Chapter Text
Prologue
The Narrator lives a fairly normal life.
…well, as normal a life as a being-of-indiscernible-origin can.
Like many beings, of discernible origins or not, the Narrator copes with existence by finding something he loves, and doing it as much as possible. In his case, it’s writing, acting, creating - as displayed by the many projects he’s had in his life, each one lovingly began, then guided to its end with practiced care. Many of them had the Narrator himself “playing” one of the characters, gleefully taking on his part with a thrill that can be attributed only to creative satisfaction. He enjoys crafting these people into being - molding these places, fantasizing, making their problems then wrapping everything up. After all, once it’s thought through enough, he can make it come into being all of his own accord!
How that occurs…well, the Narrator gave up trying to understand that a long time ago.
At first, back when the Narrator was new, he walked miles in infinite void, talking to nothing. Figuring out his voice, testing his world - or lack therof - and generally feeling very scared. He created blank halls for himself to walk through aimlessly, trying to find the answer to that itch, the nagging feeling in the back of his fresh new brain. That, of course, had been before he found the pile of books, existing without reason or explanation, fed to him by some twist of fate - or a benevolent passing something. He’d devoured them almost ravenously, and had quickly set about trying to create the places within them, and even recreate the literature itself, in his own way. He’d tried to summon shapeless, formless sensations of things, that popped into being as hazy lumps - not well crafted, or very crafted at all, some just the jumble of words he’d ‘described’ them as. He’d been proud of them anyway, of course, but back then he’d been little more than a computer monitor perched atop a very wobbly, very scrawny body that tripped over absolutely everything.
Nowadays, he's still very scrawny, but with better balance and a much more practical head - and, a knowledge of what makes him happy.
Creating .
The act of crafting people from null, watching as the characters go from point A, to C, to plot twist, to B. To perhaps share words with them, scripted ones, but his. That is what makes him happy, and the Narrator has been doing it for as long as he can remember.
Yet, one day, the Narrator realized much of his stories were the same.
The thought came to him like it was placed there, popping suddenly into being. Yes, they are, he’d thought, tapping a knuckle against his chin. How have I never noticed this? Not completely the same, of course, but they all seemed to follow the same rough track - and, being a person with infinite free time, the being called Narrator promptly decided to challenge himself.
He would create a story with as many endings as possible, actively narrated in as much detail as possible, by the most frustrating character he can think up. The complete and utter opposite of one of his normal, neat little stories, yes! This will surely help him reach new heights of artistic genius! The Narrator set about making it immediately, sitting down with paper and pen. He wanted the ‘plot’ to be very basic, so he went back to his very first story - rather charming, if horribly characterized tale about a man in an office building waking up to find all his coworkers gone. He discovers a mind control machine, switches it off, and steps into the blinding sunlight - credits roll, blah blah. Very unrealistic, but good for what he needed! The Narrator tweaked a few things to make it more…bearable, but swiftly moved on - sitting cross legged in his void, scribbling on procedurally generated bits of paper like a madman, scruffy black hair tied back in a haphazard bun as he hunched over his pages.
The first hurdle, of course, would have been the characterizing of the narration itself. Now how was he going to do that? There’s no physical traits to signify mood, so it would all have to be tone. Intonation, connotation…the Narrator noted all of these down as he scribbled excitedly, mumbling pieces of dialogue to himself and frowning, or huffing a laugh of pleasure. There was a character - a role - taking shape in his head, then, and the Narrator stuck the pieces together with each stroke of the pen. He wanted this new persona to be as annoying and egotistical as possible, without being unlikeable.
The Narrator grinned to himself, chewing on his pencil and imagining a beleaguered author yelling at his own ‘misbehaving’ protagonist. Ah, this is already so fresh and new! And with so many endings, he can recharacterize as many times as he wants, can’t he? The story can be under the pretense of a book, a movie, or - ooh, wait, a game, perhaps? Maybe an interactive novel type, where the reader keeps going off track…The Narrator wrote endings for the concept of each one, hmming to himself, enjoying every moment. He imagined endings where things went good, bad, crazy - lots of crazy, he never does that - and through them all, snarky threads of dialogue drift into his head and are sucked right out onto the page. The characterization was going well, but what to name him?
The Narrator shrugged, and continued writing. He has no name of his own - the nametag constantly pinned to his shirt just says ‘004,’ which is a mouthful - so he felt no need to give his figmented personas any either, including the one he crafted now.
This…oh, this is going to be such fun to say, to act . This will be a very entertaining role to play.
He’ll need a microphone, though.
And with an unassuming pop, one was there. It drifted loosely in the black, and the Narrator frowned at it. He’s going to need an office, too, and so that appeared as well - Messily, since he hadn’t thought about it much, but the Narrator quickly fixed it up as he writes.
Walls slid into one another, shelves popped out from the floor, wood planks rippling across with loud clatters as the Narrator sat in the center of it all, still cross legged, floating about a foot above the writhing floor. A desk shot up like a spring, viewing monitors clattering together, software loading, code spinning around in the Narrator's brain as he stuck it all together, hit boxes popping into being with little shivers of the new textures. At last, gravity affects him, and the Narrator drops onto the ground with a soft thump, still writing, the monitors slowly booting up behind him. Eh, It’ll do.
The map was easy - all he had to do was pace around his office a bit, going over the environment inside his mind until he could practically 3-D rotate it, before neatly placing it into existence and cleaning up any fuzzy bits. The code is always sloppy when it first comes in, but the Narrator cleaned that up too - repurposing some annoying abandoned concepts into the settings, replacing glitched ui with a clean reset system, carefully integrated into the code and narrative both.
Yes, the Narrator thought, floating above his creation, hands on his hips, this is perfect. The stage is set, and now…
… I need a protagonist.
The Narrator groaned, slapping his face with a mumbled ‘shit…’ He forgot to make the office worker. He forgot to make the most important part of the story. Well, at least it shouldn't be too hard to just design one now, right? The Narrator propped his hand on his chin, thinking. There’s not much needed, the Narrator made sure he wouldn’t have any speaking lines, so the code needed would be practically nonexistent. All he needs to be able to do was wander around, make random choices…
And like that, there Stanley was.
Needless to say, the Narrator was extremely pleased. He hasn’t expected such a resoundingly perfect protagonist to just pop out of his head like that! And quite handsome, too - oh, and he’s already moving around. What luck, he works already! The Narrator hummed happily to himself, popping back off to his office to add the finishing touches, leaving Stanley to fend for himself, with nothing but the first few rooms and two doors that wouldn’t open.
When he came back, the Narrator was eager to begin - fiddling with his papers, tweaking the microphone and clearing his throat even before the red light first blinked. Not that Stanley knew any of that, finding himself shocked, frozen solid, staring at his blinking screen.
Quite literally.
You see, Stanley was not the Narrators creation. Stanley wasn’t even an office worker - Stanley was confused, scared, and suddenly not in control of his own body, is what he was, and Stanley was terrified, yet completely unable to show it. Stanley had been placed there by forces beyond both him and the Narrator, and Stanley just wanted to go home.
Stanley did not get his wish.
The Narrator spoke as the first run started. Stanley jumped at the voice from the ceiling, fumbled around trying to figure out why his mouth suddenly wouldn’t open, why he couldn’t jump, why this damn voice was following him - Stanley ran through the story with terror in his heels, stumbling out into the sunlight with relief when it finally came.
The Narrator realized none of this, and saw only a protagonist.
Reset.
The Narrator spoke as the second run started. Stanley sat at his desk, shaking. The door closed, the script was read, and a new ending was met. Stanley nearly had a panic attack, and tried desperately to middle-finger the ceiling, with zero success.
The Narrator couldn’t tell.
Reset.
The Narrator spoke as the third run started. Stanley tried to punch the wall, failed, gave up and decided to just disobey the bastard. Disobeyed every instruction, nearly had an existential crisis at the out of body experience, nearly had a breakdown over the Narrators pleading.
The Narrator begged Stanley to move, his control suddenly snatched away by a -
Reset.
- the Narrator spoke as the second run started.
The Narrator forgot.
THEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDIS
[LOADING]
And the Narrator kept forgetting.
THEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDIS
[LOADING]
And forgetting.
THEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDIS
[LOADING]
And forgetting.
THEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDISNEVERTHEENDTHEENDIS
[LOADING]
And -
._____________________.
Chapter one.
.__________________.
- It had been a normal day, for the Narrator.
The parable, and, consequently, Stanley, are both absent right now. Though Stanley must perceive it as barely a second, the loading of a new reset actually takes about an hour, and during this time, the Narrator will write, organize, and plan - the parable is going very well, and he’s pleased! It’s so fresh and exciting, even if it’s only been running such a short time. He whistles happily as he sorts through textures, giving an obligatory attempt at clearing out the piles of junk floating in the null-space - miles of unused textures and spaghetti code, all tangled together. Sometimes he’ll look over it when he’s bored, like now.
That’s what he’d been doing when he found it.
A camera, floating, stuck, right where Stanley’s office would be. If it had been any closer it would’ve started clipping through the back wall. The Narrator had, as per his nature, been curious, and had even risked opening a window from his office to pick it up. It wasn’t a skill he used often, but it was certainly useful then - the wall opening before his hand as he leaned out, scooping the camera up from empty space. It weighed heavy and solid in his hands, and the Narrator was soon pacing circles around his office as he turned it over. It’s old, he knows that much - Old enough to have a tape lodged in it, an analog recording system, how novel! The Narrator grinned to himself, foolishly thinking he was going to be treated to some nice nostalgia from one of his other projects.
That was not what he got, however.
Click. Whirrr , k - CHU nk!
The mysterious tape whirrs softly in the old television, (which he’d had to dig out from some very old files) its aged screen flickering to life. The Narrator sits on the hardwood floor of his small, neat office, long legs crossed under him, glasses perched neatly on his lack of a face. There’s only an empty void where one should be - not that he minds. He rarely sees his own reflection anyway. He watches intently, as the screen flickers, a buzz rising in the background as grainy pixels come together out of static, to form…
…is that Stanley ?
The Narrator wasn’t expecting that. He sits back, cocking his head at the low-res image, dark hair shifting. How odd, he doesn’t remember giving Stanley this. And he looks somehow…different, too. Something slight in how Stanley holds himself on screen is different than he does now. The Stanley on tape blinks bright-eyed out from the screen, chewing his lip absentmindedly, his shirt neater, his hair unruffled in tight curls. This is, ironically, the most detailed view of him the Narrators ever gotten. The Narrator is rather proud of himself for thinking him up.
“Well. Um…”
The Narrator jolts back in surprise, letting out a small gasp. He's speaking? Goodness, this is a discovery! The Narrator leans forward eagerly, listening with rapturous attention, tapping one finger on the wooden floor. He’s never heard Stanley’s voice before, and he’s dead curious. He didn’t even know he gave him one!
“ I think it’s been…a week, since i began doing, well, whatever the hell this is. And about two days since he showed up - some British voice from…my head? The ceiling? I swear, this whacko office just keeps getting weirder.”
The Narrator raises his eyebrows. Is Stanley talking about him ? Still, the first sentence he’s heard from him - he certainly doesn’t talk as eloquently as the Narrator. ‘Whacko’ is not a word the Narrator even had in his vocabulary before this. Stanley’s voice is deeper than the Narrator would’ve thought, and slightly accented. It’s also a bit stressed, but a little stress is to be expected from any of the Narrators' creations. The Narrator tilts his head, studying Stanley’s face as he speaks.
“Everyone is gone, and I'm still here. I even have my camera…obviously. My name is Stanley - second name, not so sure. I got hit on the head pretty hard, I think. Kyle at the bar was right - aliens do exist, and I’ve probably been abducted by ‘em. British ones, too. Of the stuck-up variety. So, if anybody finds this in a crop circle somewhere, please send the FBI, and tell Sharon to feed my dog. It keeps making fun of my job…The alien, not my dog, or Sharon.”
The Narrator furrows his brow. What dog? Who’s Sharon? What’s a bar? Or an FBI? When is this tape from ? He clicks pause on the old television, picking up some papers from nearby and rustling through them. He huffs, throws them over his shoulder (the entire floor is a mess of discarded scripts) and picks up another, pacing through the stacks of papers that litter his office. No…no, no, nothing…nope, no mention of any of those whatever-they-ares anywhere . The Narrator has a vague idea of what a dog is, but how would Stanley know about them? The Narrators never mentioned it. This is getting more peculiar by the minute - how would Stanley know about dogs and…whatever FBI’s are? Or did he make it up?
The Narrator hums thoughtfully, and shrugs. It’s exciting, is what it is - Stanley having a voice, a camera even! Anyway, it always pays to know more about your protagonist. So, the Narrator slips back down onto the floor. He tugs the creases out of his woolen sleeves, and presses play again, his attention once again fixing into the screen. The tape whirrs loudly, the whine of the systems sliding through pitches as it fast forwards, occasionally stopping for a few shards of Stanley’s voice to drift out. This time, he sounds frustrated, a little more disgruntled.
“Hey, it’s uh…me again. My name is, obviously. Still Stanley. No progress on the second name, I think It might’ve started with R? Anyway, he’s still here, doing his thing - and the world still keeps snapping back on itself, which is still really, really weird. I tried going through the other door today, and it was…actually kinda funny, which is refreshing. He got pretty mad at me, but at least this means I do have some control, thank f*ck. Maybe I can get out after all? I’ll try the...”
The tape cuts Stanley off in the middle of his musing, humming as it buzzes along, the Narrator watching with furrowed eyebrows. Or they would be, if he had them - the Narrator still doesn’t possess a face. Still, when does Stanley take these logs? How has the Narrator not noticed it? And where on earth did he learn that sort of language? The Narrator sighs huffily, watching the images flick by, with zero idea it isn’t meant to fast forward on its own.
“Hey, Stanley again - so, I tried jumping off the platform thing, and it didn’t quite go to plan. But, get this, he told me I have a wife .”
The Stanley on screen grins, that wide, shit-eating expression the Narrator usually only sees when Stanley’s about to break something, leaning forward onto his knees as he snorts. He looks genuinely amused, continuing in a tone like he’s repeating a funny story to a friend.
“I have no idea where he got that idea. I don’t even like women. Honestly, he’s really weird, just in general. I think he might actually be an alien, because he certainly doesn’t seem to understand the concept of me not dating a mannequin. Literally! A dollar store mannequin, fake boobs ‘n all! Hilarious, I tell you. On top of that, he also keeps talking to someone who isn’t me, and saying I’m doing all this in my head, which I’m not…British aliens must not get out much, I guess.”
The tape cuts off Stanley’s laugh at the end, and the Narrator huffs as the tape whirrs onwards. He wasn’t trying to imply that Stanley should marry the mannequin, but more that what he’d tied himself to was fake and meaningless. Like the mannequin. He couldn’t’ve been much clearer! And he had been talking to the audience, what’s a story without some of that? Honestly, Stanley is such a critic, and of his own story too! The tape whirrs for a very long time, pausing through what must be hours of footage before stopping again. The intervals seem to be getting longer…?
“ Alright, I’ll cut the shit - I’ve played every ending thirty four times now, and I think I might be going insane. “
The Stanley on screen indeed looks slightly unhinged, rocking back and forth on his chair like he’s had too much coffee. The Narrator feels a pang of sympathy for him - he looks very frazzled, rubbing his forehead as if he has a headache. Still, thirty four is a bit of an exaggeration - they haven’t even been through the story that many times!
“ Even though I know he’s alive, he keeps staying the same . Damn . Things . It never changes! I swear I’m about to - to just lose it! And finding him? No luck! He’s got to be somewhere in here, I can’t be imagining him, can I? One of these doors has to open.”
The Narrator blinks. Stanley was trying to find him…? That’s oddly touching. Not that he could, the Narrators door leads right into the void. He might be able to find the speaker he has set up, if he clipped through the office roof, but still…The Stanley on screen runs a hand through his hair and groans, sinking back in the chair, looking dejected.
“ Maybe I am making all this up…”
He mutters, and the tape slips on. It speeds through log after log, each time Stanley sitting in the same place, but as the images flicker on, the Narrator notices him looking progressively…tireder. His hair gets messier, but never any longer, his posture worse, his eyes wearier. The Narrator blinks - that’s so much footage, so many hours of tape, surely Stanley can’t have recorded all that without him knowing? Where would he have gotten the time from? The tape whirrs, finally stopping again, and the Stanley on screen looks…
…oh.
His eyes red rimmed and exhausted, Stanley sits hunched over, staring dead-eyed into the screen. His hands are trembling where he locks his fingers together, knuckles white. The Narrator can only stare, mouth hanging slightly open. He…he never remembers Stanley looking like that .
“ My name is…Stanley, yeah, i…I can’t really remember the last time I did one of these. Bit rusty, but…I have to. To just talk, at something, especially after…”
His voice is raw and halting, like it hasn’t been used in a while. He coughs, clearing his throat, shoulders trembling. He seems somehow older, despite the fact his face hasn’t changed at all.
“He seemed so excited about it. I thought it would be, i dunno, maybe a better ending. He seemed so distraught, about those…reviews? Again with the game thing. I thought maybe it’d at least be something new. But…”
The Stanley on screen takes a deep breath, shaking slightly. He presses his fingers together, steepling his hands, fingers white with pressure.
“…There…was a button. There was a button, and he'd put it in a room at the end. He said I could use it to skip over him, and I thought it was just another gimmick. Just another twice-damned ending. That’s what I…i thought .”
His voice hitches, and Stanley stops. His face twists up, swallowing, the lump in his throat bobbing as the tension remains for a moment. Stanley just shakes his head, and lets it drop into his hands, beginning to…to… The Narrator sits bolt upright, his mouth hanging open, staring in shock as the fuzzy image that is Stanley shakes his head over and over, tears dripping through his fingers. They dig into his hair, his voice a choked whine when it finally comes.
“ I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what happened. It took so many hours to make my way back here - everything was just - just dust, stretching out into forever, the door went away, he said it was - was years? Years? I can’t understand why I couldn’t - I couldn't move. I couldn’t breathe and my hand moved without me and I don’t know if he’s coming back - he has to come back, he has to, i can't lose him too, h-he’s -”
Stanley’s voice wavers, shattering into shards that dig at the Narrator's mind like physical knives. No, no, what happened ? Where did this come from, what is Stanley talking about!? What happened, who did this to his protagonist!?
“…he’s all I have left anymore…”
Are the last words to shudder from Stanley’s mouth, before the taps whirrs on. The Narrator can only sit there, stunned, cogs grinding in his head as the tape rattles inside the old television. What is going on? He doesn’t remember that, it…it can't actually have happened, can it? But there’s proof right here, Stanley…he cried . The Narrator has never seen him do that. A few annoyed glances, some sighs, maybe a stupid, shit-eating grin here or there - but tears? Tears? No, that’s not like him, that’s not like Stanley. The Narrator didn’t make him to be that way, did he? He can’t really remember designing Stanley, but he must’ve made him, so…
The tape stops with a click, and the Narrator looks up, mind still reeling.
The Stanley on screen doesn’t speak, not immediately. He just stares into the camera, looking…empty. He just looks beaten, and the Narrator still can’t wrap his head around why.
“ I don’t…i just don’t understand it. “
Stanley mutters, voice hoarse as he stares at the camera, brow slowly furrowing. His hair is an absolute mess, his collar wrinkled, the bags under his eyes big enough to hold Texas.
“Ive tried, to talk to him. But I can’t . Something in me just…won’t. And I’m talking physically, it won’t. Nothing comes out. Maybe he’s…stopping me, somehow, but I can’t stop trying - I have to have an actual conversation or I’ll…i’m…”
Stanley groans deeply, rubbing his face with his hands. He mumbles into them for a moment, words unintelligible until he raises his head again, now glaring at the screen with a sudden anger in his eyes.
“ Whats the point anymore? In any of this, in even trying to talk to him? Hell, I'm sitting here talking to a camera now, because I choke up each time I try to talk to the one person I actually do have. I can't go on like this, i just need to see someone, anyone, anything - just something I can actually touch, something that’s actually alive, something that isn’t this stupid - “
Stanley suddenly shoves himself up and off the chair, gritting his teeth as he grabs the back of it in both hands, fingers digging into the plastic.
“ F*cking -“
The Narrator flinches back at the venom in his voice, eyes widening as Stanley’s shoulders hunch, lifting the chair and crossing his room in one long stride, pulling back, raising up and -
“ OFFICE !”
Stanley screams, smashing it down onto his computer, which explodes in a shower of glass and circuitry and metal so visceral the Narrator instinctively jerks back. He flinches, shielding his head as the crash explodes from the speakers. But, of course, nothing hits him, and it still takes the Narrator a moment to remember the destruction is all on screen. Stanley’s labored breathing seems to surround him, the Narrator staring wide-eyed through his fingers at the flickering, glowing pixels. Stanley just stands there, back turned to the camera, shoulders rising and falling as his chest heaves, his hands clenched into trembling fists, whole body quivering as quiet, choked huffs stab at the air. His head dips slightly, and the Narrator only watches in shock as Stanley slowly breaks down.
“Hell, am i even real?”
Stanley asks in a choked voice, to no one but an empty machine.
“I've been stuck, in this loop, with this - this voice in my head that hates me, for what feels like f*ckin’ years at this point. How can I be real? I keep dying, and dying, and dying - I can barely remember home anymore. I can barely remember the fact that I had one. I haven’t - I can’t…I can’t remember what sunrises look like, I can’t remember the sound of the city, I can’t - I can’t remember living !”
His voice has gotten progressively more desperate over the course of the clip, and now it breaks. The camera isn’t fastforwarding. It doesn’t even glitch, the sight of Stanley’s anger and hopelessness burning into the Narrator's eyes as he listens, and stares, horrified. The Narrator can’t think properly. He can barely process these words, think through these concepts, put together the pieces. Stanley’s voice cracks, and the Narrator flinches.
“ This is hell, isn’t it. Hell with a voice who hates me.”
The voice that crackles from the screen is so horribly hollow. Flat as a lost life in a hospital bed, as his whole body trembles, pixels shuddering like the recording of skin. Stanley wraps his arms around himself and stares at the smashed desk, tears dripping onto the shattered metal.
“He’s never going to change, is he? He’s just going to keep saying the same things, telling the same story, picking the same fights, until I go so crazy he’ll have to kill me.”
Stanley laughs, hollowly, tears dripping onto the woodsplinters.
“Maybe if I’m lucky, next time, I’ll finally die for g-“