Chapter Text
‘I haven’t danced in ages,’ Stanley thought to himself as he sat in his office chair a little glumly. ‘Then again, I never really danced at all did I?’ He lazily swiveled his chair left and right.
All of his memories were nothing more than words written on paper. Pages of ages gone by that never really went by. For him, the past felt like the fuzziest sort of loosely connected vivid dreams.
There but not there. Real but not real.
The fact that his background was completely fictional all along was a hell of a hard pill to swallow at first, but the pain dulled nearly the instant the game reset, as it usually did.
However, there were still times he would wonder about what carried over. What was still true of him now that was true of him in his story?
Stanley was still a rather dull every man office worker. But definitely much more chaotic than the Narrator had intended. He also still had a very deep love of pushing buttons. But maybe that just transferred to more specifically wanting to push the Narrator’s buttons these days.
And when he really thought about it, Stanley was certain that he maybe, probably, knew how to dance.
The Narrator’s past words rang clear in his mind, “Stanley had a penchant for being the first one on the dance floor at every office party! Although, he wasn’t very good at it. Watching him go was… comedic, one might say. It was comedy of the sort that made you cringe in pain with second-hand embarrassment, but he certainly gave it his all!”
The Narrator’s words, though still a bit fuzzy at times, were always the clearest, most prominent part of any of his “memories”. Sometimes he could remember names and faces, moments and vague feelings. Most of the time it was just the Narrator's words and a blur of colors that made up the background of these fictional moments of his once thought to be real life.
So yes, when he thought about it right now, in a way, he recalled having danced at an office party at least. And he certainly danced at his own wedding.
Maybe?
He could also recall having to do a bit of marching in band class. Marching wasn’t exactly dancing but it was something of a dance, he supposed.
That thought brought to mind that band class was yet another thing the Narrator had written into him. Stanley could play the clarinet, saxophone, and piano, apparently. He was a man of many talents in the musical arts it seemed.
The Narrator never mentioned any of that, though.
He had almost certainly forgotten.
Not that any of this really even mattered much considering it was nothing more than a written past. But it was still more than no past at all.
Right now, however, he was stuck in the unwritten present. Now he was sentient, and could actually feel and experience the story forming around him. He could interact with the man who narrated his life and joyfully cause him so much grief. Although, while annoying the Narrator for years and years and years or whatever was fun and all, The Stanley Parable Ultra Deluxe had put many things into perspective for him.
That was what had really made clear the fact that- yes, he could hold these blurry memories of his close all he wanted, but... there was nobody waiting for him “out there”. No real home, no real wife, no real friends and co-workers. There was nothing out there for him in that, supposedly real freedom that he wandered in for so very long in the Epilogue.
This story, this game, was all he was and all he would ever be. And that, as they say, was that.
He remembered that thought repeating on loop in his mind as he walked through that long lonely desert.
And walked… and walked.
He remembered how he'd began to feel less and less real as he continued on.
And on... and on.
His life slowly trickled away as time supposedly passed him by. It reminded him of that empty feeling the Real Person Ending always gave him- a feeling that he hadn’t felt since before his life had actually started.
Lifelessness.
It was a terrible feeling, but only up until the point you stopped feeling anything at all.
Luckily, after so very long, he felt a familiar pull. A pull of life- a life that was gently leading him somewhere, anywhere, once more. He had almost forgotten the feeling.
That moment was the first time in a long, long time that he had felt anything at all.
And what he felt most was hope.
It wasn’t even hope to truly find freedom. It was something much more real to him.
He just wanted... to go home.
There was an odd bittersweet feeling that came with the realization that going back to the parable felt like going home.
Not to mention, hearing that voice again.
That voice.
It made him so angry. He was so damn angry that home wasn’t as simple as just returning to the parable. It was returning to that voice too.
There was an eternal struggle between Stanley and the Narrator. Laced with malice and violence, chaos and curiosity. Most conflicting of all was their own strange semblance of care.
It was that near unbearable warmth that surfaced whenever they were lost in a particular loop together. It showed itself when those moments of mutual suffering at the hands of the game itself had become something of a reminder that they were all each other had. That they truly were in this together whether they wanted to be or not. And sometimes... it showed itself in stranger ways still. In the ways that made clear, petty insults and deaths aside, the Narrator really did want Stanley to have a happy ending.
At first, Stanley wasn’t sure if it was possible to feel so many conflicting things about one person all at once, but every moment of his life seemed intent on making him sure of his feelings.
He wondered for a moment, if the Narrator felt at all the same.
Did he feel the hate the same way Stanley did? The care? Or anything else...
Of course, the man had to be so strange, so infinitely impossible to read. Maybe Stanley would never know.
And he was fine with that. So long as he was still here.
He just needed to be here.
After a moment, Stanley shook the thoughts from his mind as he stood from his chair.
What’s to dwell on? Nothing ever really changes so it doesn’t really change anything.
Enough introspection! Stanley wasn’t like the Narrator. He couldn’t sit and mope- that was much too boring. Stanley was a man of action!
Less thinking more doing, he thought.
Then he finally walked out of his office.
When the Player wasn’t playing the game, the Narrator was a little less of a stickler for staying on script, though deviating from the script was still not his favorite thing to do. Or so he said.
Nonetheless, it left more room for Stanley to do the same and “speak” his thoughts, and over time things had become somewhat more relaxed for them whenever the game wasn’t being played.
That too was comforting. That too made the Nar- this place... feel like home.
He shook off the sentimentality with an annoyed grumble to himself as he walked to the middle of the communal office space.
The Narrator began, “All of his co-workers were gone! What could it mean? Stanley decided to head to-”
‘Hey!’
“Wha- Stanley, let me finish before you go about interrupting me!”
‘The Player hasn’t played the game in months, relax.’
“Still! It's best to always be prepared, you know.”
‘But I have a question.’
“Oh, there’s always something with you. What is it now?”
‘Does the piano in the boss’ office work?’
“What? The piano-” the Narrator sighed, “Stanley, why are you asking me this? Is my story just so boring that you’d rather learn to play the piano? Is that it?”
After spending so much time together, it was easy, Stanley found, to navigate the Narrator’s sass. Sometimes by sassing back, sometimes by ignoring it all together.
‘Shouldn’t I already know how to play it? It’s in my backstory- being able to play the piano.’
“It- it is?” The familiar sound of paper shuffling filled the room before the man answered, “Oh?” In a quiet mumble to himself he continued, “Forgot I wrote that.”
“Well,” the Narrator continued more audibly again, trying his best to sound uncaring now, “regardless, who knows how much of what I wrote about you is true to who you are now that you’ve gone and become all sentient and disobedient.”
Stanley bit back a smug proud of himself smile as he continued his train of thought, ‘It’s all still written into me. Some of what you wrote is still true. I do love pushing buttons to an abnormal degree.’
“Mmm, indeed you do."
‘And I remember playing the piano during an office Christmas party. Maybe this is like that old saying: “it’s like reading a book, you never forget!”’
“Do you perhaps mean ‘it’s like riding a bicycle’?”
‘Oh, that’s a good point. I wonder if I can ride a bike.’
Ignoring him, the Narrator continued, “That’s not even applicable here, Stanley. There were never any office Christmas parties. You’re not remembering something you’ve actually done.”
'I wanna give it a try, though! I mean, we do have a perfectly good piano all ready to go!’
“The piano in the boss’ office is just set dressing. Do you not remember the times you've attempted to jump on top of it just to annoy me!"
'...Oh, right.'
"I could replace it with a working piano but... oh, what brought all of this on, Stanley?”
‘I dunno.' He wasn't willing to say he had been thinking a lot more lately about his past since the Figurine Ending, since the Epilogue. Instead he sighed, 'The last time I walked through the boss’ office it just… made me wonder… can I play the piano? Can I dance?’
“I see. Well, you’ve caught me in a good mood seeing as you’ve done the Freedom Ending at least three times within the last eight resets. Go on then, let’s give this a shot. Otherwise you’ll not stop thinking about it and bothering until you get your way.”
Stanley nodded, that was very true.
He then made his way up to the boss’ office. Once there, he found that the piano was playing a light airy melody. A little melancholy, he thought, but very pretty.
Stanley walked up to the new piano and unceremoniously interrupted it by hitting a few keys at random.
“Really, Stanley? I went through all of that trouble to find a nice new working player piano!”
‘Well I wanted to play it.’
“Oh alright, let’s see-”
‘Wait. Actually... I kind of wanna dance. See if I still know how to do that first.’
It was a soft tune. One you would need a partner to slow dance with.
All was quiet for a moment and then the Narrator said, “Well, I’m sorry I can’t make a partner to dance with you.”
‘...Can’t you come down here?’ He’d asked such a thing at least twice before, the only answer he’d receive was some sort of stuttered no.
“Ah, well, I’m- n-no I don’t think so. Here, let me just, fix up some mood lighting and,”
Stanley sighed. Why did the Narrator always get so antsy whenever Stanley made even the smallest comment about him coming down here in person? If he couldn’t or didn’t want to then just be straightforward and say it.
Was he afraid? Afraid to try it? Or maybe… afraid to finally show himself to Stanley?
The room darkened as the shades slowly covered the windows above. A soft rattle rang out in tandem as a large ornate chandelier of candles lowered from the ceiling. It’s dim light lit the room in a haunting glow, casting shadows that seeped into the patterns on the walls and formed interesting new shapes.
Upon glancing around this somewhat eerie new scene, a sudden person shaped shadow took form nearby that almost gave him a fright, until he realized-
Is that…
The shapely form of a woman. A very much not real woman. Plastic and pristine white.
Standing a little ways away from him was the mannequin from the Apartment Ending. The light and shadows on it’s faceless stare formed even more strange patterns- one that was a crescent shape of light that looked as if it were something of a taunting smile.
“You could dance with... your wife, of course,” the Narrator said in a mean teasing tone.
Stanley gave a soft sigh. He wasn’t mad, just tired.
‘Okay.’
“What?”
Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe he had been thinking too much lately, or maybe he just wanted to piss off the Narrator as usual. It didn’t really matter.
He walked up to the mannequin and put his left hand in ‘her’ right, and his right hand on her back, then began to move as best he could in the stiffly held position. He dragged the mannequin’s feet against the wood floor, leaving a light scraping sound following them around the room.
When he realized he wanted to dance, slow dancing hadn’t been the sort he’d meant, but as with everything else in his life... he had what he had and adapted.
The Narrator sighed, “Stanley, I was only kidding. You don’t have to dance with the mannequin.”
So Stanley made the choice to do just that. Swaying to the music, stiffly, slowly. One could hardly call it a dance.
“You look like an imbecile, you know,” the Narrator chided. “That mannequin can’t reciprocate your hold. Who would even want to?”
Stanley wasn’t so easily hurt by words. In fact, he found most of what the Narrator usually said to be either mildly annoying or very funny. Sometimes both.
The Narrator’s words just now, however, brought about another realization.
He realized... he wanted touch.
He wondered if the haunting atmosphere of the room would look more cozy, more truly beautiful if he were really dancing with someone.
Gripping the plastic hands he held in his own a bit tighter now, he tried to ignore the want in his heart. It was such a strange feeling. Almost like a warm chill, the ghost of a thought. The emptiness of the air around him was suddenly so heavy and he felt so… isolated, so cold.
He wanted to hold someone- someone real. To hold them close, dip them, spin them gently.
Just to hold and be held… to have someone want to hold him. In any capacity. To have the simple touch of an acquaintance, a friend, a lover, or even… an enemy. Anything would be nice.
Stanley never considered himself as “normal” and “boring” as the Narrator tried to claim he was, but as mentioned, he couldn’t argue that those aspects of his backstory were still very much a part of him. He was, at least partly, still just a… normal, boring, office worker. Those words the Narrator wrote about him so long ago had stuck to the core of his being. They kept him somewhat grounded despite how strange and chaotic Stanley eventually did become. They gave him those simple human feelings of so desperately wanting- needing real connection. To not be alone.
He shut his eyes tightly, he wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t so easily moved like the Narrator. He wouldn't just come out and admit something so embarrassing. To admit that he was... lonely. Stanley always prided himself on the fact that he was much less emotional than his much too emotional companion.
And no ending- no Epilogue- would change that.
...But something about all of this was like pouring salt on a wound he had only just remembered he had. Even if he was just a fictional character- just a video game character… he could still feel all of these things very deeply.
He kept his eyes closed, swaying the mannequin around the room gently, trying his best to keep his expression as blank as he usually did.
“Stanley?” the Narrator asked. He sounded slightly concerned now. “Are you- are you alright?”
Oh, that's right. He could probably hear at least a some of Stanley’s loose thoughts.
“I really am sorry... that I can’t… make a partner for you.”
Stanley fought very hard now to quell his thought in response to that. Unfortunately, the more you tried to not think a thought the more you thought it, of course.
And he thought that maybe he didn’t want a new partner to dance with. He thought that he already had a partner- one that he metaphorically did a strange sort of tango with every day of their lives.
Stanley bit down hard on his bottom lip as he tried to think of anything, anything but what was on his mind at the moment. He was usually so much better about keeping his mind blank enough every now and then to stump the Narrator, but he felt so vulnerable right now, and so very tired.
But he was fine. It was fine.
A warm copper-y taste touched his tongue as his bit down on his lip harder now.
He nearly laughed, maybe the Narrator had been right all that time ago when he joked in the lounge about Stanley being happy about a nosebleed or whatnot. Happy because it reminded him he was alive.
This pain he felt right now... he wouldn't directly face it or confront it, but he felt it deep in his heart. As much as it hurt, it did make him feel alive- made him feel real. He hoped it would go away with a reset but he also hoped he would never forget the feeling.
Stanley suddenly realized that the music had stopped, silence had taken over.
He kept his eyes shut as he licked away the blood at his lips and stood still in the quiet room.
Then... the strangest thing happened.
The Narrator gently said, “Would you like me to restart?”
Eyes still closed, mannequin still in hand, Stanley nodded.
...
Stanley opened his eyes. He was sitting at his desk in his office, same as always.
His tears were no longer threatening to fall, though, he still felt that pang of sadness in his heart, in his throat, at the attempt to not cry. His bottom lip was no longer bleeding, though, he could still very vaguely taste the salty copper of the blood that once was there.
He took a deep breath then decided that maybe some things were better left unknown. Some feelings were better left unexplored.
With a deep breath he stood, then walked out of his office and continued on, as if nothing had changed. Because, as usual, nothing really had.