Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In his boss’s office, Stanley sat on a far end of the leather couch out in front of the desk, staring down at the coffee table a few steps away instead of the entity sat beside him. The only reason Stanley came up here, despite his better judgment, was to ask a simple question, but the settings person insisted he make himself comfortable first.

Ever the opportunist, the being took advantage of Stanley’s first show of compliance to stretch out the interaction as long as they could. Water? Coffee? Tea? It offered all three, as it was commonplace to do so for short visits such as these. They also offered some less conventional beverages, such as chocolate milk, apple juice, and wine. Stanley firmly denied each recommendation, very confused about how the other would be able to acquire those drinks in the first place since he’s pretty sure they don’t have any reason to exist in the game-

But that’s not what Stanley came to ask about. He came up here to get answers to something far more important, and Stanley would not let himself get distracted like 432 so clearly wanted.

[Do you have any actual plans to keep the parable going?] Stanley signed, lifting his gaze from the coffee table’s uninteresting surface and redirecting it to the settings person’s form which currently occupied space on the opposite end of the couch. Initially, it had tried to sit arm-to-arm with Stanley but reluctantly distanced itself when he expressed discomfort with the unnecessary close proximity.

“Of course, Stanley! I have been doing so, haven’t I?” White text popped up front and center in Stanley’s vision, and, behind the text display, the being tilted its head slightly. “I mean, has everything faded out of existence? I don’t think so.”

Stanley wasn’t sure if 432 was being avoidant with him on purpose or genuinely misinterpreting his question. Stanley still didn’t know where he stood with them after the whole meeting room incident. He didn’t fully understand their motives, let alone how any of this involved him outside of what he’s been vaguely told. After being tricked so maliciously with years of absolute isolation, Stanley didn’t know how much trust to put in the other if any at all, regardless of how much they insisted they were genuine in their words.

Of course, Stanley already knew about these uncertainties towards the entity’s character before he came up here. There was no point in fussing over it now. Stanley just gave 432 the benefit of the doubt and decided to elaborate himself a bit.

[You said nothing would need to be changed to have the parable spiral in on itself, but no endings or resets have happened since… y’know] Stanley signed awkwardly, hesitant to ask if that whole spiel given during their interaction after the parable’s end was more for the Player than him.

“Stanley, I’m sure I’ve already advised you not to worry over that,” the lines above the entity’s digital clock display turned upwards in concern while their crescent smile flipped down into a frown; in the sentient darkness that surrounded it, Stanley could just barely perceive a small movement suggesting a hand had been moved over their chest to express hurt. “You should relax. You wouldn’t want to rush any thing, would you? I want you to have time to fully process this change before I take things any further.”

[I have been processing. It’s just kind of] Stanley tried to articulate the strange feeling of unease that built up the longer the break went on. [It's uncomfortable not doing anything to reach an ending. I’m not used to it. The break has gone on long enough.]

“Has it been long? I didn’t realize! You’ll have to forgive me, Stanley, as, although I’m an expert at keeping the time, my perception of it is still a bit poor.” Their glowing crescent frown was obscured by a pitch black hand— maybe solidified darkness, maybe flesh, who knows— moving up to obscure it. “And Stanley, just know that if you’re ever experiencing feelings that you’d rather not, you can always come to me to relieve yourself-”

Stanley couldn’t help but wince at the not-so-subtle invitation. No matter how many times he turned that particular offer down, the settings person always eagerly suggested it every chance they got. The last time Stanley asked 432 to do whatever it was that let him experience the desensitization he usually felt within that plane that existed between reboots, Stanley wasn’t in the right state of mind. It was a moment of vulnerability; he was thinking very little of anything at all because thinking physically and emotionally pained him back then. What happened was a one time thing, and Stanley had no plans to repeat it.

[No, I don’t need that.] Stanley signed immediately. It’s not that anything bad happened while Stanley was under the tranquil spell. He just feared growing a reliance on it. [I just want to do a run through the office again.]

The settings person seemed to perk up at this and had gone silent as if articulating a response, but Stanley was faster than the text update.

[And no, that doesn’t mean I’m recognizing you as the parable’s new “teller” or however you described it] Stanley pretended not to see the dejected deflation of smoke tendrils slithering about on the other side of the room. [I’d just appreciate something familiar.]

Stanley’s craving for new things had definitely been satiated by the new state of the game. Not positively, but also not negatively enough for him to feel too distressed from that alone. It’s just that, after a while, the change without any return to the normal state of affairs started to have a detrimental impact on Stanley. Everywhere Stanley went was so unusually quiet without a posh voice commenting on his interactions with a room. When he tried pushing for the Insanity Ending in the basement, absolutely nothing happened no matter how long he spent looping through the rooms. He hasn’t even been on speaking terms with the Narrator lately(Stanley decided that on his own), so the only thing that remained somewhat the same after the takeover was the setting of the office map itself.

Stanley just needed something familiar. Something he could enjoy without stressing over his worth to a presumably higher being. If he got that, Stanley was sure he’d be able to bounce back to his usual rebellious, unbothered self in no time… if he was that way before this all. Was he like that?

No response came from the settings person for a while. Stanley picked at a small tear in his jeans over his thigh while he waited, trying not to let his thoughts spiral into a minor identity crisis.

Eventually, the digital clock display over the other’s face scrolled into a blur before settling on 11:11 AM. Stanley had seen the 432 do that a few times before to recognize it as either an expression of some sort of emotion or a communication of an idea.

The other continued to “stare” at him somewhat expectantly; 11:11 AM was still set. Was there a point to that Stanley was missing or…?

“Is your favorite time not familiar to you?” The white text returned. “Hmm, did you give me what you thought was the accurate time after all?”

Oh! Stanley remembered at once. He did, in fact, confirm 11:11 am as his favorite time back when the time settings only existed as a series of sliders and text, but that all felt so long ago now.

[Well, I didn’t think you would remember that] Stanley signed, trying to hide his surprise at something so small and wanting to get back to what he originally asked-

“Of course! I have so much data on you that I would never forget. I’ve said before that I enjoy learning about you, Stanley,” the affirmation of interest never got easier to read the more it was reinstated. Stanley also hated how it made his face warm up automatically and forget what was being talked about beforehand.

“No need to feel embarrassed over it, Stanley. It’s only the truth! Saying I find you interesting would be an understatement,” Stanley is grateful for his habit to sit with both his knees up to his chest since, at that moment, the joints were perfect to hide his flushed face behind. Stanley could faintly hear chittering from the sea of black behind 432, something that was most likely an imitation of playful laughter. Luckily for Stanley, who was struggling to figure out what response to sign next, the text updated again.

“I could set up a run if that’s really what you want, Stanley,” the text read. “It will look a little different since I don’t have full control over some things yet, and I don’t know the story as well as I used to, but I can unlock certain zones, cutscenes, reset, and influence a few other aspects. Would that be enough for you?”

[Yes, that would be great.] Stanley raised his head up from his knees and fixed his hair where it had flattened messily against his forehead. Reaching any ending at this point would be fine. Stanley would be satisfied playing along with the original story perfectly if that’s all there was to do. The Narrator would definitely throw a fit over it though. Stanley could practically hear him now: ‘You make such extraneous efforts to throw my story off track continuously, but take orders from that thing just fine? Unbelievable!’ or something along those lines. 

“Great! Let’s get started!” The text updated while Stanley’s focus was occupied accurately portraying the Narrator in his head.

Wait, now? Stanley only had time to think those few words before-

{The end is never the end is never the end is never the-}

Stanley was back in his office.

“How to set the stage, hmm…” the text read while Stanley recovered from the vertigo that came with resets he wasn’t prepared for. “Oh! I’ve got it!”

Stanley would have expected the noise of papers rustling if this was a different widespread being leading him through the story.

“Stanley had been at his desk for nearly an hour when he suddenly realized that all of his coworkers had vanished. He was in complete isolation. Absolutely no one had shown up to ask him to sharpen a pencil. This was very unusual. Something was clearly wrong.”

Sharpen a pencil? Stanley’s pretty sure that wasn’t in his made-up job description, but he wasn’t going to nitpick or anything. As long as the retelling still got the unexplained isolation part down, Stanley didn’t see a point in stressing the details.

“Greatly perturbed, Stanley did not move an inch for the longest time,” the text updated. “But after he regained his senses, he realized he had a choice to make.”

A choice? Stanley puzzled before two rounded rectangular buttons(similar to the ones he had to click to confirm the time during reboots) popped up in his field of vision.

<Leave your office to investigate> or <Stay put>

Huh, that’s different, Stanley thought. Well, it’s not like this was a new decision for Stanley to make. He just never thought it would be presented this clearly.

Stanley was tempted to select “Stay put,” just to see what would happen, but decided against it since he wanted to hear more of 432’s abridged telling of the parable.

<Leave your office to investigate>

Immediately, Stanley was teleported a step outside his office. Momentarily displaced, Stanley turned around and tried to open the door behind him, but it was locked tight. The question of what would happen if he chose the option to leave but then stayed in his office anyway admittedly did cross Stanley’s mind, and it appears he got his answer: it wasn't a possibility in the first place.

“Stanley attempted to go back into his office since he remembered he didn’t care about his coworkers too much and deserved the break from unnecessary communications, but in a hurry to play detective, he had locked himself out! Now, Stanley would be forced to go search the office building in hopes that he might bump into someone that can unlock it for him. Poor Stanley.”

[Oh, very funny] Stanley signed, letting go of the door handle immediately after he read the comment made on his attempt to turn it.

“I’m glad you think so, Stanley.” The text updated before Stanley had time to question whether or not 432 could see him at all. He considered asking the other how they were watching him, since he knew that the Narrator had to be outside the game to do that, but quickly decided he didn't care that much and exited the first room.

Well, Stanley was about to exit the first room, but he stopped in the doorway the second he heard muffled yelling coming from behind. Stanley backtracked and scanned over half the room before his eyes found the source of the noise in the far right corner. The situation over there was… interesting, to say the least.

At that inconspicuous cubicle desk, the Narrator was bound tightly to a rolling chair by straps of sentient darkness. He was visibly struggling against the dark tendrils that sprouted from the corner wall to restrain him, but he didn’t seem to be making any progress in breaking free. His mouth was thickly covered, but the rest of his face was left alone; the darkness didn’t seem like it was trying to suffocate the Narrator to death again, so Stanley let himself relax a bit. Whatever this was served the purpose of keeping the Narrator quiet rather than killing him.

It probably wasn’t appropriate to laugh at the sight of the Narrator red in the face, rocking a cheap office chair back and forth while using his eyes to demand that Stanley help him, so Stanley refrained. Still, he couldn’t help but find this a little funny.

“Oh, you weren’t meant to find him,” the text read. “I underestimated how loud he could be…”

[Why is he like this?] Stanley gestured to the troubled Narrator who had given up on squirming after admitting to himself that it was pointless.

“Well, I didn’t want him to get in the way of the story, so I decided to shove him somewhere he’d be overlooked.” It was stated so simply that it almost seemed to have some sense to it. Stanley could decipher some of the Narrator’s muffled speech now that his ears had gotten used to it, and the older man was currently yelling something along the lines of “Stanley, what the hell is this!? Did that thing reset the game?! No, that doesn’t matter right now; get me out of this mess! Now!”

“It’s a nice spot to be stuck in,” the text updated; the only 2 objects the cubicle had in its possession were a black desk lamp and a pencil sharpener. “Honestly, I think he’s overreacting.”

[This is a bit much] Stanley signed, as funny as the discovery was initially.

“You could take him with you, if that’s really what you want,” the white glow of the text had dulled slightly. “Here, I’ll try fitting him into the story: it turns out that Stanley was not completely alone in the offices. The most annoying and generally rude of Stanley’s coworkers remained, completely oblivious to the anomaly plaguing the office building.”

The improvisation was not remotely based on reality; the Narrator was more than aware of an anomaly, just a different one not being referred to.

<Leave him> or <Take him with>

When the choices popped up, Stanley pretended to think about it for a minute, just to see the Narrator squirm. Some twisted part of him wanted to leave the Narrator there knowing how much he must hate being restrained that way after only having bad experiences with the sentient shadows. However, Stanley’s leftover morals got the better of him, and then, once he decided he’s teased the other enough, Stanley made his choice.

<Take him with>

“Stanley decided to inform his rude coworker of the current circumstances and take him along in his search. A shame really. I was looking forward to this meaningful new experience being between the two of us alone,” the text read as mopy. “But if that’s your choice…”

The bindings unraveled, and the Narrator was set free.

The older man immediately shot out of the seat, brushing himself off frantically and kicking the chair away from him as though a million spiders and centipedes had just crawled over his skin.

“Gah! That was vile! Why the hell-” The Narrator spewed out a bunch of complaints and disgusted noises while Stanley leaned back against an adjacent corner desk, waiting for the other to compose himself. Was it really that terrible? Stanley already guessed it might be, but he had no point of reference as to what extent since, excluding the meeting-room confrontation a while back, he’s only been weightlessly cloaked by the sentient shadow and never restrained by it-

“Stanley,” the Narrator finally addressed him, pulling Stanley from his ponderings. “What the holy hell is going on? A reset just happened out of nowhere and-”

Stanley would pay money he didn’t have for the Narrator to just give him time to answer a question before trying to answer it himself.

“-forced into a chair without any sort of explanation! I-,” the Narrator went on and on while Stanley wore the most exhausted expression on his face. “Wait. Are you playing through the game right now? With that thing? Are you serious!?”

“Tch. ‘Thing,’ Really?” The settings person responded immediately to the derogatory label. “That’s the worst you can do?”

The Narrator kicked the same rolling chair he was stuck to earlier into the blotch of darkness that still lurked in the corner like evaporating sludge. Thin tendrils caught the moving object and reeled it back to return the assault. Stanley thought it would be wise to interrupt that fight before it started.

[Yes. And?] Stanley responded to all three of the Narrator’s questions at once. [I was getting bored.]

“Bored? What kind of reason is that to backstab me like this? Stanley, this is my story! And you’re going through it with something that has no business in the role it’s stolen!” the Narrator protested; Stanley thought it was unfair for the other to sound so betrayed. “This is unbelievable! I refuse to play along with this nonsense!”

[Okay, whatever. Stay here then.] Stanley was so prepared to temporarily forget about his persisting disdain toward the other just to enjoy this one run. However, there was nothing he could do about it if the Narrator didn’t want to take the olive branch. Time to go-

“W-Wait!” Stanley only took two steps away from the Narrator before the other called out to him. Stanley paused but didn’t turn around.

“I’ll come with you,” the Narrator said it like he was doing Stanley a service. “I have nothing better to do anyways. It’s better that I tagalong to make sure the story goes somewhat smoothly with an unreliable teller.”

“Stanley, very tired of his nameless coworker’s rambling, continued his search of the office for signs of human life,” the white text returned after being pushed to the side for a few minutes; the Narrator scoffed at how the settings person referred to him but made no verbal complaints.

Stanley, now accompanied by the Narrator, continued further past the usual cubicle rooms without additional complications, though the Narrator did comment on Stanley’s loitering in the area to interact with objects that served no purpose to the story being “pointless.” Stanley just rolled his eyes and ignored him, picking around his made-up coworkers’ desks and seeing that he could still interact with items he physically couldn’t while the Player was present. The ambiguous being really had left, and possibly for good.

“Stanley and his coworker came to a set of two open doors,” the text updated the second Stanley took a step into the familiar space. “Where would Stanley have them look for their coworkers first?”

“Left, obviously,” the Narrator muttered under his breath, clearly annoyed by the restructuring of the narrative he wrote into one with more self-direction. He stepped past Stanley and strutted to the door on their left, but both that door and the one on the right slammed shut seconds before the Narrator could reach the room’s center. 

“Nuhuh,” the text read patronizingly while the Narrator attempted to force the left door open. It was firmly locked in place. “Stanley decides.”

<Left> or <Right>

Stanley smiled at the choice selection’s reappearance and made his decision without giving the Narrator time to dissuade him.

<Right>

The door on the right creaked open while the door on the left remained locked tight. The Narrator, to Stanley’s surprise, did not groan in frustration. Instead, the ex-storyteller only huffed in a constrained manner.

“The employee lounge isn’t a bad place to pass through,” was all the other said before a long silence ensued in which neither of them moved forward.

“Well, Stanley? What are you waiting for? Lead the way,” the Narrator gestured towards the door, waiting for Stanley to enter first. Stanley certainly hadn’t expected that; he was waiting for the Narrator to storm ahead since that’s what the older man tried to do seconds ago, but apparently in that short interval he must have had a change of heart, though Stanley suspected it was more of a change of tactics. Still, Stanley smiled and confidently strolled through the right door.

“Stanley and his coworker made their way to the employee lounge. Maybe there would be signs of the rest of their coworkers there!”

Entering the employee lounge, Stanley felt like this was looking up to be a decent run. The sense of control he sought out returned to him with each choice he made.

“What a lovely room! Still no sight of his coworkers though, but there was no need to rush. He could enjoy this room a bit more.”

When the choice board popped up again, Stanley didn’t expect there to be more than 2 options.

<Leave> <Relax in an armchair> or <Get a soda from the vending machine>

[A soda? That actually works!?] Stanley spun half around to sign accusingly at the Narrator [What the hell? You told me it was empty!]

“It is empty! I don’t know why it’s lying to you. That metal box is for decorative purposes alone!”

“It was empty,” the text updated. “But I filled it. You knew you could do that the entire time, Narrator, but you didn’t want unnecessary pleasures to derail your story, did you?”

“Well, I-!”

Stanley ignored the quibbling and made a choice.

<Get a soda from the vending machine>

“I, on the other hand, would like to have Stanley experience a multitude of certain pleasures. Thoroughly, might I add.” A thunk sounded from low inside the vending machine.

Stanley made a conscious effort to ignore whatever the hell that sentence implied and approached the vending machine. Crouching down to dig in the drop compartment, Stanley grasped a cool metal can and pulled it out to reveal that it was, in fact, a full can of soda.

“With that last can, the vending machine was empty. Stanley’s annoying coworker would have to enjoy the fizzy drink vicariously through Stanley, who was thoughtful enough to get to it first.”

“I didn’t want one in the first place,” the Narrator rolled his eyes. Someone like him wouldn’t let something with so much sugar pass his lips. He preferred bitter, obscure brands of tea. Old, british people only drink tea. That’s, like, their thing.

“Oh, good! I was lying. You can have as many as you’d like, Stanley!”

Stanley studied the can in his hand, which was numbing his palm a bit from how cold it was. It was plain gray without any wrapper or logo on it, just a metal can. He popped open the tab and decided to give it a try.

Huh, Stanley thought. It tasted like soda. Stanley knows he’s not the best at describing things but he feels like he’d be able to assign a flavor to the substance if it had one at all. The drink just had a “soda taste,” like it was manufactured by someone who didn’t know how to simulate the drink beyond its surface level identification as soda. It was a curious taste but not satisfying enough for Stanley to want more.

“In that case,” the Narrator responded to Stanley’s thoughts by waiting impatiently by the exit of the room. “We should hurry along.” 

<Leave> <Relax in an armchair> or <Get Another Soda>

[Yes, yes, coming] Stanley signed and made a choice.

<Leave>

“After spending a bit of leisure time in the lounge, Stanley continued his search for his coworkers,” the white text read as they walked further down the hallway, at this point completely omitting the Narrator from the story.

“Down the hall, Stanley could take the door on his left or continue straight into the warehouse. These different paths would open up to a wide array of new possibilities! What do you feel like doing, Stanley?”

<Left> or <Straight ahead>

Stanley looked to the Narrator, expecting the other to urge him to the left to get back on track. He did nothing of the sort. Instead, the Narrator crossed his arms and waited by Stanley’s side, radiating absolute calm.

“I’m not going to urge you to do anything Stanley. This adventure is completely yours to mold,” when the Narrator delivered that sentiment, Stanley wondered what kind of reverse-psychology play the other was trying to pull on him.

“What- I’m- It’s not reverse psychology! Is it that hard to believe I don’t want to ruin this experience for you? That I want you to achieve whatever you’re trying the gain out of this?” the Narrator stammered while insisting genuinity.

Yes, Stanley thought automatically. It was incredibly hard to believe. Still, he felt a pang of guilt hit him as the Narrator’s voice took on a similar tone to the weak, pitiful one leading up to the Zending route, the one that always fooled him into getting away from the stairs and lying down in the Zen room at least once.

Stanley shoved that guilt down and made a choice.

<Left>

The story continued as usual(though, there were a few interruptions as Stanley took notice of things that weren’t there before. 432 would take credit and ask Stanley to adjust a slider to rate how much he appreciated the addition of, for example, paper roses, chocolate strawberry arrangements, and vanilla scented candles. Stanley, while finding the combination of items very strange, adjusted the slider high each time since the other seemed to enjoy that).

Stanley and the Narrator progressed through the rest of the office, already on their way up to the top floor. Stanley was surprised to see the rich saturation of mahogany wood, red walls, and leather cushions in good lighting since lately those details remained desaturated where it wasn’t obscured by darkness. It was a refreshingly familiar sight, only slightly dampened by the fact that he had no idea where 432 disappeared to, which seemed like an important thing to know.

“Stepping into his boss’s office, Stanley was disappointed not to see his dearest companion,” the text took on a dramatically sorrowful tone. “And to make matters worse, his boss wasn’t there either.”

Stanley was already on the move to the keypad since there was little else of significance in this room to be interacted with.

“Something was amiss. Something dreadful. Stanley was smart enough to realize this at once,” Stanley’s ego was very appeased by this new part of the narration commenting on his intellect. “It didn’t take him long at all to spot the keypad behind his boss’s desk. It was hiding something. Stanley knew it. But how was he to go about this?”

Two options appeared:

<Guess 2845> or <Break the keypad completely>

“Break the keypad?!” Narrator baffled wide eyed, making his presence known again after remaining relatively silent. “Who in their right mind would-”

<Break the keypad completely>

A steel hammer loaded in Stanley’s grip in tandem with the selection. It was fairly sturdy, and the wooden handle had a nice feel in Stanley’s hand.

“You can’t be serious-”

Stanley joyously swung the hammer down dead center onto the keypad. The plastic cover made a very satisfying crack as it caved in, a few fractured keys flying off after the impact and skittering across the ground.

However, doing this just once would simply not be enough. Nope, Stanley reasoned to himself that he would need to put in more effort than that to unlock the next area. He assured himself that this certainly wasn’t because of the concerning high he got from destruction and ruin.

Stanley swung the hammer down again and again and then again. He was absolutely giddy with glee seeing the block of buttons become a shell of its former self. A shattered slab of black and gray. It was symbolic. It was rejuvenating.

An observer may be shocked at the display of excessive violence and consider Stanley less than sane. They would be right, of course, but it would be ridiculous for anyone to expect a man forced to exist within a time loop in a fictional plane of reality to keep his sanity.

Once the keypad was completely unrecognizable, Stanley took a breath and a step back. The Narrator, who had taken far more steps back to avoid the flying mechanical parts, cleared his voice awkwardly.

“That was… quite a show,” the Narrator commented, but Stanley hadn’t turned to look at him. “Stanley, are you alright-”

“Stanley unlocked a hidden passageway! Go, Stanley!” The white text updated. Without a word, Stanley was already on his way through the new opening in the wall, impatient and eager to break something else. The Narrator, with a fair amount of reluctance, followed but kept enough of a distance between them to prevent himself from becoming a casualty. Or, as impossible he thought it to be, a target.

“When Stanley went far enough, he saw a large door that read ‘Mind Control Facility.’ He went through it.”

Stanley raised a brow at that and stuttered in his steps which he had been making unthinkingly until this point. He thinks that was the first time this entire run 432 had explicitly tried pushing him down a path instead of letting him consider other ones. The alternative route he’d usually be able to take here(the one with “Escape” scrawled on the wall) was completely closed off, barricaded by a stone wall.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try going that way, Stanley,” the text communicated when Stanley stopped to stare. “It would make things difficult.”

The settings person didn’t elaborate further, and Stanley didn’t push for an explanation. Stanley was more set on progressing towards an ending. He was strangely apathetic towards anything else; he couldn’t care less about who “things” were made more “difficult” for at the present moment.

The Narrator, however, found this worth questioning, but before he could voice this, Stanley was already through the door up ahead.

The Narrator was forced to let go of the subject and follow after Stanley. While he did so, he was realizing just how difficult he was finding it to allow Stanley complete self-direction in this play through. The fact that he was being led around by his protagonist like a pawn in his own game didn’t make this any easier. Of course, the Narrator had long since ceased his delusions of having any real power over the parable in his current state, but withstanding that, it was physically paining him to keep quiet and allow his story to be butchered in a retelling that had no flare for the dramatics whatsoever! It was so obviously lazy in so many areas! The elevator dialogue down into the monitor room was so lackluster he couldn’t help but cringe. How could Stanley possibly be enjoying himself with that? It didn’t make any sense to the Narrator, therefore it wasn’t sensible at all!

But he wouldn’t voice these complaints. In order to get what he wanted, the Narrator knew he needed to back off for now. When he said this adventure was Stanley’s to mold, he meant it. If feeding into Stanley’s whims with this single run would mend the fractures(which he found particularly minor and exaggerated) in their relationship, the Narrator was willing to go through with it.

The ex-storyteller tried to keep that in mind as he and Stanley traversed the Mind Control Facility, the room as dark as usual but… Something about that absence of light now felt heavy. Oppressive. Even while trapped in his own work, the Narrator could tell something had been changed here. Something had been toggled off or on, messed with, or restructured, but he had no idea what. He knew it couldn’t be anything that wasn’t in the game folder already, active or dormant, but even those posed a significant threat to both him and his protagonist. The possibilities were many, and the Narrator had no clue what to expect. Oh, how he hated being kept in the dark, literally and figuratively.

Stanley and the Narrator reached the system power’s ON and OFF buttons in no time. One of them were far more elated to see the familiar control table than the other, and it was easy to guess who.

Stanley felt like he was tilting just slightly over the highest peak of a rollercoaster ride; the adrenaline and exhilaration in his heart were pretty much the same. Everything had been building up to this final moment, and the fall would happen the second a choice was made. The second he made the choice. Not only was he the ride operator, but he got to sit in the front cart while holding the controls.

Stanley’s choice here would bring him that euphoric sensation he’s been deprived of for what felt like eons. The satisfaction that came from the feeling of completion. Of accomplishment. Of progress in something that is without a real or final end.

While Stanley approached the buttons, the Narrator’s attention was drawn elsewhere, more specifically: the room around them. The feeling the Narrator had that something was inexplicably wrong only got stronger in this part of the map. The platform felt wrong. The screen ahead of them felt wrong. Glancing over to the control table he’d been neglecting in his observations, the Narrator was able to assess the buttons themselves as the most wrong. Everything was wrong here, and the Narrator refused to believe it was all just a figment of his imagination.

“Stanley, hold on, I think something’s—” But it was too late. The Narrator, peculiarly unable to hear Stanley’s thoughts ever since the two entered the facility, turned his attention back to Stanley right as the other let the hand he had hovering over the control table drop.

“Stanley, wait-!” The Narrator tried to intercept in the few seconds he could but-

Stanley did not wait. Stanley pressed the ON button.

Stanley didn’t know what to expect when he did this. It didn’t really matter to him. Stanley just enjoyed throwing the story off course right before the end. Flipping the car while being so close to their intended destination, even if it happened to be at the expense of himself. Here, in a facility where the overall theme was control, turning the system back on meant something to Stanley, even if the outcome was never the one he wanted-

The Mind Control Facility came to life in an instant, the entire room shaking as sparks burst from the system control panel. It was so sudden that Stanley only reacted after a few of those burning, electric fragments singed the skin of his hand along their erratic pathways. Surprised and hurt, Stanley tore his hand away from the ON button and stumbled back, sharply inhaling through his teeth while he moved his unaffected hand over a particularly irritating burn on his right, almost bumping into the Narrator as he did so.

The metal platform creaked and groaned beneath them, swaying back and forth sporadically, unsupported by anything below. Despite how much Stanley had been trying to ignore the older man this run, he grabbed onto the Narrator’s arm to keep his balance. The Narrator did so as well with the same amount of urgency, if not more.

“Thank you for choosing that Stanley,” the text updated; those words were the only thing that remained still and unwavering over Stanley’s vision. “Really. I was hoping you would!”

In front of the pair, the large screen that read “MIND CONTROLS IDLE AWAITING INPUT…” seconds ago now glared a blinding white that proved difficult to look at. Stanley turned his head to protect his eyes and immediately noticed how the way he and the Narrator came in had faded to a contrasting pitch black. The platform appeared to cut off sooner than it should before falling off into an infinite void. It was like Stanley was being told there was no going back from his decision.

[What the hell was that?!] Stanley signed frantically and somewhat pissed off after the room’s quaking softened. He was even more bothered by the fact that he was the first to ask this question when the Narrator is always so much quicker to shout out a billion when things didn’t go as planned, to the extent that it was incredibly annoying-

On that note, Stanley turned his head to the side to get a look at the Narrator, whose hold on him seemed weaker than it was at first.

Illuminated by the intensity of the large screen’s brightness up ahead, Stanley paled the second he saw what the issue was.

“Stanley turned the system power back on. He wanted to take control of the machine himself, even though there was no one left in the offices to control- Well, except one.” The text updated, continuing the narrative with a tone that did not match the foreboding atmosphere. Despite being compelled to read the text at all times, Stanley barely processed the contents of the message. He was more focused on, well, the Narrator.

The other had gone grayscale, for lack of a better term. His character model had lost all color value in the brief moment Stanley took his eyes off him, and the Narrator stood frighteningly still like some sort of mannequin.

The Narrator’s hand on Stanley’s shoulder had become weightless enough for Stanley to brush off with ease, not really expecting the hand to move with such a slight nudge. The hand and the arm attached fell back to the Narrator’s side, as if the limb was always a limp attachment.

”Stanley was now recognized by the Mind Control Facility system as its operator, so remained unaffected by its instantaneous affects. His coworker on the other hand…” The text continued updating, burning brighter and brighter with something like excitement. Stanley was only vaguely aware of the updates, attention consumed by the sight in front of him.

[Narrator? Hello?] Stanley signed, fully turning his body opposite to the Narrator’s to be more in view. Stanley was hesitant to actually outstretch his hands and touch the other, but he eventually gave in and placed them on the sides of the Narrator’s shoulder’s to give him a gentle and then rougher shake.

“His coworker was affected immediately,” the text updates once again.

Hey? Narrator? What the fuck happened? Can you hear me? Stanley asked in his head, never wanting to rely on the method of communication but having no choice at the moment since he felt like if he let go of the Narrator now, the other would somehow slip away to a place Stanley couldn’t follow. (Stanley can’t let that happen. He can’t fathom an existence without the other. He can’t make that choice. He can’t-)

“It was a truly wonderful sight,” this narrative didn’t seem to have any limitations on how much it was allowed to contradict reality. The expression on the Narrator’s face was the worst of it all. Even when kept neutral or indifferent, the other would usually have a slight furrow in the eyebrows; a resting face critical of everything but its owner. Now, there was nothing of the sort. A completely blank slate devoid of emotion. Flat eyes that didn’t seem to be looking at Stanley, through Stanley, or anywhere at all.

”He was perfectly compliant,” either the text burned an impossibly brighter white or the room had become even darker. “Unresponsive. Unresisting. Silent-”

No matter how many times Stanley shook him or thought anything while hoping for some sort of response, the Narrator’s face didn’t change at all. It wasn’t clear if the other couldn’t hear, understand, or talk back to Stanley. There was no indication of the Narrator even being conscious other than their open eyes and regular-paced blinking.

”Stanley felt the Narrator was much better this way,” the text updated, dropping the whole “coworker” gimmick. 

Stanley didn’t know how to feel about this.

The next few minutes were uneventful; the invasive text display disappeared after some time and did not update again, leaving Stanley and the Narrator alone standing in the middle of that unstable, metal platform, still as stone.

When the platform began creaking again without either of them moving an inch, Stanley didn’t need to look away from the Narrator to figure out who was approaching.

“Is that not the case?” The text read with an air of curiosity. Casting a short glance over the Narrator’s shoulder, Stanley could see wisps of shadow bellow out from the black void the room before this one had become. “Is this not to your liking, Stanley?”

The darkness carried the settings person’s figure closer, overtaking spots of the platform previously highlighted by the large, glaring screen light ahead of the system controls.

Why the hell would I like this? Stanley just glared at the other’s digital clock display over their face before remembering they couldn’t hear his thoughts and that he would have to physically communicate(which was his preference, though that would be a bit difficult with his hands preoccupied).

After Stanley shook his head, 432 tilted their own in confusion.

”But I know how you like things set, Stanley,” the text updated; the darkness nearest to the settings person began to pulse in a way. “I know you want control.”

With no time to react, Stanley felt the Narrator not just slip away like he feared, but be torn from him in a flash, tendrils of an impossible black lurching forward to wrap around the other’s waist before pulling him right out of Stanley’s hands. The Narrator was dragged a short distance only to collide with the settings person’s build, slumping back against its chest in an undignified manner quite unlike him.

[Stop this-] The Narrator was slipping down at this point, as if he had lost all control over his own legs. Before he could fall any further, the settings person buried a hand in the Narrator’s hair and yanked him up, pulling his head back and over their shoulder in a way that kept the Narrator’s chin pointed towards the ceiling.

Stanley’s heart raced, his knee-jerk reaction to seeing the other harmed being to run to the rescue, yet his legs remained frozen in place. The Narrator didn’t squirm or make a sound throughout any of this, even though the tangled grip 432 kept close to the base of his skull had to be painful. What Stanley could still see of the Narrator’s expression remained blank, meanwhile the settings person’s crescent smile seemed wider than before.

“Stop this? Why? You haven’t given me a chance to show you how much fun this could be,” something like discomfort surged within Stanley as he watched the settings person casually trace fractal patterns over the Narrator’s chest while resting its head in the curve of his neck. “It would be very easy to cut through here right now and tear out what lies beneath. Maybe if I did, he’d finally drop dead.”

Stanley’s blood ran cold, thinking the being might actually follow through on that thought.

”But I won’t. You wouldn’t like that, would you? No… a pity, but I’m accommodating,” the settings person tossed the unresponsive Narrator to the ground just as quickly as it grabbed him. The faintest cough— or maybe just a hard exhale forced out on impact— Stanley heard from the other had him dashing forward to help them up-

But Stanley was forced to a halt, taking a large step back to avoid tripping over the thin, mechanical device skidding across the platform from the mass of darkness opposite to him. The momentum left the object just as it reached Stanley’s feet, now still and perceivable. Stanley looked down at the rectangular shape of the thing and noticed the peculiar arrangement of buttons. Five rows of five, each row having its own color.

Stanley wasn’t terrible at making connections, but he was still hesitant to make any solid assumption about what these buttons did. Even so, comphrending the narration he disregarded leading up this a bit more clearly, Stanley had a pretty good guess already.

”He may be a bit ‘out of it’ right now,” the text read; the settings figure moved an arm out to gesture to the keypad still at Stanley’s feet. “But once you click on one of those, it’ll be a different story.”

[I-] Stanley signed, not knowing what to say or where he intended to take that sentence, before the text updated again.

“This is just another ending, Stanley. No shame in following a script, right? Even if it’s a tad improvised from old material.” Many tendrils of thick black fog lurched out, wrapping around the Narrator’s upper arms to pull him back on his feet like a plastic puppet. “I never liked the ‘Countdown Ending.’ All it ever did was, what, get the Narrator off for two minutes? Satisfying for his ego but not much else.”

More tendrils lunged forward, raising the Narrator’s low-hanging head and forcing him to face Stanley, even if the ex-storyteller couldn’t actually perceive him right now.

”And the end is always so anti-climatic! Also painful, presumably, not that I remember,” 432 ranted, their crescent smile having flipped down into a frown a while ago before reflecting back up into a grin. “This will be much less painful and much more fun, I assure you.”

Stanley was still hesitant. This really felt like a line that shouldn’t be crossed. 

”It’s just a few buttons,” the text read now. “Pressing just one couldn’t possibly hurt him too badly...”

Then, things stagnated again; no more text popped up, and Stanley took no action, not yet. The settings person did not push Stanley any further, and Stanley knew that if he insisted to be done with this ending right now, the settings person would oblige him in that.

Stanley knew this and picked up the button pad.

At the top of the device, a sticker was plastered over the sliver of blank space, reading “MIN” on the far left and “MAX” on the far right. Below that were the actual buttons. Each row had buttons of just one color. The first row was red. Then, there was blue. Then, green. Then, yellow. Then, pink.

After listening to the dialogue that came with entering the Mind Control Facility spoken so many times, Stanley could hear the description of “controls labeled with emotions: ‘happy’ or ‘sad’ or ‘content’” echo from memory. He knew for certain what this was now.

”Go on, try it,” the settings person encouraged him, eagerly yet still irrevocably patient.

Even though Stanley picked up the device without much issue, his hands shook around the light weight of the thing, and his thumbs were stuck low on the sides of the metal slab, not daring to inch closer to any of the 25 buttons.

It was strange how conflicting every thought and emotion bumbling about in his head was. This was clearly an opportunity for control. This was something new. This could satisfy that discomfort that led him to even ask for another run. He knew that some of these could cause the Narrator pain. That’s why he picked it up. He was still holding grudges against the Narrator for a variety of wrongs, and this was a rare chance he was given to get back at the other. Of course, he should take it.

That was his intention when he picked the device up, but actually going through with this was…

Stanley couldn’t do it.

“If you can’t that’s fine,” the text updated; Stanley startled a bit when he noticed that 432 moved at some point to stand right beside him, not having heard or seen them move. “I can help you.”

Wisps of darkness spiraled up and over the keypad, encircling each other to create a solid refined tip that lightly slithered over to the first button in the first row.

”I’m on your side, Stanley. Remember that,” then, the tendril pressed down, the button sinking beneath it.

The Narrator instantaneously became more animate. Not heavily expressive, and still grayscale, but no longer doll-like. It started with a small flinch, followed by the Narrator’s eyes gaining back the life absent in them seconds ago. Confusion was the strongest emotion that overtook the Narrator(unrelated to the button pressing) as his sense of awareness came back to him, eyes latching onto Stanley first and feeling shortly relieved until that quickly turned to surprise and a bit of anger upon noticing that 432 was there as well.

Only after all that did the panic and fear that accompanied the realization his arms were tightly ensnared in the hold of void-black tendrils(which the Narrator just hated being touched by) come to fruition.

”What- What’s happening? What is the meaning of this?!” The Narrator asked questions similar to Stanley’s from earlier, having no memory of anything after Stanley pressed a button on the system control panel.

”This row induces something like physical pain,” the settings person informed Stanley, taking on a role somewhat like an instruction manual, completely ignoring the Narrator’s questions. “This first button is no more than a pinch-”

“Don’t ignore me! Stanley, what’s going on? Why are you just standing there!? I-” The Narrator switched to addressing Stanley directly, knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with that conniving thing at his side.

However, in the midst of his interrogation, his voice caught in his throat; simultaneously, Stanley watched the wisps of darkness slide over to press down on the third button in the first row.

The Narrator cut himself off with a pained yelp, throwing his head forward as he groaned and thrashed, trying to rip his arms away from the dark tendrils restraining him. He failed, of course, only succeeding in pointlessly exerting himself.

”This entire row is made up of causations of pain that become more intense the farther you go. This one was most like being stabbed,” the settings person continued, pretending to not take notice of the Narrator’s reaction, but it was clear by the tone set in the text display and their widening grin that they were reveling in it.

“Here, you give it a try,” the entwined wisps of darkness retracted from the device, leaving it in Stanley’s hands, which were now far steadier than before. Still, just because he had mysteriously calmed a bit during the demonstration doesn’t mean Stanley could just-

“You wouldn’t actually, would you?” The Narrator was still a bit breathless from the phantom ache of an intangible wound, but somehow mustered up the energy to speak so self-assured. “No, I know you can be petty but this is beyond you.”

Stanley almost pressed every button in the first column when his grip tightened on the device. Huh? What was that? What exactly was beyond him?

”You’re done now, right? You’ve gotten whatever it is you wanted? Good, this whole thing’s been a train wreck from the start. I don’t know how you put up with it,” the Narrator didn’t seem to realize the hole he was digging for himself, more focused on insulting the dark entity at Stanley’s side than Stanley’s reactions. “Go on and reset. Stanley has no intention of following through with the rest of whatever this ending is supposed to be-”

The Narrator stopped talking immediately; Stanley pressed the last red button in the first row.

The Narrator’s eyes shot wide open as his face contorted into one of unadulterated anguish. He let out a tormented screamed through grit teeth, so deep in his throat that it got caught there half way through, falling into a series of dry, heaving coughs. The Narrator thrashed about, kicking his legs back into the sentient darkness behind him in hopes of breaking free, but instead, more slivers of the same black shot up through the gaps in the platform beneath him and rooted his legs to the spot like dry cement. He was forced to endure the entire duration of a single button press’s effects while having his movements restrained to a minimum.

On the outside, the outburst may have appeared sudden. On the inside, maybe through some manipulation of his coding that now redefined him as a “character” in the game, the Narrator felt like a million screws had been hammered into his flesh, digging deep and scratching bone with a single hit all at once. The difference between this level of pain compared to the one previous was too great. Already, the Narrator was struggling to hold himself together.

”S-Stanley, what the hell is wrong with you?! Do not do that again,” the Narrator coughed up that response alone with his head still forced up by the appendages of darkness restraining him; the rest of him went limp as if he had actually been dealt physical harm.

Don’t tell me what to do, Stanley thought bitterly, and not a second later, he pressed the button again. Don’t tell me what’s beyond me.

The Narrator choked out a gasp, writhing in agony as his suffering seemed to intensify the second time around. It felt as though the screws were now being tightened with a drill, churning around in his irritated wounds that didn’t present themselves in any material way. The surprise the Narrator felt when Stanley pressed the button again(as he had somewhat assumed the first time was a rash mistake consequent to Stanley’s temper) almost doubled the pain.

”Stanley, stop that! Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!” The Narrator rasped out, voice strained and a bit choked as some saliva got stuck in the back of his throat. “This is ridiculous! It doesn’t even constitute as an ending!”

“Why not? Something like this adds much more interest to your dull storyline,” the text display returned.

”This is aimless torture!” The Narrator snapped.

”The ‘aim’ is fun!” 432’s crescent smile stretched a bit farther now. “Not for you, obviously.”

“Stanley, listen to me-” the Narrator addressed Stanley once again, who looked pretty displeased with the demand.

”Please!” The Narrator added when he saw Stanley shift the device in his hands. Stanley was satisfied by this, and the Narrator was spared. Temporarily.

”Whatever reason you’re doing this,” the Narrator’s tone was shaky as he tried his best to persuade Stanley in the short window of time he could already feel closing, “I’m sorry! Just throw that thing out, and we can talk about it like adults, yeah?”

What is there to talk about? Stanley thought. They’ve talked before, that’s for sure. They’ve talked back and forth, using words like knifes and both walking away cut up. They’ve talked a lot, and Stanley doesn’t like walking away with the most invisible bruises. They’ve talked enough. Stanley was tired of talking.

”Do you want to be done with this ending, Stanley?” The text display popped up again.

The Narrator paled as Stanley shook his head.

“Stanley-!” It was surprisingly easy for Stanley to press the last red button again, and he stopped feeling the need to question himself about it a while ago. His mind was incredibly clear as he pressed along the buttons of the first row at random, making sure the Narrator didn’t get familiar with any setting or become able to guess which one Stanley would put him through next. Stanley didn’t want the Narrator to anticipate the pain he’d cause him. That wouldn’t be fair. 

The darkness enveloping the room became heavier, and with it, Stanley just felt more assured in his actions.

There in the dark, things made so much sense. So natural, there in the dark. There in the dark, guilt seemed to hold no power over Stanley. He wanted to press more buttons. He wanted to cause more pain. He wanted to destroy. Ruin. Break. Why should he hold back at this point? There in the dark, it should be allowed. The past is irrelevant and the future inconsequential, there in the dark. He shouldn’t hold back. It’s just an ending. All part of a game-

“Stanley, can’t you be reasonable for just once in your-!” Stanley wanted to shut the Narrator up again, but he was getting bored of the first row of buttons. He was curious about the others; why not follow that curiosity? In fact, Stanley was so very curious that he decided he wasn’t even going to take his time building up to the highest level anymore. He was far too impatient for that.

At that moment, Stanley pressed the last blue button of the second row.

Just like that, every semblance of pain or anger melted off the Narrator’s face, replaced by some unreadable expression that teetered into something like shock. The tension caused by all the struggling, screaming, and fear disappeared as well, first leaving the Narrator’s face before also abandoning his arms and legs; if not for the fact that he was currently being held up for display by cords of highly opaque shadow, the Narrator would have certainly crumpled under the sheer weight of the unfamiliar sensation forced onto him. The sting of screw wounds lingering in flesh may have faded into a brief memory, but now, something deeper had replaced it.

Something terrible twisted violently in the Narrator’s chest. It felt like claws were digging into a part of him no one was meant to touch, let alone with such cruelty. It ached. It had become so tight there; so hard to breathe. It hurt. It hurt badly. The other buttons were excruciatingly painful but this was a different type of pain. The Narrator couldn’t describe it. Everything hurt so much-

Stanley was fairly surprised to see the Narrator cry so suddenly. He’d guessed blue might have something to do with sadness, but still, it was a bit of a surprise.

“No- No… Why am I-” The Narrator sobbed uncontrollably, hiccuping between words. It wasn’t just a matter of a few thin streams escaping the corners of the other’s eyes. No, it was a full-blown ugly cry. Sobbing, heaving, sniveling, snot, trembling— the whole package. It was very pitiful, yet Stanley didn’t have any pity to extend to him at the moment.

“I- St- Ugh..,” the Narrator couldn’t get a single word out, not having the will to do anything other than succumb to the heart wrenching despair that had been forced on him. Stanley watched, not taking joy or sorrow out of the other’s suffering; just watching, calmly. What else was he supposed to feel, other than calm, there in the dark? It was so easy to just do here. So natural, there in the dark.

Stanley got bored of the blue button. It wasn’t enough.

Stanley pressed the last green button of the third row.

Just as quickly as the Narrator had been drowned in a deluge of despair, that feeling which felt horribly permanent a second ago dissolved immediately. The room spun, slanted, and swirled in the Narrator’s vision, even though he was overly aware of how still he was being held. Everything minuscule detail blurred together in a mess of shaky, unstable lines. The Narrator felt like he was freezing to death in an Arctic blizzard while simultaneously feeling set ablaze, as if the sun itself had clipped through the map to his exact coordinates.

The confusion itself was nauseating, and a repugnant smell(which the Narrator is sure only he is experiencing at the moment by how composed Stanley and that thing remained) contributed to that nausea by overwhelming a majority of his senses. The way the Narrator’s clothes stuck wet with sweat against his skin became unbearable, and he became overly aware of how disgusting he felt the stray strands of hair stuck on his forehead to be. The Narrator was trapped in a cycle labored breathing and holding his breath, not knowing which made the stabbing(not literal this time) pains in his stomach better or worse.

It was just too much at once. The Narrator began gagging uncontrollably, straining his throat as he coughed out what might have been saliva or bile. He was on the verge of-

”Oh, don’t make a mess now,” the text read as mocking and cruel. “Keep yourself together.”

Strips of sentient darkness zipped forward, audibly slicing through the oppressive air while the light still radiating from the screen ahead of the system controls bounced off them. The appendages wrapped themselves loosely around the Narrator’s head, only covering his mouth and tightening just as the Narrator opened his mouth wide to protest. His jaw was now stuck uncomfortably open, and even as the Narrator yelled behind the dark, unbreakable seal, shaking his head whichever way he could in a desperate effort to tear it off, the wrappings remained secure.

Shortly after that, the Narrator’s head jerked forward uselessly as vomit launched up through his esophagus and piled in his mouth. The Narrator couldn’t hold it back anymore, and the clumps of whatever he managed to regurgitate, without having consumed anything with this character model in the past, ricocheted off the barrier of absolute black, forcing the sour substance to slide back down his throat as he choked on the abundance of it. His screams were now horrifically gargled, and although Stanley couldn’t see the other’s face due to the Narrator’s attempts to keep his head down in hopes that gravity would help the vile liquids seep through the small gaps he could only hope to be in the seal over his open mouth, the Narrator’s eyes were blown wide open, wet and swollen red. The feeling of the acidic mixture sloshing around in his mouth, pushing grotesque chunks to bump against the back of his throat added to the overall disgust he felt. Because of this, the Narrator ended up spewing what he was forced to swallow back up again, and then made to choke it back down and repeat the process as a part of some deranged cycle until-

Stanley pressed the last yellow button of the fourth row.

Stanley watched as the other’s writhing was put to a sudden(yet not so sudden since Stanley could now expect this whenever he pressed a button significantly different from the one before) halt. The Narrator went completely still, and Stanley became confused, almost mistaking the fourth row as a neutralizer without any real effects. That idea was quickly disproved when the Narrator’s body started quaking again.

The other’s limbs experienced a series of tremors, chest and stomach heaving up and down as the spasms continued. Alongside these visible reactions were more audible ones. At first, Stanley mistook the muffled noises for sobs, but that was proven false after the dark wrappings over the Narrator’s mouth unraveled, flicking revolting remnants of vomit that stuck onto them to the ground and cleansing themselves before merging into the dark mass from which they came.

The Narrator, eyes still an irritated red, was revealed to have a large, forced grin on his face and was laughing hysterically. His brows tightened and scrunched in further towards the center of his face as he laughed hard enough to make the phrase “laughing your lungs out” literal. It was a disturbing sight, as the laughter clearly didn’t come from any place of joy.

”Having fun?” 432 asked the Narrator condescendingly, as if he wasn’t already aware this was not only beyond the Narrator’s control but also caused by them. “Really now? Your own humiliation is funny to you? How pathetic.”

The Narrator couldn’t respond, the onslaught of laughs unrelenting no matter what efforts he made to shut his mouth, tighten his lips, or bite his tongue to snap himself out of it. He’s bound to get lightheaded at this point from all the exhaling he’s been doing with minimal inhaling-

”C-Cant-! Br-Breathe-!” The Narrator heaved out in agony between gaps of laughter, unable to say more than those few words, but not needing to. His pleads for all of this to stop were inferable. Inferable, and ignored.

Not enough, was Stanley’s only thought in response to the unsettling sight. This isn’t what he wanted. He didn’t know what that was, but he did know it involved the Narrator in pain. Stanley didn’t even know what he wanted out of that pain. He just knew he wanted to cause that, and get something from it, but he didn’t know what, and this certainly wasn’t it-

Stanley, filled with an infuriating amount of dissatisfaction(which he wasn’t meant to feel, there in the dark, where everything is supposed to feel so natural, so calm, so-), jammed the last pink button of the fifth row down.

The Narrator’s giggling and laughter stopped abruptly in tandem with the button press. Stanley heard the Narrator inhale sharply and watched the other like a hawk, anticipating this last row to induce some horrible pain that topped the rest. Maybe not physical. Maybe emotional like the last three. What negative emotion is associated with pink? Stanley took a moment to think about this, but failed to come up with anything.

Stanley waited impatiently, wanting a reaction that would satiate whatever part of him was so desperate for something more. He waited for the other’s face to be overcome with agony, depression, disgust, or anything else harmful and new-

Stanley paused. No, it would be better to say he froze. Stanley saw something in the way the Narrator looked back at him, eyes barely open with how swollen they’d gotten, that made him shiver. Something he’d given up on, some time ago. What could possibly have made Stanley react like that, after all he’s been indifferent to so far?

Undying devotion; a warm fondness that didn’t belong in those eyes, and definitely shouldn’t be staring directly at Stanley. The contrast was confusing. Such an overwhelming amount of care was being confessed in just one soft gaze that didn’t fit what was happening right now. Stanley felt like he was being truly seen by the Narrator for once, and(even there in the dark where it was so safe and so natural and-) that terrified him.

”Stanley,” his name was spoken like a prayer, despite being scratched and sore from screaming, sobbing, retching, and laughing, sighed out with a flood of affection he isn’t familiar with. Stanley flinched back, recoiling as if the bittersweet sound waves would shoot out and solidify before slicing him apart. The Narrator shouldn’t be looking at him like that. Stanley knew he didn’t deserve anything like that, so just stop-

The settings person must have thought it pointless to continue restraining the Narrator, as he so clearly was incapable of fighting back at this point. The darkness dropped the Narrator’s arms and retracted the wispy tendrils binding his feet to the spot, letting the older man fall to the ground without regard for how he landed.

Incidentally, the heavy thud that resulted from the impact sent vibrations along the platform which shocked Stanley out of the somewhat hedonistic disposition desensitizing him to what he’s been doing.

Guilt stabbed him in the gut like a jagged blade of a rusted dagger. Stanley dropped the device and let it skid across the platform, waves of nausea washing over him as he stumbled back, grabbing the top bar of the platform’s railing beside him to keep himself standing; the settings person remained still, observing curiously.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? Stanley thought to himself, mortified, ashamed, and so much more, but not having time to reflect further since he would soon be interrupted.

The platform squealed and screeched again as the weak metal it was composed of responded to the strained shifting occurring further down. Stanley snapped his head back up, as he had let it fall to stare at the ground in horror, and his eyes focused on the Narrator almost instantly. The other was just now lifting himself up on his forearms, and it was apparent that the Narrator had fallen flat on his face considering the bloody nose and busted lip that were visible even at a distance. A river of remorse and regret ran through Stanley’s entire being at the sight. God, he was so felt so sick. What’s wrong with him? Why had he done any of that?! 

Stanley wanted to let those thoughts spiral, but couldn’t afford to think about that right now. The Narrator was clearly hurt, and Stanley needed to help. He needed to, yet he also wanted to run, and run far. He was afraid, confused, and revolted, all feelings directed toward himself. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t make sense of any of this, not by himself. He couldn’t-

[I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry-] Stanley signed those two words over and over while taking several steps back closer to the system controls. It was ironic, the fact that he was the one backing away while the Narrator remained unthreateningly low to the ground. Stanley had all the power in the world(or at least this world) a moment ago, yet now, he behaves like some sort of victim? As though the Narrator was the ruinous, malignant disaster between the two of them that caused all of this. But, that wasn’t the case. Stanley did this. Every choice he made was his own. He had done this, and now, he cowered in the aftermath of his actions.

So, with nothing else to do, Stanley apologized and apologized. He backed up far enough to reach the system control panel, the corner of the table digging harshly into the back of his thigh, but that didn’t deter him from trying to back up further. Stanley kept apologizing no matter now uneven his breathing became or how shaky his hands got. He apologized, doing nothing more as the Narrator got up groggily and closed the distance between them, slowly but inevitably.

Closer now, Stanley could see that the wound over the Narrator’s lip and the slight bruise over his nose was already fading, a key trait of the Narrator’s character’s model being its ability to quickly heal marks made on it. Still, there was blood smeared in the same spots, and the marks fading would not reverse the torment Stanley had put the Narrator through.

Yet-

”Why are you apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for,” the Narrator spoke so softly, so reassuring, and Stanley didn’t know how the other managed to give off that impression with such a sore, scratchy throat. The Narrator’s voice, an integral part to who and what he is, was completely wrecked, yet he still spoke so-

“You’re perfect,” the Narrator continued, closing the space between them an uncomfortable amount. Stanley paled as he realized that same look of adoration from the last button he pressed still lingered in the other’s eyes, now accompanied by a lovesick smile. “Forgive me for making you feel like you ever need to be sorry-”

The Narrator placed his hands on the metal panel behind Stanley, arms on either side of the protagonist which essentially trapped him in that one spot with the Narrator inches away. Stanley wanted to phase back through the mechanical structure and fall into the endless pit below, but unfortunately, he didn’t have the ability to do that and could only question why the sensation hadn’t run its course. It was supposed to be over by now, surely-

Stanley flinched when the Narrator raised one hand, only to gently lay it on the side of Stanley’s face. Fear and guilt swirled in his head as he received a touch that couldn’t be interpreted as anything but loving. The Narrator looked utterly besotted with him right now, and Stanley couldn’t bear it- 

”I need you, Stanley,” did the button get stuck? Is that why this is happening? Did that brief tantrum Stanley threw about not getting what he wanted after pressing a yellow button cause him to press the fifth pink one down so hard that the Narrator got stuck like this?

”I’d be nothing without you,” a shiver ran down Stanley’s spine; he didn’t know why he let it. Every word the other spoke right now had little if any validity at all, but still, it managed to shake him. Stanley didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t. He didn’t want the Narrator to-

“I would be a fool to let you go,” as the Narrator pulled their faces closer together, the putrid stench of vomit flogged Stanley’s nostrils, serving as a reminder of one of the more(as if it was something that could be ranked) appalling persecutions Stanley put the Narrator through.

Stanley only fully realized what was happening as the Narrator leaned in. Without a moment’s delay, his hands shot up to the other’s upper arms with the intent to push him away, but Stanley hesitated to apply any force with the contact. Responding with any exertion of strength terrified Stanley; he couldn’t do it, not after causing so much harm. He was petrified at the thought, paralyzed into inaction. His hands just lied there, shaking uselessly in the same spot.

Not like this, Stanley thought to himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen this way, let alone here. This was suppose to happen somewhere different, somewhere he didn’t do what he did, somewhere the Narrator didn’t see him as disposable, somewhere they didn’t hurt each other over and over again, somewhere they actually got better, somewhere that wasn’t here. Not like this, Stanley thought again and again, forcing his eyes shut until inevitably-

”Alright, that’s enough.” White text popped up front and center in Stanley’s vision, even with his eyes closed tight.

Stanley didn’t see what happened next, but he heard it. The sound of something breaking with a definite crack. Something that sounded like short circuiting, followed by a heavy thump farther down. A scream that didn’t sound like a scream. Metallic creaking diminuendoing. Then, complete silence.

Stanley no longer felt the Narrator’s hands on him. He reluctantly opened his eyes and saw the Narrator had crumpled to his knees. That dull, blank expression returned; he looked exactly the same as he did at the beginning. Fuck, Stanley felt sick…

“You didn’t look like you were having fun anymore,” the text updated, and Stanley found the possibility that he looked to be enjoying anything before this particularly sickening. But he had, hadn’t he? The fact that the discomfort he felt from not reaching an ending before this had left said a lot. A part of Stanley was actually satisfied by this; he was aware of how reckless and abrasive he could be at times but, fuck, he’s never felt like such a disgusting piece of shit-!

While Stanley considered just how much of a heinous beast he was, 432 approached, stopping right beside the kneeling Narrator with an air of amusement. They leaned down, not bothering to use their hands to lift the other’s downturned face, instead having the darkness do that for them.

“Wow, you’re a mess,” the settings person commented patronizingly; its bright digital clock display reflected clearly in the Narrator’s flat, unresponsive eyes. “How horrible this must of been for you. Good.”

The slivers of darkness lifting the Narrator’s face up pinched his jaw a bit harsher now.

“You better not forget this,” the text read; it was meant for the Narrator, but Stanley believed the words were better directed to himself. “You don’t deserve that mercy.”

The being lifted its figure back to full height, staring down at the Narrator for a moment longer before giving its attention back to Stanley.

“Well, that seemed enough for an Ending, don’t you think?” the text updated quickly. “I hope this was able to satisfy you. If not, I’d be happy to do something like this for you again!”

Stanley was about to sign something. He didn’t know what he was going to say. Maybe something that pushed blame away from him and to the only other option he had available. Maybe something that denied he ever wanted to do anything like this again. Maybe something that would empty the guilt, anger, and abhorrence bubbling up inside him. Stanley was about to sign something, but he hesitated and just like that-

{The end is never the end is never the end is never the-}

Stanley was back in his office.