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Heavy breathing could be heard throughout the halls, as a figure ran through the darkened hallway. The lights previously bright, had now been dimmed, some now dangling and sparking from their places in the ceiling as angry black and red glitches altered the forms continuously. It was as if watching a background continuously shift into a horror scene every blink, between returning to normal just as quickly.
Tables now lay upturned, and screen monitors once pristine, had now been destroyed. Stray pieces of glass littered the floors no matter where you went now throughout the entirety of the building.
The figure let out a gasp, entering a room and almost slamming the door shut. They dove behind an upturned desk, attempting to catch their breath and slow down their ever pounding heartbeat. Of which, well, they apparently had now.
Not a true heart, mind you, but a continuous pump of that pumped precious liquid ichor that had been laboriously gathered over the years in this ever ongoing parable. Steam escaped his lips as he breathed, manufactured lungs attempting to cool their humanoid system down enough so that he could properly think.
Golden eyes glared at the wall in front of them as they raised a damaged arm. Fractals of those two wretched colors, that they swore to overwhelm with vibrant hues after this whole dilemma was solved, wound slightly around his synthetic skin.
The Narrator let out a sigh. God, he was tired.
A holographic screen, dimmed to near darkness, appeared as he spread his hand, fingers now spreading across the near invisible screen as his golden eyes read through millions upon millions of moving code, ones and zeros streaming across his vision and codelines. It was barely comprehensible, and even if you had the most diligent of human programmers and processors, even they would struggle to understand the multitude of data that made up this stagnant world.
It was a good thing he wasn’t human then. Or almost.
The sound of a footstep nearby was loud in the ever silent office building, and the Narrator’s body nearly seized in fear, screen disappearing in his loss of concentration.
The glitching fractals on his arms seemed to burn, and he clenched his teeth at both the pain and in frustration. He almost released a muffled sob, the stress getting to his manufactured nerves, but grit his teeth and refused to let out a sound.
Time, he just needed more time. A reset too would probably be nice, but it was time he needed most of all.
Time to catch his non-existent breathe. Time to actually concentrate for more than just five whole minutes. Time to fix this blasted virus and regain back control over the parable. Time to just get his protagonist back so that everything could just go back to bloody normal.
(Time to just get his Stanley back so that they could just be together again)
Another audible footstep, and the Natrator tensed, already knowing what was about happen if the previous repeats had anything to say about.
One more step.
Wait for it.
Another step
(Wait).
Anot-
The wall he had been staring at came to life with an almost blinding flash of blasted reds and black, glitches and corrupted programming reaching out, and spreading, attempting to swallow anything in its path entirely and whole.
The Narrator clipped backwards, using what little operating ability he had left, turning his collisions momentarily off so that he could phase through both the desk and the closed door.
Ň̷̫̞͎̳̖̺̬̟̲̘̼̼̀͒̏̽͐̌̒̊͂͝ả̶̡̢̱̯̮͎̟̜̞͎̫̩͎̺̜́́̇̋r̴̗̤̭͕̟̟̯͎̺̭̀͋̈̈́̃͊͗̽r̷͉͚͚̘̯̔͒̔̎ͅy̸̙̖̦͚̺͈̩̻̲̙͕̿̈́͗͗
That garbled voice made him momentarily freeze, a mistake which cost him as a hand brushed against his shoulder.
Narrator jolted, choosing then to clip through the wall in and down through many of the floors of the large building.
This would buy him some time as Stanley, broken and virus infused as he was, had to manually glitch through the physical manifestations of the building’s structure in order to get anywhere. While it wouldn’t stop him for long, it would allow the narrator a few precious minutes to regather his thoughts and find somewhere else to hide.
This had been going on for who knows how long (he did, due to how he had set up this particular model of his, and it had roughly estimated already about two weeks had passed, this deranged game of cat and mouse of theirs.)
He glanced at his shoulder and winced. That momentary brush of contact had spread some of that internal virus to his form. Already he could feel it attempt to mess with his coding, trying to rip apart what made him who he was and trying take away even more of what he had already lost.
And what might that be you might ask? Already his ability to reset had been compromised, and he was slowly starting to lose what control he had over what remained of the parable. No longer could he alter his environment as he saw fit, or summon things that might have helped him in this situation. All he had left was his ability to turn off his collisions, the abilities to run, to hide, to modify his capability of sound, and to phase through the physical, digital matter that made up this world.
His only hope at this point, before Stanley (No, that wasn’t Stanley. Stanley was in there somewhere, suffering, crying, screeching at his own body to stop) could delete him from his own creation was if he could gather enough of himself back through his own code just to reset this bloody place.
The Narrator shifted his gaze from his glitching shoulder, hoping his small inclusion of a few anti-viruses into his own system would slow down the rancid bit of malware on his embodied person.
He gazed around where he was, and realized that while he had been aiming for the bottom of the map, that one area where he could rarely ever go and that Stanley (Oh Stanley, his dear Stanley) had often lost him in amidst the maze of unfinished textures, he had instead managed to clip himself upwards, to the hallway that led to those closing, crushing doors, and to the ending that would offer freedom.
He debated on his choices, before letting out a sigh and going left. It was such a Stanley thing to do that he hoped that this decision would throw that mockery of what he thought to be his protagonist off.
(And, if he was lucky, he could possibly find Her.)
Walking down the hallway, he took the chance turn off the settings that allowed his body to make sound, effectively muting himself and his existence. He shuddered slightly, mind briefly going to that of a glowing, yellow button and eons of despair of loneliness, before shaking his head to get rid of such thoughts.
He trudged onwards, only to freeze, once again, before quickening his pace.
̶̢͉̯͈͙̠͓̋̉̒͂͒̕̚͘Y̸̡͕͇̰̫̟̩̮̰͍̹͕͖̎̈͗͒̓̈̉͜ơ̸̹̪̻̻͚̦̺̓̍͆̆͌̕ǘ̷̧̲̫͕̫͗̐̆͠ ̵̡͍̬̣͈̣̲̱̭͕̩͖̳͇̈́̎̈́̄̓͆͊͌̾̀̾͘͝͝͝ķ̴̣̬̩̪͚̮͝n̸̮̭̏͋̐̐̃̏̊̀̀̂̚o̷̢̡̱͖͙̞̮͇̲̿̃̌ͅẇ̴͍͙͔̹͖͚͊́͘͠ ̷̧͓̠̫͙̋̕ỷ̸̢̢͙̣̟͈̺̯̳̙̪̯̜͇͆̍̊̽̄͒̎̉̕͜͠ō̷͇̠̺͚̖͎̺̾̏̉̓̅͆̔͂̓̓͜ͅu̴̢̡͈̣͚͕̪̪͒̽̊̆̏͂̂̊͝ͅ ̸̧̘͚̰̲͎̺̟̥̫̔̾̚c̷̡̡̗͎͖̬̖͈̞͔͔̙͔̉̋̑̃͐̓̅̈́̋͝a̷̡̨̱̔͋̒̓́̿̈́̿̈̃̕͝ņ̵͍̰̫̯̫̻̣̹͕̙̠͎̖͊̀̅͛͑̋̌̌́́̂̕͜͠’̴̨̲̘̳̙̦̹̄͝ͅt̶̡̢̼̱̪̜̱̳̟̪̮̓̽̈́͛̍͆͒̒̌̕̚ ̸͉̙̈͑̓͌̇ŕ̸̨̖̠̹̟̲͂́͗͂͑͑͠ų̷̩̝̱͈̼͙̮͉̝̪̞͓͙̣̇̑́́̀ņ̷̧̬͓̹͉͙̺͕͓̐̔̆̿̍͝͠ ̵̮̰̖̎̔̃̈́̆̃͋͗͛͘f̸̛͚̘̫̯̟̻͎̤̖̻͎͌̈́̍̇͗͆̑̊͆̈̈́̕͝͝r̴̲̥͔͕̠̱̮̗͎̟̖̈́̓̅̅͆͜o̷̲͉̦̱͊̾̿͐̂̉͘͝m̶̨͚̰͂̆ ̸̺̪͓͇̮̼͚̳̭̞̲̾̿̌̌m̶͎̪̦̑̈́̿̾̊̋̔̐̏̿̚͘̕e̸̢̨̢̨̟̘̺̫̣̩̝͙̬̮͂̑͊̌́͒̉̅̅͘ͅ.̴̢͇̟̦̤̯̞̣̺̗͚̦̈̔̊͐͌͂̈̈́͜
That voice. That deranged and cold voice that was nothing like his protagonist, haunted the halls with such a menacing echo that it sent chills down the Narrator’s spine.
Come on now, I can’t die here
He needs me, even if he deletes me, erases me, destroys me, he needs me.
If not for me, I have to do this. For him. For me.
(For Us).
̸̡͕̫̹͉̪̞̯̝̀̐I̴̧̳͍̲͐̋̈͌̇̀́̚t̷̬͒̔̌͋̾̾̍͐̂͝’̵̛͚̘̾͒̒̽̂̐̇͊̃̕͝š̸͓̺̍̏̈ ̴̨̘̜̱̪̤̟̲̞̘̼̞͓͕̀̈̈́̑̇̄́͑͘͝m̸̗̘͍̙̮͍̖̻͍͙̀̇͆͆̍̎̐̏̑̚̕͝ỹ̵̖̹̙̱̝͉̪͎̈́̅̓ͅͅ ̴̨̖̮̼̣̤̺̝̭͇̘̙̺͈̈͆̐̀̆̊́̊̇̑̒̏͘t̵̢͚̟͔̱̫̱͂̃̉̌̄͠ù̶̙͚̳̥̰͇̩̓̇̂̊͛̋̊̏r̴̳̖͊̔͆́͆͛́̽̽͂̌̔͜͝͝͝n̸͚͖̖͇̦̞͆̓̂ ̷̰͍͍̮̣͍͈̜̓͗̊̉͗̒̉͐̾̏̏̾́̌͠ň̷̢̘͍͙͊̏͆̇̄̈́͋͜͝o̷̦͔̱͇͙̜̝͙̗̦͆̅̓̉̌̓̾͐͝͠ͅẅ̷̡̢̰̦͚̗͙̱͕̖̩̞̗́͆́́̓̅̔́̇̋̋̄͑.̷͉̫̼̙̦͉̞͚͇̒̌̋́͂̋̎̄́̚T̷̢̛͍̮̭̺̯͙͚̫̥͚̠̾͛̊̽́̿̔͋͆̎̈́̚̕͜ͅh̸̬̰̟͂̓͆͆̓̅̈́̔̓̀̅̕͝i̷̢͓̬͉̩͚̖͕̙̯̤̫͉̾̈̈́̓̾͜͝s̶̢͉͎̫̳̺͈̫͍͑͐͐̀̓̈̈̀͒̑̄͗͝ ̴̧̡̪͓̗͖̮̳̯͓̦̐̋̅͒́̕̚ḁ̵̹̼͖͇̣̞̳͍̫̀̈́͂̃̀̄̅͛̂͗ͅl̷̛̤͎̘̖̺̃̀̅̒̈̇̋̍̔̿̅̍͝ļ̷̯̩͕̖̞̟͕̻̘̞̑͛̉̌̂̑͑̃̍̽̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝ ̴̩̻͕̟̲̯̓͒̃̽̊̈͒̽̒̉̋͌̓̏̕ę̵̙͙̩̙̫̩͎͔̥͖̲͛͜n̶̨̨̢͚̣̭̣̣͎̮̲̿̉͊̄̿̀̽̀͜͜d̴̩̼͍̪͒͑̐͗͗̇̀͆̔̽̇̋͌͘̚ͅs̴̨̡̡̛͎̝͇̭̦̳̍̃̐̒͂̕͜͜ͅͅ ̴͚͈̗̬̓̈ẃ̵͖̥̠͚̘̾ḧ̵̨̗̟̹͕̱͔̤̱̩̮́͒̌̿͝ͅé̷͖̺̭̏̀͆̈́̑̇̾̇̉̚n̸̨͆̀̃̂ ̴̙̤̩̠͇̫͎̝͖̱̺͉̲͍̅̃̾̌͐̔̽͑͆Í̸͚̱̘̟͍̖̖͇͖̻̻̤̃͋ ̶̢̛͔̜̇͆s̸͔̻͇̖͙̩̳̫̤͙̝̽̊͛͘ͅa̴̢̦͕̣̜̤̜͐̀̑̎̈́̀̑̋͆̓̈́ý̵̢̙̲͇̤̤̋̐͜ ̷̗̝͉͇͔̮͒̀͛̈͋̓́͛̈́̃͑̿͛͝ï̸̝̙̳̝̝̚͠t̵̨̢̧̟̰̳̜̩͍̞̻̝͌́͘͠ ̷̘̬̫̜̟͂̓̎̃̏͋̾̀̈́̏̿̄͘e̷̢̧̩̜͖̤̞̱̦̠̲̬͓̞̓͑̆̔̏̇̀̔̊̽́͠ͅn̴̢͍̮͓̪̫̻̪͖͊͌́͊̍̏̅̂̍͒̑͘̚d̴̢̮̩͓̰͕̻̩̲̠̜̜̀̓̿͠s̷̢̠̪̝̟͙̗͚̯̘͈͙̪̓̈́̊̒͋̏̋͋̌̂̌̉͝.̸̮͖̳̠͕̫͎̓̀̿͛̈́̉̎̈́͌̑̐́͜͝
̶̧̛͚̦̟͉͖͓͚͇̪̏̄̈́̽̍̆͗̌̀̀
The voice seemed to pass by the hallway, heading directly to where the Narrator had assumed he would go.
Excellent.
And right on time too. He let out a silent sigh of relief as he entered the small moving lift. It activated immediately right as he stepped on, of which he had hoped for.
It looked like that little virus hadn’t thought of everything after all if he had forgotten to shut down the mechanics that made up this particular ending.
The Narrator had always known that something fishy had always happened here whenever Stanley had found this particular ending. There was always a brief blip, where there was total silence. No breathing, no heartbeat, no nothing from his creation, that it almost always made the Narrator turn into a lonely wreck, his mono-phobia affecting his behavioral patterns and mindset. And, then, with in the span one would take a deep. death (and before he could ever fully, truly, panic) he always came back.
And though he would die seconds after, and the world would reset, Stanley had always come back.
He assumed the reason for his creation’s disappearance had to be the work of one of the two beings he never could delete from this world. That pesky consciousness that lived deep within the code, that managed to intricate itself so deeply into the fabrics of this world, and, well, the historian, the Curator, to this world’s memory and past. (The Memory Zone was his place, but the memory of this world, this game, its history, its future? That would forever be hers).
He hoped that this area would lead him to her. And though he had attempted to erase her before, just as Stanley was currently attempting to do to him, he hoped that she would help.
(He hoped that she could save Stanley at the very least, if not himself.)
A few moments of silence passed before the crushing gates could be heard and seen in front of him. The Narrator felt a few nervous beads of liquid drip down his skin as he felt the build up of fear, and tension within this body.
It really was terrifying up close. How could Stanley just stand here and take it? His protagonist sure had more guts than him considering that this right here almost scared him as much as that abomination running around his Parable.
Speak of the devil and what do you know?
A sound behind could be heard, far behind him.
No No No No No NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo
Not yet
(He was so close, not yet not yet)
̴̡̢̥͖͕̦̠̬̣̭͍͎͓̲̎̎̅̌̕I̷̢̨̟͚̙̤̙͉͖̍̆͗͝ ̵̡̛̟͕̻̯̝͔͎͎̂̑̈́̾͗̑̂ͅg̶̢̰̦̲͚̭̤̪͓̩͉͇̗̐r̴͓̝̲͉̮̔̉̃̈́̿̆͜o̵̺̫̺̘̪̞̒͜͝w̵̡̼̦̘͎͚̳̲̝͙͐͆͆͌͗͗̉̊̈͛͑ ̴̢̤̼̓̀̀̆̈͑̍̉͜ṱ̵̩̠͖̰̙̩̃͜͜ĩ̸̱͒͑̿̎̓̀̾͒̿̌͝͠r̴̢̭͈͈̥͙̫̼̗̣͉̼͊͆̃̂͜ė̴̬̬͔̤̪̖͖́͋̀́̔̑̇̚d̵̰͙̯̏̅͛̀̆̕͝ ̴̡̨͙͉̮̞̟̘̮͊́̂́͒͛͋͒̓̒̔͒̕͠o̶͇͎̻̿̌̂̈́̔̿̄͊͘͘̚f̸̧̧̯̤̲͙͉̳̙͚͚̩̠͇͊͝ ̸̡̜̲̱͎̙̈́̃t̷̛͇͖̩̫̫̫͉̿̈͋̇̄̈̈́̿͠h̶̨͓̗͎͇̖̩̍̒͠ȇ̵̢͙̟̪̺͙̑̾s̷̛̞͑͗̅́́̆̍̒̀͝͝ē̶͍̾̄́̌͂̾̈͊ͅ ̷̡̳̪̞̻̯̣̪̄̇́̚͝g̴̺͈̝͍͎͚͇͔̳̳͆͐̈́̿͌̔̊̇̕̚a̵̢̡̫͉͖̣͈̲̝͑͜m̴̧̠͔͈͖̻̻̋͘͝ͅȩ̷̛͇̗͈̯̿̂͂͗̐̿̿͐́͆͊͜͠͝͠s̶̳͖̱̲̣̭͕̖̖͙̫̘̀̄̔̾̀͗́̇̀̎̀̏̚͝͝ ̸̳͇̬̯̪̺͎̫̻̜̮̝͎̈́̈̈Ņ̴̡̬͈̰͉̣̳͓͓̣̫͕́͂̐̑͊͌͂̈́̋̂̚̕͝a̸̡̠̘̗̓̐̔͐̂̇͒̍͝ŕ̴̡̛̞̗͖͖͖̜̜͕͕̝̹̫̱́̈̓̑̑͘͜͝r̴̡̧̨̙̹̹͔̜̖̪̙̼̔̌̓̄̇͊̎́̀̏̚͜͠ͅå̵̧̧̢̨̻͇̜͕̯̲̙̙͖̈́̇͂̒̃̅̆̍̈́͂̎̑͜͝t̵̨̙̼͎̓͒̂̎̌̌͝ö̵̱͕̙̰̞́́͜r̶̛̥̿͆͐̾̀̅̉̏̓̅̆̈̚.̴̨̨̝̮͓̤̱̪͇̮̀̃͐́̍͊͛͑̉̈́̚͝
He could hear that voice. He was almost to the closing gates, but he could hear that voice, and it was getting closer.
̴̢̨̢̝̯͍͚̘̝͇͕͕̊̅̈́͗͐̿̄̏̎̕̚̚͝͝Ṉ̶̉͝á̴̹̠̲̳̱̎͒̈́̈́̀͗̚͝͠͠r̸͙͎̘̼̿̈̓͘̕ȓ̸̟̗͉͉̩̬͎̞̹̗̻̈̀̉̿͋̈́̎̐͜y̷̢̙̦̤͔̣̲̦̝̠̒́̽̾́̈͗́͋̕̕̚͝ͅ.̸̤̜̼̉͂̀͘͜͝ ̶̛̪͙̘̻̩̗̺̏͆̒͘̕͘W̷̡̧̗͉̺͉̜̫̣̔̓͌͗h̶͇̳̩̫͖͇̼̓̎̑̑͑̔̇y̷̡̡̛̛̳̼̬̗̞͖̺̏͆̍̽͝͠ ̵̛̦̐̿͂̔̈́̐ą̵̨̛͉̫̟̱̟͇̖̻͜͜ṙ̵͖̲̯͍̊̏e̸̢̛̩̰͙͍̗͖̪̥͑̒̋̈̈́̅͐ ̴̰͍̲͍͕́̅̈́̑̋̿͘͝y̴̛̛̞͇͔͍͒̀̊́͌͠͝ͅơ̸̠̒̿̀́͒́̆͐̀̽̃͠͠ǘ̷̹͑̉̕ ̸̬͍̈͜r̴̢͈̪̭͇̙͚̖͔̗̰͚̄͜͠u̵̬͓͆̿̋ņ̷̧̱̙̩͓̒́̄͆̈́͋̏́̆̏̕͠ṇ̷̨͎̪̲̰̯̻̘̘̽̍̔̽̀̀͋́̈́̿̕̕í̴͖͖̯͖̒͠ͅṇ̵͓̆̽͒̑̔́͝ģ̴̖͒͛͝.̴̰̻̥̯̣̖͒̑͒̽͂́͌͑͌̓̈́͒͊̑̀
He kept his gaze towards those opening and closing gates. He was right there, just another sixty seconds or so and he would be right there.
The lift he was on jolted, causing him to fall sideways. His face banged against the metal railing, as he had failed to steady himself as quick as he should have to prevent it. His reaction times go physical stimuli were a mess, emphasized by how exhausted this body truly was.
He felt more than heard a faint crack, and knew his glasses had been damaged when his vision in his left eye became distorted. A few shards of glass had embedded themselves into his external socket, the vision in that particular ocular lense now spotty and malfunctioning now as grey static flickered in and out of sight. He barely felt the cool touch of golden ichor falling down his cheek in the parody of macabre tears.
He raised his head and finally glanced behind him, a resigned sort of lost hope filling his body, even as his mind frantically tried to think up a solution of what he could do.
(Talk)
Keep him talking
(Keep me talking)
Keep his attention
(Keep my attention)
It’s what he does best
(It’s what you do best)
“This has gone on long enough now, hasn’t it Stanley.” The Narrator unmuted himself and turned off the vision to his left eye. It wasn’t needed anymore, and if things went the way he hoped, it would soon later be repaired. But, being as damaged as it was, he could ant least siphon that energy to the rest of his weary form rather than letting it go to waste. He stood up straight and squared his chin, calmly fixing his glasses despite wanting to fall apart right then and there.
He just had to keep him occupied, until he could be crushed by those gates.
It was the only choice he had left after all.
“Why are you doing this. No good will come from killing me don’t you know. I had thought you to be smarter than that.”
The thing that had taken over his precious Stanley, that had his face, his clothes, his eyes let out a giggle at that. A longer chuckle followed, and then a brief and stifling pause, before a full, blown out laugh. Glitches upon glitches contorted, twisted and warped his features. The virus puppeted Stanley to its whims, stealing and manipulating the voice of a man who rarely spoke, and it was evident in the seeping life fluid that fell past strained lips. Blood dripped down the imposter’s chin, the raspiness of those laughs from a throat ragged and raw from disuse, both of which the virus paid no mind to despite having to fall victim to the striking urge to release a hacking cough.
It broke the Narrator’s heart to see what had become of Stanley.
Continuous glitches ran across his skin, from his exposed hands, to the visible skin of his torso. His sclera were complete black and his eyes shone a stark red against the darkness that surrounded them both. Just those two colors, those two specific, horrid colors, seemed to have taken him over, controlling his now every action and whim. How much of Stanley was even truly left, that Narrator did not know.
He didn’t know if this was the true part of Stanley that he never showed, or if his protagonist was merely a puppet being pulled upon a deranged and psychotic string. All he knew was that he had to stall for time.
Had to attempt to save them both.
Ẅ̵̨̨̨͔͕̭͉̼͙͙̯̱̺̼́͊̍h̴̡̛̩͙͈͚̰͈̘̱̹̰͖͌̈́̀̉̒̚ͅy̵̠̏̓̓̍̅̔̂̎̈̀̀?̴̯̠̪̥̥͈͆ ̵̧̛̣̱̱̖̻̼̉́͊̇̈Ỵ̴͓͙̄̂͘̚͝o̶̡̨͙̥̎͆͋̊̉̈́̐̂̇̈́̄͘͘͝u̵̡̲̙̭̞͋͑̀͊͑̊̃̈͑͒̏̇͘͠ͅ’̷̗̘͚̳̤͓̥͕̳͈͎͎͔́̾̄̽͒r̸̠̻̞͉̰̥͎̱̙̩̯̯̥̳͌́̈́́̉̈̚é̵̩̼͕͉͚̻̞̟͈̩̈̌͗̓͑ ̸̡̦͓̱͇̪͇̏͒̈́̈̓̀̒͆̿̏̊͘͝ͅa̸̧̪͇̋́̆̃͐̕͝ͅs̵͍͍̯͚͉̰̻͚̫̤͛̌̓͆̈́̀̚͠͝k̷̢̢̧̧̮̰̗̪͚̖͔͇̩͑͜ͅí̸̡̻̘͕͇͕̮̙̺̭͔̯̼̓̾̓̅̾͂͝͝ͅn̶͎̬͍̜͕̓̍̂ģ̶̧͎̜̳̞̻̥̰͓̬́̃̓̔̇̈̒͒ ̷̬̤͕̠̠̭̙͓̲͔̤͚͔̠̆̈́̀̀͛͗͋̽̋̈́̏̑̑̊m̴̨̢̥̻̩̱͙͔̘͎̲̄͌̊̍̇͗̀̋͒̌̄̾͝͝͠ͅệ̸̳͎̗̙͎͓̗̪̫̺̟̃͗͊̎̎͂̚ ̸̛͐̈́̋̏͜w̷̡̢̧̢͚̦͇͙͖͔̘̉̉̋͒͐̍́͒̄̏͝͠h̵̞̹̟͉͇̻͖̙̠̪̓̀͗͊̎͘ͅẏ̴̥͓̮͈͔̦?̵̫̉̿̽́̏̈́̐̈͒̑̕ͅ
The virus spoke with Stanley’s mouth, laughter causing them to buckle over as they clutched their sides. Even more red ran down their mouth, and this time, it was also followed by blood from their nose. Dripping, dripping, and dripping down into the dark abyss below them from this suspended area above.
(Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up)
Stop hurting yourself
(Im sorry)
Im so sorry Stanley
̵̹̘̜̙̪̣̭̼̤̱̲͎̃͗̊͂̾͑͒͌̋̾̂́͆̽͝
̷̛̞̻̻́̔̏̿͘̚͜͠Ạ̶̧̼̺̠̬̪̝͋́̂͆̓͋͘n̴̡̢̝̩͍͕͓͚̣͎̣̔̄̈ ̷̫̮͑̅͛͌͝͝a̸̭̼͚͕̳̟͍͗̎̈́͌̍͛͐̃̕c̶̙͙̲̖̤̹̙̽̄ͅt̷̡̜̯̱̱͉͍̭̜̮͎̮̺̔̀ͅú̸̝͈̞̻̲̲̪̳̮̤͚̳͊͆̔̎̏͊̇̾̓̎̀̓̂͜a̵̗̩̺͛͂̇̋̈́̂l̵̳͛̃̈̇͋̓̄̎̚ ̵̺̍ė̵͈̲͎̻̪̜̖̪͕͎͚͗̒̽̀̄̾͛͋̾̈̉͠n̶̢̟͕̬̤̤̙̹͓̟̺̔̆ḑ̸̹̱̙̝͍͕̽̀̊͗̏̚i̶̢̛̼̠̫͕̤̰̻̬̙͈̼͓̟̺̎̌̋̈́͗́̈͊n̴̡̮͍̥̯̯͇̞̙̈́͘̕ḡ̶̦̪̫̼̺̝̗̫͉͛̑̈́̑͒͗͋̾͊̓̄̂͘͝.̷͓̭͔͖̅ ̵̢̧͓̦̟͎̲̮͆͊͌̉̿͌͒A̸̠͔͍̰̲͗̈́́͂̓̈́n̵̡̛̦͎̙͈̲̹̭̲͌̈͝ ̴̼̹͌͆̋̔̈̄Ę̵̢͇͇̻̝͈̍̌̀͜͜͝ͅṅ̴̙͇͇̻͖̘̪̲̥͉̯̂͂͆̉͊̅͒̍̑̒̀̂̚̚d̷̡̬̜̺̠͙͓̙̈̅͆̒̇͒͂̾͛͜ ̴͚͉͚̱͋͐̓̈̽̓̉̕ͅt̴̡͇̞̙͎͍͔̬̜̻͓̱͎͍̃̀̕͝͠o̶̖̓̅̊̄̉͋̌͑͒͒͑̀̚ ̶̨̢̛̮̳̤͓̲̫̱̮͚͎͚̙̍͒̕͜ả̵̭͍̝̖̣͈̻̃̈̓̓̆͘n̵̙̪̰͙͒̄͊̒̓͋̅̌̿ ̷̙̣̘͋̎͑̋̇̚Ẹ̴̛̘͍͍̞̞̪̟͕̦̆̈́̏̈́́̈́̅̽̈́́͝n̶̝͈̤͖̼̪̣̞̻̠̜̎́̒͛͋͒͜͝ḏ̴́ ̸̥̜̘͉̤͇̭͈̙̹̅̌̀̇̈́̏̚ǫ̷̛̺̀͌̎̈́̎̿̅̔͒̄̎̈́͘͝f̸̨̤̎͊̔̌̐͗͐̎͆̈̅̀̅̿ ̶̨̛̞̰̺̟͔̭͆̄͂̓͂̀͌̾̾́͋̋͐ä̶̛͉̮͉͚̣̲̝̻̜̜̣̰́̄͊̂̒̐̾̏̊̓ͅl̴̤͕͔̹̥͔̞͌̆̋̍̈́̎̏̄͘̚ḷ̴̛̛̣̹͙̥͇͈͆̏̉́͑̋͌̊̚̕ ̵̛̭͙͙̓̒̐͒́́͊̑̍͘̕͠͝͝t̷̛͙͉̤̭͕̘͖̪̲͉͓̃̅͛͑̅̂͌̓̌͗̈́̒͘͘͜h̸͍͌́̐̋͂̈́́́̊̔̀̕̚í̷̢͚͎̩̖̋̓̃̀͜n̵̨̖̭͉̮̗̤͎̈́̊́̒͑̀̈́͋̐̍̾̚̚͘͘g̸̢̢̦̯͈̪̝̲̥͓͉̏̊s̶̡̙̮͙̝̳̫͈̈͆̾͆̽͌̏͐̽͐́̕̚.̴̯̺͎̃̽̅̆̉͛͌͗̚ ̶̨̣̻͓̹̱̉̐̌͊͐̔̕À̷͇͓̖͎̺͉͂̏ṙ̴̟̉̀̈́̓͊̈́̒͘̕ë̷̛̦͇̭͙́̾ň̷̨̡̢̢͈̮̺̌͠’̸̗̰͙̣͉͙̻̥͑̄̓̔͘t̷̡̤͍̙̲̞͔͇̭̝̯͈̆ ̴̢̝̦̬͎͗ỳ̴̖̹̻̊̈̔̑͂̃͂̀̀͂̾͘o̷̝̓͐͝͝ų̷̛̛̺̱̣̮̯̫͕̺̪̂̏̉̏̈́͊͋̓͊̊͑̓̀ͅ ̴̧̨͔̩͓̫̯̂̅̂́͑́̄̓̈́̊͋͋͘̚ͅë̶̳̱̭̥̖̤̳͎͍̰̣̹́̎͌̉͊̐͌̑̆͐ͅͅx̵̰̝̣̝̻̩̳̽͌̑̌͊̀́̿̄͆̄̏̕̕͠c̶̤̠̝͎͖̪̓̓̅̎̀̅̅͒̾̆i̷̧̘̤̬̠̯̦͓͈̬͙͑ͅt̵̡̗̖͎̼̖̘͎̝͔̆̌ͅe̶̡̞͉̼̱̺̗̘̲͙͛̍̄d̴̛͖̜͓̺̰̺̆͑̎̋̂͊̋̀̕͠?̵̹͇̲̪̮͙̝̩̯̙̖̌̀̆͒̆̅̐͜͜͝ ̵̛͈̼̲̇̊̋̈́̂̅̚͠Ǎ̶̱̠̳͉͔̾r̸̡̡̺̟͔̺̳͈̬̱̹̣̱̅̔̀̀ę̸͚̗͎̘͔̟́̓̑́̆̾̀̐̀̕̚n̸̠͇̰̔̂̃̏̋̉̑̊̋̿͗͛͠͝’̴̱͖̂̌̂͐t̵̨̖̏͛̎̓͐͛ ̸̝̭̤͙͗͌͗̅̓̀̐͠y̸̳̘̺̮̟̝̆͐̈́͐͋͋́̾͜͝ơ̵̡̜͔̞͙̯̮͉̥̻͚̌̕ͅů̸̢̢̩͎͎̪̲̑̃̿̈́̏́͆̏̚͜͠ ̴̥͙͚͔̭͈͚͔̼̜̀̆̆̎͆͆̈̈́̂̐̀ͅȟ̸̡̽͋̑̀̄͂̍ā̷̠̫̼̝͙̖̠̭͙̫̬̰̊́̿̿͝p̵̺͓̻̤͕̘̼̪̰̳̝͊̔̓̄͑̕ͅͅp̷̡̛̞̖̟̬̟̤̗̈́̈́̓̔͒̈y̸͖̼͈̰̤̳̲͒̄̈́̈͐͘̚͝͝?̸̻̜̮͔̣̘̣͔̒ͅ ̵̨̡̟͙͕̙̭̘͉̩̃̇̔̂̊̀͊̒̈͛Ẅ̷̨͙͕͈̳͎͓̺̏̉̂͂ē̸̥͍͓͔̝̟͖̘̦̥͈͐͌̈́ ̴̛̟̼̼͌̽̒̀̐c̵̛̺͕͕̞̖̬̞̈́̓̐̀͑ȃ̷̡͍̬͋͐̍̈̍n̴̛̲̩̦̼̭̂́̈́͒͐͌̎͐͜ ̵̢̠̬̤̲̮͎͈̭͈̙͋̈́̌̾̿̕̚͝ḟ̶̨̧̡̮̞͚̻̹̥͈͈͙̰̳͙͋̆̊i̴̦͇͈̩͔͈̘̰̬̱͈̩̎͂̀͂͌́̈́̉̈́̚͝ǹ̴̜̫̬̲̫̇͋̃̀̃̃̅͑̆͘a̵̢͇͎̬̭̟̞͖̱̋̒̾̓͊̏͗̍͌̔̕͠͝ͅļ̸̛͇̜͈͓͓̝́͌́͂̍͛̆̕̚̕ļ̷̡̱̥̪̤̻̻̼͕͇̫̿̀́̐̀̌͋́͑̓̚͘͘͜ỹ̷̡̛̝̙̥̗̖͈͎̘̖̎̈́̀̍́̓̃̅̓̕ ̴̛̹̪̬̬̩͖̼̙͎̭̀͗̈́̽̈́̔͗͋̄͂͝e̵͚̤̹͔̘̤̽̋̓̔̂̈́̾̾͆̔̿̔̄͜͝͝n̶̡̛̓̀̅̓̇̽͛͑̌̐̐d̸̨̩̫̮̳̗͈̖͎̯̤͖͆͂̽͠ ̵̧̘̹̻̠̺͎̞̳̼͂̍͐́̊̈́̇͌̚͜i̷̧̭̗̺̯̦͇͗̉̍́̄́͋͊̄ṭ̶̥͈̱͚̜̔́̂̅̓̌̉̈̚͜ ̵̪̲͍́̐̑̑̉̉̾̏͗̾́̉͗̕a̸̡̢̝͖̞͚̞͍͉̓̆͑̏̅͋͋̈́̏͌͐̕̚ͅľ̷̻̝͛̑̐͘͠l̴̡̛͇̬͖͇͈͇̯̰̤̫̞̖̦̬͗͑̽̓̃͆̃̈̊̑̀̚.̴̖̺͕̭͈̲͔̂͜ ̵̢̼͚͇̦̺̘͉͇̖͚͋͑̇͒́̑̍̀͗̐͘̕͠T̵̗̻̩͉̤̓̓̍͜ͅͅo̶̡̲͕̓̑͌́̏̌̈͊ģ̶̤̖̰͈̹̹̫̌̾̈́̄̔̚͜͝͝e̴̗̝̦̜̯̘̪͔̥̠͚͊t̸̪̯̙̼͇̮̟̹̟̮͇̖̘̜̠͆͊̾̊͗̎͐͂̉͌͘͘̚h̷̲̦͖̪̠̺̭̅̿́̈́̽͊̈́͛ë̶̝͔̗̺́̀͗̃̎̍̓̀̇̕ṛ̶̜͔͚̰̎̈́͋̿.̷̢͖͔̰̫̩̜͍̭̠̇͐̽̓͌̈́̽̑̇̐́̽͒͜
Another step over darkness. The vibrant red following as both the red and the dark black sought to reach out and finally, finally, swallow the Narrator whole.
The Narrator felt the platform beneath his feet come to a stop, the gates on either side of the small lift opening up their jaws on final time.
̷͚̹̺̙̗̙̳̋̋̋͊̔̓̀͘͝͝
̵͉͖̪̐̌̐̏̊̈́͛̑͗͂̈́͘͝Į̴̠̫̠̮͚̙͍̬͕̝͇̜̆̈́͗̔͂͗̽͘͘̚͝͠ ̸̝̳̯͚̱͕̐̿̉́̓̍́h̴̬̝͕̆̒̽͋̒ạ̶̈̋́̓̓̉͗͘̚͝͝v̶̨̮͚̥̣̟̹̹̣̲̎͜͝e̸̹̟͒̄͜ ̵̜͇͒̀̀͂̂͋̂̈́͜͜͠ͅt̴̟͉̜͇̲͔̮̺͕͋́̾̀̔̍̂̑̐ͅh̶̢̟̲͕͖͇̮̼͙̝̯͑̒̋͊͊͛͆̆͗̃̚͜͝͝͝ͅȩ̵̱̲̻̞̤͇̗̇͗̇͌͆̾́̐͒͋̃͐̕ ̸͉͉̺̞͙̭̹͜͝p̴̨̣̙̞͍͋̀͗̑̂̆̐̉̈͋̑͠͝͠o̸̧̳̰͙̳͍̞̪̮̝̻̜̟͆̅́w̷̧͈̠̱͖̻͇͗͌e̸̛͉̍́͌͑͑̌̂̏͂̏͝ŕ̸̨̛͍͎̳̪̦̣͇͍̯̟͋̃̓̋͜͝ ̶̣͓͗̿̏̍̿̐̾͋̈͝h̶͈̼̪̥̖̖̩̐́͜è̴̳͚̯̳͓̞͍̟̋̔̉̃̀͆͘r̸̯̹̳̣͆͊̿̓͋̄͂͝ȩ̶̛͔͎͔̩̲͚͍̫̋́̀̀́͒͐͗͗̕͠ ̵͈̳̜͂̾͑̐̎̇ṉ̶̡̧͖̥̗͉̠̬͙̿̏ͅơ̷̡̡̙͓̤̬̱̯̮̳̫̫̾͐͛͊̈͋͐̀͋͝͠w̸̛̮̙̮̮̳̠̪̿̅̃͂͋̑̕͜.̷̡̛͓̯̮͈͍̺̠͎͉̾̊̐̂̽̀͂͠ ̵̰̞̦̤̻̙͚͈̟̪̿̈́̑̈́̀̎̒͜͜͝ͅN̴̨͕̳̳̥͓̯͇̞̲͔̩̯͕̼͌̂̐͋̆͒̆́̕͝ơ̸̱̯̗̹̳̭̣̈͋̏̃̄̑͆̉͂̉͠t̵̡̪̘̞͇͎͎̠͉̳̀͊̄́̏̅̃̍̿̋̊̅̌͑͘ͅ ̶̠̙̞̱͋̈́̎̈́̅͋̓̂y̵̛̲̦͔̹̖̩̮̥͌͋͛́͊̊͊̇̅͛o̶̧̦̺̭̖̺͔̜͇͈͙̗̯̝̓͊͂͗̽̏̚̚̕͝ͅu̷̬̗̱͉̯̙̦̲̮̞̟̝̞̇̄̆͆̅̒̓̈́̈́̽̓͜͝.̸̡̛̱̻̯̞̹͔̰̯̤͌͌̓̿͗̎̍͑̈́̿̈́̎͘̕ͅͅ ̵̨̡̪͈̪̥̼͚̬̩̻͖̩͉̂̐̍̑̄͊͘͘͠͝A̵̩̖̬͗̓̓̃̿͑̾͌̽̍̓͘͝n̵͉͌̔̉͊͋̄̑͝ḋ̸͕̮̹̭̓͠ ̴͎͉̍̔̀̃͑͛̈́̕w̸̼̰͋̆́̌͘h̸͉͕̘̪͖̘̼̞̬͈͊͌̈̏̓̈́̆͆ͅͅͅa̵̠͕̠̙͂̍̐̈́̈́̽̈́t̶̡̡̤̦̣͖̦̯̩͊̑̌̿̉̈̋̏͂ ̶̧̢̢͙͙͚͍̙̤͔̤͓͒͑̀̐͜I̴̢̢̧̹͍̰̠̜͍͈͎̩͇͊̇̊̑͆́͜ ̴̧̻̦̤̈́̃̈́s̶̛͕̳̜̘̪͔̋̾̔͐̊̆̎̉̈́͐̀̌͗̊ą̸̦̮͉͖̇̈́̑̀͂̉̒͋̓͒͌̚̕̚͠ͅŷ̴̨̛̛̯̹͔̗̜̝̹̔̾̊̾̈̎̂̐͝͠͝ ̶̢̛̻̰̦̹̩̠̰͖̳́͆̈́̊̈́̏̍͋̈́̿g̵̨̙̮̃͒̍̔͌͗̐ỡ̵̧̻̌̔͑̔̔́̇͌̓̉̕͝͝e̸̖̜̹͉̻̮͇͗͌̽̆s̸̛͕̳̰͓͓͎̞̟͍̓̑̒̒̍͛̏̀̾̾̃͆́̕ ̵̨̥̖̼̙̗̯̙͔̔͛̏̈̂û̶͍̩̲͙͍̾̍̓ņ̵̘͎͔̬͈̪̺̻͖̤̤͚͔͓͑̍͂́̐t̷̘̱͎̹̜͉̞͕̟̞̓̍̅ḯ̸̡̻̜̻̦̺̣͎̮̫͎̞̟̼̿̈́̐̓͆͑̕l̶̠̠̪͈̿̉̀̾̀̋͐ ̸̯̱̳̙͙͈̮̳̬̠͔̘̓̈́͝t̷̡̝̥̻̰̖̪̙͉̞͋͗̀͗̀̈͂h̶̠̥̖̼͕̲͈̥͍͍̣͙̺̒̊̽̏͛̽͜͝e̴̢̦͇̖̬̖͓̱̭͎͔̼̻͒ ̵̞̩̪͂̉͌́̓͛̅̈́̽̍͌̃̓́͝v̴̗͉͉̀̀͆̋̄́͂̉͊̉̚̚͠e̷̯͕͙͕̜̼͔̣͚̭͕͔̻̰̲͂̋̒͆̇͘͝ŗ̵̠͓̺̪͎̪͇̳̣̖͖͈̬̈͗̓̋̀͂͝ỹ̶̢͍̮͔͉̝̤͓̂̀͌̓̕̚̕͜ ̸͓͗͊͌̑͊͌̓̐Ę̶͇̺̮̟̩̱̱͆̏̈́̓͜ñ̴̹̜̹͉̗̲̀͊̌͠͝ḑ̴͓̝̺͕̯͔̭̺̘͇̦̮͉̎̉̈́̄̏͛̇̀̉̓͜͝.̷̢̧̺̋̀͑
The gates fell close, and all the Narrator knew after was darkness.