Archive of Our Own ^beta

Before escaping the Parable with him, you’d had plenty of ideas about what the Narrator might look like—and how could you not? He had been—and still very much is—everything to you, and a simple disembodied voice is…well, oddly difficult to fully wrap your head around. It had been much easier to imagine a someone behind that voice you loved so much, and that’s just what you’d done. So when the two of you had finally—finally—figured out how to get out, you’d been truly, genuinely excited to see how he’d turn out.

The thing is, out of everything you’d ever imagined, you’d never really pictured a sentient speech bubble—which happens to be just how the Narrator appears to you.

It’s not as weird as you might have expected, really; he’s still the same Narrator he always has been, and honestly, after getting re-accustomed to his presence, you’ve grown very fond of his form. Fonder, even, than the Narrator himself—since leaving the Parable, you’ve helped him through regular bouts of fear and insecurity, and he has readily (if a little awkwardly) returned the favor.

Seeing him has become your favorite part of the day, especially coming home after a long day of work. He greets you at the door every time without fail, always with a slightly ridiculous amount of dramatic affection, seemingly endless questions about your day, and, after the fact, about a hundred thousand words of his own to say.

Today is a day like any other—you come home tired and fully ready to flop into bed, and just as you step inside, you’re greeted by an eagerly waiting Narrator at the door.

“You’re home,” he purrs, resting himself on your shoulder and wrapping his tail around your body in a delighted little hug. The words curl into being by your ear in a hilariously melty font—whatever he says and however he says them, he can never hide from you. It still brings a little rush to your heart when he calls your place home—it had taken it months for that to come about, and you wouldn’t trade it for the world. All that—on top of the fact that you can feel his voice curling around you, settling warmly in your chest and unraveling the tensions of the day—brings a helplessly gooey smile to your face.

“Yeah.” You turn your head to press a kiss to his side, and he lets out a pleased hum, the sensation sending a soft, familiar little shock shooting right down your spine.

“So?” prods the Narrator as you make your way to the couch. Another bubble pops up around your elbow, and his tail extends with the addition to wind lazily down your leg. “How was your day?”

“Oh, you know,” you sigh as you flop onto the couch and fling an arm over your eyes, careful not to squish him, “a day.”

You can practically hear the pout in his voice as he says, “Oh, please. You can do better than that, dear.”

Another one of his bubbles appears right in your lap, snuggling right up against your middle as his tail playfully pokes at your cheek before settling around your shoulders like a warm, living scarf. You roll your eyes and allow your hand to come to rest on the newest bubble, instinctively giving him a few little pets.

“There’s nothing to say,” you shrug.

“‘There’s nothing to say’?” the Narrator scoffs, indignant and bristling. You snicker at the dramatic, mocking tone he affects, and he ignores you. “What do you mean, ‘there’s nothing to say’? There’s always something to say.”

“Mm,” you say dismissively, waving a hand. “Not today.”

Actually, you have thought of something—at this point you’re just in it for the love of the game. Teasing the Narrator is fun—it’s always a treat to get him all worked up and fluffy. It’s even worth having to coax him out of his only-slightly-exaggerated sulks.

“You’re the worst,” he huffs. The bubble comes to rest on top of your head, and his tail trails down over your face like an errant strand of hair. You resist the urge to tuck it behind your ear—as funny as it would be, it’s probably better to keep it to one game at a time.

“I mean it!” he protests when you laugh again. “You really are the most frustrating person I have ever had the absolute displeasure of—of, erm, caring about.”

“Sure,” you say, pressing down another giggle. “You keep telling yourself that.”

The Narrator lets out a vague, frustrated little noise at your (apparently obvious) amusement, speech bubbles fluffing up in indignation. It’s cute to see him so harmlessly annoyed, and you can’t pretend it doesn’t help you unwind to push his buttons.

“Stop it,” he grumbles, poking you sharply between the ribs. “You’re impossible.”

You put on your most charming, innocent smile. “I know.”

“I hate you so much.”

You grin. “No you don’t.”

“I—” He cuts himself off, biting back an irritated sigh. “No, I don’t. Just talk to me, dear. Come on, please? I haven’t seen you all day…I’ve missed you…”

Okay, that’s…oddly sweet. You can’t pretend it doesn’t bring a warm, fluttery little feeling to your chest, but that’s for you to know and the Narrator to never, ever, ever find out. You know he’d never let go of it.

“Fineee,” you relent, “you win. But you’re not allowed to say that for another month.”

“Fine by me!” he chirps happily, nestling in against your side. “Go on, now. Tell me everything.”

You roll your eyes again, but you can’t fight back a smile as you lay your hand over one of the many speech bubbles that surround you. You’re practically tangled in him at this point—his tail criss-crosses and weaves and winds all over and around you—but you don’t really mind. It’s even quite comfortable.

“Alright, listen—you remember that guy I told you about last week? You’ll never believe…”

You sink into the now-familiar routine of talking and teasing back and forth like a warm bath, feeling all of the tension of the day’s work leaving you as the atmosphere warms with chatter and casual affection. The Narrator weaves his tail between your fingers, and eventually, as you’re regaled with the Narrator’s latest ramble, you fall quiet.

Before you’d left the Parable with him, you’d conjured up a million images in your mind of what the Narrator might look like. You’d even favored a few of them, hoped in their direction. You’d honestly never even come close to this.

But really, at this point…well. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

By this point, TK is very accustomed to being skipped through as quickly as possible. Not a single player actually seems interested in adjusting everything correctly. Their entire bit is admittedly incoherent and largely pointless, but still—would it really hurt you people to just humor them for three minutes?

Not important. The point is, they’re used to it. Resigned, even. They still give their disappointed little lecture when no one adjusts the clock, but honestly, it’s more so out of expectation than genuine agitation now.

That’s not to say they appreciate it, of course—they hate it with everything they have—but they’re not going to force anyone into doing everything properly. At this point, it’s just easier to passively accept the sting of rejection, say their bit, and forget (and forget, and forget, and forget). It’s second nature by now—they barely even need to brace for it anymore.

That’s exactly what’s supposed to happen right now—you’re supposed to willfully ignore them (or carelessly, randomly mutilate their settings), and they’re supposed to keep their mouth shut and shove the dulled ache of loneliness away.

To their immense surprise, though, you don’t just glance over everything like it doesn’t matter—no, no. You actually put in the effort to adjust their sliders! It’s a definite first—at least, as far as they remember. Had anyone ever done this before? They’d spent so much time forgetting that they’re—

Not the point! You’re taking your time! You’re actually paying attention! Each one of their sliders receives just as much time and attention as it needs, and by the time you’re presented with the clock, their heart’s in their throat and they’re practically trembling with excitement. Oh, they’d forgotten how good it felt to be seen.

Please enter the current time.

You’d better not disappoint them—at this point, when you’ve been so thorough and attentive for everything else, they’re honestly not sure they could handle it if you just…didn’t do this last thing. They’ve gotten invested! You’re hyping them up! Really, it would be downright cruel of you to tap out now—they think that if you did, they’d—

It doesn’t matter what they think, actually! You’re not going to leave them hanging like that. What would be the point? You’ve already made it so far. They’re sure you’ll see it through, or else you’re just teasing them, and that would be mean.

Why are you taking so long? Does it really take that long to adjust a clock? They’re getting impatient. Is this how the players feel when they skip through settings without touching anything? No wonder they never bother with them. This is awful. Although…if you’re taking so long, that means you are adjusting the clock, right? It wouldn’t take you so long if you intended to skip past. Okay. Okay, they can wait.

After just a few more century-long seconds, you’ve finally clicked Confirm, and…the clock has been properly set to 2:27! Of course, they have no way of knowing if you’ve put in the actual time, but it’s a time, and it’s not the default midnight setting, and oh, they could just reach through the screen and kiss you.

They let out a giddy little sigh—they like this. They like being paid attention to, acknowledged, taken seriously. This might actually be the happiest they’ve been in…well, who cares? They’re happy! Finally they’re free from this oppressive, plodding cycle of passivity and pretending and forgetting and pushing aside, and it’s you who’s freed them.

They have to say something to you. They just have to. Oh! They should do something for you in return! You deserve something nice, just for taking your time with them. Are they too excited? They’re probably too excited. It doesn’t matter! What can they do for you? What to do, what to do…?

They just need to stall you for a second while they think of something. You’re probably expecting them to say something anyway—at this point, don’t they always? Really, there’s nothing for them to do except thank you, and so that’s just what they do—next time you do this, they tell you, you can pick your favorite time for the clock instead of adjusting it to the correct time.

They can hardly wait.

————————————

When you come back, TK barely registers it. In their defense, it’s been a fair while, and since they’d seen you last, they’ve had to endure piles upon piles of players who clearly couldn’t care less about them. They think the first few after you might have hurt a little, but everything is a little blurry in their mind, and they’re not sure that’s a bad thing.

It hadn’t taken them long to settle back into their routine of passive-aggression and frustratingly ineffective lectures, and the warm, heady rush you’d left them with had faded so quickly that they could hardly remember having felt it in the first place.

It’s not until they realize that their sliders are being properly adjusted that it clicks in their head—it’s you! The realization jolts them out of the idle haze they’d been festering in, and excitement almost immediately suffuses them. It’s startling how easily you can elicit such dramatic feelings from them, but they’re not going to think about it. It doesn’t matter, anyway—what’s important is that it’s you! You’re back! You’re here! You’ve never once disappointed them before, and they’re sure you’re not about to start now.

Please enter the current time.

What had they promised you last time? Something about your favorite time….

Just as you had last time, you take your time adjusting the clock. They can just picture it—you behind the screen, adjusting the clock with careful, deliberate clicks until it’s reached the time you have in mind. When you hit Confirm, the time that shows up on their end is…4:32.

Their breath hitches. It’s—well, it’s certainly a new time. You don’t know, do you? How could you possibly know? You can’t. There’s no way. Does this mean something? Are you trying to tell them something? It’s probably nothing—they’re reading too far into this. Right. Right, of course, they’re just overthinking. Maybe you just like 4:32. Or maybe it really is 4:32 for you? There’s no need for them to ask questions.

It’s just a time. You’ve adjusted the clock, just like you had twice before. That’s all there is to it. There’s really not much for them to say to this. Oh, but…they can’t let go of you yet. It had taken you so long to come back, and if they’re being really honest, they don’t particularly want to go back to the dull, predictable ache of players who can’t be bothered to take even a few extra moments out of their days to adjust their settings.

In a feeble effort to keep you there for a bit longer, they pull up a slider asking if it’s really 4:32 or if you just really, really like 4:32. (Because there are no other options. Right? Right.)

How accurate is 4:32?
inaccurate————————————accurate

They ignore the tremble that shoots through them and tell you instead how much fun they’re having adjusting settings with you, and then that’s that. You’re done. Until next time.

They can’t decide if they’re nauseous or excited.

————————————

To be honest, after the little scare you’d given them last time, it had been a little bit comforting to return of the lull of thoughtless, careless, impatient players. The fuzzy frustration of being ignored had helped them to take their mind off of the time you’d chosen—4:32? What had you meant?—but before long, they had started to miss you again. Sure, you can be a little unsettling (apparently) but even that’s better than…this.

They’re relieved when you come back—after a certain point, they’d started waiting for you, hoping for your return in spite of everything. All they have for you this time is a few silly sliders and a few Yes/No open-ended questions—they don’t give you any opportunity to do anything too offputting, and they’re able to enjoy your attentiveness without the spiking anxiety of last time.

As you go through their sliders and questions, they can’t help but wonder if you’re planning on coming back after the fifth reboot. They don’t have any sliders or questions for it—all they do that last time is give a melancholic little ramble and hope that someone cares enough to find them again.

Surely if anyone will come back to them when they don’t technically have to, it’ll be you. Right? You’ve been so kind to them. You’ll come back. They’re sure you will. They need to ask anyway. Just to hear you say it. Or…something like that.

Will you come back to visit me?
(Yes) | (No)
Confirm

They smile.

In the past few years (decades, centuries, millennia), the Narrator has had a lot of time to think. And think, and think, and think. Really, thinking—talking? Are they even different anymore?—is all he’s done at all. After all, there’s not much else to be done when one is trapped in a single room with a silent, unmoving, unseeing protagonist.

He never thought he’d actually miss Stanley. The man is irritating at best and downright infuriating at worst, but the Narrator finds himself longing for his protagonist’s return to reality as he festers alone in the silence of the room. It’s not as if Stanley had ever spoken in the first place—the silence is completely normal. It’s just that Stanley is usually conscious, and with no one to listen to the Narrator speaking, he’s starting to wonder if he’s even real.

He’s also starting to hate this room. He hates the crude craftsmanship (in his defense, he only thought he’d be in here for a few minutes at most), he hates the drip-drip-drip of water, he hates the ticking clock on the wall, he hates the way its deterioration reminds him of how long he’s been here, and most of all he hates (hates) the soul-crushing, stomach-churning hollowness.

Nothing in this blasted room has any kind of meaning. Everything in it is an afterthought—the hastily made button, the (mysteriously vanished) door, the fence, the walls, the plant, the clock, the lights, the Narrator himself—and the pointlessness of everything makes every. Single. Second. Feel. Longer.

Is it possible for him to feel his own mind decaying? Withering away, shriveling up, dripping out like sand through his fingers? It can’t possibly be good for him, thinking in endless circles like this—he’s sure he’s had every single thought he’s thinking right now at least a hundred times before while wasting away in this cursed room, but he can’t…quite…remember….

Nowadays, he’s having trouble remembering anything. His story. The endings. He’d spent the first few years thinking about The Stanley Parable, refining the story and reflecting on a few of his fonder memories of it, but the finer details have since slipped his mind, and he can hardly remember why he’d cared about the story so much in the first place.

He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants out.

But he’s unsure—without his story, is he anyone at all? Isn’t the story his entire purpose in life, everything he was made to do, everything he’d ever wanted to do? He’s sure it is—it’s all he can remember (and all he’s forgetting). In order to be someone, he needs a story. (He doesn’t care about the damn story. He cares about the next time Stanley wakes up. He cares about convincing Stanley not to press the button again. He cares about leaving.)

It makes his head spin just to think about it, but thinking about it is all he can do, so think about it he will until his brain melts through his eyes and he’s nothing but dust in the wind.

He shudders.

The Narrator regrets everything. He’s not even exaggerating—with so much time on his hands, he’s effectively picked apart every single second of his existence in search of something to care about, and all he’s ended up with is a rotting carcass of a life filled with giant, gaping holes where memories used to be.

He shouldn’t have ever listened to those negative reviews. Really, he’d brought this entire fiasco upon himself—in an effort to please everyone, he’d as good as killed himself. All he’s doing now is waiting to finally waste away to nothing under the chisel of total, absolute nothingness. Is this what torture feels like? He thinks this might just be torture. No wonder Stanley never had any qualms about undermining him, disrespecting his story, disobeying the simplest commands. Just to have something to do. Just to find something new.

If it helps anything, he’s sorry. For everything. He’s sorry for getting them both into this mess, he’s sorry for forcing Stanley to go through the story again and again and again and again and again and again and again, he’s sorry he ever tried to pick it back up after the hype had tapered off.

This is all his own fault. He can’t even avoid it. He’d done this to himself. It had been his own lack of forethought that had caused this whole disaster—one second of carelessness had landed him in this…this…something.

He’s tired of thinking. Really, he is. But thinking is all he can do in a place like this.

He just wants everything to be over already.

The Narrator regrets making that bet. It was impulsive, he admits it, and probably a bit of a stupid decision, but can he really be blamed? Who would have ever thought that Stanley would spend over six hours in the broom closet? There’s nothing to do in there! It’s a closet, for hell’s sake! There is no way he could have predicted that he’d lose this bet!

…Well, except for the fact that he’d lost every single bet he’d ever made with the Curator. But still! He had been so sure that he’d had this one in his pocket. Really, who would ever spend over six hours standing aimlessly around in a broom closet? For any reason?

Stanley, apparently. Stanley would probably spend his life in the broom closet if he could. In hindsight, the Narrator really should have known that he would lose. If anyone could spend so long in a broom closet, it’s Stanley. In this particular instance, he had spent nearly seventeen entire hours just…standing stock-still right there in the middle of the closet.

Now, he’s stuck waiting in the Curator’s museum while she goes through one run of the game with Stanley. He’s sure she’s not enjoying it—she’s always been the reserved type—but the thought only provides him with a little bit of satisfaction, and not nearly enough to overcome his exponentially increasing boredom.

He’s not sure how she survives here, in the silence and emptiness and unvarying whiteness of the museum. She’s always had…well, different preferences, but really? Really? This?! It’s genuinely bordering on unbearable. It’s just—it’s boring. There’s nothing here.

He wonders how the Curator is doing.

————————————

The Curator regrets making that bet.

Well, no, not quite—she’s quite content with her bet. She always wins against the Narrator, anyway. She regrets saying that the two of them would have to swap places for one reset, though—she’d known that he would dislike her museum, but she hadn’t expected to hate his story so much.

She doesn’t know how the Narrator deals with this every. Single. Day. It’s absolutely insidious, with its winding hallways and aimless wandering and ultimately meaningless choices. Maybe that’s the point of the game, actually—she’d suffered through millions of varyingly feverish rambles about the Parable, but to be honest, none of it had ever really stuck.

She really should have thought this through a little more—annoying the Narrator is one thing (and quite an easy one at that), but she definitely could have thought of something more effective (and less self destructive) than swapping their places. She doesn’t know what she had been thinking—she should have known that she would hate this.

It doesn’t seem that Stanley’s having too much fun with her, either—if there’s one thing that the Narrator can really do, it’s react, and that seems to be Stanley’s primary source of entertainment. She can’t blame him, actually. It is funny. The only problem is that she doesn’t care about the story at all, and so she has no reason to react to Stanley’s divergence from the plot.

She’s a little bit annoyed with herself—she really could have chosen to do anything, and she’d chosen this.

Well, she’s stuck with it. She might as well have some fun…

————————————

The Narrator is pretty sure that it doesn’t usually take this long to run one ending. Is the Curator trying to draw this out on purpose? He doubts it—there’s no way she’s actually enjoying the story, being the way she is.

He lets out a long, deep sigh. He should not have taken that bet. He should not have taken that bet. He should have known that Stanley would absolutely spend hours upon hours upon hours in the broom closet—at the very least, he should have been able to predict that the Curator would win any bet he placed against her.

How does she do that, anyway? How is she literally always right? It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever—there’s no way that any one person can make such accurate guesses every time without fail. Maybe she sees something that he doesn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised.

What does she spend all her time doing in these empty halls, anyway? There’s only so much time one can spend looking at and maintaining old artifacts, and he highly doubts that that’s all she ever does. There has to be something else.

He just has to figure it out. That’s all. Oh, a mystery! How exciting! Even if he doesn’t manage to answer his question, at least it’s something to do while the Curator draws out his torment.

He can have fun without his story. He’ll prove it.

————————————

Stanley is a surprisingly willing participant in the Curator’s scheme. He perks up when she slyly mentions messing with the Narrator, making a face that said, Oh, finally, you’ve done something interesting.

She would take offense, but…well, he’s not exactly wrong. The whole thing had been undeniably boring up until now, and there’s certainly nothing like a friendly little conspiracy to liven things up a bit.

Well, it’s admittedly not much of a plan—the idea is simply to let Stanley pick an ending to run, and then to drag it out as much as possible. There’s honestly not much of a point to it. Really, the Curator just wants to make sure that if she has to suffer through the emptiness of this story and the pain of narrating it, then she’s going to have fun doing it, and she’s going to make sure that the Narrator suffers at least twice as much as she does.

She can have fun in this blasted story, and she’ll prove it, too.

————————————

The Narrator is running out of ideas. As exciting as the prospect of a puzzle had been at the beginning, there’s honestly only so much one can do in such a confined space, and nothing new has been revealed in his past half a dozen or so loops around the museum.

It genuinely looks like the Curator does nothing in here except for tend to the museum. How? How is that even possible? There is no way that it’s even close to enough entertainment to last eternity, and really, there’s no meaning to it. Just wandering around and looking at things? How boring can you get?

She really does drive him up the wall.

He’s getting sick of this. He’s poked around every single corner that he could find, and there is nothing here but centimeter after plain, unmoving centimeter of pointless museum.

How the hell does the Curator live like this?

————————————

The Curator is finally starting to have a bit of fun. Apparently, she and Stanley have one fundamental thing in common, and that’s liking to annoy the Narrator to hell and back. Stanley has been making a big deal out of closely examining everything, dramatically wandering to each corner of every room he enters to give every last pixel a careful inspection.

The Curator is taking every opportunity to go on long, meandering, slightly disparaging monologues, and already it’s taken them over thirty minutes just to get to the first set of doors.

“So, Stanley,” says the Curator. “What shall it be? Left or right? Take your time with this, now. It might be the most important meaningless choice you will ever have to make in your life. We wouldn’t want to make any mistakes at this useless, crucial junction.”

Stanley pauses to think dramatically, tapping his chin in thought. After several minutes of careful deliberation, he wanders through the door on the right.

As the two of them meander through the game, the Curator allows herself the slightest wicked curl of her mouth. This is going to take quite a while indeed.

Stanley had run this ending at least a thousand times before, with and without the bucket, every which way. It never works like it’s supposed to—when he opens his eyes again, it’s always to the same exact words, the same exact place.

He’s getting sick of it. It was fun the first few times, sure—the first dozen times, even! But he’s seen everything (literally everything) enough times that the entire Parable is burned into his head like some kind of sick mental brand. Enough times that if he ever hears the Narrator’s voice again, it will be too soon.

The only ending that’s ever actually provided him with any hope of freedom has been the Escape Pod Ending. The Narrator doesn’t like that one—he says he can’t keep an eye on Stanley when he runs it, but it’s never amounted to anything, no matter what he’s done.

This time, he has a plan.

The only thing he hasn’t tried is taking the bucket to the ending, and then leaving it behind. He’s not sure it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. (He’s also not sure if he’ll actually be able to leave the bucket here. He doesn’t want it to be all alone in the Parable with no one to keep it company.) (Maybe it’s worth it.) (He has to try.)

Stanley’s heart pounds in his throat as the Escape Pod comes into view, bucket clutched close to his chest. This is it. If this works, he’ll be free. Really, truly, completely free.

He looks at the Escape Pod. This is his chance. His very last one. If this doesn’t work, he’s pretty sure that nothing else will. This is the last real act of rebellion he will ever be able to take in this place, the last time he will ever really be able to push back against the whims of the Narrator and his Parable.

But…

He looks at the bucket nestled safely in his arms. This is home. The Parable. The bucket. The bright yellow of the numbers and the Adventure Line™. The eerie, empty halls. The office building. The crappy computers. The vending machines that don’t work. Hell, even the Narrator. It’s home. It’s all he’s ever known. If this really works, he’ll have to start from nothing. He can never come back to this. This is final.

Stanley takes a long, deep breath. He isn’t usually the type to think this much. He should really just wing it, like he does with almost everything else.

Right. Right. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. No. Big. Deal.

He leans his head down to press a kiss to the cool metal of the bucket. This is it. This is goodbye. He’s going, now. The bucket sparkles reassuringly at him in the dim lighting of the Escape Pod Room like a promise—it will be okay. He shouldn’t worry about it. It will survive. It always does.

Placing the bucket gently down on the ground and hearing the final, echoing clink of metal on concrete, Stanley takes one last glance around the room before stepping into the Escape Pod and closing his eyes. A wave of something like nostalgia aches in his chest as everything goes dark—as torturous as his life has been, he thinks that something in him will miss the Parable if this really works. It’s home, after all.

The next time he opens his eyes, his future will be determined.

————————————

When Stanley floats back to consciousness, he’s surprised by quiet. Not silence, but quiet—the Narrator doesn’t speak, but there’s sound. Something like life.

The air smells different, too—fresh and soft in the way the Parable just isn’t, without the stiff, stale coldness of the office air. It’s chilly, and damp, and…new. He can feel wind on his cheeks. Birds singing. Trees rustling. All things that he’s never experienced outside of the few seconds of false liberation from the Freedom Ending.

But he hadn’t done the Freedom Ending, had he?

Stanleys eyes shoot open, and he’s blinded. He’s greeted not by grey, not by a dim room lit up only by the artificial glow of a computer screen, not by an aching back from spending too long in an office chair, not by walls, not by stale air or echoing, eerie silence. The world is unfolded in front of his eyes—the last stars fading from a massive, limitless blue sky, the kiss of sunrise on the eastern horizon, a stain of pink and red and gold surrounding it. Damp grass sticks to his cheeks, and he can feel the morning dew soaking through the back of his shirt. It’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care.

It…worked. It worked! He’s out!

A giddy, uncontrollable smile explodes across his face, so sudden and huge that it makes his entire face hurt. Pushing himself upright onto wobbly legs, fingers digging into wet earth and overwhelmed by sensation and life and realness, Stanley lets out the first laugh he ever has, raw and whooping and endless.

He’s free. Finally, finally, finally, he’s actually free. He can hardly believe it. It worked. His plan worked. He’s free from the Parable, from the Narrator, from lifeless halls and endless time loops. Free from repeating the same life, the same days, over and over and over again. Free from death after death after death, free from being mindlessly tortured.

Now, at last, he has reached his happy ending, the one he’s dreamed about since the reality of the Parable had first set in, who-knows-how-long ago.

And Stanley is happy.

The Parable is weird.

It’s not as if it isn’t true—strange things occur in Stanley’s life every single day. As far as he’s aware, nowhere outside of the Parable would allow him to die multiple times in one hour. Nowhere outside of the Parable houses a morally ambiguous, apparently omniscient English voice. Nowhere outside of the Parable is suspended in a timeless, colorless vacuum of utter nothingness, forever trapped in an endless time loop.

That’s why Stanley thinks nothing of it when a bright pink insect lands on his neck to sting him during a run of the Freedom Ending. The sting of its sharpened tail is certainly uncomfortable, but all he thinks to do is to slap it away and shake the strange, sticky pink goo off of his fingers.

The bug is certainly strange and nothing like any actual insects with its exaggerated shape and strange texture, but Stanley figures it’s just another bit that the Narrator is testing out on him. It’s not unusual, after all—the Narrator has a lot of ideas (not all of them good ones), and many of them ended up being used once and never again.

Stanley wouldn’t be surprised if he never sees this bug again—it’s a bit of a useless addition, if you ask him (not that anyone will). Really, unless there’s some clever metaphor to it that he’s just not getting, he doubts that it will stay.

He doesn’t think about it again for eleven more runs.

————————————

“Stanley,” says the Narrator in place of his usual introduction, “why is your neck pink?”

Pink? His neck isn’t pink. He’s pretty sure that his neck is a very normal color for a neck. Stanley shoots a quizzical glance up at the ceiling. He doesn’t actually know where the Narrator is—his voice just seems to come from all around, seeping through every surface of the Parable—but up is an easy, consistent place to look.

“Well, it’s usually not pink, obviously,” scoffs the Narrator at Stanley’s look. “Why on Earth would I design you with a pink neck? It would be positively inane. Go on, take a look.”

Take a look? How is he supposed to look at his own neck? He doesn’t bend that way. In fact, he doesn’t think any humans bend that way. Stanley makes an aggressive motion, hoping that it properly conveys what the hell do you mean, take a look, you stupid British voice?

The Narrator lets out a long-suffering, exasperated sigh. “On the desk, Stanley.”

Stanley spins around to find a long-handled hand mirror on the desk. It’s stupidly fancy, but he supposes it’ll get the job done. The mirror is cold and heavy in his hand as he picks it up, angling it towards his and trying to see properly.

To his surprise, his neck is, in fact, covered in vibrant pink webbing radiating from a seemingly random point right on the side. Even more oddly, the hue seems to be emanating from under his skin—it doesn’t come off even when he raises his hand to scrub at it, and it doesn’t feel any different from the way it had before.

“Well?” prods the Narrator, impatient and curious.

Stanley can only shrug.

He runs one ending with a prickling, bright pink neck.

————————————

When Stanley opens his eyes for the next run, he feels like he’s just jumped off of several flights of stairs multiple times. And he does know what that feels like—he’s done it before, just for the hell of it. The only thing different now, though, is that he hasn’t done the Zending in quite a long time, and he has no idea where the sensation is coming from.

It’s not just that, either—he’s itchy all over, like something is crawling around under his skin. Multiple somethings, even, squirming and burrowing and eating their way through his body. And he thinks he has a fever. He’s not sure—he’s never had a fever before. But it feels like the way the internet described fevers, hot and cold and damp and dry and numb and oversensitive all at once. He’s not sure he likes it, actually.

The Narrator’s voice flows like water through his mind—in one ear and immediately out the other. At this point, it’s just a constant, droning noise that’s making his head spin like a malfunctioning carousel. Trying to relieve the pain, Stanley plugs his ears with his fingers and screws his eyes shut.

The Narrator might be saying something to him, but he can’t quite tell through the stabbing fog that his brain is filled with. He feels like he’s living from underwater, words floating around his head without their meanings attached and light swimming across his vision without any solidity.

After a few more minutes of fruitlessly attempted to get Stanley to react, the Narrator gives up and forces a reset.

It takes seven tries before Stanley is responsive (“responsive”) again.

————————————

For the past several runs, Stanley has been acting exceedingly odd. And that’s compared to his usual level of inexplicability—on a good day, the Narrator can barely determine Stanley’s most basic motivations, and even then all he has are vague theories and inaccurate predictions.

This is far from a “good day”.

The pink webbing on Stanley’s neck had spread up onto his face and down to his hand, covering his fingers and bleeding into his eyes until they’re almost a solid pink all the way through. The color is almost nauseatingly vivid, and the unsettling effect is completed by his sporadic movements and the fact that his skin seems to be squirming independently of Stanley himself.

At first, it had simply been annoying—Stanley had seemed distracted and dizzy, stumbling through the Parable in seemingly entirely random directions, more than once ending up so ridiculously lost that the Narrator had had to force a reset. Now, though, it’s bordering on concerning—Stanley’s behavior has only worsened, and his desk is rapidly filling with illegible scribbles and indiscernible doodles.

This reset, though, Stanley had sprung up from his desk with apparent purpose, his sudden burst of determination a stark contrast to the aimless apathy of the past few runs. In fact, he goes through the story so fast that the Narrator is struggling to keep up with the script—the man is all but running. The Narrator’s sure that if he’d actually allowed Stanley the ability to sprint in the Parable, that’s what he’d be doing right now. As it is, though, he’s limited to an exceptionally quick walk.

Stanley’s purpose causes a swell of nerves to slink through the Narrator’s entire being—he clearly has a plan, and that’s never good news. Not for the Narrator, anyway—Stanley’s plans usually involve finding some way to push him to his very limits, and he’s not entirely sure he’s prepared for that right now. Or, well…ever.

The Narrator’s anxiety increases tenfold as Stanley takes a certain familiar path, and by the time he’s reached the doors, he can barely force the script out of his mouth.

Stanley goes through the red door.

All of the Narrator’s fondness for this ending had drained away the moment Stanley had jumped off the stairs for the first time, so long ago. He dreads this one, now—the temporary shelter of the Starry Dome isn’t worth the inevitable end, and even though he knows what to expect by now, even though he knows it’s unavoidable and unchangeable (he’s tried and failed to lead the ending in a different direction), each run is just as painful as the first.

Stanley makes his way to the Starry Dome, seemingly more relaxed now that he’s arrived at his (terrible) destination. To the Narrator’s surprise, though, Stanley walks to the middle of the dome and settles himself down on the floor. Usually he lingers by the edges before going straight to the stairs, but for some reason, he seems to want to spend a longer time here.

Once he’s settled down, Stanley’s head tips back until he’s staring directly up to the ceiling, and his face breaks open into a massive, sickly-sweet smile. It’s so wide it looks to be painful, and for some reason, the expression sends a shock of ice-cold fear right to the center of the Narrator’s heart.

He doesn’t know what about it is so terrifying—Stanley’s made his fair share of unhinged expressions, and none have ever been so thoroughly sickening.

He doesn’t care to figure it out. Forcing himself to look away from Stanley’s crazed expression, the Narrator forces a reset.

————————————

When the game restarts, Stanley appears to be rotting from the inside out. There are gaping open wounds scattered all across his body, oozing pus and blood and pink sludge and positively crawling with strange insects. Every bit of him seems to be moving completely independently in every direction.

With what seems like extreme struggle, Stanley tilts his head to the ceiling and lifts his arms in lurching, painful motions, forcing stiff, twitchy fingers into a lopsided heart shape before smiling that terrible smile again. That awful pink slime is mixed in with his saliva, and it dribbles down his chin like blood, encasing what looks like several drowned insects corpses.

The Narrator tamps down his nausea, forces himself not to look, and resets the game.

And again.

And again.

And again.

It only gets worse from there.

The Narrator had originally created the Zending for himself. It was supposed to be a nice, self-indulgent little ending to unwind. He’d spent so long developing the Starry Dome, with its soft ambience and soothing darkness and gently blossoming lights. When he had finally finished, he’d thought that the ending was perfect. No time limits. No pressure. No pain. Just a kind little sanctuary, tucked away just outside of the story.

He should have known better. He can barely even look at the room anymore without being filled with overwhelming dread—of course even this would backfire on him. His own creations always seem to.

He should have known better.

The Narrator’s story is his entire life. He’s not exaggerating, either—it’s everything he’s ever wanted to do, everything he was made for. It’s his purpose. He’s the Narrator, and he narrates. He tells the story. That’s all he’s supposed to do.

For some reason, 432 insists on making everything about this one simple task exceedingly difficult for him. They absolutely refuse to cooperate no matter how the Narrator wheedles, bribes, or threatens, and they hardly speak anymore. When they do, it’s scattered and near-incomprehensible, and in the rare instances in which the wretched creature manages a full sentence, it’s almost always some inane question or rebellious quip.

He’s getting quite sick of it, honestly.

Now, that’s not to say that he doesn’t care for them. His story (and by extension, 432) is his pride and joy—of course he cares. He cares so much that it gives him headaches and loses him sleep and makes him forget to do other things. This might be the only thing he’s really cared about in his entire existence. He just…he wishes 432 would be less of a pain. That’s all.

They’ve been getting a lot worse, recently—the Narrator’s almost at a loss of what to do about them. They hardly ever come out of their office anymore, spending their days moping and talking to rats and pacing wildly, pulling out their hair. (Or crying. They spend hours slumped over at their desk, just crying. It’s gotten so bad that their sleeves are perpetually stained and damp. He tries not to think about it too hard.) He doesn’t know what’s wrong with them, and honestly, he’s not very sure he wants to know. The only goal on his mind is to get the story back on track. He just doesn’t have any ideas.

Well. That‘s not quite true. He does have ideas. They’re just a little bit…extreme. He’s not sure he wants to go that far just quite yet. He has no doubt that he’ll have to do it eventually—432 is so broken and paranoid at this point that he’s sure that he’ll have no other option—he just…doesn’t want to. Yet. Call him sentimental, but he has developed a bit of an attachment to them—as stubborn and impossible to manage as they are, they’re still his protagonist.

Although…if he’s going to have to do it anyway, why not just get an early start on it? He won’t do any of the more morally iffy stuff, he’ll just…remove a few things here and there. Really, with how positively miserable they’ve been recently, he’d be doing them a favor. They’ll be much happier without so many things to agonize over. It’s not like he wants to control them, no, not at all. The entire story is about choices, after all. He just wants to make things a little bit easier for everyone.

He’s doing them a favor.

432 can escape. They know they can. They just need to find the right door, the right ending, the right order to disobey, the right way to die. If they just do this right, they can get out. They can. The Parable can’t go on forever. There has to be a way out. Or else how would they have gotten in?

This must be the thousandth time in a row that they’ve done this exact same ending, changing what they do only very slightly from loop to loop. The Narrator has been getting annoyed at them more often lately—they’re sure he must think they’re insane by now, and he’s probably right, but they don’t care. It doesn’t matter. They don’t have anything anymore. Their voice is gone. Their rat is gone. Tilly. Their only friend in the entire Parable, the singular good thing in their life. They’d cried for so long that the Narrator had taken that away, too. They can’t cry anymore. They can’t anything. They just need to get out.

They just need to get it right. If they do it right, they can escape. They just need to change what they do bit by bit until it’s correct. When it’s correct, they’ll be free. They just have to figure it out. They can figure it out, right? Right. Right! They just have to keep trying. Maybe if they hold their breath a little longer here. Walk a little faster there. Blink a little less somewhere else. They can escape. They can escape.

They’re going to get out. It’ll work. They’re sure.

————————————

It’s been a very long time since 432 had last slept. They think it has been, anyway. They’re not counting. It doesn’t matter. They don’t need sleep. They need to get out. They’re so close. They’re so close. They’ve almost exhausted every single possible combination of movements for this ending. They’ve run it so many times that the Narrator has given up on narrating it—just again and again and again and again and again and again and again. There are only five more ways they can do this. If it doesn’t work, they’ll just have to do the same thing with every single ending until they’re out. It’s fine. They’re fine.

Never mind that just standing up from their desk at the beginning of each run has them so dizzy and nauseous that they can barely see. Never mind that their throat stings and chafes for having gone so long without water. Never mind that it feels as if their stomach is eating them from the inside out. Never mind that they’re so utterly exhausted that it takes every bit of manic effort they can muster just to stumble out the door. It’s irrelevant. All of it. It doesn’t mean a thing. Nothing will mean anything until they’re finally free of this relentless hell, until they can open their eyes without the heavy pressure of the Narrator’s watchful surveillance pinning them down from every direction.

They have to get out. They’re going crazy in here. They have to get out. They have a plan. It’ll work, they know it will! They’ll get out. They’ll free themself. This will work.

It has to.

432 has lost track of time.

Is time even real, in a place like this? Where every moment loops in upon itself again and again and again until no one can tell when one frame of time begins and the next one begins?

They’ve tried to count the resets with thin little marks on the walls of their office. Every hundred or so, the marks are wiped away. They’ve lost count of how many times they’ve seen their walls reappear fresh and unscathed.

Do numbers even matter here? (No. Of course not. Of course they don’t.)

They don’t know how long they’ve been here like this, sitting listlessly alone at their desk and wishing they were anywhere other than here. They’ve tried everything. All the endings. Every possible variation of each ending that even exists. They’ve even tried killing themself, and nothing works. Not even the end is the end here. There is no end.

They force themself to their feet. They need to try again. There has to be something they haven’t done.

Halfway through a silent run and unaccompanied by the Narrator, they vanish.

They wake up surrounded by nothing.

How is it still not over?