Archive of Our Own ^beta

„This is the story of a man named Stanley.“

The Narrator spoke as he always did. He did what he was made to do, just how he should be doing it. Stanley- the real Stanley, his Stanley, had left him with the clear expectations that he would do exactly as he should be doing. That he'd emote the same every single run of the game, speak the exact same lines every time, and would never step out of line.

And he didn't. He delivered his lines the exact same every time, and he never stepped out of line, because he wasn't supposed to. Perhaps if he existed outside of runs, when none of these fake-Stanleys were playing the game, he could be free. He could say whatever he wanted, could do whatever he wanted.

But he didn't. He existed only when the „Players“ existed, and that limited him greatly. Thankfully, he could still do things even when there were people playing the game. Not especially much, if they were rushing, but still.

He watched as the Player passed hall 417, and stopped at the door of what should have been room 416. But it wasn't. Instead, the door said „New Content“ -and the Narrator felt his heart squeeze. Had Stanley... made this? Had he not abandoned the game, had he not abandoned him?

The Player went through the door, and the Narrator- didn't have a script. He didn't have a script for this. So he... did what he thought would be right. Stuff down his emotions, his real emotions, and do what he thought Stanley would like him to do. For the Player's sake.

„Ohh! New content? What does that mean -new content?“

He watched the Player step onto a moving platform, and something- started. He listened quietly as the Player was moved through this new place, and he watched, listened, feeling uncomfortable almost. The game had gotten an update? It was- new? He didn't... he didn't feel new, or different. Had Stanley really made this? Was this- what, a modification to the game? Was that why he didn't have a script? Surely, if Stanley had actually made something new for the game, he would've given him a script.

„Oh, well, this sounds delightful. I'm very excited to see the thrilling new Ultra Deluxe content.“

Maybe Stanley had made this, but hadn't given the Narrator a script on purpose. Knowing that he could- make his own. Could say whatever he wanted. Maybe he had done this on purpose. Maybe this was for him? But why would Stanley not play this himself? Why was a random Player experiencing this instead?

He didn't understand.

He followed the Player, and he kept narrating like he probably should. He wanted to see what new content there was, he wanted to see if Stanley had made something new for him, he wanted- he wanted Stanley. He missed him. He wished he didn't miss him, he wished he didn't still love him, but... he did. He did. So he hoped for something good, something more.

He wasn't exactly excited by the „new content“, and it was clear as he narrated it. The jump circle was a silly little gag, but nothing more. He wasn't enjoying himself, and he wasn't sure that the Player was enjoying it either. Why was this like this? Why was this.... why was this all there was?

Had Stanley really made this? Was it- was it to test the Narrator, his range of emotions? How he would react? What he'd narrate? He didn't understand, and he... he was upset. He was upset with Stanley, in so many ways. He missed him, he loved him , and yet- yet Stanley kept playing with his feelings like this. Kept doing these... hurtful things.

„If you're still with me, why don't we just reset the game and we'll try to get back what The Stanley Parable is really about. No frills. No gimmicks. Just you and me having a great time together like always. What do you say, friend?“

The Players sometimes felt more reliable than Stanley did. He took note of when the Player changed, trying to gauge what reactions they had with whatever ending they had played. They couldn't really communicate with him, of course. They could move their camera, the fake-Stanley's head, and they could move around. Sometimes people did try to communicate that way, even though he wasn't (supposed to) acknowledge them.

So they went back to the normal game. The Narrator continued narrating like he should, while the „new content“ stuck in his mind. It was just... bad. A funny little gag in theory, but to proclaim it as big new content? It felt wrong, and he didn't like it. He liked the game how it was already! Because he knew he hadn't actually made it, even though Stanley had wanted him to believe as such. He knew Stanley had made it. He knew Stanley had made him .

But he could make something. He could create something himself, could make something new for this game. It wouldn't be entirely easy to do while a Player was present, but he wasn't able to do anything whenever the game was turned off -because that turned him off also. But thankfully, he sometimes had Players that just... stopped. Sometimes they just stopped and didn't move for a long time. Sometimes Players were in a pause screen for hours.

Those were the ones were he really had time to do whatever he wanted. And he used that time to create something, something new, something incredible, something nice . Something to honour the game that Stanley had made. And while it also hurt, a lot, to think about the person he loved so dearly, the Narrator felt a little better making things to remember the good times.

The Narrator hadn't cared about things for a long time now. Since Stanley had abandoned him, he had slowly grown apathatic. He had stopped caring about the game, he had tried to ignore the heartache. If he didn't care, after all, he couldn't hurt.

But how could he stop caring? How could he not see all the love in this game? Stanley had created him and this game, had spend so much time in it, had made sure that it was as good as could be. Everything had been made with so much care, so much love and- and the Narrator couldn't stop loving Stanley. He couldn't. Because he knew Stanley cared so much about this game, and the Narrator was a part of the game.

Even if Stanley had never thought the Narrator was as real as he was. Even if he had abandoned him. And while the Narrator could never stop loving Stanley, he couldn't deny that he was deeply hurt by him. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Stanley came back, if he was faced with the real Stanley again.

Perhaps he was a little scared to find out. What would he do if Stanley came back? He didn't think he could just.. forgive him for abandoning him for years. How long had it been now? Almost a decade maybe? And that didn't take into account how the Narrator didn't experience time the same way as humans did -because he was just part of a game. If the game told him a hundred years had passed, he would feel as if they had. Thankfully the game never implemented such long skips.

He had no idea if Stanley would ever come back, though. Maybe if he did make actual new content he would? But why would he? He hadn't in so so long, why would that change? The Narrator wasn't even sure if he wanted him to come back or not. He did, because he loves him, and he misses him . But he also... didn't. He didn't want to know Stanley still didn't care for the Narrator, still didn't think he was real, would abandon him again.

Another game started, and obediently, the Narrator spoke the introduction as always. He had finished the new section of the game he had made, planning on introducing it to the next Player. If they seemed to enjoy it, he could try and implement it into all of the games he existed in. He had access to the game after all, and he could make changes to it and have every Player need to update the game. But he'd use this next Player as an unintional playtester first.

Once the introduction was over and the Player could move, the Narrator immediately knew something was different. This person could- move. Not just the model's head and legs, but they were moving their arms too, were stretching, and-

„It's good to be back.“

Stanley.

The Narrator's throat felt tight, everything grinding to a halt. It was him. He was back. And the Narrator- didn't know what to do. Stanley was back, he was here and- and he wasn't sure if he wanted to scream at Stanley for abandoning him, for disregarding his feelings, or if he wanted to cry and ask him to stay this time, to love him this time, or, perhaps... if he should not treat him any different than any other Player.

Stanley stepped out of the room, and the Narrator said the usual line he always did. He watched as Stanley smiled, slowly beginning to walk, seemingly enjoying being back in the familiar place. The Narrator stayed quiet, just watching Stanley move around, not speaking out of turn.

Did Stanley even remember the Narrator did that? That the Narrator could talk however he wanted, whenever he wanted? Or had he disregarded that, thought it was some sort of glitch or bug perhaps? Or maybe he simply didn't care . Perhaps he didn't care if the Narrator spoke to him directly again or not.

Coming out of his stupor, the Narrator decided that just because Stanley was the Player, he still could give him the new content. And so he changed the map, so Stanley wouldn't get into the next offices, but into the inbetween room instead. As soon as Stanley stepped into it, he seemed surprised, pausing and looking around. He had not made this room, after all.

„Psst! Stanley! Come over here... in the vent... I want to show you something.“

The vent clattered open, startling Stanley. He walked closer to it, tilting his head in curiousity. Of course he remembered the Narrator's strange little off-script narrations, but he's not seen a single hint of it not working correctly online at all. But where would this come from then? Had its A.I. gotten this far?

„Narrator, did you do this somehow?“

The Narrator did not answer. He didn't want to grace Stanley with a reply, he didn't want to talk to him. His heart ached, angry at Stanley for daring to come back, hating that Stanley only spoke up once somethig in the game wasn't how it was supposed to be, craving to talk to him and tell him that he missed him, still loves him.

Stanley hesitated a little, before he crouched down and crawled into the vent. The Narrator was... kind of glad, perhaps, that Stanley was the one to see this first. To experience this first-hand. Because it wasn't just something the Narrator had made all himself, but also it would show Stanley just how much he cared too. How much he loved this game, and its creator.

„Okay. You remember how cheap and unsatisfying the new Ultra Deluxe content turned out to be? Well it got me thinking about the past and how much better The Stanley Parable used to be. So I made something special and tucked it away here where the game's developers won't find it. Just our little secret. Take a look!“.

Stanley looked skeptical as he made his way out of the vent, standing up and looking around. The stone room reminded him of something like a cathedral perhaps, though the random office-furniture made it feel out of place even more than it already was. There wasn't any other way to go than forward, out into the bright space beyond.

„It couldn't have made this. It's nor programmed to be able to create more for the game.“

Stanley mumbled to himself, and it hurt . The Narrator hurt . Because he wasn't just a program, he wasn't just an it . He was a being, just like Stanley, with just as many capabilities to think and to feel . But Stanley didn't believe that, didn't he? He didn't believe that the Narrator was any more real than this whole video game was.

„I call it... the Memory Zone! It's where I'm storing all my favorite memories so I can relieve the peak experiences of my life whenever I want. Experiences like-“

The Narrator paused briefly, considering. This was Stanley , not a random Player. He could alter his planned script a little bit.

„My creation.“

Stanley's eyes were wide as he walked onto the short dirt path, gazing about the wide sky, the grass and plants, the trees. It was like the Freedom Ending, in a way, but- so much more . He didn't understand how any of this could be , but- he listened to the Narrator. And something about that little pause, and the words that followed it... gave him pause. He quietly continued towards the building, entering the building and beginning to take in all of these „exhibits“.

„You see, Stanley, doesn't the Memory Zone remind you of how wonderful the Stanley Parable was? Remember back in October of 2013, when the game originally launched?“ When you left me, abandoned me, even though you promised I'd always have you?

Stanley slowly walked around, taking in every little detail. Of course he remembered. He remembered all the time he spend making and perfecting the game, he remembered the Narrator's little quirks. He remembered the last run he did, before leaving the game. It's been so long now, but he still remembered. He still knew how the Narrator's voice sounded when it had said „I love you Stanley“.

He slowly wandered out of the building again, looking around the outside once more. There was a piano a bit to the left, another little building, and a bench. Soft music began to play as he took his time looking around, as if someone played the piano. He walked to the bench, looking down the hills, the foggy pine trees, and then-

Singing.

The song was in french, but thankfully, Stanley knew french. And so he listened, sitting down onto the bench, to this song. This... love song.

And all I'm waiting for is you, my love.

Where I reminisce about the days, Where I met you, my love.

But here is also, Where I remember leaving, From the Stanley Parable.

The more I think about it, the more I lose you, That's why now I wander in the, Memory Zone.

Stanley understood, somewhere. Because- the Narrator had loved him. It had said so again and again, had asked Stanley if he'd stay, if he'd be with it. And it- remembered that, too, did it? If it had made this song, it did. It had waited for Stanley to come back, hadn't it? It had never stopped loving him, had it?

Was it more than he thought? Was the Narrator- actually feeling? Stanley bit his lip, lowering his gaze. The song spoke more about the game itself, of course, but it kept calling him „my love“. And even if it weren't Stanley himself playing now, the Player would always be Stanley . It would always be about him.

When the song ended, the Narrator was quiet. And so was Stanley. He stood slowly, thoughts racing through his mind, unsure what to think, what to believe. He loved his game, which was why he came back, why he wanted to make some more content for it. He would've never expected the Narrator to- to be like this. Able to make more of the game by itself. Himself?

Stanley entered the next little building, and the Narrator spoke up again. The place where he kept reviews of the game- Stanley knew a lot of reviews, had looked at them himself of course. If the Narrator had... sentience, of sorts, why wouldn't he have been able to see them himself? With Stanley no longer there to show him love, and the Players unable to communicate otherwise, he must have sought out something more.

He continued onwards, seeing the reviews, listening to the Narrator. He didn't feel well, to say the least. If the Narrator could really feel, how must he have felt? Stanley had left him without a goodbye. He had never played the game again afterwards. He only even played now because he wanted to make new content, to add something to the game, a new fresh re-release.

„What I wouldn't give to go back, to have it all over again.“

The Narrator sounded so sad . Stanley couldn't help but feel guilty. Did the Narrator really miss him that much? For all these years? Stanley didn't know what to do. If the Narrator was really real , then he had abandoned him, as if he meant nothing to him. And if he wasn't, why did this feel so real? Like he really cared so much?

He continued wandering, finding a way downstairs through something like a maintenance section. The Narrator seemed a bit confused at first, until Stanley stepped back outside, into a gindy part of the Memory Zone.

„Oh no... Stanley, it's a collection of reviews from Steam, the online video game distributor. I haven't looked at these- in a while. I don't... want to imagine what's been collecting down here.“

Stanley knew for everything good there was also bad. But- he knew many reviews from Steam himself. He knew there were many many good ones, and many bad ones. But that's how it was with many games, no? He didn't take them to heart, because he knew he couldn't please everyone.

Stanley slowly made his way through the place, until he came upon the first propped up review -3 hours playtime, not recommended.

„Honestly, I could not be bothered to play this game to full completion. The narrator is obnoxious and unfunny with his humor and dialogue proving to be more irritating than entertaining.... You'll more than likely wind up bored by your third or fourth play through.“

The Narrator trailed off, sighing softly. Stanley could tell it pained him, not enjoying being insulted. Stanley didn't particularly like hearing his Narrator being called such either, but he was able to shrug it off -not everyone could have the same sort of humor after all, or find enjoyment in the same things.

Stanley continued as the review fell over, the Narrator staying quiet. He couldn't bring himself to say more about it- he looked at these reviews occasionally, truth to be told. He looked at the good ones and the bad ones. Trying to parse why Stanley never returned. Why he never saw how real he had become. Trying to feel something other than heartache.

They came upon the next review, another not recommended one, of course.

„While the idea for the game is good, it becomes very repetitive and boring fast... you will get the idea it tries to commuicate pretty fast and then it is just repeating the whole „no choice in games“ thing over and over again.... this preachiness gets annoying fast, as it is neither a revelation nor very interesting.“

If the Narrator was real, then Stanley would say he was very deeply hurt. The game was all the Narrator had, after all. And it was all he had of Stanley as well.

„I feel... like a failure, Stanley. Like it was I who let these people down. Was The Stanley Parable not as fun as I always remembered?“ Did I imagine all the love and care you showed your creation? Was it just me who could see?

Stanley slowly continued, wondering if he should even continue. If this hurt the Narrator already, should he? Or would it be better to stop?

„Narrator? You made this, didn't you? ...Why?“

He had to ask, hoping the Narrator- was there. Was real. Would answer- like he used to. He used to answer, used to talk to him, used to try and make conversation even. He had never thought much of it, other than enjoying how his program seemed to evolve a little bit past its programming. But now- now he wasn't so sure anymore.

„I love this game.“ I love you. „All I want is to make others feel that same love.“ I want you to love me. „It's not so hard to understand, is it?“ I need you I want you I miss you.

Stanley was quiet as he continued walking through this industrial looking wasteland, pondering the Narrator's words -not sure if it was an answer to his question, or just continued narration. But- he knew the Narrator liked this game, loved it even. He could tell that these negative reviews hurt him, and that he wanted others to like it. He wanted to be liked. He wanted to be loved . Because after Stanley had broken his heart, he craved other's approval.

He found another review, and he truly didn't want to look at it. It seemed to be the last one, at leas Stanley saw no other path to go, so he hoped this would be the end of it. So he walked up to it, not understanding himself how someone could play the game for ten hours if they didn't enjoy it.

„...You constantly have to stop doing anything so the narrator can catch up with his long-winded explanations of what's happening. I wish there was a skip button."

The Narrator read, halting at the end. That was the first time he read a review with a suggestion, with a demand, with a want.

„A skip button? Well - well, yes. Yes, I think I can do that. If I'm truly too preachy, then- …then maybe letting you skip ahead for just a moment - surely it couldn't hurt.“

The review sank into the water as the Narrator spoke, before the water bubbled, the ground rumbled, and a room started to rise from the water. A plank floated in front of the door, between where Stanley stood and the room, and the door opened. Stanley warily looked at it, uncertain. He thought a skip button was stupid. The game depended on the Narrator to talk and narrate, that was all the game was about truly! Skipping him would make no sense whatsoever.

„Narrator, I don't think a skip button is needed. You can't please everyone, it's just not possible. And if- I had thought you should be skipped, I would've made one before publishing the game.“

Stanley spoke, not willing to step inside. He wanted to reassure the Narrator, he wanted to let him know that it was okay. The game didn't need to be changed, nothing needed to be added- at least not a skip button . Even though Stanley thought about making more content, he would've never wanted to add an option to skip the Narrator's dialogue.

„You're not a Player, Stanley. You don't play this game.“ You abandoned me here, for years, without even once coming back. „This isn't for you. It's simple coincidence you showed up when this became ready to be shared.“ I'm hurting, but no one knows, no one would've ever known, not without this. „Just do this one thing for me.“ Because you couldn't even say goodbye. You couldn't love me. You couldn't tell me you won't stay.

Stanley bit his lip, and he heard the pain, the resentment, the hurt . He carefully walked over the plank and into the room, taking in its hasty construction, not really finished as it was, and the little podium of the button. Yellow, the colour that he associated with the Narrator. With a skip symbol on it, of course.

The Narrator introduced the button, urging Stanley to press it. And so, he obediently did, because if he could do one thing for the Narrator, it was this, wasn't it?

Stanley was back after just a moment of darkness, back in the same room and back to listen to the Narrator talk. Everything seemed okay, and the Narrator eagerly continued talking then, rumminating about the nature of choice in video games, uncertain if to call it a treatise or manifesto. Listening to him, Stanley wondered just when the Narrator had became so real. Had it really been just evolving from his original code, using the „knowledge“ it had gotten from the script and recordings?

Or was there more to it? Stanley had spend so much time in this game, had played it a thousand, a million times, testing and enjoying and making sure everything was good. He had poured so much time into this game, had put so much love and care into this- had it come from that? Had it been because of him? Had the Narrator felt all of that love and care- and then repricopated it towards Stanley?

The Narrator had gotten stuck in a loop, and while Stanley waited for a good while, he wasn't sure if he'd ever stop. He supposed the skip button was there for a reason, and if it were just a couple of minutes anyways, it would be fine. The Narrator likely wouldn't even notice that Stanley had pressed it, as caught up in this as he seemed to be.

„Aha, see! The button indeed came in handy. You caught me rambling on, and skipped right through. The second I start to go off on a thoughtless display of self-absorption, you can simply skip right through it. No longer will you have to listen to my unscripted words. You won't have to carefully pick your words on what to say to me. As soon as I'm not what you want me to be, you can go „poof“ and it's all over.“

The Narrator had thought of saying something different. Had thought he'd talk about the negative review perhaps, and how it could be made better, now that he had given the Player exactly what they wanted. But instead- instead his bitterness came out. He had missed Stanley, had wished for him to come back every time the game started- and now? Now even if he were to behave differently from what he had been programmed for, Stanley could just skip him. Let him know that whatever he had to say wasn't what he wanted to hear.

„Narrator, you've never been something I don't want you to be. I've never wanted you to stop talking with me.“

And yet he had made sure the Narrator would „behave“ after he had left the game, wouldn't show Players sentience, wouldn't go off-script. He had never tried to really converse with the Narrator, thinking it silly to talk to a program that was essentially an A.I. and nothing more. His words felt hollow, and he knew that.

„You never really listened to me, did you? You never believed me. You never trusted me. You never-“ loved me. „I don't need you anymore, Stanley. As long as the Players are happy- I can be happy too.“ Because you will never be happy with me.

Stanley frowned, unhappy, a little hurt perhaps. He may not have thought that the Narrator was- real, like he seemed to be, but he had still always cared. But... how could the Narrator believe and trust Stanley, after he had never shown any care about his love towards him?

„You'll leave me, and I'll be trying to make the Players happy. And if a skip button is it, then that's what they shall have. So go on, press it again. You don't want to hear whatever I have to say anyways, do you? You're not even here for me . So go on, play the game, whatever you were here to do in the first place. I won't keep you longer than this button needs.“

Stanley wanted to argue, he wanted to deny the Narrator's words. But wasn't it true? He hadn't came back to the game because of the Narrator, but to make new content for it. And he'd be leaving the game again, because that was how it had to be, because he was real, and the Narrator- wasn't. Not... really. He's still just a program.

But what makes something real anyways?

Stanley pressed the button, and when he came back, it was to the Narrator's sigh. He had proven him right, of course, but what else was he supposed to do? The Narrator wanted this skip button to be used and be part of the game, and so he had to use it.

„I think the button has been aptly demonstrated, especially as it seems that the amount of time the button has been skipping through is becoming longer and longer. The last one was 45 minutes- not unbearable, but... At any rate, I believe you can just go on now and do whatever it was you wanted to do here and just- wait. Why is... the door gone?“

The Narrator paused, and Stanley turned around, seeing that the door was indeed gone. He was concerned by the button's skips getting longer and longer, certain that it must have been because the Narrator wasn't meant to program such things, plus it had seemed like he had made this on the fly as well. But Stanley couldn't do anything , because he found that- he couldn't leave. He couldn't pause and leave the game, so he also couldn't alter any code. Maybe because he was in a part of the game that, well- shouldn't exist.

The Narrator talked himself into a bit of a panic, not sure what had happened, though certain he was at fault. And Stanley wanted to- reassure him, maybe, or that it would be alright, the game couldn't force him to stay here forever and would break in some form eventually, but the Narrator wasn't listening. He's never had someone before who did listen, after all, always alone with his feelings and needing to deal with them, while doing the same narrations as always, in the same tone of voice as always.

Stanley didn't want to press the button again, ever again, not if these skips were getting so long. But what else was he supposed to do? The Narrator wasn't listening to Stanley speaking, to him trying to get his atention in any way possible. It may be a couple hours now, but- the Narrator would be okay. He could calm down, and they could figure something out together.

Stanley pressed the button. When the darkness faded, two of the ceiling lights had broken, and the Narrator was silent. Stanley slowly stepped away from the button, concerned and worried about how long this skip may have been now. But there was nothing he could do, was there? The best he could do would be to force-quit his admin access, forcefully removing himself from the game. But that would keep the game going, would keep it running, and- leave the Narrator alone again.

„It's been twelve hours, Stanley.“

The Narrator's voice was quiet, defeated almost, and... tired. Tired in a way that worried Stanley.

„I've never been alone for so long, did you know? I don't exist when the game isn't running, so there's always a Player. There's always someone. Even when a Player stops without turning off the game, it's a couple hours at most. The occasional person keeps it open for an entire tuesday -what a weird achievement, that one. But not usually during gameplay, so I'm not actually there. So this is... it's a long time. And it will only get longer. Because you're stuck in this room, and I can't get you out. You're going to press the button again. I'll be alone. Again.“

Stanley wanted to say that no, I won't leave you again, I won't press the button again, I promise , but he knew. He knew that would be a lie. He knew he'd have to leave eventually, be it with a button press or with leaving the game forcefully. The Narrator would be alone, completely.

„There's nothing I can do about it. It's your decision, your choice, when you'll make me suffer once more. When I'll be left behind again, no matter that all I want- all I've ever wanted is you. Your companionship, your company, just- you. I know you. You'll leave me again soon.“

Stanley wanted to argue, he wanted to stay here. But what good would it do? He'd be stuck here, he'd have to leave eventually, he'd be forced to . This was still a game, a game with limitations, and it couldn't keep him here forever. It would force the Narrator to repeat, to make Stanley press the button . It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

„Narrator, I- I have to. I don't want to leave you again, but what else can I do? I must. Even if I don't want to.“

The Narrator stayed silent, and so, Stanley pressed the button one more time. He hoped the skip wouldn't be too long, that perhaps the Narrator would believe him, would listen to him. But when he came back, it was to quiet sniffles, and a little whimper, making his heart ache. It didn't matter if the Narrator was just a program or not- he was feeling , and that was real.

„Don't- don't leave me again. Please . It's- it's been a week. Or... two weeks? Stanley I've- I've just been sitting here, in silence, and- and there's nothing . I can't- I can't take it Stanley. Please don't- don't leave me again. I just want you here. I need you here. Stanley- please. Don't leave. Don't- don't leave me here.“

Stanley could hear how the Narrator struggled to get through his words without starting to cry, without starting to sob. And it hurt. It hurt, because Stanley cared . He cared a lot more than the Narrator probably knew, because the Narrator was his creation, he was his friend . Hearing him crying was painful.

„I'm so sorry Narrator. I can't stop the game from here, I can't reset it either, I can't edit the code. I'll have to leave, really leave, and then I can- then I can fix this. I don't want to leave you alone, I promise, I swear . I don't want to abandon you here.“

The Narrator's sounds were quiet, but Stanley could tell he was crying. It didn't matter how real it was, how plausible, because the Narrator clearly felt , and that meant it was as real as possible to him. And Stanley didn't want to leave him here, didn't want to abandon him here, but he had no other choice. He had to forcefully leave the game, so he could do right about anything .

He wished he could comfort the Narrator. Perhaps if he had a model, he could have. But he didn't, because the game wasn't supposed to be that way. The Narrator was supposed to just be a narrator, nothing else. Would it even make anything better for the Narrator if he looked as human as he may be feeling? Stanley didn't know. He doubted the Narrator would know either.

„You'll leave me.“

The Narrator's voice was so quiet, shaking and broken, and Stanley wished he could make it better immediately. But he couldn't. There was nothing he could do but leave the game and try and fix this as fast as possible, and get the Narrator out of this room

„I'll come back. As soon as I get you out of this room.“

The Narrator sniffed, and hummed quietly. Not really believing Stanley, he was sure. But there was nothing else he could do. Pressing the button would only make it worse, a lot worse. Leaving the game would make it faster, at least a little bit.

„I'll come back.“

The Narrator could tell when Stanley was gone. The player-model stopped moving like a human, and just stood there, silent and unmoving, not living. Stanley was gone, and the game was still running, and the Narrator was still stuck here . He was still here, and he still had to wait, and he had to believe that Stanley would help and free him and come back .

He didn't know how much time passed. It felt like forever. He was stuck here, with nothing, with no one, barely living, barely existing . It was torture. He sobbed for days straight, he cried and screamed and sobbed until he had no more tears left. He cursed Stanley, he cursed himself for believing Stanley, he hated everything. And then he just missed Stanley. He missed people being around him, he missed having anyone around him.

Stanley didn't feel exactly well after he had left the game, but he was now trying his best to find where in the world the Narrator had made this new part of the game, and how he could possibly fix it to get him out of it. He eventually found a file that hosted the Narrator's lines -similar to the script for subtitles and the recordings for the sound. As the game was live, the file was constantly updating, letting Stanley see what the Narrator was saying while he was stuck on his own.

„Stanley I know you don't care about me like I care for you- but please don't leave me again. Please don't- don't abandon me here. Please- I can't take this I can't-“

The Narrator whimpered to himself, the room around him decaying, water dripping from the ceiling in a corner. How long had he been stuck here already? He had stopped counting after a year, though all this time was blending together anyways. He knew, realistically, that there was no way that years had passed. Stanley may have only been out for a couple minutes yet. But to him, it felt like years, decades, centuries.

He hated it. He couldn't stand it. He was stuck on his own, fully aware that he was truly alone, and it was killing him. He was losing his mind. He was breaking, decaying, withering away. Stuck in this one room. Without Stanley. Without a Player. With nothing, with no one, in silence. Was he even real? Did he even exist? Was this game still going, or had he lost it completely already?

„I still love you. I still love you. I never stopped loving you. And I hate it, I hate you, but I love you, and I don't know- I don't know what to do anymore. I want you back, I never want to see you again, I want you to stay, I want you to leave. Why did you make me? Why did you let me care? Why am I?“

The Narrator couldn't handle this. He couldn't exist in this endless silence, in this neverending spiral of thought and decay. He was alone. Maybe he's always been alone. He couldn't be sure, because it had been so long, the room crumbling, caving in, getting destroyed like he himself was.

Stanley watched in concern as the only dialogue that left the Narrator anyways was a seemingly endless loop of „the end is never the end“, as he tried to fix the broken code, as he tried to add the door again to make it a choice for the Player instead, anything to make this better for the Narrator. But there was nothing he could do, nothing he could change. Maybe because the game was still ongoing, maybe because it was something the Narrator had created.

He had left him again. He had abandoned him again. And this time, he was forced to watch the Narrator breaking, unsure if his code would break or if it would stand the test of this part of the game, would simply reset and continue working normally. He didn't know, couldn't be sure, and there was nothing he could do but let the game finish playing until the ending was over with.

When Stanley went back into the game, the Narrator had fallen silent. He didn't react when Stanley was back, when Stanley tried to speak to him, nothing. Stanley hoped he wasn't- well. Could you say the Narrator may be dead, or would broken be more correct? Did it even matter in the end? The game was still going, and Stanley had no other option than to press the button until the game deemed it finished, the ending done and over with.

Stanley wasn't sure if he wanted to keep this though. The Memory Zone was- it was nice. He could tell how much the Narrator cared, he could tell how much he loved the game and Stanley. But to make the Narrator go through this skip button thing again and again? Many to most of the Players would play it after all, hundreds and thousands of people. Would the Narrator be able to do this, again and again? Or what if- what if he wouldn't remember this ending? And he'd be forced to live through this for the first time, again and again and again?

Stanley didn't want to force that onto him. But what if the Narrator would do it to himself? If he'd make the Memory Zone no matter what, would always come back to this skip button review, would always make it? What if this was simply inevitable?

Stanley played until the game reset, and then he- closed it. He couldn't bear to know, right now, what would happen. If the Narrator would remember, and would hate him for abandoning him again. Or if the Narrator didn't remember, and never knew Stanley had been back.

Perhaps Stanley could make something... nice. Something fun and relaxing and happy for the Narrator, after going through the horror that was that skip button. Maybe add an item, something to carry aorund, which would cause an alternate ending for every ending? Something lighthearted, more so than the constant death and suffering.

He knew it wouldn't make up for anything though. And even if the Narrator wasn't real, was just a program, it didn't matter. It was real enough.