Work Text:
Four hours in, and the Narrator had yet to develop an ounce of sympathy.
Stanley couldn’t say that this was a shocking revelation, exactly. The Narrator rarely considered Stanley’s feelings in general. Perhaps it was counter-intuitive for Stanley to just sit in his office and refuse to leave, because it only served to rile the Narrator up and make it impossible for her to reach any meaningful conclusion about Stanley’s feelings. But it also meant Stanley didn’t have to do anything but just sit there. And by god, he wanted to just sit there.
Empathy was difficult, and Stanley could understand at least the mental barriers that come with imagining oneself in a position they have never been in. Stanley didn’t really need that from the Narrator, though. All he wanted was any indication that the Narrator might consider his feelings. And four hours later, it was becoming abundantly clear that they might never do that. Stanley had only been able to block out the angry ranting by pencils in his office and scratching away the wood until he got to the graphite in the centre. The process was mesmerising and was a welcome distraction from the Narrator’s endless stream of complaints. He’d actually stopped paying attention to what the Narrator was on about now, and decided it might be worth checking in.
Stanley stopped scratching away at his pencil long enough to listen.
“…and that’s what I just don’t understand, Stanley. How are you so transfixed with things this banal? I can’t even ask if it’s because I am boring you, because I know that everything I do for you is objectively more exciting than whatever it is you’re doing presently. There must be something fundamentally different about how we perceive things, because you seem incapable of wrapping your mind around things that are genuinely excited. I’ve heard that simple minds have simple pleasures, but really, Stanley, I don’t think that turn of phrase applies to people such as yourself. I believe ‘simple’ is a great underestimation of how little is going on upstairs, and it takes very little to entertain you. So much so that any actual attempts at entertainment are so far beyond the scope of your incredibly limited mental prowess that you simply cannot respond to them. That must be it. That must be why you grow so bored me and my story. Have I gotten the gist of it, Stanley? Have I gotten to the roost cause of why you’re so adamantly stultified by my very presence?”
Sighing, Stanley put the pencil down. He didn’t want to say anything, but it was clear the Narrator wouldn’t move forwards if he didn’t nudge her in the right direction. Sure, she was thinking about how he felt, but not quite in the way Stanley was hoping. This was probably a fruitless endeavour, but wasting time was never a concern for either of them.
“It isn’t that,” said Stanley, signing to the ceiling, “I think you know it isn’t.”
“Oh, my, how kind of you to make a comment, Stanley! Four hours in and this has finally become a conversation! Perhaps we might reach an understanding sometime within this century. Why don’t we place bets on what year we finally reach some kind of mutual understanding for your behavior, hmm? If you decide to give me one sentence every four hours, I’d say we might very well have a real dialogue going by the fifty-eighth year of this conversation. Or is that too liberal an estimate, Stanley? Should I tack on a few zeroes? I think I might since you seem so unwilling to give me much of anything to go off and getting any real answer from you may take a few attempts.”
Stanley huffed and rolled his eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not doing this to spite you.”
“I highly doubt that, Stanley. Much of what you do, you do to spite me.”
A fair point. The Narrator was obstinate when it came to Stanley trying to teach her anything and couldn’t really hope with much realism that he’d get through to her. Honestly, Stanley was well convinced that the Narrator would learn nothing, and was settling for the next best thing, which was riling the Narrator up. Stanley would at least get something out of the situation that way.
Still, he wanted to at least try getting through to her. Stanley glanced up at the ceiling. “Well, maybe it’s just not about you. Don’t you ever think about how anyone besides you feels about this story?”
“Of course not. I don’t need to. Everyone, most of all me, but everyone, loves it. And if they don’t, they’re a monumentally vapid philistine with no regard for well-crafted stories and unfettered genius woven into every aspect of my game.”
“Let me put it another way,” said Stanley, “who is this game for?”
“Stanley, if you have completely forgotten the answer to that question, I fear my comments about you being a simpleton may be even more of an understatement than I had originally considered.”
“I didn’t forget. I’m trying to make a point.”
“Then make it, Stanley. This is a terribly stupid conversation we’re having.”
“You need to answer the question before I make it.”
The Narrator sighed, clearly aggrieved. “Humans, Stanley. I made it for humans.”
“Right. And what am I?”
“My best approximation of a human.”
“…Right. And what are you?”
“Too intelligent for this conversation. I cannot for the life of me even begin to imagine what point you are trying to make. Why ask questions that you clearly know the answer to, stringing me along without offering any indication of this conversation’s destination? I don’t like this, Stanley. It is not the protagonist’s job to slowly unveil things to his Narrator. The opposite, rather.”
“Can you just answer?”
“…Fine. Unfettered, untethered consciousness.”
“Yeah. Right. My point is, you don’t understand because you’re not a human. If I get bored, and you get annoyed, maybe it’s because you’re not considering the reasons a human might get bored and just assume it’s about you.”
“What a stupid point to make,” grumbled the Narrator, “obviously I’m not a human! And I would never stoop to a human’s level, either. I have no reason to imagine what it is like being a human, because I am better than them in every way. However humans might think and feel, how I think and feel is automatically more valid due to my disconnect from a chemical-ridden flesh prison. Humans are prone to such nonsensical emotions due to all those ongoing chemical reactions in their bodies. Notice how rarely I am ever unreasonable. I don’t let emotions affect me the way humans do. Just by existing, Stanley, I have already considered how you as my best approximation of a human may feel. And I have decided that it is objectively less reasonable than how I feel. Considering human emotions as they relate to my story is entirely pointless.”
Stanley raised his eyebrows.
And then smirked.
Looking up at the ceiling, Stanley felt his smirk become a grin. “Sounds like you couldn’t hack it as a human, then.”
“Of course I could, Stanley. I’m better than any human, so being one would be easy. But I don’t need to prove myself to you, of all people.”
“That sounds like denial to me.”
“It is not denial! It is me stating an objective fact!”
“I don’t believe you. I bet you couldn’t get your own perfect ending if it were you down here. I bet you’d keep getting distracted by the fact that you have skin and fingernails. I bet you’d forget how your legs work and topple down a staircase. I bet you don’t know the first thing about being a human and you’re just bluffing because you know you’d be a terrible human.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Stanley,” said the Narrator, a snarl edging into her tone, “I could out-human you any day. I could get my desired ending faster than you ever could. It’s my game, after all. You really think I’d have difficulty completing it as a human, the desired audience for my game and story? You think that I would lack so much foresight as to not consider how humans may experience my game?”
Stanley slowly smiled. Then he pulled his hand into a fist, and bobbed it back and forth.
The Narrator’s rage was almost palpable. “Alright. Fine. You know what? Forget the wager I’d suggested earlier about the timeframe of this conversation. You seem particularly vocal today about my skills as a writer and game designer. I have a new wager I’d like to suggest. What if I made a player model and came down there? Prove how I can human just as well as you can—better, even? I have your fastest time for getting my desired ending down here, and if I can reach it before you do, then you have to reach that ending for as many times as I see fit. Until you’ve learned how to humble yourself, at the very least. But if, by some absolute fluke with an infinitesimally small chance, I fail to beat your time, then I’ll still my tongue when you decide to ignore my every word and stand in broom closets for upwards of two hours. Clearly, if you can beat me, you were right all along. I’ll let you do whatever you want, Stanley, since clearly your actions are specific to humans and I could never comprehend the nuances of them. I’m just a disembodied consciousness, after all.”
Stanley beamed. “You’re that sure you’ll beat me?”
“I am beyond sure, Stanley. There is not a doubt in my mind that I will.”
“Seems like the odds are stacked against me, then. It’d be pretty stupid to take this bet.”
“Indeed, Stanley. I see you’re more open to reason. No doubt thanks to my skills as a persuader. Now, if you’d like to get on with—”
“No, I’m taking this bet,” said Stanley, grinning, “I get that my chances of winning are low. Maybe I’ll get lucky. If not, I want to see you effortlessly beat me.” Stanley felt something like eagerness bloom in his chest as he laid it on even thicker. The Narrator made this way too easy sometimes. “Maybe I can even learn a thing or two from you.”
The Narrator made a small noise that Stanley couldn’t quite discern. The Narrator then cleared her throat. “Your bravado is certainly impressive, Stanley. I must say it’s shocking that you genuinely think you stand even a fraction of a chance, particularly when faced with what you have at stake. But I suppose stubbornness has always been your modus operandi. Very well. Let me reset, and then we can finally put this matter to bed.”
Stanley was grateful things went black before he could start physically showing any signs of anticipation.
The eagerness hasn’t dissipated after the reset. Stanley glanced around his office, hoping the Narrator would be right there, but no, nowhere. The Narrator hadn’t exactly told him where they would be, but surely, they had to be nearby if their intention had been to complete the game as Stanley did. Stanley stood up to open the door but stilled his hand on the doorknob.
He was excited, of course he was. But something about this whole situation felt a bit odd. Stanley had never actually seen another human before. This would be the first person he’d ever physically met. It had never really occurred to him before how strange that was, but knowing now that he’d see another person, realization was rapidly dawning in Stanley. Proximity to others was so important for other humans. Stanley had never had that before. It took until now for Stanley to realize how strange it was to have been denied that for so long. Why didn’t it ever bother him? That didn’t feel quite right. Did it just never occur to him to feel some loss over not seeing others? That felt a little more right, but not the full story.
Stanley couldn’t place his emotions, entirely. He didn’t feel sad, per se. He more so felt shocked that it took this long for him to realize how singular his existence had been.
Well, until now.
Opening the door to the main office area, Stanley positively beamed when he saw the state that the Narrator was in, just a few feet away from him. The Narrator was clearly trying to support the weight of himself with a desk, and desperately trying to figure out how weight distribution worked. His legs and arms were shaking, and from the looks of it, the Narrator was putting considerable effort into the whole situation. Their expression was tense and focused, and if it were anyone else it would’ve been cute.
The Narrator’s eyes had shot up at the sound of the door opening, and their face darkened with color as they continued to learn how to stand. Stanley wasted no time in sauntering over to the desk the Narrator was clinging to, sitting on the opposite end of it and smiling. The Narrator avoided Stanley’s gaze, instead focusing down at the desk, knuckles white. Stanley had no intention of breaking this awkward silence, content in letting it drag out forever. The Narrator looked ridiculous, their boastful façade struggling to surface as they clung to the desk like a lifeline.
The Narrator huffed in irritation. “Stop staring at me like that. I’m not having any difficulty, Stanley. I simply…an acclimatizing myself to this body, alright? I’m getting used to the sensations of it. There is a lot I am not used to.”
Stanley slid off the desk, around to where the Narrator was supporting herself. Sliding his hands around her ample waist, Stanley gently half-supported her frame against the desk. The Narrator’s breathing hitched, their body tensed, and they spun around to look up at Stanley. Their face was more flushed than it was a moment ago, and their eyes were wide. Stanley looked down and couldn’t help but smile. The Narrator did a good job crafting a character model, he had to give her that. Rich brown eyes, pudgy face and frame, and heavy bosom that Stanley made sure not to stare at for too long. He did stare for a little while, though, just enough to see the buttons of the Narrator’s dress shirt straining against it just so.
Sure, Stanley hadn’t exactly met many other people, so maybe he well and truly have nothing to be going off of, but he wasn’t complaining. He let the Narrator go, forcing them to hold themselves up by their arms again. They didn’t seem as tense, though Stanley wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
Stanley smiled, pushing the Narrator’s thick-framed glasses up the bridge of their nose and chuckling when they scowled up at him. Stanley just poked their nose again. “What’s so strange about being a human? I thought you would’ve known about all of this.”
The Narrator swallowed. They made brief, intermittent eye contact with Stanley, but it seemed that maintaining it made them uncomfortable. They then looked at Stanley again, briefly, when they answered. “Um…I…many things. I was unaware how finessed weight distribution was, Stanley. I didn’t know standing up and walking required constant mechanical input from the muscles, and I am having difficulty remembering I must always be doing that. A-and I’m not used to having the sensory input of a human. You see, for me, it normally isn’t so…stratified, the way it apparently is for humans. I assumed that humans all experience senses the same way that I do, but now I see that you have separate kinds of senses, and I am not used to any of them.”
Stanley raised an eyebrow. “You mean…sight and touch were like the same thing to you?”
“Yes, and they were nowhere near as potent as they seem to be for humans,” the Narrator seemed to struggle under Stanley’s gaze, “a-and, I have to experience, what, five of these at once? At the same intensity? This is almost too much for me, Stanley. Almost. I can handle anything and paltry human senses are far from my limit. I’m sure I’ll move past this in due time. But it’s presently quite overwhelming. I—is physical contact supposed to feel like this?”
Stanley shrugged.
The Narrator hunched his shoulders. “I don’t understand this sensation, Stanley. It feels so strange. Pins and needles, I think, is the phrase humans would use for it. Every second I feel contact with you, it’s, it’s like, like something is leaving a brandish on my skin. And I cannot for the life of me say whether it is unpleasant or not. It just feels…it feels very overstimulating, Stanley, but I don’t know whether I would like you to stop it or not. The confusion that comes with these sensations is simply wretched.”
Stanley tilted his head. He repositioned himself so that the Narrator was supported by one arm, and he used his free hand to glide over the Narrator’s wrist and slide up her arm. The Narrator gasped again, sighing when Stanley reached her shoulder. Stanley moved his hand back down his arm, and the Narrator just shook his head and jerked his arm away from Stanley.
“T-that’s—enough, I think,” said the Narrator, swallowing, “but, keep holding me, please. I’m not sure I can support myself quite yet.”
Stanley moved his arm such that he had linked Narrator’s arm in his, freeing both his hands in the process. It wasn’t the easiest way to talk if Stanley needed more movement from his other arm, and he was grateful at least that the Narrator would at least know what he was trying to say if he was having difficulty. “You’re cutting into your time, you know.”
The Narrator shot Stanley a look of disdain. “I most certainly am not.”
“No? When does your time start, exactly?”
“When I’ve properly acclimated to being a human, obviously. While I could’ve foreseen all of these difficulties, and did, I was unaware of the…scope, of them, yes. You have the advantage of already being acclimatized to these sensations. It’s not fair to tack on my initial human experiences with being a human to my time. You have to be patient with me.”
“You never said that in the conditions. You just said you had to beat my time.”
“These conditions were implicit, Stanley.”
Sighing, Stanley just shook his head. Of course the Narrator would add all of these stipulations. More were to come, surely. Far be it from the Narrator to concede to the point that they’d obviously concocted yet another half-baked idea that would inevitably get run into the ground. Moving the two of them away from the desk, Stanley felt the Narrator’s movement was far from practiced. It was wobbly and full of trepidation, and the Narrator was leaning more heavily against Stanley with every step. Stanley had to actively force the Narrator to move forwards at some points just to get him to support a fraction of his own weight.
“I do think,” said the Narrator, clinging to Stanley with both hands, “that I may not necessarily need to get there on my own. Actually, I think assistance on your part might be a requisite.”
Stanley huffed. “Why?”
“I need help getting there. The…the walking. It’s difficult. I have to move my legs every time?”
Stanley nodded.
“And do the weight distribution every time?”
Stanley nodded again.
“This is all terribly irritating, Stanley. Isn’t there an easier way for humans to move that requires no muscle movement? I don’t think I like this method very much. I'd much rather float. Oh, I'd love to float. But my point, my point, is that I suppose this is all very similar to how you cannot progress in the game without my narration. If I don’t say anything, you can’t go anywhere. If I am not there to hit all of the required commands when you reach a certain location, you cannot progress. So in that way, I believe this is a form of equivalency.”
“That’s not the same,” said Stanley, rolling his eyes, “plus, you said you had to acclimate first. That you could acclimate and that it would be easy after that. What about that?”
“I…may have underestimated how bloody difficult walking is,” grumbled the Narrator. “Is it really so hard to imagine that someone who has never had to walk before in her life may have issues walking? Try to imagine things from my perspective for a moment.”
Stanley shook his head. “You’re supposed to be seeing things from mine.”
“I am supposed to be seeing things from a human’s perspective. Your specific perspective is one I could never hope to wrap my mind around. Now, if you don’t mind, I would be thrilled if we could make something resembling a move-on here.”
By the time they were past the left door, Stanley knew they were over time. While walking had gotten a little easier for the Narrator, they weren’t exactly moving quickly. Stanley was a fast walker, and had to actively restrain himself from walking at his normal speed and making the Narrator trip and fall. The first time it was an accident, and Stanley even apologized and helped the Narrator back up. The second, third, and fourth times were all on purpose.
The Narrator would almost certainly have some excuse for why their time was lower than Stanley’s on a technicality. It didn’t matter, really, since Stanley had had no intention to uphold his end of the bargain from the start. He had nothing to lose, but everything to gain watching the person who’d so incessantly bragged about how good a human they’d be clinging to his arm and whining about how much they hated walking.
“Good thing your voice lines respond to presence,” said Stanley, smirking, “I think we’d miss them all otherwise. You’re supposed to be making quick time here.”
The Narrator just grumbled, and unlinked his arm from Stanley’s. Stanley took a step back and watched the Narrator take a few cautious steps by himself down the hallway. Without Stanley’s support, his movements were still janky and awkward, but it seemed he’d gotten the hang of it.
Turning around, the Narrator beamed. “Look! I can walk, without your assistance. That should certainly improve my time because I won’t have to rely on you for support, getting slowed down by your childish antics. Oh, Stanley, look at how swiftly I’m learning how to human. How long does it take babies to learn how to walk? Weeks? Months? Years? Probably years. And they can’t even form a sense of direction, toddling aimlessly towards things like fires or baths full of piranhas. I learned how to walk with intention in a matter of minutes, while it takes your species entire years to grasp this concept. I told you, Stanley, it is remarkably simple to grasp being a human, after the immense learning curve.”
Stanley clenched his hands into a fist, stopping himself from calling the Narrator a baby. That was a kindergarten-level insult, and Stanley was better than that. Instead, he just gave a half-hearted thumbs up and let the Narrator bask in pride for a moment. It was almost cute, the way they had their hands raised up in apparent triumph and grinning. All the times Stanley had heard the Narrator smiling matched the sight of it perfectly.
Stanley then immediately took off down the hallway, leaving the Narrator just beyond the meeting room.
From behind him, Stanley heard the Narrator plaintively cry his name.
The voice lines all responded to presence, and so must all the commands. Stanley was absolutely going to hit every single one of them before the Narrator could. Objectively, this would be a win for him, and regardless of what the Narrator said, Stanley would at least have this to hold over the Narrator’s head for as long he possibly could. Which shouldn’t be hard, Stanley thought with a smile, because she was really short, barely up to Stanley’s chest.
He'd pretty much vaulted over the stairs on the way up to the upstairs office, nearly slipping on the polished wooden floor once he was out of the stairwell. Rushing over to the keypad, Stanley punched in the door code before the pre-recorded narration could finish.
The Narrator’s voice was cut off, as expected, but instead of hearing the Narrator’s usual scolding over Stanley’s impatience, Stanley heard…nothing. Frowning, Stanley looked down at the keypad. It read “2845”, the same number it always was. Nothing lit up to indicate the code was incorrect. And besides, why would the Narrator change it? If Stanley knew her at all, she probably spent hours poring over what the best number combination should be, and in what order. Stanley waited for the numbers to clear, and again, nothing happened.
Looking around the office, Stanley sighed. He didn’t know where the Narrator was, but was certain he hadn’t made much progress since Stanley left. For a little while, Stanley killed time by pacing about in a circle. He was pretty sure he knew what happened, and didn’t need to go find the Narrator to figure it out. Best to let her come to her own conclusions when she got up here and the dialogue wouldn’t run. Stanley paced around in a few more circles before deciding it’d be more fun to watch the Narrator attempt walking upwards.
When Stanley walked back into the stairwell, he found, to his delight, the Narrator had just crested the first couple of stairs. Her grip on the railing was tight, and she walked up the stairs like someone walking over a frozen lake, each step fearful and cautious. Stanley grinned stupidly knocked on the entrance to the upstairs office to get the Narrator’s attention.
The Narrator looked up at Stanley, scorn plastered on his face. “How nice of you to come back, Stanley. Leaving me back there to walk over to the stairwell on my own was immensely inconsiderate and I do hope you can find it in yourself to show even a little sympathy towards my situation.”
Stanley shrugged.
The Narrator just shook his head. “Actually, Stanley, I think that something may be wrong. There’s supposed to be pre-recorded dialogue that plays when someone enters the stairwell. Now, I had it set up so that even if two players were present, the dialogue would play regardless of who entered. This is because one of us, most likely you, would be left far behind as the other one, most likely me, would have been gracefully walking through the game in record time. But when I entered this stairwell, I didn’t hear anything. Which means that when you ran ahead to leave me to figure out stairs by myself, you did something that made it so none of the dialogue will play. What exactly did you get up to whilst waiting for me?”
Stanley shrugged again.
The Narrator had made it over the first set of stairs, breathing heavily, and rested his back against the wall, collecting himself. Stanley walked down the second set and stood next to the Narrator. He reached an arm out to their shoulder, considering a sympathetic pat, but thought better of it. Even so, the Narrator flinched away from his hand, clearly uncomfortable. Stanley pulled his hand to his chest, closing it into a fist and apologizing.
“It’s…it’s fine,” said the Narrator, regaining his breath, “if anything, I’m sorry. I feel it is only natural for humans to desire contact as you do, Stanley. I’m not quite sure I’ve come around to it yet. This mars my assertation that being a human and rising to meet all the sensory challenges of it is easy.”
“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” said Stanley, “some humans don’t and never do.”
Silence. Then, a response, but one that didn’t feel entirely directed at Stanley. Something between an affirmation and a statement of fact. “I’m not a human, Stanley.”
Stanley didn’t respond. Something odd bloomed in his gut. Not a warm, tingly sensation. A cold, heavy one. Stanley shook his head slightly. Best not to think about that and ruin his good mood, especially when it was about to get a lot better. Smiling, Stanley nudged the Narrator offered his arm again.
The Narrator glowered. “I can walk by myself, Stanley. You’ve seen it! All the while breathing and blinking and having internal organs that twitch and pulse. I’m doing a bang-up being trapped in a wretched sack of meat and water, and amidst the many chances for overstimulation it poses. All the while maintaining my usual poise and dignity.”
“Just to get up the stairs,” said Stanley, and then, for the hell of it, “so you don’t fall, and hurt that pretty face of yours.”
The way the Narrator’s face darkened with color absolutely made the hackneyed compliment worth it. He pointedly avoided any eye contact with Stanley, but linked his arm in Stanley’s as before. Stanley stole a few quick glances at the Narrator as they walked up the stairs. The blush hadn’t faded, and had traveled down the Narrator’s neck.
They were about halfway up the second set of stairs when the Narrator cleared her throat. “Um. Stanley? Why does my face feel so hot? Did you do something?”
Stanley shrugged, not really able to answer as the Narrator’s movement had gotten a little clumsier and Stanley needed to use his hands to support her.
“I just don’t understand, is it…is it because of you? If it’s something you’re doing, I need you to stop it this instant. It’s making it hard for me to walk again. Something that you did made my knees feel different, like they can’t support my weight.”
When they got to the top of the stairwell, Stanley let the Narrator go, forcing her to hold herself by the railing of the stairs.
“Might just be the venom,” said Stanley, “I can’t really control mine.”
The Narrator blanched. “V-venom?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I guess you wouldn’t know. Humans are venomous. It’s in the fingernails, the venom. Yours are pretty short so I guess you wouldn’t see your venom ducts. You may not even be able to use your venom.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“Nope. You seriously didn’t know this?”
“How would I? It’s not something humans ever talk about. I am finding there are a lot of things humans simply do not talk about, which is why it is immensely difficult to research how to do human things like walk or blink without thinking about it. Oh, Stanley, do humans do other odd things that they just never mention because they believe it intuitive to their species? Do they pupate into a chrysalis?”
“Yeah, sometimes,” said Stanley, and, incapable of helping himself, “often spontaneously.”
“Oh…oh, dear, I don’t think I could handle that if it happened. Too sudden and strange. What would I pupate into?”
“At your advanced age? Who knows.”
“I chose this model because it seemed more distinguished, Stanley, and seemed to match fan interpretations best. Very few fans seem to consider me a spring chicken like yourself, and I don’t find myself appreciative of such interpretations either. But I was also unaware of the metamorphosis-adjacent repercussions of being an older human. I hope being unaware of this fact and not programming it into any of my models can save me from any grotesque transformation.”
They were well into the upstairs office, and the Narrator took stock of the room. The pre-recorded audio never played. The Narrator then looked at Stanley, who just turned his head to one side in confusion.
“I think I know what happened,” said the Narrator, eyes narrowed. Stanley looked back at her, holding back glee as best he could. “You softlocked the game when you came up here, didn’t you?”
Stanley shrugged.
“Stanley, what the hell did you do?”
“Don’t know.”
“Surely you have some inkling as to what may have caused this. I know you to constantly be making inane choices, much to my nearly constant chagrin.”
“Still don’t know what I did.”
The Narrator huffed, and walked over to the keypad. She input the code and waited for a moment, before sighing heavily and shooting Stanley a look of concentrated derision. Stanley walked over to where the Narrator was, putting the code in himself. When nothing happened, Stanley brought a finger to his lips, feigning deep, insightful consideration of the situation.
“You input the code before the dialogue could finish,” hissed the Narrator, “Stanley, I didn’t record any additional dialogue! The game can’t progress now because the door would only open when the dialogue was finished!”
Stanley raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you include any other dialogue?”
“I didn’t think that would’ve been necessary! Stanley, the entire reason I am here with you right now is to prove that I can flawlessly achieve my desired ending in less time than you, because being a human is ridiculously easy and I do not need to be one to know that. I had everything set up under the assumption that all of the choices made would be the correct ones. And now you’ve trapped us both here by making an incorrect choice.”
“You thought we might not enter areas at the same time, but didn’t think I’d do something different? At all? Pretty clumsy of you.”
“Clumsy of--!” the Narrator sputtered, “Stanley, I have no way of resetting! The reset is scheduled to happen at the completion of the game, but now you’ve gone ahead and made that impossible!”
"You can’t reset it? Why?”
“I wanted this to be an authentic experience for me. To really get an understanding of the human experience, as you so insistently claimed I would never understand. That’s why I pre-recorded all of the dialogue and commands. That’s why I made it so that I can’t look into your endlessly confusing stream of thoughts to try and guess at what you’re thinking of doing. Not that your mind usually provides me with much insight, mind. You leave your fair share of mental red herrings, enough that I don't bother to read your mind. Often I forget I can even read your mind at all. Now I am sorely regretful that I turned off that ability, because I would have appreciated any indication that you were considering keeping us both here for all of eternity.”
“Calm down,” said Stanley, shaking his head, “we’re not trapped here, alright? There’s other ways to reset, and you know that.”
“There is no way to—unless—Stanley, you can’t possibly mean--?”
“Off the ledge by the loading dock, yeah.”
“But—but that…that would mean certain death. I programmed it specifically so that it would result in death no matter what.”
“Right. So it’d work.”
The Narrator’s face grew pale. “I—yes, it would, but—but Stanley, that’s prone to so many complications. What if—what if it doesn’t kill me? What if I made some minor error in coding and I am left to sit in this form forever? What if due to some small, careless mistake I am forced to live out my entire existence in this tiny, miserable amalgamation of electricity and chemicals and flesh? Such mistakes are something I could never do, but the mere thought of it is enough to send me into a frenzied state of panic. It's this damn human brain, causing me an onslaught of chemical reactions that make me consider even the most outlandish circumstances as very real possibilities. And, the game recognizes two players now, and I made my model far hardier than yours. The loading dock floor is an instant death, yes, but what if--what if I did such a good job programming my model that I’m just too strong for it? I’ve been trying to keep it together here, but I must admit that the constant stimulation I feel from everything is really starting to get to me. Don’t you understand that?!”
Stanley raised an eyebrow and shot a look of contempt the Narrator’s way.
Looking away, the Narrator rubbed the back of her neck. “Oh. Right. Um. I…I may be starting to understand what your existence is like, then, within a little. I am feeling emotions that I have most certainly never felt before, and the oddest comorbid sensations. Why is my heart pounding like this? It’s—it’s uncomfortable, it almost hurts, Stanley, I can’t take this anymore, I—”
The Narrator stopped herself, visibly looking to be holding back tears. Sighing, Stanley gently cupped the Narrator’s face with his hands. He didn't like how quickly he was giving in to this--really, he could've strung her along even more, sent them careening into a further panic. But he didn't want to. There was something about humans that made them want to comfort other humans, even if they didn't completely know how. Stanley could have given in to what felt like (and probably was) centuries of pent-up rage and disdain, but he couldn't. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was some need humans have that was never met, maybe it was pure desperation.
Whatever it was, it felt nice.
Her skin was warm, and her round face soft under Stanley’s fingers. She didn’t flinch away, instead surprising Stanley by leaning into the touch. Stanley let his fingers stretch upwards, rubbing the soft grey hair of the Narrator’s temples.
“Stanley…”
Stanley tilted his head to one side, in askance. The Narrator said nothing in response, just relaxed into Stanley’s hands and sighing softly. The tone the Narrator was taking was soft, quivering. Stanley recognized that tone of voice. It was the same voice he heard when he left that room and jumped off the staircase, the same voice that begged him to stop each hobbling trip upwards. That wavering timbre that told Stanley that she felt afraid, that she felt uncertain, that she felt powerless.
Despite everything, Stanley felt for her.
Despite everything, Stanley looked into the Narrator’s eyes and felt compassion, even if that was the opposite of his job in this entire exercise.
Stanley wanted to see him this way. Needed to see him this way. Wanted to see him small, and subject to things that he had no control over. Stanley wanted him to feel like he did, at least a little, and by god, he was seeing it in full force. He knew the Narrator felt this way ordinarily, but could never bring himself to cave in to how trapped he truly felt. It made for an annoying, isolating dynamic. But when the Narrator was like this, trapped in a tiny and emotion-prone body with console commands turned off, Stanley could finally feel like he wasn’t alone in the endless, stagnant trap that was his entire existence.
If they were stuck, they were stuck together.
The Narrator’s facial expression was the picture of confusion and vulnerability. Expression soft, eyes watery. She brought her hands up to Stanley’s, gripping them like a vice and making Stanley wince. “Why does this feel so good?”
Stanley just shrugged, but pulled his arms away from the Narrator.
The Narrator whimpered at the loss, still looking at Stanley with huge, pleading eyes. “I don’t understand this sensation. I’m not used to touch. I’m not used to everything that touch entails. The feeling of contact like this, it’s…I’ve never experienced anything like it before. It feels…different. I…I think it feels nice. It feels nice, and I don’t want it to end, Stanley.”
“It’ll be fine,” said Stanley, and then, because he couldn’t help himself, “worst comes to worst, you find a way back up and jump off again. How ever many times it takes.”
The Narrator frowned. “That isn’t funny. I didn’t like watching you do that, Stanley. I think I know what it felt like for you, if my feelings now are in any similar to the ones you felt then. I don’t want to feel that for myself. Oh, my, is this what sympathy is, Stanley? What a strange feeling.”
“I don’t know if that’s it, but you’ve got the right idea.”
“Well, if that’s all there is to it, then I have experienced a microcosm of the human existence. I’ve done all you asked of me. You wanted me to consider your perspective, and I have.”
“You haven’t.”
“I have, Stanley, and I think I might be perhaps the most sympathetic person there is to the plights of humanity, given the amount of distress I have experienced inhabiting a human form.” The Narrator brought his hands to Stanley’s arms, squeezing his biceps. “In the meantime, seeing as you softlocked my game, I believe a truce is in order.”
Stanley raised an eyebrow. “A…truce?”
“Yes, a truce. There is no way for either of us to complete the game at this point, so there is no way to declare a true winner. Let us call a truce for now, but still acknowledge that because I did accomplish what you asked of me, I did technically win this wager and come out of this far more enlightened than I did before. I wish I could say the same for you, but I fear you will attempt breaking the game again after this, conveniently having forsaken any information learnt throughout this experience. So on many a technicality, I win.”
“Fine,” said Stanley, shaking his head, “fine, a truce, but you technically win.”
“Glad to see you’re open to some reason, Stanley. Now, I think it’s time we reset the game so you can uphold your end of the bargain. I do expect you to complete this ending the next reset, and do so in record time.”
Stanley started to sign his response, and then thought better of it. Instead, he dropped it, and followed the Narrator down to the loading dock. The walk down was full of mostly the Narrator patting herself on the back for being an immensely kind and understanding individual, especially when being a human is a difficult experience that distracts from any character development that someone may be able to make.
Once they got to the ledge, the Narrator peered over it, balking at the height. He spent several minutes looking down at the floor below, sweat beading on his forehead.
Glancing at Stanley, the Narrator knitted his eyebrows together and swallowed. “Do I just jump?”
Stanley nodded.
“Oh…it’s quite a jump, Stanley.”
With a roll of his eyes, Stanley just shook his head.
“Yes, I know, I’ve given out to you about it before, but understand that it wasn’t me who would have been jumping in that situation. It didn’t occur to me how much it may hurt, and I was quite annoyed with you for refusing to get on the lift. I figured that since everything would just reset, it wouldn’t matter all that much. It was a completely different situation, and I am having a little trouble motivating myself. Maybe we should consider another method for resetting, perhaps there’s a way that we can reset by—”
Stanley cut the Narrator off grabbing him by the lapels, and pressing his lips against the Narrator’s. It wasn’t a particularly deep kiss, but the Narrator melted into it all the same. Stanley felt their knees completely give out as they fell pliantly into Stanley’s arms, overtaken by the sensation. Stanley just smiled and let his arms drift to the Narrator’s love handles, squeezing. The Narrator whimpered, wrapping his arms around Stanley’s waist as Stanley pulled his lips from the Narrator’s and planted the gentlest peck between the Narrator’s eyes.
God, it was too easy.
When Stanley fully pulled away, the Narrator was flushed and shaking, clinging to Stanley’s arm weakly. They looked wrecked, after just one kiss. Stanley cupped the Narrator’s face in his hands as he had before and brushed a finger over one of their eyebrows, a motion so soft it was almost tender.
Then Stanley shoved the Narrator over the ledge.
Stanley’s lips quirked as he heard the telltale crunch signaling that he’d made contact with the floor below. Looking over the ledge, Stanley indeed saw the Narrator’s crumpled body ragdolling on the warehouse floor. Seemed like the Narrator hadn’t put much thought into what happened when someone died. Which made sense, the game just reset whenever Stanley died, but it made for a pretty good show.
Stanley got a few cackles in before gleefully throwing himself over the ledge.