Chapter Text
“You know Stanley, I think I’ve figured out what your problem is. You lack motivation. Incentive. Clearly the ending of my story is not rewarding enough for you.”
Stanley spun lazily in his office chair, eyes gazing halfheartedly at the ceiling, counting the tiles. He could hear the sound of the Narrator’s voice, but none of the words were coming through to him. He’d grown tired of this little game they played, this charade.
What did he expect Stanley to do? Keep going, over and over again, to turn the machine off and “be free” as the Narrator had put it and be “truly happy”? What was it all for, if the end was never really the end? How could he feel happiness when it would be ripped away from him seconds later, starting at the very beginning all over again?
At first, he had listened to what the Narrator told him to do. There was no harm in it and the Narrator really did sound pleased when everything went the way he wanted. But Stanley grew tired of it very quickly. How many times would he live out this “ending” before the Narrator was satisfied? Was he supposed to keep repeating this indefinitely?
No, a life where everything had been predetermined for you was no life at all. So Stanley adapted. Why not go to the right door? Why not jump off the catwalk? Who would stop him? What consequences awaited him for doing as he pleased? The Narrator obviously disliked it, buzzing incessantly in his ear over every little thought he made, every decision, every step forward.
“No, that’s not supposed to be a choice!” The Narrator would say to him, or “No, why did you do that!” And of course, Stanley’s personal favorite, “Stanley was so bad at following directions it’s incredible he wasn’t fired years ago.”
But even that began to grow old. Yes, it was always fun to get a reaction out of the Narrator, but the novelty of it had started to fade away. He had completed so many endings, woken up at his desk so many times, that he began to wonder how long he had been here. Weeks? Months? Years ?
Was time still moving on outside of the parable? He hoped not. After all, if he did have a family or a wife, he would rather not have them worry about him being gone for so long. At least, he thought he had a family. The Narrator had always implied such and of course, had mocked him with that stupid mannequin more than once. But if he really strained himself, really thought about his life, his home or even his childhood…
He couldn’t recall. Obviously, he had to have come from somewhere. How could he not remember his parents or, if he didn’t have any, some of the people he loved? If not people, then what about his house? An apartment? Did he go to school? College? How did he even start working here?
It made his head hurt to think about any of his past. Like he was trying to put together a puzzle but had none of the pieces. Or perhaps, had the pieces to an entirely different puzzle.
He had tried, countless times, to ask the Narrator outright. But he rarely answered any of Stanley’s questions and if he did, it was vague and contradictory. No matter how many times Stanley had pestered him, it was clear that the Narrator was not going to give him an answer. Stanley was certain he knew something, or at least, more than Stanley did. He seemed to be responsible for all this after all.
There was an uncomfortable answer to all of his questions that had presented itself to him more than once. What if… what if he didn’t have a life outside of the parable?
What if he was made here, what if he wasn’t… real? But that couldn't be possible because he would know if he wasn’t. Wouldn’t he? He could breathe, he could walk, he could think and feel and do anything that any other person could do. He wasn’t extraordinary in any way except for… well, except for literally everything that happened to him in here.
Though he couldn’t recall a world outside of this building, he was certain that it wasn’t normal to die over and over again. Death was supposed to be a permanent event, it was supposed to be something to fear and dread but for Stanley, it was almost a relief. It was never fun to die but no matter what happened, he knew he would be perfectly fine at the end of it. God, he had been blown up and smashed to pieces more times than he could count. If anything, death was something he could look forward to because… because maybe one day it would work.
He found himself longing for an end to it sometimes, especially for the quiet relief that came between the “resets” as he had begun to call them. There was the temporary pain that came of course, that feeling of his bones crunching, his chest collapsing in on itself, that heaviness in his limbs that told him he was dying, and this was it, there’s too much blood and maybe this time it will work, maybe this time he won’t wake up, maybe this time-
And then it would be quiet. Just for a moment.
Like waking up after a long and restful sleep. Of course, he was only at his desk again and it would be a few seconds before he had to continue this stupid story but… but it was nice.
Stanley knew it probably wasn’t normal to feel this way but what else could he do within the parable? How could he be happy about any of this? There was nothing he could do to change his entrapment. The only way forward, the only way to keep from breaking down right here and now, was to not think about it. Don’t think about the past, don’t think about a way out, don’t think about a permanent death because none of it was within his realm of possibility. Was it healthy to ignore his feelings? Absolutely not. But Stanley didn’t have the luxury to do otherwise.
And so the harsh reality of his situation had really begun to set in. He couldn’t bring himself to complete any of the “endings” anymore because what was the point if everything would repeat itself?
The last few runs Stanley found himself counting ceiling tiles, removing the keys from keyboards, even collecting all the coffee mugs in the office so he could build a tower of them. Anything he could do to keep himself entertained. Anything to keep his thoughts off of the parable, from the Narrator and the story and this goddamned building that trapped him at every turn. Hallways upon hallways and doors upon doors that led to nowhere and everywhere, in circles and loops that never stopped.
He must have gotten too upset because the Narrator interrupted his thoughts. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say the Narrator was in his thoughts. He was capable of reading Stanley’s thoughts on a surface level, those emotions or impulses that rise to the front of your mind, and the conscious thoughts that direct your decision making. Stanley knew he could feel his emotions to some extent as well. All of it was accessible to the Narrator, but despite that, he still had a hard time understanding Stanley.
“Did I assume correctly? Well, you should’ve just said so Stanley, no need to make me guess.”
The voice was smug, with an edge to it that said I know more than you do, and I know better than you do. And yet, Stanley very much doubted that the Narrator knew how he was truly feeling.
“Though I think having a reward system is completely unnecessary and absurd, I…” He paused, as if fighting back the urge to add more. “…suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try something new. Just for this run, and then we'll go back to business as usual. How does that sound Stanley?”
Stanley considered the idea of more Stanlurines or achievements and decided he wasn’t interested. Yes, a scavenger hunt for more figurines could be fun, but they had already done that multiple times and it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he thought it would feel.
“No no, no more Figleys, we’ve had enough of those. I was thinking of something else.”
Something else? What could the Narrator possibly offer Stanley? More buttons? A sticker that said “Great job!” or “Good work!” on it? A silly little song? Or would it just be empty words of praise from the Narrator himself?
“You’re being awfully pessimistic today, do you know that? Here I am, trying to reach out to you, trying to understand why you’ve been so utterly distant these past few runs and you’re just dismissing everything I have to say!”
Stanley’s chair completed another slow circle, the creaking of the wheels answering for him. No thoughts, no answer for the Narrator. Perhaps if Stanley stopped responding to him, he would get frustrated enough to leave Stanley alone and let him do whatever the hell he wanted. But Stanley knew the Narrator much too well, and the chances of him leaving Stanley to his own devices were slim to none.
“I see. Well, if you don’t want to communicate clearly to me, then I suppose I’ve nothing more to do with this conversation. You want to be left alone? Fine. Stay in your stupid little office for all I care.”
Stanley’s chair was thrust forward by an invisible force, slamming him into his desk and knocking the air out of his chest for a moment. He had been sitting in the doorway prior to this, so as to avoid being locked in, but now he watched as the door clicked shut and locked with all the rage of an angry god.
Really? That’s how we’re going to do this? Resorting to physical violence?
“Don’t be so dramatic, it was merely a push. And you’ve got what you wanted, haven't you? Now you can spend as much time as you like doing absolutely nothing of importance and nothing to do with my story or me. I hope you’re nice and cozy Stanley, as you’ll be spending the rest of this run stuck in here until I feel the need to start over. Maybe I’ll read a new book. Maybe I’ll create a new game, a better one, without a protagonist who feels the need to sow discord wherever he goes and disregard the necessity of a proper story!”
What the hell is your problem?
“MY problem?” The Narrator spat the words out with as much malice as he could. “For the past 32 runs— YES, Stanley I kept track— you haven’t done anything . No endings, no thoughts! Trying to speak with you has been more difficult than trying to understand you. You may find it entertaining to hear me complain about the loss of my story or describe your utter incompetence, but do you ever pause to think about how I feel? What it is like to talk to someone who shows as much interest in you or your words as the wallpaper?”
He paused just for a moment, almost hesitating if he should go on, before plowing ahead. It sounded as if all of this had been building for some time, and there was no stopping it now.
“No! No, why would Stanley ever bother to think about someone other than himself? No, poor Stanley is the only one stuck here, poor Stanley is trapped with this terrible Narrator, so let’s do everything possible to make his existence even worse. Let’s ignore the Narrator, or rather, let's pretend you can’t hear him at all because Stanley thinks this is all one big game. Good job Stanley, you did it! You won! Is that what you want to hear? Because it changes absolutely nothing.”
Stanley stared dumbly up at the ceiling, stunned into silence (which was ironic given that he couldn’t speak to begin with). It took several moments before he could even process the Narrator’s words, honestly shocked that the Narrator had gotten this angry at him. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for them to argue; in fact, it was normal. But this sounded much deeper and much more personal than simple frustration. And besides that, the Narrator rarely let his emotions get the better of him. Sure, he was petty and sarcastic and rude and- well, Stanley could list things all day, but the point was that it was never personal for either of them. At least, their disagreements never were.
Finally, words began to string together in his mind.
You’re not the one who put me here?
“No!” The Narrator sounded exasperated, almost annoyed at how that was the only bit of information Stanley heard. “No, I didn’t trap you here.”
And you… can’t leave either?
“Come now Stanley, do you need me to repeat everything to you? Use your brain for a moment, I know that’s hard for you, but seriously think about our time here together. Do you honestly believe I enjoy watching you suffer?”
The voice waited for a reply, daring Stanley to agree with his last statement.
But Stanley didn’t know what to think. He looked back down towards his desk, towards his shirt, towards the floor. Anywhere where he felt the Narrator’s gaze couldn’t reach his own. He had no idea where the Narrator was or how he could see Stanley, but Stanley liked to imagine he was somewhere above him.
To be honest, Stanley had never even considered that the Narrator was stuck here too. He had always pushed Stanley along, telling him what to do and where to go, and so Stanley had just assumed that the Narrator had built the parable himself. He clearly had some control over the environment, always closing doors or creating rooms and “resetting” the day for Stanley. It wasn’t a stretch for Stanley to believe the Narrator had created all of this. But now… well, now he felt rather stupid.
His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he didn’t have a response for the Narrator. Nothing he could say would remedy the situation, and the silence had gone on for long enough now that it was absolutely unbearable.
The Narrator made a loud huff before speaking again. But the passion in his voice was gone, back to that familiar monotone sound that he used whenever he went back to his script.
“But Stanley simply couldn't handle the pressure. What if he had to make a decision? What if- "
Stanley tuned the rest of his words out. He knew the Narrator well enough that once he had gone back to the script, their conversation was over.
It was his way of telling Stanley that he would not talk about this anymore, and by sticking exclusively to the story, he could refuse any further questions. From this moment forward, the Narrator would treat him only as a character and himself as a storyteller, nothing more and nothing less.
It was not the first time he had done this.
The Narrator would often act as if they hadn’t said anything, as if nothing had happened at all. He would pretend that this conversation had never happened, and by doing that, he could avoid having any sort of bond or attachment to Stanley. After all, a narrator is supposed to be an impartial storyteller. How could he do that if he kept injecting himself into the story?
Or at least, that’s what he told Stanley.
Sometimes, it made things easier. To pretend that they were just part of a “game” as the Narrator called it. Unsurprisingly, it led to a lot of resentment and frustration for both parties.
Stanley slumped back in his chair and dragged his hand down his face, thinking about what he should do for the next run. He felt guilty, like he should apologize to the Narrator but if he did that, he would never hear the end of it.
The Narrator droned on and on about how Stanley would stay in the office indefinitely, how “hours passed” and that “if he waited long enough, the answers would come”. Now, Stanley would spend an immeasurable amount of time stuck in his office, bored out of his mind. Though it wasn’t much different from what he had been doing before, Stanley didn’t like the feeling of being shut in, nor did he like the silence that followed once the Narrator finished monologuing.
Though he would never admit it out loud, he really did enjoy the Narrator’s company. The sound of his voice (when it wasn’t making a snip or jab towards Stanley) could be so warm at times, so calming and surprisingly kind. It was very rare to hear the Narrator go off script, and even more unusual to hear him talk to Stanley like they were… friends. Were they friends? Enemies? Acquaintances, coworkers? He couldn’t find the right name for what they had.
Well, whatever their relationship was— no, no relationship was much too strong of a word, he thought. It sounded serious, like they had something, and Stanley didn’t feel that way, or at least, he had never thought that— well, he wasn’t opposed but— No! No he’s not thinking about this right now.
And he supposed that maybe… just maybe… he would have to apologize to the Narrator after this. Not because he cared of course, that’s ridiculous. It was simply a matter of doing what was right.
– - -
“When Stanley came to a set of two open doors, he entered the door on his left.”
I know you can hear me.
“Stanley just stood there doing nothing at all. He seems to think I have nothing better to do with my time than to sit around and describe every fascinating little detail of his inability to do anything. This is why Stanley and I are on such good terms.”
I said I was sorry!
…
Nothing. Of course the Narrator was still giving him the cold shoulder.
Stanley ran a hand through his hair and pulled gently at the roots, trying his very best not to get angry at the Narrator. Their argument had been at least 7 or 8 runs ago, and no matter how many times Stanley tried to apologize, the Narrator would ignore him.
He had tried the “freedom” ending (ha! freedom ), tried going to that room with the lights that the Narrator liked so much, tried to follow everything he said and play the part of a good little protagonist, but he was rewarded with absolutely nothing. Stanley knew the Narrator could be stubborn, but he didn’t think he was this petty.
You can’t ignore me forever.
…
Silence.
He narrowed his eyes up at the ceiling and crossed his arms. Maybe if he waited long enough, the Narrator would give in. After all, they couldn’t just stand here doing nothing forever, right?
…
…
The Narrator is fat and ugly and really really stupid. He probably only got the job because of a family connection; that's how stupid he is.
…
Not even a chuckle? Well, at least Stanley thought it was a little funny.
…
Fine.
Stanley sighed and shoved the left door open. He couldn’t think of any other way to apologize other than to keep listening to the Narrator’s directions. So, once again, he found himself trudging through the meeting room, up the stairs, punching the code in…
Ugh. Elevator, mind control facility, blah blah blah. Everything was the same to Stanley, and he only focused on the actual choices he can make here. Those buttons.
How many times has he stood in front of these buttons? Too many, that’s for sure.
His hand hovered over the ON and OFF buttons in the center of the mind control facility. He hesitated, considering the ON button and wondering if the Narrator would enjoy exploding both him and the room up. Stanley thought that he always sounded at least a little happy during that ending speech.
An exasperated sigh echoed through the room.
“No, Stanley, I would not enjoy blowing you up.”
His head shot up towards the rafters, shocked. What had he done differently this time to get the Narrator to respond to him?
“Nothing. I simply grew tired of ignoring you.”
Oh.
Well then, perhaps the Narrator would be open to hearing an apology?
“You don’t have to. I’ve already heard you say it a million times over and I think that if you utter “sorry” one more time, the word will completely lose all meaning.”
Stanley looked down sheepishly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He still felt guilty about what happened earlier. The Narrator was right after all. Stanley had been rather blind to the Narrator’s role in the story.
I know sorry doesn’t cut it, but I still feel terrible. Is there anything I can do? Anything to make things a little better for you?
The Narrator was quiet for a moment, thinking.
“Anything?”
Stanley grumbled. Alright, maybe “anything ” had too many options for the Narrator to exploit.
A loud, rather dramatic sigh followed. Stanley could imagine the Narrator leaning back in his chair (did he have a chair? Did he even have a body ?), arms crossed.
“I see. You don’t really mean your apology; you simply want things to return to normal.”
No no no, that’s not- no. Come on, the Narrator knew what Stanley meant, didn’t he?
“I’m afraid I don’t. Haven’t a clue.”
The sarcasm was so thick that Stanley could’ve drowned in it. He knew he would regret agreeing to this, but he didn’t feel like playing this game with the Narrator at the moment. He just wanted someone to talk to (think to? He wasn’t exactly talking but- ah, well, it doesn't matter) again.
Fine. Anything.
“Really? My, I didn’t know you could be so agreeable Stanley. It’s a nice change of pace, and to be honest, it looks rather good for you.”
What do you want?
“Getting right into it, are we now? So eager to please, to-“
Stop it.
“Well now you’re just acting rude. What happened to being sorry ?”
What. do. you. want?
“Hmm…”
The Narrator drummed his hands against his desk, humming to himself (again, did he even have hands? It sounded like it, but if the Narrator was really as omnipotent as he described himself to be, then surely he wouldn’t look human… right? It made Stanley’s head hurt to think too hard about this.)
“I suppose, I do have something in mind. I have for a while, but I…”
His words failed him, trailing off.
Stanley’s eyebrows scrunched up together, absolutely baffled. The Narrator, at a loss for words? What the hell could he possibly be thinking?
He cleared his throat, starting again. “Do you remember earlier, Stanley, when I proposed we try something new? Something different?”
Yes.
“Good. You see, I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of this game, of you, of-” A slight pause. “- us. And just how difficult it is to truly describe the human condition. I mean, I wrote a delightful story about this monotonous lifestyle that you’ve pursued and allow you to break free of your corporate shackles, to seize the day and become something more, but… but it just doesn't seem to appeal to you. I don’t understand what more you, or anyone really, could possibly want. Isn’t the whole point of life to become something? To be a part of something extraordinary?”
I-
“Don’t answer, it was rhetorical. Now, I’ve pondered this question for a while, through many of our little adventures, and I can’t seem to pin it down. Just when I think I’ve figured it out, figured you out, you make a completely different decision than I expected! For example, I was certain you would go through the right door just a moment ago, and yet you surprised me and took the left. One would assume given your nature, and all other decisions you’ve made up to this point, that you would have done the opposite. So it seems, when it comes to you, and by extension all others, that my logic and reasoning completely go out the window.”
What are you getting at?
“I am proposing that we solve both of our problems in one fell swoop. You receive the spontaneity and adventure you are seeking whilst I obtain the knowledge I am looking for.”
Stanley leaned up against the rail, thinking to himself. Was that really feasible? They had been together long enough to know that it was near impossible to come to a compromise on anything. They were just too different. It was either Stanley’s way or the Narrator’s, with nothing in between.
How are you going to do that?
“It’s simple really. To know the human experience, I need to put myself in your shoes, your position. And you must understand, there are no other assets in this game like you Stanley, and if there were, I would not suggest this, but given that there aren’t-”
Please get to the point.
“I would like to become you.”
...
Stanley, once again, was dumbfounded. What the hell did that mean? That they should switch places? Was that even possible?
“No no no, I would never do that. You, with all the power of the office? That would be an absolute disaster.”
He hesitated and an edge of nervousness crept into his voice, as though he was preparing for Stanley to mock or dismiss his words.
“No, I want to experience what you experience. Feel as you feel, think as you think. I am suggesting that we, for a temporary amount of time of course, share one collective body.”
What.
“Now I know that sounds extreme, but really, it would be no different than what we’re doing now. I would still narrate of course, and you would still do whatever the hell you usually do, but I could finally understand, or at least, begin to understand, the human psyche.”
Stanley didn’t think anything in this world could possibly surprise him given all he had gone through, but clearly he was wrong. To share a body with the Narrator? It sounded terrifying if he was being honest. He already had limited privacy in the parable— he was always being watched, always perceived from every angle.
Even his conscious thoughts were laid bare to the Narrator. But to remove what little boundaries he still had left?
He wanted to shut down the idea immediately. If they had difficulty cooperating as it was, how were they supposed to function as one person? And besides, how would that even work? Would the Narrator control what he did and where he would go in the name of “experience”? Stanley shuddered at the thought. He had already lost control of everything else in his life. The autonomy of his body was one of the few things he could rely on.
“I… know that it is a lot to ask. And I’m very aware of how frightening it could be for you.”
There it was, that gentle tone Stanley was so fond of. There were times Stanley doubted if the Narrator truly cared about him, but it was moments like this that took away any uncertainty. It was soft, it was understanding, it was… breathtaking.
Stanley batted away the thought, feeling his cheeks grow warmer. Breathtaking, really? What is wrong with him, describing the Narrator’s tone like that? It was just a voice. An annoying, insufferable one at that! He must have gone crazy, there was no other explanation. Yes, he had been stuck here for so long, been devoid of any other contact that he was drawn to the mere sound of the Narrator. That must have been it. And the fact that he was truly, honestly considering the Narrator's idea... he's absolutely insane. He must be.
Regardless, he could tell the Narrator truly meant no harm to Stanley and genuinely believed this could be good for the both of them.
...
Maybe the Narrator was right.
The Narrator seemed oblivious to Stanley’s inner turmoil however, surging onward. “But Stanley, I wouldn’t be doing any more than I am now. I would just… be there.”
The quiet pause that followed went on for a little too long. Stanley wanted to agree, but this had disaster written all over it. Was he really willing to give up what little control he had over his life just so that the Narrator could be happy?
“I understand this is a rather personal thing to ask of you, so I don’t expect a response immediately of course. I-“
Okay.
“-know that- wait, what?” Now it was the Narrator’s turn to be surprised. Once again, Stanley could envision the Narrator leaning closer to Stanley from wherever he was, to really get a better look at him and determine if he was serious.
“A-Are you sure? I mean really, absolutely sure?”
Yes. I'm sure.
He was really doing this. Stanley was really, truly, doing this! He was completely positive that he had lost his mind now, as there was no way that any sane person would agree to such a thing.
“You’re not being sarcastic?”
Not this time.
“Oh!” It was a soft, faint little sound. He could hear the excitement, the nervous energy that followed. Was he clasping his hands together now? Was he smiling? Holding back laughter? What a sight that would be- the Narrator, beaming over something Stanley had done. It would certainly be a first. And it certainly felt good.
“Oh Stanley, I promise you won’t regret this decision.”
Stanley hoped so too.