Chapter Text
"Ahh, quite a pleasant amount of bumpscosity we've got today, wouldn't you say? Very enjoyable.”
Stanley grinned up at the ceiling. He’d just come back from the Expo Ending, and this time he’d finally proven worthy of “Settings World Champion.” It had only taken approximately one thousand three hundred and four resets, give or take a few, since he could only adjust the settings from his office computer.
But he had infinite time, so he’d done it. He’d done it! And the Narrator had even given him an actual, tangible reward!!
…Well, ‘tangible’ might be pushing it. He still didn’t know what bumpscosity actually did. That hadn’t stopped him from setting it at a nice, solid fifty, though.
He stepped out of his office, the door closing behind him. Back into the Expo, the Narrator had said that he didn't know what Bumpscosity did either, so. Maybe the slider itself was all that had changed—
Hang on. Did the air feel… different?
“Hm? I'm not sure what you're talking about, Stanley. Air is air, isn't it? Isn't being intangible its main quality?”
Stanley jumped. (Well not literally—unfortunately, he had run out of jumps about a thousand runs ago—but he was startled.)
The air was different. When the Narrator spoke, Stanley swore he could feel it tickling the back of his neck.
“Ah. Um.”
Stanley stood up straighter. The voice felt a bit further away this time, but that allowed him to notice other, smaller notes. The texture of his shirt on his skin. The scent of coffee tickling his nose, the inconsistent flickering to one of the computer monitors. Everything looked sharper, like he'd rubbed the sleep from his eyes, or put on glasses.
“Or increased your screen resolution,” the Narrator said somewhat smugly.
Stanley clenched and relaxed his fists, entranced by the feel of his fingernails pressing into his palms, the little white crescents left behind. This was more than just increased resolution. It was…
“Bumpscosity!” The Narrator seemed to beam—literally, it felt as though Stanley had stepped into a sunbeam, bathing him in a soft, unfamiliar warmth. “So? What do you think? This isn't a mere five-click achievement; you truly put in the effort for this one. Is the reward up to your standards? You can answer honestly, though I will be concerned for your mental state if you rate it less than a four-point-seven-five out of five.”
Stanley was tempted to give it a one, just to hear the Narrator’s ensuing meltdown. But it was impossible to hide the excited grin on his face.
Five out of five, he thought. Don’t let it go to your head.
It was apparently too late for that, as the Narrator let out a maniacal laugh.
“Yes! I’ve satisfied the insatiable! Amazed the unfazed! Impressed the… depressed? No, that’s not—”
Stanley laughed silently, shaking his head. Each motion felt more vivid than ever before. And the Narrator’s voice—it was right up against him again, not just on the back of his neck, but circling his shoulders, tugging at his arms, as if trying to spin him around. Stanley was tempted to let it.
“—Oh, you know what I mean.”
He nodded. Following the Narrator’s insane trains of thought was second nature at this point.
The Narrator snorted.
“I’m insane? You’re the one grinning like an idiot.” His voice was still warm, though. Stanley could get used to this.
With a spring in his step, he went on with the story—more or less. He had to stop by the employee lounge, of course.
“Stanley felt light-headed, butterflies in his stomach, giddy in a way he had never known before.” It was one of the Narrator’s stock phrases for the room, but it felt more apt than ever.
He stared at the frames on the walls, no longer filled with blurred masses of pixels, but with crisp photos and elegant watercolors. He touched the vending machine, and its bright sign reading “COLD DRINKS” hummed with electricity beneath his palm. He peeked between the slatted blinds, and while the outside was as blindingly bright as always, the rays filtering through as the blinds swayed were soft and mesmerizing.
“Stanley was more impressed than ever with the Narrator’s craftsmanship, and couldn’t help appreciating each and every asset in full High Definition glory. The fact that his coworkers were missing only meant there was no one to distract him from really drinking in the artistry of this room.”
It was kind of hard to tell if the Narrator was making fun of him here. Did the voice want him to appreciate the bumpscosity or not?
“No, no, carry on. Really. You’ve earned it.”
Well that wasn’t suspicious at all.
The Narrator harrumphed. The sound tickled Stanley’s neck again.
“Must you always assume the worst of me, Stanley?”
No, but it was pretty out of character for the Narrator to encourage lingering in the lounge.
“I’m not a character, Stanley. I’m the Narrator.”
This did not answer any of Stanley’s questions. He shook his head, though. Maybe the Narrator just realized there was no point in trying to stop Stanley from enjoying his newly-enhanced senses.
It wasn’t like the Narrator had really rushed him through the story in… well, a while. Maybe he wasn’t up to anything nefarious.
Maybe.
“So suspicious.” The Narrator tutted, still feeling close, like phantom fingers tapping on his arm. Stanley scratched at his sleeve. “See, this is why achievements are best left unrewarded. You don’t know how to appreciate a gift when it’s given to you. I had thought that you would feel deserving enough after one thousand three hundred and seven resets, but nooooo.”
The voice sighed.
“It’s my own fault, really. It was simply too wonderful of a reward. How could Stanley’s mind possibly handle a five-out-of-five achievement experience? Perhaps he wasn’t built to survive such wonderful levels of bumpsc—”
Okay, okay, he got it, fine, he would be more grateful and stop looking a gift horse in the tail or whatever.
He could practically feel the air tense around him in confusion.
“It’s a gift horse in the mouth, Stanley.”
No, that couldn’t be right. You were supposed to stay in front of horses, because if they couldn’t see you they’d get spooked and kick you to death. Stanley’s version made way more sense.
“How would you even—you’ve never even seen a horse!”
Stanley shrugged. Did the Narrator want to give him a horse to prove his point?
“I am not giving you a destructive animal, Stanley! You think I would let a horse loose in the parable? Besides, you couldn’t possibly handle the responsibility.”
If the Narrator couldn’t make a horse, he could just say so—
“No, no no no you will not be tricking me like this. Why don’t you just—you were enjoying the bumpscosity! That’s better than a horse! Let’s go back to doing that, shall we?”
Stanley took a deep breath, relishing the movement of air in his lungs. Yeah, the bumpscosity was pretty great. Maybe even better than a horse. Not that he’d know.
“That’s the spirit! Now, at last he’d had enough of the amazing room—”
No, he hadn’t. He’d just decided to go back to appreciating the room.
“Ugh, alright,” the Narrator groaned, his voice settling over Stanley like a wet blanket. “Ha ha. Leave the witticisms to me, if you please.”
Stanley rolled his eyes, but went on to flop across the couch and—
Oh. His eyebrows scrunched up. This wasn’t comfortable at all.
Yes, he could feel the texture of the couch more clearly, but that texture was just awful. Woven from threads so scratchy they could’ve been made of… something really really scratchy.
“This is why the Narrator was tasked with describing the environment, and not Stanley.”
Stanley sat up and stuck his tongue out at the ceiling, even though that voice consistently felt closer than that, now.
…Why did he feel so close? Was it just the bumpscosity changing the audio fidelity? But there was a tactile element to it, too. Shifts in the air, enough to brush the hairs on his arms and neck.
Was the Narrator actually here? In some physical sense?
…
“Stanley waited for an answer to his unspoken question, but when none came, he decided it was time to move on from the employee lounge and continue the story.”
The voice was cold enough to chill the air. It felt further away than ever.
Stanley’s fists clenched. The sensation of fingernails digging into palms wasn’t as reassuring as he’d hoped.
He stood up, but only because he’d rather think while walking than while sitting down. It felt good to be moving. He could feel his heart beating gently in his chest, a sensation he typically only experienced as a panic response in the Insanity Ending.
He stopped for a moment at the intersection between the maintenance room and the warehouse. He wasn’t panicking, was he?
“No, Stanley, you’re not panicking.” The Narrator sighed, achieving some middle distance between his typical ‘nowhere’ and recent ‘right on top of Stanley.’ “Goodness, I didn’t realize this bumpscosity would affect you so… viscerally. And at a level of only fifty, too…”
Stanley blinked. That was right. Could he even imagine what more bumpscosity would feel like?
“I daresay you can’t. Not until you’ve experienced it firsthand, that is.” The Narrator paused. “Ah, but perhaps give yourself some time to work up to that, hm? I wouldn’t want you breathing yourself into a panic attack.”
Stanley was pretty sure that breathing was supposed to calm you down, but whatever. The Narrator otherwise had a point.
Even if he was now dreadfully curious.
He dithered at the intersection a moment longer, debating a trip to the Apartment Ending. The scratchy lounge couch had left him wanting to touch a real bed… but he hadn’t brought the bucket along, excited as he was to experience the new settings. So the bedroom would be locked off if he continued. Not worth it, probably.
He sighed, turning to head through maintenance. He’d planned to head for the Freedom Ending from the start, and there was no real reason to deviate now. It seemed fitting to show appreciation for the Narrator’s gift, and the few moments of sunshine and wind would probably feel heavenly.
He collected new sensations along the way—sights, sounds, and smells (eugh, the executive bathroom had not been cleaned recently enough). Bumpscosity really breathed new life into the well-worn path. How long had it been since he’d gotten a thrill out of pressing 2-8-4-5, or watching the panopticon of screens flash to life?
The Narrator seemed to be feeling it too. His voice carried more weight, more gravitas, more feeling. His inflection varied from emotion to emotion, as if he were truly shocked, appalled, and determined as the story progressed.
And as his voice slipped into character, the sensation slipped over Stanley again: that the Narrator was there. Alongside him. Around him, like a blanket hugging his shoulders.
He tried not to focus on it too closely, for fear of spooking the voice and making him withdraw again. It was difficult, though, because Stanley found himself enjoying that closeness. Maybe it was just because it was new and different.
Stanley hoped not. He didn’t want to lose this feeling when the novelty inevitably wore off.
“...he knew it was his duty, his obligation, to put an end to this horrible place and to everything it stood for.”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before he hit the OFF button. It pressed down with the perfect amount of resistance, the most satisfyingly soft click, as if letting out one final sigh as the lights stuttered out.
“Blackness. And a rising chill of uncertainty.”
For the first time in a while, that voice was accurate. Had it finally found a way to induce emotions in him? Or was it just all the strange new sensations?
He couldn’t help wondering what else might change. Hoping, even. It was a ridiculous notion. The story was the same; the parable was the same. It was only Stanley’s perception that had changed.
Change your perspective. Change your perception. Change your reality. Change your self.
Maybe it was silly, but he’d taken that hole-daydream—if that’s what it really was—seriously. If he could change his way of viewing the world, he could change practically anything of importance.
It was how he’d survived this long.
He followed the opening door, toes dipping into the line where sunlight met shadow. Each slow step forward matched that divide. Chased the warmth as it grew brighter and brighter.
For a moment, he let himself imagine it was real. That he would step fully into that light, and take another step, and another, and another, and nothing would pull him back. But…
He couldn’t. Imagine it, that was. Eventually those steps would take him to the horizon, and then… what? He’d find people? Buildings? Horses? The outside world could’ve been the surface of the moon, for how little Stanley understood it.
He didn’t remember a life before this, if (and that was a rather large if) it had ever existed. So while the outside was a tempting fantasy, with its grass and sun and wind, he had no idea what one was actually supposed to do there.
It was a world without stories. A world without endings… or one with only permanent endings. A world with consequences.
A world without a certain voice to follow or disregard.
…Like he said, he couldn’t imagine it.
“Stanley stepped through the open door.”
The voice was a gentle nudge on the small of his back. Stanley wished it was a tug on his arm, instead.
That it didn’t feel like a goodbye.
The voice seemed to hold its breath, but at this point in the story, the Narrator wouldn’t dare speak off-script.
Stanley stepped forward.
“Stanley felt the cool breeze upon his skin, the feeling of liberation, the immense possibility of the new path before him.”
The breeze was cool, soft and inviting. Like he could run forward and embrace it.
(He couldn’t run, any more than he could jump. Was that ‘liberation’?)
“This was exactly the way, right now, that things were meant to happen.”
Stanley supposed it was. It was the path that he’d chosen, this time around.
(He had the power to choose. Was that ‘immense possibility’?)
“And Stanley was happy.”
He stared up at the artificial sun, his eyes burning more than usual. Tears streamed down his face. Wet, sticky and salty where they met his lips.
(Despite everything, Stanley was happy.)