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Part 2 of Anon's Fanon Parable
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2022-05-02
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2022-05-06
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Skip the Chit-Chat

Anonymous

Summary:

"You... really aren't going to press it, are you?"

The silence stretched out, because of course it did. No matter how many times he tried, mocked, threw little tantrums, The Narrator never seemed to understand that Stanley simply wasn't going to speak. 

(Or: Stanley, The Narrator, and The Skip Button. Funny thing what stubbornness can cause. Spoilers for Ultra Deluxe.)

Notes:

The end is never..?

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The skip button sat at the edge of the room, propped up on a pedestal The Narrator must have crafted himself. The thought was a little morbid, a little funny, and overall depressing. Stanley's head tapped quietly against the smooth, empty space of the wall where the door once lay, and he stared at the button. Then at the plant. Then at the button again. 

It was one thing, see, to resolve not to push it. It was another entirely to deny himself even a glimpse at it, like the temptation would bleed back into his veins if he allowed it the chance. For all he knew, it very well might. His day had been a very strange collection of impossible experiences, yellowish glowing liquid taking the space where his blood should be seemed to be the least of it. 

Still, he was stubborn. So although he allowed himself slow, longing looks at the button, he made himself break away. Made himself count the light fixtures on the ceiling, examine the innocuous plant like he didn't already know how many leaves it had, or what shade of green was closest, or that there wasn't any food in here, god, he was so hungry. He braced his head against his knees, tucked his arms around himself. Rocked until he felt the wall — empty, smooth, like a door had never been there at all — and tried to fall asleep. 

Keyword: tried. 

"Aren't you tempted?" 

The Narrator's voice was back again, and though Stanley knew that at least a little time had passed he knew it was shorter than whatever that button brought. He shrugged, just to feel like he was able to answer. For all the times that The Narrator liked to talk and describe, he seemed to have selective vision about when and where he actually witnessed whatever it was Stanley was doing. 

"How can you not be tempted?" 

The Narrator's voice was incredulous, spiteful and steeped in something that sounded a hair too fragile to be his usual exasperated scoff. Stanley wondered at that, about when he'd learned the difference between the usual prattle and the odd strain that had come over them ever since they'd started reading stupid game reviews. Stanley wasn't even sure he understood what those were meant to be, let alone why they had his name plastered all over them like it was some kind of byline. 

"You aren't fooling anyone," The Narrator said, "you aren't fooling me. I know what you're doing—you're playing with me, aren't you. Ooh, that's how you get your stupid sick kicks, isn't it? You go on and on, getting my hopes up, and then dash them to the ground like a petulant toddler. Because, what? Because it's funny? Because you want to? It's childish, Stanley, and it isn't going to work. I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of believing that. I'm not going to do it." 

And there he goes again. Off having verbal sparring matches with himself in a Stanley-shaped mask, complete with an exaggerated and nasally accent that Stanley was almost eighty-five percent certain he didn't have. It'd been a long time since he'd been able to speak, so much so that he wasn't really sure what his voice sounded like anymore, but it wasn't that.

He hoped. 

Regardless, Stanley couldn't really muster any anger beyond a little bit of trite irritation as The Narrator continued to babble, pulling out insults so hypocritically childish that it felt like he was taunting him. Begging him, really, to push that button and spare himself the headache that was beginning to form at the center of his skull. Pleading with him to get it over with already, spare them both the charade and cut to the chase just like everyone else wanted him to. Whoever everyone else was meant to be. 

After a little while, he sat up straighter. The Narrator kept babbling with further intensity, but he didn't miss the very slight hitch in his breath before he continued, like he was proving himself right a million times over.

Stanley quietly placed his hands over his ears, and The Narrator stopped talking. 

It wouldn't work, obviously. Shouldn't work. So unless he'd also implemented some kind of mute button that was magically activated by Stanley putting his hands over his ears—

"You… really aren't going to press it, are you?" 

Stanley would laugh if he was capable of it. As of right now, he rolled his eyes, knowing full well that The Narrator couldn't see it. Maybe that was partially why he did it anyway, because he knew there wouldn't be any point to trying to pettily punish him for it. Not with that button, that thing, hovering over their heads. It was kind of funny, actually. This was the most power Stanley could ever recall ever having in his life, the most agency, and it was while he was stuck in a windowless, doorless wasteland. With a single button to push, a mockery of his old job. He would have thought power felt better than this; than the quietly crushing weight that made his fingertips itch. 

You really aren't going to press it, The Narrator had said, his voice oddly soft and staccato. Like he was baffled by himself and Stanley both. 

(He'd really have thought that part would've been obvious by now.)

The silence stretched out, because of course it did. No matter how many times he tried, mocked, threw little tantrums, The Narrator never seemed to understand that Stanley simply wasn't going to speak. 

"..."

He took his hands off his ears, the motion pointed and about as sarcastic as he could make it. He put his head back down and took in a deep breath, wondered how long it would take for him to try eating the stupid ficus. Fern. Whatever it was. He didn't know what plants they kept in the office, let alone this strange, impossible non-dimension made by a man that was supposedly, but also not entirely, a voice in his head. 

Things would be easier, he thought with a hint of quiet bitterness, if he was just a voice. Something without agency or emotion; hell, even if he was just a tormentor who relished in his petty little jabs at Stanley's intelligence and work ethic. Or maybe it wouldn't be. Maybe Stanley was going to end up here no matter what he did, and he really was just prolonging the inevitable. 

… 

"Stanley?" 

He raised a finger to show he heard him. Not the middle one, mind you, but it was a near thing. If The Narrator went off on him again, Stanley promised himself, he would flip him off with both hands as emphatically as he could, sight be damned. For what he was willingly enduring, he earned that much at least. 

"..." 

He waited. Somehow the silence felt full, like the potential energy of a ball threatening to topple right off the edge of a cliff. Or a flight of very, very tall stairs. 

But The Narrator didn't say anything. So Stanley closed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep.

Stanley woke up slowly. He felt sluggish, and there was a crick in his back and at his heels that made him silently frown in pain and stiffness. He rolled his neck and twisted his torso, but it seemed the ache was intent on lingering in his spine. Spiteful, like everything else. 

The room hadn't changed, of course. For once in this weird, painfully impossible day, the room had remained exactly the same as it had been before. Plant, wall, Button. Capital B, he thought, the notion uncomfortably close to sounding just like the other voice that took up residence in his head, it seemed worthy of a title for all the trouble it caused. 

"Ah. You're awake." 

And speak of the devil. Stanley looked up, because there was only so much he could do. There was nothing to see but the same light fixtures. 

(Better that than the pedestal)

"I… you have me at a loss here, Stanley. I'm not certain exactly what it is you're trying to prove." 

His frown deepened. At this rate, he really was going to develop a stress migraine.

"I mean, truly, Stanley, what do you think it is you're going to achieve by doing this? Do you think there's some kind of hidden ending if you wait long enough? That there's some—some big secret door that'll pop over to that far wall and lead you to the proper office building again? I've checked, Stanley, and there's nothing I can do, much less you. There's no way out of here. You aren't going to win a prize for sitting here in the dark, staring at nothing." 

Stanley stared. Kept staring long after The Narrator lapsed back into expectant silence, face utterly impassive. 

And then his stomach growled. 

"Was that—?"

Stanley didn't respond. 

"You're hungry. Of course you are, you've been in here for — let me see here — ah, yes. About twelve hours. Twelve hours, Stanley, do you realize how long that is? That's about as long as the last time you pressed that awful button, do you know that? You've been here for half of a day. I've been here longer of course, and you spent a good deal of it sleeping, but that's hardly the point. Do you not have anything better to do with your time than play—whatever this is? Whatever game you're trying to unlock?" 

Stanley flipped him off. With both hands, thank you very much. And from the sudden, borderline scandalized gasp that followed, he took visceral pleasure in knowing that The Narrator actually was watching that time. 

"That is extraordinarily rude!" 

No more so than you are, he thought, rolling his eyes. Stupid man-child hypocrite. 

He shifted. Maybe lying on his left side would give him a better sleeping experience than sitting mostly upright. God only knows how much time he had to try it. He closed his eyes, squeezed them tight. He wasn't tired, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do. 

Tap. 

He opened his eyes, and found them fixated upon a shiny red apple. The shock of color was enough to make him shoot upright, cast his gaze about for a door. There wasn't one, of course. Just the apple. 

The Narrator didn't speak. Not even when Stanley crunched pointedly through the core. 

"Have you ever noticed that you haven't needed to go to the bathroom, Stanley?" 

He opened one eye. He was facing the wall this time, his back to the pedestal and the button-that-should-not-be-named. It was nice to have a change in scenery, see. He was thinking of moving the plant next, just for the hell of it. But that would come a little later, when he tired of sleeping and watching already long dry paint crack on the walls. 

He shrugged. The Narrator continued. 

"I mean, we have restrooms, surely. Your boss has a particularly lovely one stashed away in his office. Awful thing to do, really, keep the good bathroom all to yourself. I thought that seemed like the sort of thing bosses would do, with all their money and authority and whatnot, which is why I implemented it. But I can't help but wonder why you get hungry, but have no other… er. You know." 

Stanley shrugged. The Narrator continued. 

"Is it because this is a game? Is that what it is? Seems terribly convenient. Not that I'm complaining of course, no no. But it is odd, isn't it? Perhaps it could be a matter of you wanting things out of habit instead of need. You haven't asked for water either, which certainly poses all sorts of new questions. The foremost of which, of course, is why." 

He didn't particularly recall asking, but he knew better than to try in vain to point that out. 

"Do you not feel thirst? Do you not wish, nay, long for the sweet bout of satisfaction that proper hydration brings? There's very little in the world that brings your mood up more than an ice cold glass of water, I'm sure you'd agree. Perhaps you're one of those who don't put ice in their water; that would certainly explain a few things. Awful habit, that. You're full of terrible habits, Stanley." 

And then like it was nothing, there was a glass of water on the floor. Between one blink and the next, there was a glass cup, three perfectly square ice cubes, and water. Stanley stared at it for a while, squinting. 

"Well? Go on already, drink up. I'm sure you'll come to your senses once you do. Ice water is an entirely new experience, but I promise that you'll find it enlightening." 

The condescending attitude was almost, almost enough to tempt him to flip off the air again. He knew it would be seen, after all. But he would save that for another occasion, when The Narrator's intentions weren't so patently transparent that it made his monologue sound more like a thin sheet pulled over his incorporeal head than a true attempt to insult him. Stanley picked up the glass, and drank. 

It was, in fact, quite nice. 

Chapter 2

Summary:

He rolled his little glass cup, and he faced away from the pedestal. His everyday life. Not all too different from mindlessly pushing buttons, he thought. The same repetitive motion, over and over and over and over again. The end was never the end of it, because a circle had no stopping point. 

Notes:

(Betcha weren't expecting a chapter two, eh?)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The amount of power The Narrator had here, Stanley decided to himself, was incredibly inconsistent, and not in a way that was tipped in their favor either. He never thought he'd miss the days when the man could prattle on endlessly, opening new doors and plopping Stanley back into new environments without regard for his actual interest in the subject. 

It seemed the rules of this little box prison were as follows: 

  1. The Narrator could not create or destroy anything larger than Stanley's arm. This included tools, as The Narrator complained about the ridiculousness of a place where Stanley couldn't even make his own door, let alone choose whether or not to walk through it. 
  2. Stanley had the sole power to press The Skip Button (capitalized for importance). The Narrator could do nothing to stop him, save for begging and scolding in intermittent intervals. 
  3. Stanley was not going to press The Skip Button again. No matter what The Narrator thought. 

Stanley was only growing more resolute as time passed, really. It seemed whatever decided to trap them both in this stupid room had forgotten just what his life had consisted of prior to this point; sitting at a desk, unmoving for hours, intermittently clicking buttons. Now, there were all sorts of questions applied to it (was he really made just to press them? How many of his memories were real? Clearly not all of them going by The Narrator's endless 'game' nonsense), but the facts remained that whatever entity was at fault had forgotten what really mattered about that. 

Stanley could handle boredom. He could handle this. 

"—not to mention," The Narrator mused, "that all of those ridiculous reviews were probably made by children smashing their little keyboards. I haven't the foggiest idea why I let them get inside my head, Stanley, truly I don't. It's a tragedy in itself, all sorts of things that I should have known better than to validate. For instance, some of them wanted—"

He just kept talking, and talking, and talking. And Stanley had no real choice but to listen or tune it out between rousing bouts of staring at the wall and watching the plant wilt. 

Speaking of… 

Stanley picked up the glass cup that he was rolling about between his palms and stood, walking quickly past The Button in order to crouch beside the ficus and pointedly ignoring the way The Narrator stumbled briefly over his monologue. He poked at a few of the leaves, frowning at the way they drooped. 

"What are you doing?" The Narrator huffed, petulant, "I was in the middle of something, and you have the gall to just walk off right when I was getting to the good bit. Quite frankly Stanley, I'm beginning to think you would benefit from a class in etiquette. I'm sure I have an instructional video on the subject around here somewhere, if only I could sort through the mess." 

Stanley raised the glass cup, this time not looking at the ceiling. There was nothing to see, and he was too busy exaggeratedly squinting at the little mottled edges of the plant. He tapped it once. Then again. 

"Hm?" 

There was a sound like someone was sitting up a bit straighter. That was odd too, the random moments in which he could hear whatever it was that was going on in The Narrator's invisible space. Most of the time he was simply a voice with indeterminate powers, but sometimes he heard shuffling paper or the signature squeaking leather of an office chair. He'd assumed it was for effect, but it was a toss up these days if The Narrator was doing it on purpose or not. 

"You want more water? Stanley, I thought we already established that you don't need to drink. Unless you've gotten significantly more dehydrated over the past few… weeks? Days? Regardless, the point is that you aren't suffering from any of the symptoms, nor have you needed to eat—"

Stanley tapped the glass again, this time more emphatically. Then he pointed to the plant, tapping the pot with a deadpan stare. He did not look at The Skip Button, because it already loomed heavy over their heads to the point of near suffocation, and if The Narrator wanted to pretend he was all-powerful and unbothered again, Stanley wasn't annoyed enough to deny him the return to form. 

"Oh. Oh, you want to water the plant, hm? Well, I suppose that makes sense. It is your only other companion in this wretched place, isn't it. Very good. Do warn me if it starts speaking to you though, Stanley, because as I'm sure you know, plants are not capable of talking. They're inanimate objects." 

He hoped that his lack of amusement was conveyed through his silence and the thin line of his lips. But when he brought the cup back down and peered at it, it was indeed full of water once again, this time sans the ice cubes. He tipped it very carefully, watching as it sunk into the greedy soil and was gone almost immediately. 

Stanley read once that humans had a tendency to pack-bond with anything they projected their own feelings onto—or, at least, he'd been given that memory amidst all the others. It seemed that rang true either way, because by the time the glass was empty, he found that he felt a little better about the whole thing. He turned back to his usual space, gaze averted from the center of the room, and sat back down. 

Since the room had no windows, Stanley really had no way of knowing just how long he'd been here. The Narrator knew, or at least Stanley was pretty sure that he did even if he liked to pretend otherwise, but it wasn't like he had any real way to ask even if it was something he wanted to know. So instead Stanley took to his most common pastime—half-listening, half-tuning-out the mindless chatter that ran on loop in his ears, varying levels of emphasis and enthusiasm blending into an almost soothing level of white noise. He rolled his little glass cup, and he faced away from the pedestal. His everyday life. Not all too different from mindlessly pushing buttons, he thought. The same repetitive motion, over and over and over and over again. The end was never the end of it, because a circle had no stopping point. 

"You know Stanley, I've been thinking." 

He tuned back in just in time to blink. Not surprising, he thought. They had very little else to do here. 

He inclined his head anyway, because he was feeling well rested enough to justify being polite, and the talking was better than the absence. 

"I've been thinking about quite a lot of things, really. Which, to be fair, is exactly what one should do in times like this. Thinking is the backbone of all creation; one cannot create anything worth a sickle without good, detailed thought put behind it, as I always say. But that's not the point—what I mean is, I've been giving a great deal of thought about us. About you." 

Stanley tapped his fingertips against the cup's side, waiting. The Narrator sounded terribly serious, in that slightly introspective way he tended to these days. Whatever happened, he was likely to shift gears again once he got it out of his system. 

"You've been here for quite a long time. Just sitting here in this room, waiting. And perhaps as a byproduct of that, you have been keeping me company all this time. Not that you're a particularly riveting conversationalist, if you'll forgive the possible insult, I mean nothing cruel by it I assure you. But there is very little to do here but listen to me, Stanley. You sit there, and you roll your cup, and you watch paint dry, and you listen. Why, for all I can tell, you haven't so much as much as tipped over any of the fixtures in this room. I would have expected some kind of tantrum." 

Stanley sent a very flat look up at the ceiling. One heartbeat, two. Then he pointedly raised his hand, cup held by the rim, and let it drop to the carpeted floor. It bounced, just a bit. He paused for effect. 

Catharsis, he thought, sarcastically. How riveting. 

"... ah. Very funny, Stanley. Point taken." 

He picked up the cup again anyway. The surface of it was unnaturally clean, free of even fingerprints as if he had never touched it at all. His hands left marks on it whilst he had it, but as soon as it left contact with his person it was almost like the thing reset to default. The Narrator cleared his throat.  

"I'm beginning to think that you have some other reason for staying in this wretched little room beyond your own stubbornness. Which is rather impressive but quite out of character for you. At least this version of you, anyway. Goodness me, have you made some questionable choices in the past. I'm not certain if you remember them, but—" 

Stanley's lips pulled into a thin line, and The Narrator rushed to continue as if he could tell he was getting annoyed. The Narrator did so love to talk in circles. 

"I've been giving some thought to the nature of our relationship. How our little game works, see. I give directions, and you ideally obey them to the letter, etcetera. But in this room, there is very little replayability here. No hidden quests or secrets, no achievements. I don't even have a script written for it, that's how little information is available to me. Just the bits about filling time to allow you the opportunity to hit—ah. The Skip Button." 

The casual tone did nothing to lesson The Button's impact. It seemed like Stanley wasn't the only one to assign it an uncomfortable — if uncreative — title. 

"But it's been long enough, Stanley, that after all this time I can't help but wonder if…" 

The Narrator's voice trailed off. Stanley waited. It was his talent. 

"... if you truly do mean to stay with me, here. Indefinitely." 

Silence. Stalwart as ever. But it wasn't denial, either. And they both knew that was as good as confirmation, even without Stanley's arched eyebrow or exasperated posture. 

"Why?" The Narrator's voice once again sounded almost like an echo of itself. And yet, behind the particular edge to the question, something that Stanley had been waiting far too long for was beginning to creep into it, something that was traitorously close to—

"Why? Stanley, there is absolutely nothing to gain by you doing this. Nothing at all." 

He knew that. The Narrator knew that he knew that. And he knew that The Narrator knew that he knew that, ad infinitum, because it was the same question that he had been asking for god knows how long. Stanley shrugged, the motion familiar. 

This time though, The Narrator made a sound. A distant cousin twice-removed of a laugh, so unlike the more hysterical cackles or mocking chuckles that had come with his more peculiar rants. A quiet thing. 

A moment. 

Then.

"Alright. Alright, I suppose there's no changing your mind about this, hm?"

Stanley shook his head. (Finally. Finally, finally.)

—hope.

"Then I have a proposal for you," The Narrator said, tone too confident, maybe even cheerful (wasn't that a sight?) for his own good.

"Have you ever heard of theater of the mind?"

"And so, Stanley thought, this was a very peculiar design for a lamp. Heavy and quite shiny, but otherwise needlessly complicated and oddly shaped, more of a bucket with a hole in it than a proper lantern. He was too occupied by the many carvings engraved upon it, however, to notice the looming shadow that crept up behind him, antlers that wound tightly around one another like dying branches grappling for sunlight."

Stanley tapped his left hand, the motion quick and sure despite his eyes being tightly shut. In the far corner of the room the plant loomed, having grown to twice its original size. The Narrator snorted, or at least made an approximation of one. 

"Stanley took the path to his left," The Narrator said, and maybe Stanley was smiling a little bit too at the affect he placed upon the words before tumbling back into the grand game, "and ducked beneath the trees, waving his bucket-lamp against the shadows with emphatic glee. Back thy foul beasts, he thought with far too much pride, fear the power of my companion! The shadows obviously did not answer, but they did wobble and disperse upon his descent into the undergrowth, winding weeds slick beneath his shoes as he carried on…" 

The Narrator continued. And continued. And continued. And despite himself, despite them both, despite the tick-tick-tick of a clock that must, surely, run out of energy soon, Stanley found that he was happy. 

"Ack! Stanley howled, My leg! He had stepped into a clever disguised trap that tore at his boot, and he grimaced as he struggled to free himself. He really should have been looking at where he was going." 

Mostly, anyway. Stanley held up a finger, eyes still shut, and snickered when The Narrator gasped, aghast. 

Notes:

A truce does not a happy ending make, but that's never stopped them before.

(Look sometimes you just want some good feelings after a bout of existential dread. It's just the way of things, I'm tellin' ya. Sometimes I feel like these two could get along, if only the narrator got over himself a little lol.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you wanna scream about TSP with me, please do. Maybe it'll inspire me to write more fics for it, if you guys are interested in that. Mission to fill up the tag! Or fandom category! Or something!

Also holy shit, thanks for over a hundred kudos. That really means a lot to me.)

Notes:

Maybe it doesn't have to be the end after all.

Series this work belongs to: