely mortified, to say the least. He thought the Narrator was too on this one.
The tension hadn’t completely melted away when they both noticed what was going on and added to their confusion.

A really done Narrator had to explain what it was and why and now Stanley was entirely red from head to toe and hidden in the kitchenette, far away from the man’s eyes.
He washed his face and hands in the little sink, the cold of the water contrasting with his boiling skin.
His whole body was a mess, he was sweaty and tired, a bit shaky also, dizzy.
Stanley was very embarrassed, even if he didn't fully understand the consequences of what just happened, he could still outline what it meant.

Being turned on by the Narrator’s voice?

Well, what a shock.
To be exact, it wasn’t surprising; he liked this voice. But a physical reaction like that was far more bizarre. He never needed this sort of -contact- and didn't even notice it before the Narrator pointed it out.

At least, it looked like the Narrator understood a few things about the situation they were in but he sent Stanley in the kitchen, grumbling something about needing calm for a moment (they both needed it after the whole evil!Narrator moment).
So there he was, trying to drown himself in the water out of embarrassment.
Once it was clear he could accomplish that, he abducted, drank some more and ate some of the crackers left and walked back in the office, a sheepish look on his face as he double-checked his pants to verify that there was no bump anymore.

Apparently, the Narrator did too as he entered, and brushed it off by coughing way too loudly.

“Ahem. Is everything good now?” Stanley only nodded, standing as far away from him as possible, next to his beloved bucket whom he couldn’t react to. At least he hoped.

The Narrator was sitting, legs crossed, eyes now on the off screens. He still looked on edge, but in reality he never really relaxed since the Parable had collapsed.
There have been a lot of changes for them both. First navigating in the unknown in the world they knew, then meeting for the very first time, trying to fix this mess and having to deal with a lot of internal and physical changes.
Was everything due to these changes?

“I think I’m starting to know what’s going on.” The Narrator muttered, still not looking at him, his voice made Stanley shiver, and he straightened his back. “We are stuck in a fiction. A fan book. That’s why I thought you might be the author.”

Stanley frowned. A book? Did the man lose his mind? The Narrator shot him a look and rolled his eyes seeing that he wasn’t convinced.

“Look into it Stanley, you're not that stupid. Well yes you are but not so much. We have human feelings, which would be impossible in normal times. I'm talking about complex feelings, a mix. You’re having body reactions. That’s abnormal, since you don’t have a human body, right?”

Stanley shrugged, and looked down at his hands. It didn't seem foreign, but he also didn’t notice all the changes right away.

“You asked if we were turning human. We’re not. Someone is making us human though. For their story I believe, it wouldn’t be a great novel otherwise.” The Narrator crouched, taking his head in his hands like he was trying to solve a bad math problem. Which he was.

“So if we’re following the storyline, we'll be able to go back to the game?” Stanley asked, searching his posture just in case he'd be mad again. The Narrator sighed and closed his eyes. He looked lost and defeated. A look Stanley had to observe a couple of times and that he despised.

“I don’t know. How could we know the storyline? I guess we’ll have to wait until whoever’s playing with us gets bored or finishes it.

-What if it goes unfinished?”

The Narrator shot him a doubtful stare and gave him his best “are you really serious now ?” expression. Yep, he had that thing where he loved to worsen the situation. Not on purpose, obviously.

“It’s things I don’t know, I don’t have control on anything. Besides it’s just a theory, but given on how you reacted, I'm pretty sure I've seen right.”

Stanley finally gave in and went to sit back on that damn couch, the Narrator now facing him back.
He turned his chair to look at Stanley, who curiously was trying to determine what the man was feeling: he was not good at that, since the Narrator was the only other living being (humanoid, sorry to all bucket and Adventure Line™), he met. He didn't look as angry as earlier now that he knew a little bit more of what was going on.
He didn’t know how they were going to survive this, but that was way better than roaming around the Parable, trying to find a way to fix it without understanding anything.

*

Maybe days passed, without an ounce of amelioration. They mostly slept, ate and drank, cleaning themself when they could.
Nothing deteriorated, but that didn’t mean good either.
The Narrator was growing more and more agitated, and tried dozens of things on his computers Stanley couldn’t understand (he was playing with the Bucket instead).

A thing the man didn’t understand was the glasses. Shortly after understanding that they were probably in a story, well a different kind, Stanley had remembered the glasses in his pocket that he grabbed in the museum.
The Narrator didn’t seem to have noticed it yet, and that was strange.
Didn’t he need them?

Apparently no, and Stanley decided to keep them in the security of his pocket. Just in case.

They kept their distance too, in order to avoid another inchident of any kind.
The Narrator thought it was better to stay in his office but Stanley didn’t second that, thinking they should try to understand what they needed to do, or address it.
He really didn’t want to stay stuck here, even with all the love and affection he had for the Narrator.

He was a man of office, Stanley wasn’t. He was used to looking around, pushing buttons, playing with the Parable and he loved being insufferable doing it. Kind of ironic, he was employee 427, and employee 427 job was pushing buttons on his keyboard all day. He didn't want to be in the Parable without the Narrator’s voice, which would inevitably happen if he went out but being closeted like that in a space he didn’t even know about before was becoming unbearable.
Something the Narrator couldn’t understand, he had a different suffering experience from him and Stanley couldn’t hold him accountable either.

But he needed to go anyway, to try to gain his habits back, to go in the broom closet or take a nap in the employee lounge or mess in the boss’s office.

Usually, when he was so upset, there was on way to ease his running head. A way to cope, to punish and to hurt. He did it so many times after the Skip ending that the Narrator temporarily shut down the room.

He got up from the couch suddenly, getting a surprise look from the Narrator who was writing down on a crumpled piece of paper he couldn’t read from where he was. There was a bottle of water next to him and an open pack of crackers next to it. His eyes roamed over his face but Stanley had forgotten the glasses.
He walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” Asked the Narrator, adjusting without noticing non-existent glasses.

“I need to go out.” He spoke, a sense of emergency laced in his voice, down his throat.
Fortunately enough, he let him leave without saying anything.

Once outside, the door shut behind him, he began to run towards the way back to the clear part of the game.
He needed to go to the Zending room.

Chapter Text

The Narrator didn’t mind that Stanley needed some fresh air: he was a man of adventure, of buttons and of running (or more likely, a fast walk it was.)
God knew what epiphany he just had on the couch but he needed to leave and that was fine.
The two of them in such a small place were doing the inevitable: they were stepping on each other's space and that wasn't really helpful in keeping a safe distance between them. And the Narrator wasn’t used to sharing his place too.

He had spent the last few days writing down some ideas about that story, a way out and so far it had been going pretty bad. He had no idea what to do, where they were going and it had been mostly silent.

It was about 10 minutes or more that he finally turned around to talk to Stanley, only to remember he went out earlier. He was about to brush it off when he noticed the bucket next to the couch, waiting patiently for the return of the owner. Stanley could never let it behind, he had a too unhealthy obsession for that damn thing, as much as the Narrator despised it.

And, the door too, he noticed, and that was definitely strange. Since the beginning, he had closed all the doors behind them, even if the Narrator found that useless and a waste of time.
He tried to ignore it like he ignored how Stanley bounced his legs when he was anxious or frustrated, how soft his hair was maybe because of that habit of messing with them and twirling the strands who seemed to be longer than before (how was that possible?), and the way he could chug a bottle of water they never ran out of because he always forgot to eat and drink until the Narrator reminded him (he never needed to before, so it wasn’t so surprising.)

But, of course, the whole thing was that even with all his good will to not interfere too much with Stanley, it was impossible to not notice things, as little as they could be.

And he knew it was the same the other way around because why else would the crumpled piece of paper he left hanging on his office always disappeared, replaced by new ones every time he woke up?

He was also sure that, even without the whole “story” mess, that would’ve been the same. They knew each other like one of them was the other.
So when the Narrator frowned towards the door, that wasn't a gut feeling or some sort of sixth sense.
He knew.

He pretended to ignore him the last couple of days (or was it, really?), but could he? No.

The Narrator was quick to get up and burst out of the room, he was also quick to go down and take a short way Stanley didn’t know about to join the Zending.
This ending was without any doubts, the epitome of the Stanley Parable. A room of dreams and colors and a room of fear and death. A room crushing your hopes like it crushed your bones.
A room they both used a little too much in contradictory wants and needs, and a room they never talked about, denial digging deep, and deeper than the most traumatic ending they ever encountered (-the Skip-).

He knew Stanley went to that room when their normal emotions were active. When it was boiling and too much to handle, and he needed the relief of death and crushing, and when he needed to make the Narrator suffer and plead.
The Narrator also made him come down for his own reasons too. The Zen room was his favorite room, it always been it. And when Stanley was insufferable, he guided him there.

Their relationship wasn’t the best one, hell if It was, they were toxic and obsessive, compassionate, rough and sometimes so soft. It was their way, unfortunately.

“STANLEY!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, out of breath when entering the zen room, which was dark and no lights could be seen, then the staircases. The Parable was down, every ends were accessible and out of his reach. Who knew what could happen if he died here?
He finally arrived in the stairs room, and Stanley was already on the top, sitting, feet hanging in the void.
The sight sent shivers down his spine and electricity through all his muscles, giving him the necessary adrenaline to begin climbing the stairs. It wasn’t new that he wasn’t very active and his breath was short and unsteady.

Stanley hadn’t look surprised, like he knew the Narrator would follow him. Because he knew it for sure, he was the one searching for him and the Narrator was always here.
They were maybe self-destructive and selfish, he was manipulative, Stanley was ruthless and sometimes stupid.
They were human-based after all, and it seems that, by developing their personalities themself, the worst of humanity was always predominant. The negative was so much easier to create and absorb, and maybe that was why they should never have met.
Nothing good could result from it.

Could he recall one time they were truly happy together? He didn’t think so.

He was happy in the zen room, Stanley took that away by killing himself.
Stanley was happy in the Broom closet? He locked it and mocked him so many times. (Stanley was fat and ugly and very very stupid).

He was happy with the bucket? The Narrator hated it. He had good reasons though, Stanley’s obsession towards an inanimate thing was frightening. Deep down he knew he loved it so much because it was him who gave it to him.

Well, they were bad at that. They couldn’t be happy.
But that’s where the two-faced nature of the human catched up to them.
They hated each other, they loved each other more. More than they hated themself, probably.

“Stanley, what do you think you’re doing?!” He half-screamed, half-tried to take deep breath, a few stairs left to climb.

It was selfish to try to stop him, perhaps. It was the Narrator who encouraged him to jump off that platform when he wouldn’t go on the cargo lift. (That's not the Stanley I know! Do it, do it, do it!) And when he did. (Oops, looks like I was wrong, how clumsy of me).
But Stanley made him suffer so much! Destroying his game, his ends, locking himself for hours, not talking when he wanted him to, screaming his name never to get an answer back.

And now?

He finally joined Stanley.

“It’s not worth it Stanley. What if you really die out of the game?” Another shrug. Even the Narrator couldn’t thoroughly believe his own words. Because their life in the parable didn’t count so much. It was entertainment. Even the story -the other one- they were stuck in was. Another parable. Was it the third one?

“Come on, let’s get out of here, would you?”

Stanley shook his head. When he said he was insufferable sometimes, he meant that.

Was it worth the pain? The wait? Everything?
Did they win something by fighting it? Fight never meant winning, that was right. They fought to entertain too and it was the answer for at least a quarter of what they did.

Finally, Stanley wasn’t the one who jumped. He sat next to him and wrapped a hand around his shoulders.
And he threw them both off of the platform, right to the hard cement of the ground.

Chapter Text

“What the hell?!” Screamed Stanley, opening his eyes and finding his office. His office, like the one he normally was waking up in after an ending. An office he didn’t see since the game had decided to shut down. Corrupted files or something..

He shot a look to the ceiling, trying to remember where the speakers were at and found them on the right corner, next to the camera. It was on! He could see the tiny red light.
He got up and rushed out, running to the two doors room, where the entrance to the second part was. He tried the handle but now it was locked and he couldn’t join the Narrator again.

“Stanley! Calm down! I'm as astonished as you, no need to take out your anger on that handle.”

The reassuring voice coming from the speakers had the effect instantly, he went back to his office to sit down. They needed to talk. Why his- their double suicide, had had that effect?

Why was he so defeated about it?

“Is everything really back?” He asked, voice low, unsure.

On the other side, up in the Narrator’s office he learned to call his, he could hear some ruffles before getting an answer.

“Yes, yes. There’s no errors or corrupted files. I got my hands on everything. Isn’t it marvelous?”

Oh. That voice was happy. Delightful. Was he the only one of them to feel so uneasy about it? It seemed so.

“Don’t you want to choose an ending to execute to verify that it's really back?”

He nodded slowly, and tried to shake some sense in his brain and sort his thoughts. It was okay, that was their life. It was just strange because he got to meet the Narrator and live a bit with him, even in some bizarre circumstances. He chose to do the Bucket destroyer ending, a funny ending they both kinda liked, because Stanley wasn’t feeling a heavy ending, not after all the emotions that shook both of them. A light sight from the Narrator when he was going down this way indicated he was also happy with this choice.

Well, the Parable really was back. There was no strange delay between the lines and the voice, no beeping out of the usual and the door closed behind him each time. Even if he looked thoroughly everywhere to catch even the smallest mistake or problem, nothing was out of the usual. The Narrator’s voice was vibrating in excitement and joy and Stanley felt bad being the only one who was deceived by it.

Bah! Maybe they really spent too much time out of the Parable, it was fine, Stanley was not going to be angry again and he was not going back to the Zending to try to change something. No, really.
And why did the Narrator push him? Did he know it would change something? He didn’t think so, but that was so strange and ridiculous!
What a stupid cliché story it was if It ended on a double suicide.
Stanley was walking endlessly through the corridors, wanting to go sit in the Broom closet for a bit, something he didn’t get to do for long.

Once the Narrator left him alone in the broom closet (after having called him fat and stupid and ugly), Stanley looked around in the hope to find something, an idea, anything.
First, why was his emotions all over the place, in a sort of constant turmoil burning inside his organs? And why did he still feel so out of place, no like before? Was it the same for the Narrator?
They did escape the story though, right?

There was something strange, something Stanley couldn't put his finger on and that was when he realised his pocket was still heavy. He still had the glasses the Narrator had left on the ground in the museum. He never thought about it again after that! How?

“What the fuck?” He murmured under his breath, eyes fixated on the broken pair of glasses. It was shattered, since he slept on it and fell from the platform with it in his pocket. But it was the Narrator's and a clear sign that something was still very off and that meant he would be able to see him again!
He looked around, and back on the glasses.
That wasn’t good still, they were controlled by a story.

But!
No, Stanley definitely needed to sit down and reflect on it. He couldn't be happy about how the events were turning. He shouldn't be so happy at the prospect of being locked down with the Narrator again, look at what happened the last time! The Narrator almost killed him (which he did after, leading to this new and not so fresh start) and he himself had had his fair share of mental breakdowns.
So no, the Parable still not working anymore was not a good sign.

Meeting the Narrator had been an error in the files. There were no other solutions.
Stanley also knew he couldn’t lie and tell the Narrator everything was good because one: he wasn’t a good liar, and two: that would only worsen the situation.
He jumped on his feet, wondering if the Narrator noticed that he hadn’t brought the bucket along.
Surely, since he didn’t like it at all.
Another question he had to ask himself was why in the hell the endings were working, if they were still stuck in the so-called story? Who was playing with them? Could they see and manipulate them?

He opened the door and stepped out, no acknowledging the Narrator’s contentement of him getting out of the Broom closet. Instead of going back to finish whatever ending he wanted to do, Stanley walked to the meeting room and sat on one of the chairs.

“Can you go down? I think we haven't gotten out.” Stanley’s voice was significantly lower in volume than the Narrator, he didn’t have speakers after all, but that didn’t mean the other man didn’t hear him.
Though he didn’t answer right away. He must have seen the glasses that were now sitting on his lap, his serious face and shaky hands, because Stanley heard some noise again, the chair he pushed (he was now used to this chair in particular) and footsteps.

“Wait here. I’m coming.”

Stanley shivered, wondering if he made the right choice. But, in reality, there was no such thing as the right choice in this situation.
The Narrator must have created short ways for different parts of the Parable, because he only took something like ten minutes to appear by the door going to the Boss’s office.
The worker's heart fluttered and it wasn’t a good feeling.
He had a look torned between sickness and unease and, without another word, took the glasses Stanley kept, and, in a reflection of what Stanley previously did, looked at it thoroughly.

“Indeed, those are mine. Where did you find it?”

Stanley told him, then, “But why didn’t you notice?” And the Narrator gave him a shrug, as he didn't know either. Instead of answering, he took a seat on a chair next to Stanley.
He elbows on the meeting table, slightly turned so he could clearly see Stanley.
Stanley, who thought he was a little bit too close to him, felt another shiver as the eyes of the Narrator didn’t leave him. He could almost feel his breath on his skin.
A surreal sensation began surrounding him, wrapping him in a loose embrace.

“I have nothing to give you there, Stanley.” A light humming, a sigh, and then he closed his eyes. “We have to give in for the moment, until things can be sorted.”

Stanley nodded, biting the inside of his mouth, but he couldn’t help himself, “If it can.”

Another glare, a stare going from his hair who had grown out, a thing he didn’t think was possible, to his eyes, down his nose, longing a bit on his lips, then back to his eyes. No, he was looking at his eyebrows, not his eyes.
But only a soft voice answered him, defeat. A thing Stanley hated hearing.

“If it can, yes.”

Chapter Text

Stanley.

Oh, Stanley. That name was associated with nature. Calm. Peace. It reminded him of the Memory Zone, before it went horrible with a pure mistake on his part. The Skip. And how much he regretted it. Those billion years that couldn’t escape his mind, even if Stanley couldn't push this button again.

Stanley, whose name was still on one of the Jim buttons, somewhere he didn't really want to think about that often.
Stanley, who was comfortably sleeping on the employee lounge’s couch, snored very softly. He was a quiet man, the Narrator noticed, more than he ever thought he was, in the intimacy of two people.

In the pure sense of the word “couple”, they were a couple. A duo, a pair, two people who were tightly connected. No one could doubt that.

Were they really meant to meet? No.

No, because that led to the inevitable: neither of them wanted to let go now. They would only miss the presence of the other. And that was a terrible thing, because how could the Parable go on smoothly now?
It wasn’t the whole story thing that made them dependent on the other, because they were already. It just exacerbated it by making them feel more, understand more, with even more complexity.
The Parable worked now, he got back everything and had been truly so happy about it.
Obviously, it was his world! His greatest achievement! And someone had to mess with it, right?

That made sense. A little.

The Stanley Parable was a metaphor, an allegory, that needed to make the player think and understand to their liking, whether it was good or bad takes. A story had the same meaning, a guide in exploration. That made sense why people would make stories about the complexity of the Stanley Parable. But does that mean it could interfere with the game entirely?
He had no ideas, like he had no ideas why he never noticed that his glasses were gone, or why he went down to join Stanley even if he seemed to see without said glasses.

All ‘grandes questions’ in the Universe.

Completely out of character for him, the Narrator sat on the ground in front of the couch where Stanley had almost passed out. Their physics, like the first bug, didn’t reinitialize, and after running in the parable, even for only two endings, that had taken a toll on him.
He buried his head in his hands. He hoped Stanley would take well what he was gonna propose afterwards.

When Stanley woke up, after a three hour nap, the Narrator was still on the ground, but it was clear he had made a trip to his office earlier because he was now surrounded by empty and full packs of crackers and cookies, and water bottles. It seems like he had an infinite source of it, which kinda was the case. When they were still stuck together, he had explained that his favorite snacks were crackers (and cookies), and he never made other things because he didn’t know it would be necessary one day.

Maybe now that he had everything under control (even if they were still stuck in the Story), he could ask for something else, Stanley was curious.

“Oh! You’re finally awake, up, up and at it, Stanley, we’ve got a lot of work to do!” Exclaimed the Narrator, while getting up himself. He frowned, and shook his head.
They both had some terrible experiences with walking the Parable and Stanley wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Plus, the Narrator seemed to have an idea and he didn't want to leave the safe room they were staying in.

The Narrator crossed his arms, lifted an eyebrow in a dramatic manner and rolled his eyes.
Stanley sighed and sat straight on the couch.

“Just explain. I just hope it doesn’t have anything to do with pushing me and killing us both.”

At least, the man had the decency of looking somewhat ashamed.

“Yeah, you mark a point. I shouldn't have done that, I had no other ideas,” Stanley huffed, “and you were going to jump anyway!

-False! I just needed some time because everything was so strange-

-Don’t play pretend with me, Stanley, I know you more than you know yourself!”

Stanley huffed again and crossed his arms on his chest, almost hugging himself. The last thing he wanted right now was fighting with the Narrator, a thing they did way too much for his liking.
It was tense, of course it was tense and if they were gonna wait again for something to happen, he knew it would be something bad. Worse than the Zending, probably.

He wasn't that mad, the Narrator was right, he was gonna jump because it felt like the right thing to do at that very moment.

“Just spit it out and tell me what you want to do” He finally gave up, not having any other choice than trusting the Narrator. And trusting, he did, and he wished the Narrator would trust him back as much. Sweet dreams.

“Watch your tongue, Stanley.” That made him laugh, actually, “So. I figured out that there’s only one place who really matches with the Story. A Story. Who links us to the Real World.”

The Narrator’s fingers were twisting, and he was pinching his skin. He did not have a good pressentiment about it.

“So, we need to head down, again. Now that the Parable is back up, we’ll be careful and you’re forbidden to touch buttons of any kind. I’m unsure about it too. We’re going to the Memory Zone.”

Silence ensued for a long minute. Stanley’s eyes were fixated on the Narrator’s fingers, who were still pinching hard his skin, making it turn red and it was strange because he was sure he never dreamt before. But it couldn’t be real, right?
They had made a silent agreement after the Skip ending mess to never go back there. It had been their biggest error, their most soul-crushing experience and at that time, they hadn’t yet developed complexe emotions.
Hearing that didn't feel right at all.

“Excuse me, what? I think I misheard.” Was the only thing Stanley could pipe out, then darting an unsure glare to the man.

“You’re talkative today.”

Stanley snorted as an answer, waiting for the man to explain what made him think going back to the most traumatic (more for the Narrator than for him, let’s be clear) place in the Parable was a good idea. But the man only sighed and began collecting the stuff on the ground, it only being papers, a pen, food and water.
Stanley got up to prevent him from going without him and grabbed his shoulders.

“What Stanley? Suit yourself, I'm going alone. I can’t force you, I know this place is,” he hesitated, eyes going up in order not to make eye-contact, “It is what it is, I want to know the truth, that’s all.”

A defeated look painted the Narrator’s face, and Stanley gave up on trying. Thinking of it, it was true they needed to find answers, and it was also true that the memory zone (corrupted by the Skip) was certainly the best place to go right now.
That didn’t mean Stanley didn't fear it, all the feelings they had towards it were bad, putting aside the good comments and memories of the first launch of the game, back in 2013.
Facing good memories was a difficult thing to do too, and maybe Stanley was being selfish by trying to keep the Narrator for him.

Because that’s what he was doing. Preventing him to go too far away for him, to find a resolution that would separate them, both physically and mentally.

The Narrator should’ve seen something on his face, because he gave him a small smile and took his hand in his to lead the way. And maybe comfort him.

“I promise you, Stanley, that this isn’t what I wanted.”

Stanley tightened his grip on the warm hand of the man, short nails almost digging in his skin but he didn’t hear any complaints.

“I know.” And Stanley didn’t want to lie by telling him this isn’t what he wanted too.

Chapter Text

Stanley would never stop saying this, but the Memory Zone was a strange place.
The silence never sounded the same here than in the Parable. The air and smells were different, his thoughts were too.

They still held hands, the Narrator walking in front of him, at a slightly slower pace since they entered that zone, they stopped talking too, both of them deep into their thinking.
This place carried a lot. Memories, of course, and emotions. It also was a clear path to their future, a tribute to what they knew, to what they always did. A link to a world they knew nothing about, a world that, despite everything, was connected to the game.
The Parable had always been a Game, and sometimes it didn’t feel like it, but what was the reality behind a game?

Humans needing to distract themself, humans needing to comment, to reflect, to know.
Because that was the only feeling that they, for sure, shared with human.

The desire to understand.

Avoiding the Memory Zone wasn’t just because of the Skip ending, it was also to not acknowledge this desire. Because they would never truly know, truly understand.
Stanley clutched harder the hand in his. The Memory Zone seemed to cradle them, and let a strange tatse under his tongue.

That part was the only one who changed over time, things added, comments changed, decorations too, but there were no one to see it, since both Stanley and the Narrator agreed to not come back here again.

The Narrator presented it like his own memory, and it was pretty funny to have hidden it inside a vent, but Stanley thought that it was the game’s real memory. Files, maybe? Was it why he was so upset when the Parable had froze? Maybe the Narrator came here more than he knew about.

They finally entered the “comment section” part.

“I just-,” called Stanley before they walked more, his voice made the Narrator turn, their hands never leaving, “I’m sorry about the Skip Ending,” He tightened his grip, not giving the man any opportunities to leave, “You warned me, I didn’t listen. I don’t have a lot of memories about it but the aftermath was- It was-”

Horrible. What was he wanted to say. But he couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence. The skip wasn’t about him after all, but he felt like it was. The fear and the silence, the destruction.

The Nothingness.

The Narrator’s biggest fear was losing it, losing his game, and it was so terrible that the point of the Parable was to be destroyed. It had to. It As meant to disapear. Supressing files was so easy, so unconsequencial.
No epic-game store anymore, no sells of the game. And what was left after? Memories, only memories.
Physical copies could be lost, could burn, could stop function. What would happen if nothing was left of them? If no one was there to play? To remember?

The Skip, the billion years out of it, years that players couldn't know about, was a good taste of what would happen to their memories.

Cookie9's review was clear: stop talking, no one wants to hear.

“Can you hear my voice?” The Narrator asked, Stanley frowned and their eyes met.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “yeah, and it’s the only one I want to hear, right?”

He didn't know why he was trying to reassur him, but he was and he had apologized about a thing he never been so conscious about.

“So it’s fine, everything is.”

Lies.

Stanley didn't comment on it but gave a small sqeeze to his warm hand. He was sweating and a heart he didn’t know about was beating too fast.
He repressed and swallowed the strong urge to hug or kiss the Narrator, to ease the pain, to take it for himself and never hurt him again. That was a strange surge of affection, a feeling he was a stranger to, but it was only natural. Love and hate, their relation was something in between. Of course it was.

The Narrator walked to the image of a review, a screenshot, but it wasn’t like a game review though, the screen and typos were different.

“Address it,” read the Narrator on the wall, “And Addressing what exactly?” He then muttured to himself.

Stanley let go of him to go read some others reviews. One looked like a resume of something, what was it, tags? He frowned. The screenshots were red and white, and so foreign to him.
A few meters away, he could hear the Narrator mumbling as he was reading other comments.
Eyes on the walls, he began reading again. Something about the game and its universe, something about alternative ones, about hurt, what was that even about?

Oh god, did people actually imagine those things between them? Stanley kept his mouth shut, even if his face scrunched into an unfunny expression, still comically, well, expressive.

“There Stanley, don’t look at the comments. Here’s an author note.” Called the Narrator who was now almost at the exit of the first room.

“What’s that?” He asked, walking to him, decided for once to listen and not read too much into the things stuck on the walls.
The Narrator very visibly rolled his eyes.

“Use your brain Stanley. I might repeat myself but you aren’t that stupid.”

Once close enough, he looked at the author’s note and read it. Hmm. It read “Chapter 13”, and talked about how they would manage to get out of their situation. That wasn’t really interesting, wasn’t it? He didn’t understand.
The Narrator sighed loudly (again) next to his ear.

“It gives a clear indication Stanley, don’t you see? Chapter 13. We’re around chapter 13, maybe the middle of the story, depending on how long it is!

-So that means we have to finish the story?

-I think so, yes. If we’re already here, that means we did something good, we’re going in the right direction! The Story in itself must be the plot, and we have to accomplish some smaller other plots to make the story continue, got it?”

Stanley nodded and still gave a doubtful glare at the screen, then followed the Narrator out. They needed to explore a little more.

“Hey, you know what the Archive of something is? It’s written everywhere.” Stanley commented as they were entering another part, where it was mostly still like the first time he saw it, comments about the game in itself, a tribute to the 2013 version of it, pictures of his office and iconic parts of the Parable. It was good to see that again, even if the memory of the Skip clinged to his back like a bug.

The Narrator didn’t look at him, cheeks flushing in red.

“Yeah, yeah, ao3, I know what this is. Kind of.”

Stanley frowned and gave a hum as an answer.

Chapter Text

It was still oddly beautiful.
Stanley decided to let the Narrator do his things while he wandered around, looking more closely to this place he never had the occasion to explore again since the dreaded Skip Button.

Speaking of it, they were a little too close of it, in Stanley’s opinion. He knew cookie9's review was somewhere near this place and they were around some of the negative reviews of the game. The Narrator was mumbling something about not being unfunny and Stanley kept on giving him doubtful stares, followed by grimaces and stern looks from the Narrator.
There were no negative comments from the thing the Narrator called ao3, but he found two pages of what seemed to be profiles.

Curious, he looked at him more thoroughly.

First one was named “YourNarratOr”, it had four works but the image didn’t show more.
The second was more interesting. There was a selection of three screenshots.

First one was the profile, named “VicciesLo”, which had six works and two series.

Second was a zoom on two fandoms, one being The Stanley Parable, the other being Formula 1 RPF. Stanley didn’t know what it was and decided to ask later to the Narrator, the man being more related to the Real World than him.

The third one was about a story, in their fandoms, named “Error: Corrupted files (Help me destroy myself.” Stanley read the tags, then the description and took a step back.
Hum. Oh. That was, that was strange, wasn’t it?

“Narrator? I think I found the story?!” He called out, then heard steps near him, and the presence behind him. The Narrator looked over his shoulders, eyes half closed, focusing on reading. His nose scrunched too.
Stanley kept looking at him as he finished reading it, took a step back, and blushed. They seem to do that a lot, since they entered the memory zone.
Stanley wondered if the zone could change chemicals in their bodies.

“Yeah. Yes. What is it with those creators? And those tags?” He mumbled under his breath again.
He then wrapped his arm around Stanley’s shoulders, guiding him out of this room.

“Forget it. But Stanley, now that we know what’s going on exactly, I think it’s the perfect time now.”

Stanley half-heard what the Narrator just said, instead focusing on the fact that they had been so physically close since entering the memory zone.
No, that was even the case before, bit by bit, but it went unnoticed, apparently. Stanley wasn’t going to complain though, it was only a familiar thing. He could grow accustomed, yes.
As they kept going, minds went places at everything that was going on. A story, comments, words. All that was so… unsettling.

When Stanley finally came back to himself, deciding that he would think of everything later, he realised that they were about to enter a familiar place. Not familiar for good reasons, though.
Stanley stopped, making the Narrator lose balance as he still had his arm around him.

“Why are we here?” Stanley asked, shaking his head when the Narrator tried to pull him to go his way. “Why did you take me here?” He asked again, stepping back, ignoring the irritation in the Narrator’s eyes.

They were in front of the door of the Skip. The door that was going to disappear when they were going to enter the infamous room.
He poked the Narrator’s side, trying to get him to answer. But the man looked away and kept going. Stanley gripped his shoulder and pushed him back, making him stumble on his feet, almost falling.

“Answer! Why are we here?” Another stern look, a long tired sigh.

“Stanley, we need to make the story work. And that means we have to address it. It was written. Address it.”

Said Stanley frowned. He could understand the point, but did they really have to go into the room of the dreaded Skip Button?

“We addressed the Zending. That’s why?

-Yes. We’re going to destroy it. The skip button will never exist anymore and maybe it’s the answer!”

Stanley wasn’t so sure of that. Destroying -and he knew pretty well his way around it- was never the answer. It wasn’t going to erase all those years that still clinged onto the Narrator’s back and that were still crawling under his skin.

Maybe that would help a bit. Maybe he was right and the story would take a different turn and they could escape. How could they know? Thinking of it, they could destroy it, at least, the skip button accident couldn’t happen again this way and that was already good.
From his perspective, the Narrator needed to talk his way out of the memory of the skip button, and maybe he should too.
There was the problem, the pair was not good at communicating.

Complicated when one couldn’t talk in the game and the other had to narrate everything.

Maybe he could try to make him talk after having destroyed said button.

“Ok. We can try I guess.”

The Narrator smiled and guided them inside the room. It was…normal. More normal than it should have been. It was a room, a simple one. No strange light effects, no edgy music or scary atmosphere.
Just a room, with a yellow button in the middle, walls, and a plant.
A plant. In a pot.

“Who’s angry for dinner?” Stanley muttered, “I’m hungry!

-Stanley, you are far from funny. Please, never make a joke again.”

He ignored the comment (oof- he? Unfunny?) and they kept their way to the button.

“You didn't have a hammer or anything? We can't just destroy it without, right?”

The Narrator looked around as he was trying to solve a really difficult problem, and his gaze fell on the first object in the room.

“There is a plant, Stanley.

-What? You’re hungry?”

He rolled his eyes very dramatically and gestured for him to go get the pot. Understanding that the Narrator wanted to use the ceramic to destroy the button, since there was obviously nothing else, he went to take the plant off of its pot, and took it in his arms. It was heavy, to say the least.
Stanley briefly wondered why the Narrator didn’t just erase the files from his computers but maybe he wanted to do it by himself (He could understand, destroying things was funny sometimes).
Stanley gave the ceramic to the Narrator, briefly looking back.
As expected, the door was gone, as it was supposed to happen when entering the room. He thought it would open again after having taken down the skip button.

And if it didn’t, well, too bad.

The Narrator took a deep breath and looked at him.
It was going to be good, everything was and if everything turned out wrong, Stanley didn’t mind. They only needed each other after all.

The Narrator looked again.

And smashed the Skip Button.

Chapter Text

Stanley was on the floor, rolling, dying of laughter, hands wrapped around his stomach. Meanwhile the Narrator, irritated, was looking at him, mouth twitched in a grimace.

“Stanley, I swear to god, stop. This is humiliating. I hate you.”

He still held his arm out to help Stanley get up, watching with a furious stare the skip button. The pedestal was now on the ground, laying on its side and the button was detached from it, in pieces. He looked at Stanley, who wasn’t looking back for now, and stepped on what was left of the yellow button, making sure to destroy anything left.
Stanley was wiping off his pants the dirt he made by (literally) rolling on the floor and was now full on smiling at him.
The Narrator rolled his eyes and nudged him.

“You don’t have to look so happy, Stanley. You're actively hurting my feelings.

-Come on, why? Just because I had to break it down? Your face was so funny!”

Indeed, the Narrator failed completely at the simple task of taking down the button. He barely made a dent on it after trying four times and Stanley, who tried to hold his laughter, had to do it.
And of course Stanley broke it on the first try while the Narrator swore it was difficult. Humiliation.
He grimaced and turned his back at Stanley, who chuckled one last time and the sound alone made the Narrator pout in a very immature way. But he eventually gave up and laughed too.
It felt good to be able to feel lighter than the last couple of days.

The Narrator had made the assumption that, in order to “address it” like said the story or author (it was the same), they needed to confront the parts of the game that were the worst.
It worked with the Zending, when he threw them both from the platform, not knowing at all what would happen since the Parable still wasn’t working and it somehow worked and took them back inside the game.

Now that the Skip Button was gone for good, it should have made the story continue.

But Stanley had been right on one point earlier, why were they here? Yes, he wanted to destroy the button so it wouldn’t cause more harm than it already did. But the door was still gone and they were stuck here.
At least they didn’t panic..

“Why is the door still gone?” Asked Stanley.

Yet.

“Don’t get anxious, we’ll figure it out. Sit down for a minute.”

That’s what he did, and the Narrator followed.

“Stanley, I need you to think. It’s a story and we’re both part of it, so I think it’s both of our ideas that counts.” Stanley nodded, eyes on the nude wall but body turned towards him, “Can you give me your thoughts about it?”

His gaze flickered to the broken button then to his face and back to the wall.

“I think that, after getting out of here, we should go back where we found the story and read carefully the “tags”, because then we will have a clearer view on what to do. Right now, I'm not sure. There’s no skip button anymore but the thing you kept saying..

-That we were told to address it?

-Yes, that. I think there’s a correlation. But what?”

The Narrator closed his eyes, trying to visualise something, anything that could help. Stanley wasn’t wrong at all, it was a good take.

“What tags do you remember?

-Hum, not sure, we’ll have to check after. There was mention of angst, the Adventure Line, emotions? I don’t remember the full thing..

-Emotional hurt and comfort?” The Narrator tried,

“Yes! How did you know?” When he didn’t answer, Stanley smirked, “No nevermind, you had to know, you’re on there too”.

The Narrator gave him a dirty look like he dared him to mock him about it but Stanley’s smirked only deepened and he brushed it off.
Oh. Wait. Emotional hurt/comfort, was it? So the theory was definitely right: the author wanted them to talk it through. What was the point? Yes, the Narrator was also on ao3 (he even posted a few works, but purely to connect and understand the human world and also because it was fun, that was all).
The question why and the answer how, he thought.

“So we have to like…talk about the Skip Button if we want to get out of the room?”

The Narrator shrugged, maybe yes, maybe not, but really, they had nothing else to try and no way to know it was the correct call.
Stanley began to talk, as if he was absolutely sure it was the answer (the answer how). He didn’t want to talk about it. Billion years, way too much grudge for a lot of things.

“I tried to apologize earlier. About it. But I don’t know what happened on your side. I remember skipping a few and you telling me how the time was longer and longer.

-You never listened.

-I remember you talking alone then at some point there was nothing anymore and the Parable, well, the room was degrading a lot until there was nothing but me, the button, and the desert. Then the reset. I hate that ending. I don’t understand why you created it.”

They didn’t look at each other. Stanley had laid down on the floor, looking at the blank ceiling.

“It was supposed to be a joke.” His voice was full of regret and sadness, “because that review wanted to skip my dialogues when the Parable was supposed to be about it.”

And a joke, it has been.
Ha Ha. Look! You can make me stop talking and now you will not be able to understand the Parable anymore! Now you are lost without me!
And that was exactly why (the question why), he made a button in the game, that no one could press out of this only room.
He laid down next to Stanley. All those years in the silence, all those years hating him, but he was unable to stay mad at him.
They weren’t bad to each other, they weren’t good either.
A way to be balanced, how ironic.

“I don’t care if the player hates my voice or doesn't want to hear me. It’s not important. What hurt me the most was that it was you, Stanley. I watched you press the button, I watched you being frozen in place, not moving an inch, stuck, for years and years. I never knew how bad I needed you before.”

Stanley rolled onto his side to look at him.
They were close now, the Narrator could feel his warm skin next to his, his breath brushing against his skin. It was overwhelming, it was strange, unusual.

“I realised that you could be, without me. But I can't be without you. You’re a creation, a part of me, and I created a bunch of other things, and there’s the curator, the weird other half-living things that develop inside the game. But it’s not you and without you I'm lost. Is it stupid? I don’t think so. I’m not a good person, far from it.”

And as his voice slowly died in a murmur, explaining all the pain he went through for an infinity of years, arms he knew too much wrapped around him in a tight, almost desperate embrace.

Maybe they both needed it, because Stanley was crying.

Chapter Text

“Why are you crying Stanley?” His voice came out shaky and almost in a whine as the arms around him tightened almost painfully. The Narrator didn’t hug him back at first, but now that he regained his senses, he wrapped his arms around the figure of the man.

“I don’t even know!” He snapped back. Ironically, the Narrator couldn’t help but laugh and Stanley followed. For a full minute, they were pressed against each other, laughing and crying and that was awesome. Releasing raw emotions, without the urge of shutting them down, just because they were being held and cradled.
Maybe that was what they lacked all that time. Maybe they needed to accept they now had emotions. Complex ones.

As they kept on laughing, the Narrator rolled so Stanley was now the one on his back, forearms parted each side of his head. Like the very first time his eyes fell on Stanley’s face, he couldn’t help but admire it. So far away from everything he knew about him and the camera's quality.
His fingers brushed his brown hair back, now that he paid attention, the strands weren’t straight, more like a wavy situation, not enough to be fully curly but enough to grab his attention.
He took one strand between his fingers to look at it closely.

“Your hair grew or am I wrong?” He commented. Stanley shrugged under him and smiled as the Narrator pushed back all the hair with application, then testing his forehead on his.
They were talking under their breath, even if it was just them two in this small room with no escape. It was soothing and intimate, and somehow the best way to communicate.
At some point the Narrator wiped what was left of Stanley’s tears, as this one was talking about the Zending, addressing the horrible part of literally falling to death several times and feeling all his bones being destroyed (not something he would recommend if he was being honest).

Then Stanley pushed the Narrator to the side, ignoring his complains about his ‘violent behavior’ and sat straight, looking almost dumbfounded.

“Look! There’s a door!

-A door?” The Narrator repeated, turning around, sitting next to Stanley. The man was stupid, wasn’t he?

“That’s what I said,

-Don’t give me attitude,” Stanley smirked at that and nudged him with his elbow.

The door was back, which was surprising because he was sure it should’ve come back either if the button was destroyed or if the Skip ending started. Looking back, it had been the same strange change for the Zending. They shouldn’t have been able to fall together (and not when the Parable wasn’t working) but it worked and it came back.
He needed to test some more endings, see how extended the Story’s power on their game was.
It was clear it was related to the Real World, using ao3 (never the Narrator would reveal what fan stories he wrote himself), and playing with the parable’s alchemy.

So what would happen if they tried endings related to the player?
Like the Broom closer ending, or Not-Stanley ending, or they could even go back down to the Bucket’s museum to check with the Curator! Or Mariella!
And did the story control them entirely or was it only the environment?

Excited at all those new perspectives, the Narrator jumped on his feet and dragged Stanley to get out immediately.

Now that the Skip menace was gone, they could freely go back and forth the memory zone to check their progress with the chapters! It was like a game in a game, but this time, he wasn’t the one who created it and they had to investigate (which oddly felt exciting)!

“Hey! I thought I was the one being violent!” Complained Stanley as they rushed, who still followed his steps.

“We are in a game Stanley! A game!

-Did you hit your head? I’m pretty sure we knew that already.”

They made their way back into the main part, the Narrator ignoring Stanley’s snarky comments, and he rushed to the Story’s preface.
Ah! There it was!

Where it was written “Chapter 13” before, it was now “Chapter 17”!
He grabbed Stanley’s shoulder to make him look and they shared a smile. It worked! Destroying the Skip Button had been a good call, and now they knew all their actions made the Story react one way or another.

“So what should we do now?” Stanley asked, eyes stuck on the tiny images.

“We will go to the Employee lounge, I want to check something, then in my office, If my computer still works, I should be able to log on my Ao3 account, see if we can have more clues or the Story in itself, even if it is unfinished. And after all that, we’re testing more endings! I want to know everything about that replica. It’s almost perfect.”

Stanley nodded, much more calm than him, a balance definitely needed.

Before they took the vent back in the Parable, the Narrator insisted on looking thoroughly around the zone to see if anything else had changed and they were finally in the main zone.
As said, the men stopped by the employee lounge for whatever reasons that made the Narrator curious.

“What are you doing?” He asked when the Narrator walked in front of one of the vending machines, “These doesn't work, you know it.”

The Narrator waved a hand at him in a dismissive manner, then told him to wait. After a few manipulations, they heard the satisfying sound of a can falling down and the Narrator took it, showed it to Stanley.

“Ah-Ha! Look! I think I fully understand now.

-Because of a can? Give it, I'm thirsty.”

He gave it to Stanley without saying anything.

“You’re feisty today, aren’t you? No. What I mean is: we are not in the Stanley Parable at all! We’re in the story, like a parallel. Things work differently, endings are strange because it’s just not the game. I thought at first the story was created inside, but it really is a whole other work.”

Stanley nodded and took a sip of the can, labelled “Drink”. It was plain water with a tiny taste of coconut. Not bad.

“Is it bad? What does it means?

-I can’t tell for sure, that’s why I want to test more endings. See if there’s still a player.”

But first, they climbed again all the way up to the office.
The Narrator could feel the look of concern that Stanley kept giving him. He was unsure about all of that, he would be a fool if he didn’t notice.
The Narrator’s first love was his game, and now he looked excited by telling Stanley they were not in the game anymore. That had to be concerning.

Chapter Text

The Narrator sat on his chair, legs crossed, another pair of glasses he found between papers on the desk on his nose. Stanley had thrown away the broken ones already and now was looking over his shoulder to the screens.
At first, the Narrator did not want him here while he looked to the site that gave them so many troubles but after almost half an hour of Stanley pleading to see, he finally gave up and made him swear not to mock him.

First, he looked through the game's files and codes, just to see it was all perfectly normal, which was still very surprising because the door of the Skip appeared while the skip wasn’t used, and the entire complex wasn’t destroyed. But the files didn’t show that.

Then slowly, he opened another tab, on the Archive of our own site, his whole face red but trying to tell himself that Stanley couldn’t know what it was.
Why was he so invested in this again ? The Narrator was pretty sure he was on to no good and kept glancing at the man who was watching the screen too closely.

“So, If I understood, it’s a site where you can post stuff you write for others to read?

-Basically, that is the purpose.”

Stanley nodded and pressed his lips together, he had a serious expression like Ao3 was the most interesting and powerful thing ever.
The Narrator typed the name of the story they were most likely stuck in and, not really surprisingly, it showed a message he never saw on the site before “error:corrupted files”.
An ironic statement, given the fact it was the same error message he had on his screens the first time the Parable broke.

He tried a couple manipulations to get access to it but it still didn’t work.
The profile updating it was, like said in the memory zone, named VicciesLo, but even the other story the person posted wasn’t accessible.
Question of logic, but he wanted to check, just in case.

“So, the only information on the story we can have is in the memory zone?

-You are becoming clever Stanley, but it seems so. It would have been way too easy otherwise."

Stanley rolled his eyes.

“Show me another story written about us.

-And why is that?

-Curiosity, you read a ton about us, didn’t you?”

Caught off guard, the Narrator coughed violently and a bright red color flushed to his cheeks as he poorly tried to deny it.

“Why would you assume that?!”

Stanley’s left brow raised in a very offensive way.

“Why wouldn’t I? You know the site, you have an account named “YourNarratOr” and I have to admit it’s concerning, so, next time I'm in the Broom closet you won’t say anything because I'm sure you’re reading fanfictions when I'm in there.
And lastly, there was a list of your bookmarks on one of the images. I didn’t tell you but it was only us. I don’t wanna talk about the hashtags.”

The Narrator closed the tab.

“And two hundred bookmarks? Only about us? Come on!”

The Narrator turned the computers off.

“I'm sure you’re not concerned about the game since you understood that this was this kind of Story. I’m not that stupid.”

The Narrator got up, and calmly went into the kitchenette, closing the door behind him. No, everything was normal, Stanley wasn’t knocking and asking him questions and the Narrator wasn’t ignoring him.

Not his fault if he wasn’t that brave.

“It’s kinda cute! Get out, come on, it's not that bad! I can give you kisses too if you want!”

He was mortified.

As a very mature and composed man, he decided to handle the situation the best he could. Fifty minutes passed before he peeked out of the room he was staying in (good thing he could drink and snack on crackers) and ignored the problem.
Addressing the elephant in the room? He’ll probably do it later (he will not do it).
Thinking of it, it was Stanley’s fault after all, mocking him for reading? He was only researching how the real people out there were figuring the parable.

Nothing else.

Stanley still had this smug look on his face but the Narrator ignored it very well.

“We should go and test some endings. Why not try that one with your fake wife and your lovey-dovey story with the Bucket?”

The red that colored Stanley’s face tasted like sweet revenge as he chuckled and watched him jog behind him.

“You gave me the Bucket.” Stanley stated, looking around to notice his said beloved bucket wasn’t here. Maybe it was still in his own office. He kind of missed those stickers, but only because the Narrator gave it to him.

“Bold of me to assume you wouldn’t start a whole love story with a literal metal object. Sure is, I don’t want to think about it. Please Stanley, do not explain how making out with it works, I don’t want to know.”

Stanley hit his shoulder and the Narrator laughed again. Voilà, the situation was arranged and Stanley forgot why he was making fun of him at first. Perfect, the Narrator truly was a genius, throwing perfect plans like that. Ha, and Stanley didn’t even notice how he had been manipulated!

It was the Narrator’s turn to have a smug look on his face.
As they made their way through the Parable, they didn’t go take the bucket in the office for said ending. The Narrator informed Stanley it was just a joke and they went down to the cargo lift, for the sole purpose to try Not-Stanley ending.
As they entered the ringing phone room, the sound was unusually loud and strange.

“Should we answer the phone instead?” Asked Stanley, approaching the phone, on a table in the middle of the room. The Narrator followed, eyeing it with interest.

“I don’t know at all. We could still come here for the proper ending.”

He nodded towards Stanley, indicating to him that he could take the call. The Narrator was curious about what would happen. Usually, the fake voice would answer and the whole wife situation happened. But he wasn’t in his office right now.

Stanley gave him a smile and took the phone

Chapter Text

“Allo? Bonjour?”

Huh. What the fuck was that?

Was Stanley and the Narrator’s first thought, hearing a woman’s voice they did not know at all on the other line. It was not Mariella (as she was still backflipping her way to work) nor the Curator (who was probably rambling about some buckets from centuries ago).
They shared a doubtful look as Stanley looked at the phone in his hand, wondering if he should just hang up.

But they were curious still, as it was so out of pocket. Their lack of answer made the person sigh loudly.

“J’ai juré si c’est encore les démarcheurs je hurle, c’est pas une blague. Pourquoi le numéro c’est 427? Y’a pas d’indicatif.”

Another look was shared, but it was now confusion, as neither of them knew how to talk in french. And she sure talked a lot.
Stanley murmured to the Narrator, “do you think it’s who we think?”, which was answered by a shrug.
There were some more sounds on the other line. They could agree on one thing: those french noises were terrifying.
Finally, the Narrator snatched the phone from Stanley’s hand. They needed to get to Somewhere and he seemed too flabbergasted to make any decisions.

“Hello? Can you hear me? Who are you?”

Now it was that woman’s turn to not answer. Irritated by how they couldn't seem to communicate, the Narrator almost told Stanley to stop the communication.

“Huh. Yeah, of course? It’s a phone. I'm Vic? You’re the one calling, shouldn't you know?” She had a strong accent, and a lot of confusion laced in her voice.

“We didn’t call, our phone was ringing!”

Another silence.

“Do I know y’all? I feel like I should.” She didn’t let them finish, while other voices could be heard behind her. “Merde, faut que j’y retourne.”

The Narrator snatched the phone off of Stanley’s hand.

“Tell us how to leave the Story! You’re the author aren’t you?!”

Stanley flinched, surprised and quietly gestured to him, how would he know?! The Narrator gave him an irritated glare meaning “you’re not that stupid”. Of course she was! She was French, she was named Vic and not everyone could have access to that phone. Of course it was the author.

“Si je l’avais vu venir celle-là.” She mumbled, “J’en sais rien! La ligne là, avec le watermark.”

He was pretty sure she kept talking in french only to mess with them.

“Listen,” She spoke again, her voice was lower as if she was trying to be sneaky, “It’s not complicated, we’re not even supposed to talk, damn! Je suis en train d'écrire un appel entre mes personnages et moi c’est la fête ou quoi? Just follow the clues!

-There’s none!” Complained Stanley who stepped back, hands now resting on the table.

“Just call back or go to the memory zone! You got something to do first, maybe some people after that.”

Now, she was downright just playing them, underlying joy in her voice, they could almost hear her proud smile (she was, in fact, very proud).
The two of them, the Narrator and the Author were arguing louder and louder (about ao3, probably), when they were cut off brutally.
The Narrator let the phone fall on the table and swiftly turned to know the reason why, and saw Stanley, plug in his hand and the other on his hip.

“Oh. Good call Stanley.

-Which one?” Joked the man with a smile.

“Don’t play fool.” The Narrator smacked the phone so it fell on the ground but he winked at Stanley.

Chapter Text

“Well, that was weird.” Stated Stanley as the Narrator watched him, the plug still in his hand.

“Agreed.”

The silence stretched, awkward.

“So? Not-Stanley ending?” Asked Stanley, plug desperately hanging from his hand and phone definitely quiet.
Another silence. And another, and again.

“I don’t know? We just proved our point with that -phone call- haven’t we?”

Stanley made a buzzer sound, he was strangely way too good at that.

“You proved your point, not mine.”

He shrugged. The Narrator didn’t really know what to expect with Not-Stanley ending, even with the phone call, who revealed they weren’t completely cut out from the human world. All his ideas were vanishing, they weren't any player, the Parable was basically unusable. They went through the skip, the Zending, the phone, what now? He refused to go to the Bucket or the Broom closet (was it important anyway?).
So, what now?

Stanley seemed to see right through him, his doubts and fears and how much lost he was. Yes, of course he put up a facade to try and understand the whole thing that was happening, but they barely made any progress whatsoever.
He really was this close to just give up and stay like this. It couldn’t hurt, right? Just he, Stanley and a half-working game.
Simple as it was?

Said Stanley had a brow (the left one) lifted up in a suggestive manner. That man had a very curious talent for making various very offensive facial expressions.
He could only be impressed.

“Whatever you’re thinking of, it's not worth it. Unless it has to do with me and you and, well you know. Let’s just wander around, we’ll find something, we always do.”

The Narrator sighed heavily, his signature at that point, and shoved his hands in his pockets, gesturing him to follow close.
They got out, and did as Stanley just said: wander around, searching for a clue of all kinds.
Stanley grabbed his hand, for the second or third time in a few: the Narrator just complied, as if It was only natural.

He let himself be guided in the corridors, not paying much attention to where Stanley was talking him to. He let himself slide deep into his thoughts, simply nodding every time Stanley peeked back to look at him.
They made their way wherever Stanley wanted to go, while he was humming a familiar song (-There once was a man named Stanley, that people considered so manly, but the truth must be told he was not very old-) and the Narrator followed tight, keeping a firm grip on the hand that was offered to him.

“Ah! Found it!” Stanley’s excited shout made him snap out of his thoughts and looked around to find whatever caused so much of a reaction until his eyes fell on a bright yellow way too joyful line.

The Adventure Line™.

Of course, why didn’t they think about it earlier?

“How did you?..

-She said something about a watermark,” explained Stanley, who seemed way too proud about having taken them here, “so naturally the only thing that has a watermark, besides the game’s credits, is the Line™!”

He brushed with the tip of his finger the strange texture of it, the pattern who was comically on the wall.

“And the Line™ always infuriates you because it™ does whatever it™ wants and you can’t control everything !

-Please Stanley, if you say ™ one more time I will go insane.”

Stanley shrugged and kept leading the way, now following the Adventure Line™ who folklored around the walls, making them go back and forth some corridors, circling, and strange patterns everywhere. There wasn’t any music though, and the Narrator was glad about it (he loved that music, but it would’ve been too much, how did Stanley do that all the time?).

The Narrator, guided by Stanley, was actively thinking about a lot of things.
About why they were able to speak directly to the Story’s author for example. That was very curious, and a lot of aspects were, to be fair. If he could call again, he would sit and talk to her for longer, just to know more about all of that. Maybe this could give him more ideas for more endings and a Stanley Parable 3: Stanley's love story with the bucket (he was still petty).

Did she hold that much power on it too? Or was it a plant-like creation, where she planted her seeds in the story to let it grow through her words? That would explain why she answered the phone, not knowing who was on the line (and why she thought it was them that called her.)

It opened a whole new door for the future, and the perspective was so exciting.
Oh now he wanted to go up in his office to do his favorite thing, which was taking a dozen notes on paper, theories, ideas, everything! While Stanley was watching on the couch. Or in the Broom closet with the (censored) Bucket. But he’d rather have him close.

As the Narrator was still thinking of that Story and her Author, Stanley suddenly stopped walking, and he bumped into him. Their hands were still firmly tied.

“I don’t know this part.” Stated Stanley, his voice was calm and composed, but it was only a facade.

“What do you mean you don’t know this part? You know everything about the Parable Stanley, and if you missed: I didn’t change anything,” tried to joke the Narrator.

In front of them, a large corridor with white lino, grey walls, ceilings way higher from the ones they knew. And ten meters away, one only large white door. If so, it could look like the first version of the first room of the Memory Zone, when he was still building it. A level-0 model, who needed to be detailed.
A room he would never have left so blank, so nude. So imperfect and anonymous.

The things was-

“I’m not joking,”

-He didn’t know this part either.

Chapter Text

Could he really live that down and go back to the original state of the Stanley Parable?

But that aside, could he also let it go to stay with his character? With Stanley, who he would have never thought about in that way, who was growing each hour to be the most supportive and understanding being?

Somehow it was a situation where he couldn’t make the right choice, because it didn’t exist at all now that he tasted the sweet part of holding Stanley, of letting his fears out and not go unheard and of being understood.
As if his game had already done that, it reflected his worst fears (noted- the Zending, being abandoned, or Not-Stanley, his game being destroyed) and all his greatest achievements (nota-bene: really, the jump circle).

He could not let it go just like that, but in another way, he couldn’t let Stanley go just like that. They were so intersectly tied.

Maybe that dilemma was the main reason why the Narrator didn’t put too much effort into leaving the Story. Truth is, yes he was trying, but not too hard though. It was scary but peaceful, they were discovering so many new emotions and how the Parable reacted to it, they were together in finding clues, it was like a new entire game!
Ultimately, they both knew they had to definitely go back at some point, but maybe delaying a little wouldn’t hurt?

Stanley had shared his thoughts about it: staying for long would make them comfortable, like they were in the Real Parable, making it harder for them to return to their original state. Despite knowing it, they still stayed and didn’t talk much about the questions when and why and mostly investigated on how they would go back.
Not the best, not the worst. They were only men (they were not, being video games characters and all, but excuses were still appreciated).

Stanley and The Narrator changed.

From their physics to their mentals, their likings and the way they view the world.
Looking at the beginning, the first chapter, The Narrator loved to think, they definitely changed. Slowly, but steady.
Stanley who barely spoke a word now was talkative, and he wasn’t as much on edge as before.
Emotions too, grew and developed out of their reach, in a real and scary way, they couldn’t avoid and couldn’t know how to properly work through it.

So, were they willing to go back? And did a good way even exist?

*
Stanley was sitting far away.
He had decided earlier that letting the Narrator reflect on the question on his own would be better for their reflection.

Turns out this part they didn’t know and that the Adventure Line™ led them to had really been added. By the author, probably. The first corridor after the first white door looked similar to his open office’s pattern, and it took them to yet another white door, which closed behind them. Seeing that the door closing had made Stanley shiver, he wasn’t used to it anymore.
Now, he was used to the possibility of going back.

The new room was large, as white as everything so far, had some (working) vending machines, chairs and a couch.
It wasn’t that unusual, if they didn’t count the only door in front of them, grey, the same size as the ones in his office.

And on top of it, a single question, wrote on a large (white) board:

‘Is going back the best way?’

They both agreed that they had to answer the question to be able to open the door and the Narrator immediately got lost in his thoughts while Stanley wandered around, looking everywhere for a clue or something in the vending machines, surprisingly, crackers.
If the Narrator was thinking about the question's answer, he was thinking about what would be waiting behind the door, and if they were going to have enigmas.

He supposed it was totally plausible.

Finally, after what seemed to be hours but were probably just a few minutes, the Narrator walked to the door and the white board, joining Stanley, who gave him a bar (white chocolate) he found in one of the vending machines.

“That’s a tricky question. Either way there’s no going back, we will never be the same as before anymore, right?” spoke the Narrator clearly in front of the door. No movements. Stanley wondered if he had to give an answer too.

“I disagree.” The Narrator frowned, “Going back, it’s embracing the change. It says ‘Is going back the best way?’ but it’s the best way only if we make it work. Right now, we can't.

-You have a point. I miss the normal Parable. But I know that, if we go back, I'll miss you. I will miss what we have now.” He roughly rubbed his temples then Stanley hugged him from the side. He knew how he was so overprotective of his game, his whole life. He liked that warmness all against him, it was comfortable, right the thing he needed without having realised it.
All his torments seemed to melt away when he was held like that.

“To be honest, I'm scared too. We’re changing and it’s a lot and I know it’s bad to keep it to me, to us, but- Well, I guess that’s what I meant by embracing it.” Softly spoke Stanley, he felt uncovered, watched, even though it was only him, the Narrator and that force that guided them since the beginning.

He let his head fall on the offered shoulder Stanley was already leaning on.

“I feel out of place.” He sighed. A sigh that would have been foreign when the problems first happened. All he had taken for granted had just imploded on itself, and it kept going.

They watched the door open slowly without realising it.

“We need to stop going from joyful to sad Stanley, let’s go.”

He took his hand, leading the way now to the unknown that provided this new place.
The Narrator turned his head, not looking his way when he spoke again.

“You’re right where I wanted you to be. You’re your own person now, not my creation, Stanley.”

Too bad he missed the light blush that made Stanley smile.

Chapter Text

There was something in the air.

From the previous room to the new one, separated by a corridor (and decorated with the Adventure Line™), the air thickened drastically.
Another basic life aspect they weren’t used to. The temperature in the whole Parable was kept around 24 degrees celcius, even in the Mind control facility where all the computers materials were kept.
24 as for the ideal temperature but also because it didn't have a significant necessity in the Parable.

They could be cold or too hot but it wasn’t exactly the temperature that changed, as emotions were also a big factor. Happiness being associated with warmth, anger and sadness with cold.

However, between the two rooms, the temperature went up two degrees, then an additional two. Not enough to be dripping sweat but just enough for them to be slightly uncomfortable and to notice the change.
That raised a ton more questions, as how could that woman, the author, change and control so many things inside the story.
Didn’t she talk about people, too?

“Is this an association game?” Asked Stanley as they were walking through the door of the new room, called “New Zone 3.2, TSP n°21” in red on top of the surprisingly white door.
The Narrator looked around, analysing the new zone that was interesting, to say the least
It was a compilation of different images of the Parable, and under it, three words, they had to choose one to associate with the image.
What was even the point?

“Sure is.”

Once closer to the first image, they read the three words, “tractor, fire, baby,”. The image was the giant baby in the mini-game where Stanley had to stop the baby from burning. It was concerning how many times he let it in the fire.

“What would you choose, Stanley?

-Fire, of course.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but would have chosen the same, it an association game, so they couldn’t put the word “baby”. Stanley took the word, it was a sticker, and glued it on the picture.
With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat that began to form on his forehead.

Next was a picture of Stanley’s office, with the words “wife, work, death”. The Narrator glued the third word on the image.
Then they went through the others.

Desk, 427.

White door, confusion.

Stanley, Stanlurines. This one made Stanley laugh for quite a bit while the Narrator was defending his genius.
After a couple more associations, the door opened, leading the pair two yet another room, where the temperature when up a degree more and now the Narrator fully thought it was only to shift their focus on something else.

The third room was something related to the mind control facility, there were two buttons, “on” and “off” and behind it, a control tablet. Obviously, Stanley’s job was to press one of the two buttons and the Narrator’s job was to look at the controls first to determine which one of the buttons he had to press.
It wasn’t that difficult,

“It’s so useless.” Commented Stanley as the Narrator was telling him to press the button “off”.

“We don’t have that much choice, don’t we?

-Yeah, of course but I don't understand the meaning behind it!”

Stanley was pretty fed up with all the non-sense of the past day (or was it weeks now at that point?). He was excited at first, and scared, confused, furious and curious. And now that all those feelings had been sorted out, worked out and that he understood a little bit more what was going on, it started to be heavy on his mind.
A never ending list of questions was growing and too few answers were given to them.
That, the hot temperature and the confused mix of feelings still developing towards the Narrator made him boil inside (and in all sense of terms, for once).

The Narrator looked calm. Calmer than him and it was rare for them, Stanley had always been the more composed one. The Narrator was so over-dramatic most of the time. His infuriated lines, now that Stanley could really feel, were sometimes absolutely charming and stupid.

Letting out a short exhale, he looked to the ceiling for a few seconds before leaning against the Narrator, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders like it was the most obvious thing to do.
Curiously, this embrace felt like a kiss, the comfort he needed, that could drive away all the doubts. He noticed it the few times they were holding hands or hugging. Maybe that was the Narrator’s magic.

Stanley pressed the indicated button, which opened the (surprise!) white door that led to (no-so-surprise!) another room.

This time, the room had a name on top of the door, entitled “The Valuable Room”. It had the same structure as the Memory Zone, minus the vents, and had the same memory museum as its original inspiration.

“This should be more interesting for you Stanley?” Joked the Narrator, then winked at him.
When they made their way through the first frame, they could read the first dozen chapters titles of the Story they were stuck in. Under it, a caption read ‘Titles that are cool’.
The second frame was a blurry picture of a yellow Nintendo Switch, screen on on The Stanley Parable, captioned ‘It’s not even mine but hell yeah’.

“Those titles are ridiculous or is it just me?

-Eh. Genius can be creative I guess?

-Are you saying the author’s a genius, Stanley?”

Then they turned to see sentences written in red on the walls: ‘I’m a child of capitalism, I bought a game under this economy?’ and then, just under it, ‘I suck at jokes’. At least something they could all finally agree on.

They made their way through more images, sayings, ..philosophical takes.., and cultural moments, both in the Story, in the Parable and somehow in the Real World, before entering a part named, “The world says Hello!”.
It was blank, though.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Maybe it will come later.” Guessed the Narrator as they moved on.

Soon enough, that part was finally done and they could move on to the next room, that seemed to finally be the end of their confusion.

“When will it be over, ah!” Complained Stanley and, for once, the Narrator nodded along. Rare sight.

Chapter Text

They were left exhausted, with the worst headache due to the too warm temperature. Not being used to it was quite tricky, and kept them from being attentive and focused on all the little things around them.
Previously, they went through so many different new rooms that they were both feeling out of breath.
And out of place, even more.

The corridor leading to the next and last room was a little bit colder, so they stayed there a while to discuss what was happening and calm themself.
The thought of going back had now been pushed back in their mind and curiously, they were actually having fun.

It was frightening, new, deconcerting but also exciting and weighed a lot of perspective for their future and the Parable’s future in general.

Stanley stayed overall quiet. He felt uneasy since they left the first room, that question “Is going back the best way?”, and more than that, the Narrator saying he was now his own person.
It wasn’t true to some extent, the Narrator always had a grasp on him. Even in those circumstances, he couldn't be anything else other than the Narrator's création, and now a character in a story.
Going back to an untouched state was pointless.

The Narrator wanted to go back. Stanley knew and saw how he would try to convince himself that he was fine with the whole mess that was in going since -a week and a half? He never had to think about the time before, he was still pretty confused about all that linear concept-.

Either way it was going to be complicated and messy, Stanley thought as he was observing the Narrator wiped away the sweat on his forehead with the hem of his shirt. He did the same then.
Was the author making them do all those useless actions, scenes, in order to drown their thoughts and make the storyline go as she wanted?
Or were his exact thoughts what she was writing?

Confusion, always confusion, and it was growing again and again like a deep fog they couldn't see in, even with the strongest lights.

Stanley was growing irritated. He shouldn't.

“Let’s get going Stanley, time passes and I’m afraid we’re gonna need water and food at some point.

-You’re right. Do you know why it’s so hot in here?”

The Narrator’s face crunched into the too-familiar unpleased expression, the one he had when trying to solve the hardest mystery.

“I believe these rooms are situated near the mind-control facility and its attached rooms. There are tons of material and circuits in there, maybe it's affecting the temperature. The offices are higher and way cooler.

-The game physics can’t allow that though, we never had that problem before.

-Yes, I know, but at the same time we don’t know how much we are controlled. If the Story can create new rooms based on mine’s defaults, and give us new needs, such as eating, drinking and sleeping, it wouldn’t surprise me that it can enhance that too.”

Stanley took the hand the Narrator offered him and got up to his feet, watching the door in front of them. They stopped in this corridor because the door, this time, wasn’t white, but a deep red color. Red was like a threat, a game design that was meant to look dangerous.

“The Story still allows us a lot of things, look, we don't have a strict path to follow and we can even stop and go whenever we want.

-I don’t think it’s really the case Stanley, a story, a fiction in this case, doesn't have one or two paths like a movie or a non-choice game has, it is more like a spider web, it grows multiple and gigantic. Either way, we’re going to follow one of the storylines, or even multiple ones at the same time.”

A pang of apprehension went through Stanley’s theoretical guts as he pushed down the handle, trying to keep his emotion in check as the Narrator wasn’t helping at all.

“So we absolutely have to break out of it?

-If we don’t, the control it has will only grow and at some point, we won’t be able to recognize we’re in a story.”

Stanley sighed. It was so logical that he wanted to tell his companion to shut his mouth and not scare him more. A little too late for that, he realised as they entered the next (and hopefully last) room.
It was big and red because of neons placed in each corner of the rectangle typed architecture.
His attention was caught by the fact the door closed behind them like it did when they entered the zone and like it always did before.
Red meant there was some kind of danger, opposite green which was the color of hope and safety.
He reminded the Narrator to be cautious and they began walking straight in the room, looking around, trying to understand what they were required to do here.

The door opposing the one they just entered was locked up, meaning they had to verify each wall one by one, as the strange placements of the red lights were creating shadow along them, keeping their eyes from seeing the look of the walls.

It’s the Narrator who found the door, hidden next to one of the lights.

*

“About time.” commented a voice when they entered, making the pair jump.

Without wasting any time, Stanley stepped in front of the Narrator to protect him from whoever was sitting in front of them. It was two women and they were both sitting on upside down buckets.
One he recognized as being Mariella with her office worker expression (a mix of sheer annoyance and doubts) and the other was a tall and lean red-haired woman, face sterned, looking as strict as the Narrator could be sometimes.
It was looking in a mirror, almost.

“Calm down Stan', it’s only the Curator,” reassured the Narrator, putting a hand on his right shoulder and pulling him back possessively.

“She looks like that?!

-Hey, what’s wrong with my look, Stan’?” She said the nickname the Narrator just gave him in a snarked.

Stanley’s eyes flickered from her face to his, noting the increasing tension between them. Oh, so they didn’t like each other at all. Maybe they had the same kind of relationship he had with Mariella (ignoring someone half dead on the ground after having lost his mind (multiple times) wasn’t helping building nice stable relations after all.) Plus, he never had positive interaction with them.

Most importantly:

“Why are you sitting on buckets, alone in an empty room here?” Asked Stanley, ignoring the other man commenting ‘good point’ next to his ear.
The Curator sighed and Stanley just knew they hated each other because of how much they looked alike.

“Long story.”

“Wanna hear it?” Asked Mariella. The men exchanged a look, and Stanley smiled.

Chapter Text

Their world was different. They weren’t the main characters, no, they were side ones and it would stay like that. They were empty souls unable to develop the slightest, floating in a universe where no one could see them. Their only emotions were the ones provided by the Parable.

They couldn’t realise the irony of that situation at first, when it all began for their co-workers, Stanley and the Narrator.

Until they could.
Once the set-up was in place, it was time for Mariella and the Curator to join. Unlike the men, they knew from the start they were in a story, around the time the men called the Author. They were given a script, and some work to do.
As the Author couldn’t interfere with the game’s physics and create a new space inside of it (and she quoted ‘my control don’t go there yet’), she asked the Curator to do it.

Once the shock and confusion melted away, and once they were at least a little bit more comfortable with their new status of characters in a story, they worked on it as given.
It had been their first meeting too, between the Curator and Mariella, and they pretty much ignored each other as much as possible.
They just had to exist, to be here, nothing impossible.

They were informed about the arrival of the duo, their polar opposite, and got their script. In reality, their role was only creating time and a closed circuit from whom Stanley and the Narrator couldn't escape at all.

“So that’s the thing.” Finished Mariella, her eyes darted on Stanley’s face, with the same look he always saw her with, “You just have to escape the Parable.”

“Something like that.” Agreed the Curator.

Only that, was what the Narrator wanted to scoff, but he couldn’t, throat tight. Stanley gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.
They narrated the whole story from their perspective (and it opened, yet again, a lot of questions they wouldn’t get answers to) before dropping the bomb.

“We have to quit the game, you say?” He repeated, face turning paler as the Curator nodded, “What does that even mean, escaping! We can’t be real. We can’t go in the real world. It’s not how it works.”

The Curator lifted her hands up and shrugged. She and Mariella got the script by what seemed to be the author herself, they could read parts of the on-going story too.
Everything couldn’t be explained entirely though.
Stanley raised one of his hands, clutching harder the Narrator’s shoulder to get him to calm down and stop raising his voice.

“No, no. I think I understood. I mean, we got in touch with the Author and you two met up, right?” Mariella nodded and proceeded to explain that she didn’t see her, more like talked to her and found the new script while she was walking around the Parable after the réalisation she could leave her zone.

Apparently, the two women began to move around at the moment when they were discovering the new zone (which the Narrator decided to call “foreign zone”) as so both the duos couldn’t meet.
The Curator confirmed that, when they were in the Bucket Museum after their first meeting, she didn’t see them and couldn’t remember much of it.

“Okay so,” continued Stanley, “We have to act like real humans, because that’s what we are now.

-We are not, Stanley. I refuse to let you say that, you ignorant thing!” snapped the Narrator, who looked more and more agitated. He took Stanley's hand off his shoulder, acting like the contact just burnt his skin.
The two women and Stanley ignored his outburst.

“We can feel, interact with the real world, we have biological needs, everything to be human. Are we transitioning to the Real World?

-I guess so, we weren’t told where this zone will take you, but I think it will be the real world. All we really know is that you and the Narrator have to complete the story in order to get the Parable back.” Answered the Curator as she eyed the door they came by. She was talking about the other one, in the red room.

Stanley crossed his arms and let the Narrator leave the room to join the red one. It took a toll on him, and he was having a hard time realising they had to quit the game. He wanted to take him apart and make him talk, just the two of them, not to pressure him too much.
Right now, he needed to calm down and think about it. Since they met Mariella and the Curator, it felt like they were bombarded with too much information in not enough time and Stanley couldn’t wrap his head around it too.

“The game physics can’t allow that,” muttered Stanley under his breath, speaking his thoughts out loud. He suddenly frowned, not noticing the curious looks on the women’s faces.

“Allowing what?” Asked Mariella. She looked comfortable, still sitting on her own bucket.
How much he wanted his own right now.

“We ain’t in the Story anymore!” He exclaimed, quickly rushing towards the door, immediately going back in the red room to join the Narrator.

“We’re in the real world Narrator! We're not in the story since god knows when!” He shouted.

His scream made an echo against all the walls as he busted in the room, the Curator already on his feet, Mariella following tight.
Of course they weren’t in the Story! And Stanley was sure that, if the Narrator had taken his own ideas in consideration, they would have realised it.
They had been lured into thinking it was a real story but it was impossible! How did they not know?

Oh, he wasn’t here. Stanley looked back at the two women behind him. The Curator looked bored and Mariella excited. Maybe he found a way to leave and go back to the previous room, he thought, but the door was still closed.

Growing more and more agitated, Stanley would have run towards the exit door if not for the Curator, who grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Hey, hey, there, man. What do you mean by that?” She asked, voice calm, way more than the Narrator and their differences surprised Stanley again. He was also beginning to doubt the very role they had in the Stanley Parable (original version).

“The game physics can’t allow temperature changes. Or create new foods in the vending machines who aren’t supposed to work. Or feelings. Or those free paths we took. We are aware. We shouldn’t. We're not in the game.

-Yeah, I got that pretty well. But you said we weren’t in the Story in itself. Care to elaborate?

-We are pretty much manipulated! Think about it, being aware of being in a story, is in the story, it’s meta. It’s dangerous. And she -the author- can't control us. I wonder if he came to the same conclusions.”

He frowned as they approached the door in the red room again.

“He said it was warmer due to the machines in the mind control facility. That the game physics can't allow that. There should be distinct floors on top of each other. Meaning they’re not inter connected or we would be soft blocked. But here, we can hear the machine if you listen well. And it’s hot, so we had to take a break earlier.”

The door was open, he pushed it. The two women were listening and only Mariella looked happy about it.

“I remember when it first shifted about a beeping sound. It was so strange, because it came from another room and not the one I was in. Again, the game would not allow that and as much a story goes, it can't create that awareness. We wouldn't have talked to the Author too, nor have access to the documents too.

-It’s different files, that’s what you’re saying,” commented the Curator. “What about our script?

-We were in a story at first, until we realised and she lost complete control. A script, really? For a story she is writing? Funny to me.”

And there it was, without a block.

A landscape.

Chapter Text

'Look, an open-world game! Quick Stanley, block it off!’

The first experience with the outside was indeed in an open world game. Blocked right after, ooh, scary. One of Stanley's fears was the unknown, the impossibility of knowing his future.
But as he stood up in front of that landscape, his mind stopped screaming already.
It was nice, different, soothing.

It smelled fresh, a scent he didn't know until then.
It was real, it was there, as if Stanley meant to be here.

“This. This is overstimulating.” Mariella’s voice cut him in the middle of his admiration of nature and he rolled his eyes.

As much as it was incredibly beautiful to him, there were no signs of the Narrator, like he vanished in the span of a few seconds.
The landscape was large, there were only a few trees here and there, but from where they were, they could see a promontory.
The Curator pointed it out and they agreed on going on it in order to have a better look at the whole space surrounding them.

Once up there, Stanley and his two acquired acolytes could freely admire the new perspective they were given. Behind them was the gigantic building that contained the Stanley Parable. It was a strange sight, as he had spent more than a decade inside of it since the game's first launch. Was the outside always here, so far and so close from him, just fingers away from his grasp?

On the other side was a valley, formed like a basin, source of the wind that chilled them.

Jaw slightly open as he was contemplating the vast real world in front of them, Stanley couldn't believe it was real yet he stood in front of infinities of solutions and possibilities, and maybe this right here could answer all of his questions.
The real world had always been so out of reach, the desire to see it fed by the illusion of choice the Narrator had built with his scenarios, preventing Stanley to taste it.
The air, the breeze on his sensitive skin was almost too painfully real, a reminder of where he was.

The Narrator wanted to live in reality, it was the first and maybe only dream Stanley could recall understanding it. And as he couldn’t get out, he just made Stanley suffer the impossibility of it. The Zending room wasn’t his favorite room just because it was relaxing, calm and beautiful. It was a recreation of the night and his own ideas of what being free meant to him.
It also meant keeping Stanley in, shutting the open-world game, getting mad at his choice to do the freedom ending, and also the Bucket (there was a correlation between the two, Stanley couldn't name it but he just knew how much the Narrator was jealous.)

The Narrator couldn’t believe the real could be great, too. It was too foreign, too strange. Their roots was the Parable, and the Parable painted a closed vision of it, a vision of useless work, depersonalised people and hurt. Jump also, too many endings included jump, as pressured suicide.
The two faces of a coin, if one of them was too dirty to be able to read it.

The sky, blue and bright, the trees below, full and tall, leaves falling slowly.

Behind him, Mariella and the Curator looked at each other.

“Let’s get going, we have to find the Narrator, who knows where he is?” The Curator’s voice came out in a murmur, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the fields, off the reality.

One step could end this new reality, one step back could preserve it.
The Narrator would choose the first option. Not him. He really wanted to be his own person too. How much controlled by everything was he?
By the company, before the game, then by the game, that so-called story that loved playing with them.

And now, by that desire to be outside, followed by a strong urge to go back. He couldn’t go without the Narrator, yes, they were a pair, and if Stanley didn’t know what to do, and if he was too afraid to keep going, the Narrator would be here to guide and soothe him. Stanley knew that already, and being outside without him was pushing the thought below his skin.

He was torn, however.

Being himself, not the Narrator’s toy and tormenter.
Being alone, doing what he wanted. How was he supposed to do it?

“Stanley” said the Curator flatly, then adding, “it’s gonna be bad.”

With, or without.

Mariella was right, saying it was over-stimulating. Stanley wanted to know how big this world was, what he had to discover. A part of him knew, his existence was created and fed by humans for years.
Maybe behind those vast spaces, the world was waiting for him?
A thing he knew for sure, was that he did not want to do the same endings over and over again. He did not want to glance behind his shoulder only to see closed doors. He did not want to eat the same crackers and water, stuck with the Narrator in an unknown scary situation.

Stanley loved the Narrator, as much as that man loved him back.

And they hated each other the same way. A need for the other to be that came with disgust and madness.
They were given emotions by an author that thought it was oh so simple to control. But being given a choice allowed them to think. To break free.

It would be without.

The Narrator was going to look for her, for a way to go back to their roots, while Stanley was going to leave the haunted place that was the company’s building.

He turned to look at Mariella and the Curator. They frowned at the same time, seeing his expression.

“Let’s split up to search for him, right? We’ll take less time”

*

Four months later.

Chapter Text

Nothing.

Nothing, never, never. Nothing can last.

Nothing is worth the risk.

Empty spaces, nothing can work in a headspace rotten to the dent. You can’t chase happiness with that empty body of yours. It is lacking organs, they already got eaten, infested.
The next step is turning blind, you are already so close, so that means everything is working.

(Help me destroy myself)

Corrupt, late, unable to breathe without choking.

You CAN’T win a war that’s already finished and starting back again. You are at war with a life of abuse, because you were born for that.

Was it fun to think you were in control? I bet it was, and I hope the last couple months without anything, you yearned to have it back. Crawling between a few words to try and reach the end of an endless story of suffering.

You are made for that.

Let’s start again.

Stanley wasn’t bored.