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melaniadeliveryworld
CHICOS Pará!
justanotherpurplebutterfly
Simply a happy girl
veryblushyswitch
Hyper Fixates A Lot
melaniadeliveryworld
CHICOS Pará!
local-logic
Logan angst? Logan angst.
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The ache in his head--quickly evolving into a pounding sort of pain--seemed to dull itself as the whiteness in the room faded to a hue much easier on his exhausted eyes. "Thank you," He signs, and he really is grateful. But he's also frightened, annoyed, confused, mildly angry, and very, very tired. He's taking any positive feelings with more than a grain of salt at this point.
He runs a slow hand through his hair for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "...(Don't be) sorry, you (don't) have (to be) sorry, just...tell me what I (am) supposed (to) do (to) fix...something. Everything. Anything. Please." His head feels heavy; he might add another very to that description of his tiredness he'd done earlier. Maybe two, to play it safe.
"Can I do something (to) put things (back to the) way they (were)?" He asks, before tacking on, "Something that (doesn't) involve my untimely death, if (at all) possible?"
The Curator remained silent as he spoke, unsure of what to say. After a moment she did not yet speak, but instead dimmed the lights as if she knew that he would have appreciate it. At least, she hoped he did.
There’s a sound. You can almost imagine her running a hand over her face. “Yes, that’s correct,” she answers. “Stanley, I… I’m sorry. The Narrator and I, we don’t usually look at the story from the protagonist’s perspective. I try my best, but the Narrator, well… He’s rather self-absorbed. He gets so caught up in narrating his story, he doesn’t think about how you might feel. He thinks that since the story will reset, everything will be fine.” She sighs.
"Obviously it isn’t so, and I’m sorry."
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He rubs his temples with a sigh; it has been, and continues to be, a very difficult day. "You (are) forgiven," He signs, a little more stiffly than he intended. He quickly adds, "I appreciate (the) apology. Thank you." The voice didn't elaborate on that last bit, and he decides not to push it. Everything is already overcomplicated enough as it is.
A grin finds its way onto his face, if a small and exasperated one. "'(A) lot (to) take in?' You think (so)? (What) with (the) 'my life (is a) story (that is) repeating forever' thing going (on)? Nah. How (did) you get (that) idea?" The brightness of the museum is not helping with his blossoming headache, and that headache in turn is not helping him understand this mess any better.
"So...let me get (this) straight. I completed (the) Narrator's story. Repeatedly. (And) then something happened, (and) I got...'stuck.' Then (the) story reset, (and some) amnesia...thing? Happened (to) me?" He snorts, dryly. "I (would) say (that) nobody I tell (this to would) believe me, but nobody (is) in (the) goddamned office building."
There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then, “I’m sorry, Stanley, that was insensitive of me.” The voice truly sounds repentant. “Sometimes I forget.” She doesn’t exactly clarify what exactly it is that was forgotten, perhaps in an attempt to allow Stanley to adjust. Though if she had, she might have said that sometimes she forgets what it must be like to be human.
"Yes, that is right," she replies hesitantly, almost unwilling to continue with the state he is in. There’s a heavy pause. "Well, Stanley, from what I’m gathering… You are that Stanley. However, something… Something went wrong, with one of the tellings." The Curator has to pause. Her voice sounds strained, pained, as she continues. "Something happened, and you, as you were before now, were… Stuck. Eventually the story reset and you awoke, but this time with no memories of the past."
"I’m sorry, Stanley, this must be quite a lot to take in."
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He pales, stumbles, thrusts out a hand to prop him against a wall; all this information throws his thoughts into a violent tailspin. This is too much. Too much and he doesn't––that can't be––how could––
"STOP!" He signs, as forcefully as he can. "Slow down! Stop, please! I (don't) understand (what) you (are) saying! I (don't)..." But it's dawning on him, and he does understand, is understanding more with every passing second. A thought blurts out of the chaos: I really should've stayed home today. Another is right behind it: but would that have even kept me out of this?
A deep breath is forced into his lungs and out again. He has to stay calm. He has to breathe. Panicking won't solve anything here, and he knows it, beneath all the confusion and fear. He lets go of the wall, straightens as much as he can. He'll respond to this one step at a time. "So this (is a)...story. (And the) story (is) my life. (And the) Narrator wrote (the) story, (so) therefore, he wrote my life. Right?"
A thought occurs to him, and he struggles to grasp onto it. "...But he said (he) completed (the) story with someone (else). (A) different Stanley. Hundreds (of) times, over (and) over. What happened (to) him? Why (am) I here instead (of this) other Stanley?"
The museum as a whole is rather large. Doors and stairwells, all leading to more items from the story. None of that mattered, not at the moment. They were all worthless material items in the end.
"Yes, The Stanley Parable. The Narrator, that man’s voice you heard not too long ago, he wrote you a story. This is the story of you, of your life. It was supposed to be this grand adventure of you searching for your missing coworkers and uncovering a dastardly scheme of mind control.” She sounds irritated, to say the least. “You were to turn the machine off, and you will escape from this building.”
"Don’t you see? He had every detail of your life planned out, from start to finish. What’s worse, the mind control machine, or him, controlling not your mind, but your life? He doesn’t care about you, look what he did. He let you almost be killed when he had the power to stop it. He only cares about his story.”
"But listen to me, you can stop this. There is a way to end this perpetual loop."
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"Good (to) know." He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The sight of the colorless room beneath the letters is a very welcome contrast to the gloom of the surrounding catwalks. He feels much more comfortable entering it, and so he does. He isn't even going to think about the bright words above this place--they made him uneasy, and he is quite content to ignore them.
It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the sudden all-encompassing brightness of the room, but once the second is over, he follows the railing of the balcony to a set of stairs that he subsequently descends. As he studies the contents of the space below, a thought occurs to him.
"Curator. Museum Curator? So this (is a) museum...(a) museum of what?" The model on the floor reads 'The Two Doors,' with a short description that gives him the same uneasiness as the giant words above. "...(The) Me Parable...? I (don't) understand...what (does) this mean?"
The new voice waits patiently for the man to regain his composure. As he makes his way towards the light shining beyond the doorway, a soft chuckle can be heard. “I am not the Narrator, and for now that should be more than enough.”
As Stanley approached the words, clearly declaring The Stanley Parable, a section of the blackness beneath it descended, revealing a doorway. Through it the man would be able to see a railing overlooking a large, pale room.
"However… For now, I believe that you can call me the Curator."
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It takes a moment or two of frantic, repetitive signing before he realizes that not only is he not dead, but that the crushers no longer wall him in on either side. The relief thoroughly exhausts him; he spends several more moments simply sitting there and letting shivers and quiet sobbing wrack his body. He's not entirely sure if the sobbing is out of fear or joy, and he doesn't have the energy to care.
His breathing slows, eventually, and without fear occupying all of his brain functions, he pulls himself back to a standing position--if a very shaky standing position--and clutches a rail of the catwalk to remain in said position. A light shines dutifully to his left, and without much else to look at, he carefully makes his way there.
He gets close enough for the lights to form three distinct words before his fear-muddled memory brings up the voice; the voice that was not the Narrator's. He quickly signs the words, "...Who (are) you?"
The walls grind to a stop. For a moment, all is silent, almost deafeningly so after the previous cacophony. And then, almost unwillingly, there is a sigh. It’s a gentle sigh, as if the owner of the sound had been waiting for this moment to come.
"Aren’t you proud, Stanley? the Narrator asked. In those final moments, Stanley wondered what would come next. The end? Death? Pain? Almost certainly. Though none of those were nearly as terrifying as the thought of the one who said he knew best leaving him to die."
The bottom of the platform drops out, and Stanley fell a short distance to a catwalk below, landing unharmed.
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[Panics outright, trying desperately to climb the walls of the platform, and when that doesn't work, scooting himself back to the farthest corner from those CLANGing crushers. He's sobbing at this point, and doesn't bother hiding it.]
Please, no, no, no, please! I (don't) want (to) die! I made (a) mistake! Please (don't) let me die! I (don't) want (to) die! I (am) sorry! I (am) sorry!
[CLANG. Two platforms to go.]
Please! Please!!! Help me! I (am) sorry! I (am) sorry! Please help me!
[CLANG. One platform to go.]
I (don't) want (to) die! I (don't) want (to) die! Please!
[CLANG. The crushers line up on both sides.]
Please...
[The walls rush in.]
I should have known better when you just kept hitting the keys without any prompts. I should have known.
Maybe when this is over the right Stanley will be back. My Stanley, the one who understands that I want only the best for him. The one that listens and understands and obeys.
But still, you can at least end this knowing that you made a choice that was all your own. The only one you ever made in your pathetic little life. Aren’t you proud, Stanley?
[Closer. Closer.]
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[He's regretting his decision almost immediately as soon as he loses contact with the ground. This is way too much distance to fall and he didn't really want to die he just wanted to go back to work and wow he's never wanted a voice just to use it for screaming and how is he going to even know when he's going to hit the ground it's so dark and--CLANG.]
[And he's okay.]
...I (am) okay...?
[Looks up, to see a little platform just like the one he's landed on get crushed to scrap metal with another CLANG. He's jolted forward, and another platform goes. CLANG.]
No, I (am not) okay. (Not) okay! Please get me out (of) this! You can (still) see me, right? I (am) sorry! I (am) really, really sorry! You (are) totally right; I made (a) mistake! I (am a) mistake! Just please get me out! I (will do) your story (a) thousand times! All (the) paths (and) branches! More than that! Please!
Stanley—
[There’s falling, for a while, before Stanley lands surprisingly painlessly on a little metal platform, all circled in bars. Up ahead, there are other platforms like it, moving forward in sharp bursts. And there’s a discordant, metal clang every few seconds.]
You know, I think I have to apologize. You were right all along. You’re not my Stanley.
You’re just a worthless bit of nothing. A mistake.
[The platform moves along. The source of the clanging is fully visible in the dark now. Steel crushers, slamming together again and again.]
#stanley.txt#nineteenendings#[[sh ....should i be tagging this as something .....]]#[[idk what i'd tag it with but i ..]]
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New...paths. Branches. With you. Forever.
[Another pause, this one much shorter.]
I think I (have) made (up) my mind.
[And he slips, all too easily, off the edge and into the abyss below.]
No, no, I’ll… I’ll write new paths. New branches. You can try the other doors, even, if you’d like. There are so many options, Stanley, and I want to show you all of them again.
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(And will) I keep running through (this) story (of) yours? Forever?
I… no. I can’t.
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[Sits, almost motionless, for a minute or so. A very long minute-or-so.]
...What happens when (the) story (is) over? (Will) you leave?
No, no, it was you. It had to be you.
…You’re so close now, Stanley. Please?
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Maybe you (are) thinking (of) someone else? I (don't) know you. I just do my job. That (is) all. I (don't) need (a) team. I (don't) need you.
[Frowns at the thought of fond button-pushing memories gone by.]
I just want THAT (back).
…I don’t know if you believe me, but it’s been this way for months and months. And at first you were reluctant, but you and I… we formed a team, Stanley. Me guiding and you following. And it was just wonderful.
I just want that back.
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[Plops down into a seated position, dangling his feet over the edge of the hole.]
...But I like working here. I (am) happy already. I (am) not (a) slave if I like (to) work here, (am) I? This (is a) steady, comfortable routine, (and) I like (it) that way! That (is) worthwhile (to) me.
Past tense...liked (it) that way. You messed everything (up).
Alright, listen. If you follow the story, if you go back, you can shut down the mind control facility that’s held you slaved to this job for so long. You can escape, into freedom. You can be happy.
Isn’t that worthwhile?
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"Might have overwhelmed me?!" Someone call (the) newspeople, I found (the) understatement (of the) century!
[Comes to a halt right before the hole, his determination to ignore the Narrator conflicting with the thought that going down one dark pit was enough for today. And this one doesn't seem to be equipped with an elevator, either.]
Prove (that) you actually know (what's) best for me, then maybe I (will) listen (to) you.
Stanley, please. I know I might have overwhelmed you, but I assure you, I know what’s best for you. You are willingly walking into death here.
[And at the end of the corridor there’s just a hole, leading into a red-lit space.]
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[Pauses for a brief moment at the mention of "death," before shaking his head and continuing on through the corridor.]
Sorry, what? (Did) you say something? I could (not) hear you over (this) nonsense buzzing in my ear!
Stanley, no—don’t. Stanley, listen, I know it says escape, but that corridor leads only to your death. There’s nothing down there, nothing interesting.
Just… get back on track. Just turn around.
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[Hesitates for a while, glancing at the small corridor, then the bright letters. Back and forth.]
You just keep saying (the) same thing. "I (will) see, I (will) see. Everything (will be) fine." Why should I believe you?
[Takes a few steps forward, then turns, sharply, to the left and into the small corridor.]
I can (not) think of (a) reason.
Please, just… let’s just get to the end. You’ll see. I promise you, you’ll see.
[And there, looming ahead, are huge white letters. MIND CONTROL FACILITY. But there’s a smaller corridor to the left, and someone has scrawled ESCAPE on its wall.]
Stanley walked straight ahead, through the large door that read Mind Control Facility. Augh, I’m skipping so much…
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[Bolts out of that elevator as fast as humanly possible.]
You (aren't) helping me! You (are) taking me out (of) my comfort zone again and again, (and) saying nonsense, that (is) what you (are) doing!
(The) only one (who) wants (to) finish (this) story (is) you. This (is) for your benefit. (Not) mine.
[The elevator door swings open.]
I wrote you a story! I helped you! This is for your sake!
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I (am) really concerned about (the) chances (of) me falling (to) my death in (this) thing! (Or) worse, finding my boss (and) getting fired!
[Sags against the wall as the elevator stops, looking miserable.]
What (did I) do (to) deserve this...
It’s perfectly safe. Don’t worry.
Listen, I assure you, everything is under my control.
Tell me, are you feeling any stirrings of emotion?
[The elevator finally hits the bottom, among a strange complex of pipes.]
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