It's late. Well.. "late."
Stanley stared up at the wall clock that was mounted up high. None of the hands were moving, like it was frozen in time.
Stanley never knew what time it was here, and he guesses Narrator didn't know either, considering whenever he asks him what time it is he's met with an unsure noise and everything goes back to silence.
Stanley looked up at the ceiling, and clapped twice in a row, his palms stinging as he would because of the way he did it. He frowned at that.
"What, Stanley. What could you possibly need?" The familiar voice of the Narrator snapped back almost immediately. Stanley raised his shoulders, before furrowing his brows.
Grouchy. He'd mouth at the ceiling.
"Right, my apologies. Though, I'm waiting for you to finally start moving so we could get on with this story? So hurry up."
Stanley crossed his arms.
The Narrator sighed, a pen and paper appeared on a desk nearby Stanley with a comedic "plop" sound.
Stanley shuffled over to the paper, clicking the pen. He scribbled on it for a few seconds, before picking up the paper and reaching his arms forward to its full extent towards the ceiling to show the omnipresent being his written words.
"Do you know what is outside this office?"
"Ah." The Narrator said in a drained voice. "You've seen outside, Stanley. Hundreds, no, thousands of times. You know what it's like."
Stanley was visibly upset at that response, crumpling up the piece into a ball to release that emotion.
He threw the ball at the ceiling.
It bounced on his head as it fell back down.
"Look," Narrator started. "We both know what outside looks like, there's nothing special about it and if you want to see it so bad then maybe you can.. oh. I don't know. Follow my instructions?"
Stanley side-glanced, feeling a smidge of hopelessness to that answer. The last thing he wants is to have that sense of freedom only to have it ripped away from him like the last thousands of times. He picked back up the crumpled piece of paper from the floor, unfolding it while walking back over to the table.
He wrote another sentence to the Narrator.
"You've never been outside, have you?"
The Narrator gasped as if his bloodline had just been offended, sputtering in an attempt to say something before he finally found the words to respond back with. "Of course I've seen outside! Why, I have seen it more than you've had! I go there all the time!" He yelled back at a moderate voice level in response, huffing at Stanley when he was done.
Stanley was taken aback at The Narrator's reaction, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't look at me like that!" He complained in the same tone. Stanley gave him the same look, not changing his demeanor.
"You want to see outside so bad? I can show you it! Yes, that's right Stanley! You should see the look on your face right now, because you know you're about to be proved wrong!" Stanley stared at the ceiling in a deadpanned manner, unfolding his arms and nodding at the request.
"Fine! Behold, Stanley! Just.. uh. Give me a moment."
Stanley could feel the terrain shift around him, it made his stomach churn as he did. And as the feeling instead his stomach grew, it suddenly disappeared as Stanley looked around his surroundings.
It was.. it—
Wait.
Stanley blinked a few times. He was outside, sure, but.
No, he knows this place. It's just the same place he'd see in the Freedom Ending dozens of times. There was a small bench planted in between two trees that stood tall. Nothing stopped Stanley from thinking the trees were fake though, along the rest of the flora.
Stanley slowly sat down on the bench, blinking hollowly. He.. he had his hopes up, to be honest. Just a little. He thought maybe he could finally see what true freedom was. No, it was just another trick.
A triumphant laugh filled his ears. "See, Stanley? See how.. uh... earthy this is? You were wrong! Hah! I do know the outside!"
Stanley held his head in his hands.
"Oh don't give me that! At least accept your defeat."
Stanley felt tears well up in his eyes and a wetness on his palm. He buried his face deeper into his hands, sighing.
Stanley sobbed for what was only a few seconds, silently. A small sadness. Enough to catch the voice's attention.
"Don't cry." He scoffed without a care, ...and reluctantly huffed afterwards.
"Fine." The Narrator said in an upset tone.
"Fine, fine."
"I'm going to be honest with you Stanley."
"I don't know what outside really looks like either."
It was silent. For a moment.
Stanley wiped his eyes, leaning back into the bench. He glanced up at the fake sky. His eyes didn't burn as he looked up at its sun like it'd hurt when he stares at a bright light. Stanley only furrowed his eyebrows instead, mouthing only a single "what?"
"You've never seen outside, neither have I. Maybe I was bluffing a little, sure. But that false sense of freedom I had for you when you beat the mind control facility?"
"I think it was mainly for myself to see and enjoy."
Is that why he wants the "freedom ending" so much? To see that horrible example of outside?
"It's silly, so what. I don't shame you for wanting to press buttons all day. Which I still cannot comprehend how a man would sit at his office desk all day just pushing buttons. On top of that, being happy about it."
Okay, now he's just shaming Stanley for his interests.
Stanley sat up in his seat, his tears have already been dried. "I think I needed to hear that" he'd mouth; letting out an inaudible chuckle as he'd stand. "Hey, let's get out of here, okay? I'm sure we'll both see our true freedom."
"Together?"
Stanley and The Narrator both he couldn't promise that. Even the way around.
"Together."
"Great. Let's go." The Narrator sighed, as pages would be flipped. The room faded to darkness, and Stanley awaited the reset.
—
Stanley stood in the office, he was leaning against a desk, drawing something with a pack of crayons The Narrator had summoned into fruition. "Are you almost done?" He complained impatiently, Stanley covering his paper in response.
"Fine, fine."
A few minutes later, Stanley finished his drawing. Walking to into office 427, he slapped the drawing on the cork-board, impaling it with a pin.
"It looks ugly." Narrator commented on the drawing.
It was a drawing of a stick figure with hair, on a green lawn and a shining bright sun. An arrow pointed to the edge of the page and was labeled "Kevan." In The Narrator's defense, it was ugly. It looked like something a kindergartener would've drawn.
Maybe it was a false hope, or something to keep them at bay. But they both knew that drawing would eventually come true one way or another.