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chirpbudgie · 10 months

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introducing my stanley for rawts: gidget!!!!!!! his name was from his narrator so he decided to change it :-) like stanford, he loooooves learning but his narrator got after him for asking questions. for now i did some writing about him……(kept falling asleep writing it, FINALLY FINISHED!!!!!!!!!) and later? who knows.!!! i have a ref almost done which i’ll probably post later under the rawts tag. as well as a bunch of other facts and like. half a drabble that i can talk abt. but i will prolly just make a separate post! ok i’m rambling hello to @queenburd and @charmemes

some inspiration drawn from Satisfied by Pansychic27213 on ao3 but when am i not inspired by that.

The Parable had been tense for some time now. Stanley wasn’t keeping track, but the narrator probably was. He was petty like that. But it’s not like he was allowed to have time to himself to cool off, because why would that be a good idea?

(The narrator didn’t do anything unless it was his idea.)

“Come on! You can do it, Stanley.” His tone was patronizing. Of course the son of a bitch would turn up his volume. It’s not like Stanley’s feelings mattered or anything. He never respected boundaries unless he was in a good mood.

Stanley reminded himself to unclench his jaw and it popped when he did. He stepped through the left door. Hopefully, if he stayed quiet and played peacemaker for a while the narrator would stop trying to get a rise out of him.

(No broom closet. Comfort is off limits right now so it isn’t taken away again.)

He pretended to be surprised in the meeting room. Stanley stifled a sigh in the bosses office while the monologue continued, but still acted thoughtful and put a random code in before the real one. Looked around a little, raised his eyebrows, furrowed them.

And he pretended to look surprised when the elevator opened. He did not need to pretend to be surprised when he caught movement in the corner of his vision and tripped on a wire. Obviously the narrator moved it, but a wave of fear washed over him when he thought about giving a response.

(Okay, so he wouldn’t give fake reactions. He was just trying to play along; usually it’s appreciated. Use your words, narrator—what are you, three?)

The narrator’s voice was still cranked up and echoed in the large chamber, bless his heart. Stanley gripped the hem of his shirt as he walked and his senses buzzed unpleasantly.

(He was not going to have a meltdown this soon after their fight. He wasn’t. Not a sensory one, anyway. He’d rather go down from his own choices.)

His fear had finally receded to anger again and the button panel was his victim. The narrator didn’t care how hard he punched it, since it was obviously made of something strong. (He’d love to determine what exactly, but he didn’t have a magnet. Wasn’t allowed one, after…)

(He couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to, anyway.)

With the telltale buzz of the monitor shutting down, Stanley could make out the narration again. He sighed with relief. Now that the volume was normal, he listened in (out of politeness, but still).

“Stanley reflected on how many puzzles still lay unsolved. Where had his co-workers gone? How had he been freed from the machines grasp? What other mysteries did this strange building hold?” The narrator’s voice was mocking when he asked the questions and it was grating like nails on a chalkboard. The voice he always used to mock Stanley. Anger bubbled up again. Maybe his co-workers had left because they couldn’t stand the sheer disrespect of this guy. They should’ve taken him with; subjecting him to this was a fate worse than death.

“But as sunlight streamed into the chamber, he realized none of this mattered to him. For it was not knowledge, or even power, he had been seeking, but happiness. Perhaps his goal had not been to understand, but to let go.”

Stay calm, Stanley. Deep breaths. Don’t let him get a reaction out of you.

“No longer would anyone tell him where to go, what to do, or how to feel. Whatever life he lives, it will be his. And that was all he needed to know. It was, perhaps, the only thing worth knowing. Stanley stepped-“

Stanley kicked the door as hard as he could before it disappeared beneath the floor and the echoing boom drowned out the voice. This motherfucker wanted to irritate him sooooo bad. Well, he did it. Happy?

{Boohoo}, Stanley emphasized his middle fingers in the sign. {Someone doesn’t want to address his plot-holes. I’ve been trying to be nice here, and here you go probably SPITTING all over yourself as you talk. Haven’t you ever heard, “if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”}

The silence was deafening. He could practically see “the outside” change hues to an ugly yellow, warping and melting. He pushed back the fear that resurfaced and let the rage boil in him.

“Stanley. Stepped. Through. The. Door.” The narrator’s poorly concealed fury made his guts churn.

{Stop antagonizing me, I thought I was the protagonist. Isn’t that, like, one of the first rules of storytelling? You already have a conflict, you can’t make me another one out of nowhere.}

The reset felt more like a punch.

He was now in the Serious Room, which had long ago been revamped for solitary confinement. “TIMEOUT” was written in red blocky letters on one of the concrete walls, but it was the only feature remaining.

Fuck, he was in big trouble. He knows exactly what his punishment is going to be.

———

The Narrator relaxed as the restrictions of a human body melted away.

The last Parable had been rougher than he’d hoped. Just a little time to himself would be nice, or even some time with his Stanley. But he had a job to do and by god, he’ll do it.

This Stanley, he noted, did not seem to be… present. He stumbled through the halls—toward the freedom ending each time—with wide, glazed over eyes and the bucket clutched to his chest. This narrator did not seem particularly cruel, even encouraging him softly along the way. When he looked closely, this narrator’s presence was concentrated around Stanley like a blanket.

It was the fourth or fifth run that Stanley seemed to come back to himself. He didn’t stand up from his chair, disgust and guilt curling out from him in thick waves. The Narrator reeled a little, not expecting such strong emotions just from the surface. Stanley still held the bucket, apparently allowed to keep it between resets, but kept a poker face. The other narrator had receded some too, he noted.

“Are you feeling better, Stanley?” This narrator spoke. There was no softness like before, just down-to-business.

A burst of disgust billowed from Stanley again (strong enough to make The Narrator gag a little, despite his incorporeality). The office worker nodded weakly but didn’t lift his eyes from the ground.

“Good. Get on with it when you’re ready, I’ll wait out here. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Stanley shudders suddenly and The Narrator feels a hazy memory. “it’s my fault,” echoes in his mind, but it feels more like a reassurance than a fact.

This Stanley is too fragile right now, The Narrator realizes. It hurts to step back and deny the poor man a hug, but he very likely wouldn’t be able to handle it in this… brainwashed state.

He still looks dazed when he completes the freedom ending again, but seems more aware after another reset and hides in the broom closet.

So it’s a drop in the bucket (figuratively) to soundproof the small room. It’s wiser for The Narrator to stay hidden from the other until he knows the extent of his seemingly unpredictable behavior.

Stanley startles at the sound of shoes hitting the ground. He stares at the new man with his hands up, but can’t seem to form anything to say. He rocks a little from his position on the floor.

That’s alright, of course. The Narrator will give him all the time he needs.

{Who?} Stanley finally manages before frantically sitting on his hands.

“I’m The Narrator of a different Stanley,” he begins, speaking softly. It’s a little hard on his knees, but he sits down on the floor too. This Stanley feels like a scared, cornered animal. “I’m going to help you leave. Would you like some company in the meantime?”

Stanley squirms a little. He has so many questions that they’re practically forced into The Narrator’s head, but he only nods. His expression is conflicted.

“Let’s see…” Wow, that is a lot, he’ll go in order. “I’m not completely sure how I’m here either. I can exist outside of this body, but most Stanleys seem to prefer I use it when we first meet. No, I created it-“

{Are you reading my mind?!} Stanley signs frantically. His mouth has dropped wide open.

“You might as well be handing them to me on sticky-notes, dear boy,” he chuckles. “I’m only listening to the surface level.”

But Stanley shrinks back. {Sorry, I hope it’s not too many questions. My narrator doesn’t do that.} He wrings his hands together and looks everywhere else.

He’s panicking, The Narrator realizes. Stanley is fearful of asking. It makes him want to cry and hold this poor man until he’s never afraid again.

He pulls himself to sit next to the office worker and holds his hand. “I don’t mind—in fact, I enjoy it very much. Ask to your hearts content.”

This Stanley wears his heart on his sleeve, it seems, and the sudden emotions hit him like a brick. It’s almost overstimulating at first.

Stanley takes a deep breath, shaky. {Thank you,} he fumbles. He wants to say more, but he doesn’t want to unlink their hands. Touch-starvation is one hell of a drug and he thinks he’ll start crying if he lets go.

Even with the reassurance, an unspoken question rests on his fingers. He finally looks back at The Narrator, who has a welcoming smile on his face. “Of course, whatever you want.”

He shuffles closer gingerly, like if he moves too fast The Narrator might leave. The older man bridges the divide and Stanley is settled in his lap.

“I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable,” he hums and Stanley relaxes. He curls up, resting his head against The Narrator’s shoulder. A hand begins to rub his back and he takes a deep breath again, this time in relief.

His own narrator is a ticking time bomb—he’s had to learn to switch gears fast. And that probably sped up the process of him getting here, in such a vulnerable position, but he doesn’t mind all that much. In fact, this is the first time in a long time that he’s been able to remember what hope is truly like.

But the thoughts bleed out of him like sand through a sieve. He doesn’t fight it like he always does. He’s never been truly comforted like this, it’s so earnest—there’s no fear that his coping mechanism will be exploited. That he’ll be exploited for the story.

Stanley has plenty of questions, but he can ask them later. When he remembers them.

(The Narrator notes that Stanley’s contentment is an emotion that feels stale. Like a stuffed animal that’s been moved around, but hasn’t been played with in years; dust collecting deep and thick in the fur.)

#chirping #repeat and write this story #tsp #the stanley parable #tsp oc ?#hrmmmm #anyways #gidget is just a little guy in a big world #he just wants to be held. the narrator indulges him #gidget rawts

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