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fanficfactory333 · 14 days ago

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Stanley and the Narrator in the Backrooms. Chapter 2: Level 1.

The plywood groaned in protest as Stanley wedged the crowbar beneath it, the rusted nails shrieking as they were forced loose. With one final heave, the barrier splintered away, pieces clattering to the floor. The path ahead stood open.

Beyond the threshold lay something vast, industrial, and wrong.

They stepped through.

The air hit them first. Cold. Humid. Stagnant. It smelled like brutalism and apathy, like a place meant to function, not to feel—concrete dust, damp metal, and the faintest trace of ozone.

Their footsteps echoed, unnervingly sharp against the exposed concrete. There was no soft furniture, no carpet, nothing to absorb sound. Every step was a reminder of how empty this place was.

Level 1.

It stretched before them—endless hallways, infinite storage rooms lined with rusted shelves and looming concrete pillars. The dim, flickering lights struggled to hold back the void, pouring uneven pools of yellowed light onto the damp floor, leaving much of the space swallowed in darkness.

Somewhere in the distance, water dripped. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Small, frigid puddles dotted the uneven floor, splashing underfoot as they walked. The cold bit deeper than in Level 0—the kind that seeped into the bones rather than just the skin.

Stanley felt it the most.

His clothes were woefully inadequate—a thin white button-up with a grey grid pattern, dark grey pants—nothing compared to the Narrator’s layered warmth. He clutched the crowbar in one hand, but his other arm had wrapped around his own torso, fingers gripping his sides for some semblance of warmth. Goosebumps prickled along his forearms, and his breath ghosted faintly in the chilled air.

The Narrator noticed.

It was hard not to.

For a brief moment, something unfamiliar tugged at the edges of his thoughts—a twinge of pity.

He ignored it.

It didn’t matter.

Stanley hadn’t said anything about it, so why should he? If the man was cold, he’d say so. That was his problem, not the Narrator’s. He forced his gaze forward, pushing the thought away like a stray ember before it could burn any deeper.

A tense, complicated silence stretched between them as they walked, minutes stretching into something that felt like hours.

The cold. The silence. The endless, cavernous emptiness.

It was wearing at them.

Then—at last—a break in the monotony.

A warehouse-style storage room, filled with stacks of cardboard boxes and rusted industrial shelves. Larger wooden crates rested on pallets along the far wall.

The ceiling—unnervingly high, too high—vanished into the darkness above, the details of its structure obscured. Only a single, weak incandescent light illuminated the space, barely enough to carve out a rectangle of clarity in the vast expanse of shadow.

The Narrator’s gaze followed the ceiling up, his expression tightening slightly at the sheer height of it. It was wrong.

Deeply, instinctually wrong.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking off the strange vertigo that clawed at him. With a dry scoff, he muttered, “This ceiling is so high in here that I wouldn’t be surprised if it started raining.”

His voice felt too loud in the stillness, but at least it finally shattered the silence between them.

Stanley huffed, shaking his head before shifting the crowbar beneath his armpit to free up his hands. He signed, (I Will Look-For Jacket), his fingers moving with quick precision despite the cold.

The Narrator’s expression tightened.

Not at the signing—he understood it well enough—but at the fact that it was the first real thing Stanley had asked for.

The older man’s gaze flickered away, suddenly uninterested in the space between them. He told himself that the slight twinge of guilt in his chest was irrational. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Why the hell would he give up his own coat?

It was a ridiculous thought. Completely impractical. A sacrifice that would benefit only one of them, and if Stanley really needed it, he should have asked sooner. Simple as that.

And yet—

His hands curled subtly at his sides before he forced them to relax.

Stanley turned away, already scanning the room, oblivious to the Narrator’s internal war.

Then—a sharp crack split the air.

Stanley had slammed the crowbar into the lid of a crate, forcing it open.

The Narrator blinked, pulled from his thoughts.

He exhaled slowly, letting go of something he wasn’t ready to name.

For now, there were more immediate things to focus on.

—

Stanley rolled his shoulders before gripping the crowbar again, wedging it under the lid of the crate he’d just cracked open. With a sharp twist, the wood splintered, and the lid lurched free with a dull thud as it hit the ground.

He barely hesitated before digging in.

The first thing he pulled out was a box of crayons—a cheap, waxy set of 24 colors boxed in cardboard. The packaging was faded, but the crayons inside looked untouched. Useless. He exhaled through his nose, tossing them aside.

Next, he pulled out a tangled bundle of shoelaces, knotted together in an infuriating mess. Some were frayed, others were pristine, as if they'd been freshly laced through a new pair of sneakers. Weird, but not exactly helpful.

He moved on.

A sealed plastic bag of almonds.

Stanley paused. The packaging had no brand, no label, just a plain, vacuum-sealed bag. There was no telling if it was safe, but it looked like real, actual food. He tossed it into his backpack.

His fingers brushed against something else—something soft.

He pulled out a clump of long, blonde human hair, bound together by a rubber band.

Stanley flinched, disgust flaring up his spine before he dropped it back into the crate like it had burned him. He wiped his hand against his pants, trying not to think about the coarse, heavy texture still lingering on his fingertips.

What the hell was the point of that?

He forced himself to keep going.

A pair of old car keys. Rusted. Useless.

A single, cracked porcelain teacup, delicate but chipped at the rim. The handle was missing.

A medical syringe, still in its sterile plastic packaging. He frowned at that one, turning it over in his hand before setting it aside. Could be useful. Could also be laced with something that would kill him instantly. He tosses it aside.

At the very bottom of the crate, he found a heavy, military-style jacket.

Stanley’s eyes widened.

Dark green, thick fabric, reinforced stitching, and heavy pockets. On the shoulder there was a patch of a flag he had never seen before; A light blue rectangle with the white shapes of a musket, a lightning bolt, and three stars. Strange. He pulled it out, dust scattering from the folds. It smelled like stale fabric and damp cardboard, but it was warm.

He didn’t even hesitate—he shrugged it on, the sleeves slightly too long, but he didn’t care.

He felt an instant sense of comfort at the weight of the thick and durable fabric resting on his shoulders. It felt protective, like armor against the frigid air around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Narrator watching him.

Not saying anything. Just watching.

Stanley adjusted the fit of the jacket, fastening one of the buttons. He didn’t ask why the older man was staring—he already had a pretty good guess.

The Narrator had known he was cold. And instead of offering his own coat, he’d just… ignored it. He wasn’t obligated to, obviously—Stanley wasn’t an idiot, he didn’t expect that kind of kindness here. But still.

The older man’s expression was unreadable, but something about it—something about the way his jaw was set, the way his fingers briefly flexed at his sides—gave Stanley the distinct impression that he was… annoyed.

Maybe not at him. Maybe at himself.

Stanley huffed under his breath. Not my problem.

The Narrator could pretend all he wanted that he didn’t care, but Stanley had seen the way his eyes lingered earlier, the way his expression had tightened when he signed about looking for a jacket.

The guy was fighting something in his own head.

Stanley just wasn’t sure if it was about him or about whatever personal baggage the Narrator was dragging around.

Either way, he wasn’t going to be the one to ask.

He turned his attention to the next crate, gripping the crowbar again. Better to keep moving.

—

Stanley kept searching, but it was starting to feel pointless.

For every useful find—military jacket, crowbar, flashlight—there were a dozen things that made no damn sense. A single ballet slipper. A jar of what looked like pickles but had no discernible label. A plastic container full of mismatched screws. More human hair.

At this point, he wasn’t even reacting to the weirder things. He just moved on.

After about an hour, his patience was wearing thin. But then—finally—something decent.

A pair of dark brown leather motorcycle gloves.

Stanley immediately pulled them on, flexing his fingers inside the snug material. They were slightly worn but warm, the leather stiff in places from age, but otherwise intact. Between this and the jacket, the cold wasn’t cutting quite as deep.

His gaze swept over the shelves again, and something caught his eye—a box filled with bottles, all labeled ‘Almond Water.’

Well. That sounded… almost reasonable.

It wasn’t like he had a better option.

He grabbed the whole box and made his way back toward the Narrator, who had perched himself atop a wooden pallet, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Stanley paused for a moment, taking in the sight.

The older man was… untangling shoelaces.

Stanley frowned. Out of all the things he could be doing.

The Narrator was fully invested, his gloved fingers methodically working at the knots, his expression unreadable. Like this was a puzzle that demanded solving.

Stanley’s first instinct was to assume boredom, but… no. He knew better.

Cordage was useful.

He knew it. The Narrator knew it.

A good length of string or rope could mean the difference between improvising a tool and having nothing. Could be used for binding, securing, setting traps, anything.

…But at the same time, it was definitely at least half boredom.

Shaking his head, Stanley walked over and set the box of Almond Water on the ground next to them. Then, without a word, he took a seat beside the Narrator and pulled out two bottles—offering one along with a Royal Rations energy bar.

The Narrator barely glanced up. “Mm.” He took the bottle with his free hand but made no move to open it, still focused on the laces.

Stanley huffed. “You gonna actually drink that or just appreciate it aesthetically?”

The Narrator finally looked at him, raising an unimpressed brow before setting the tangled mess aside with a quiet sigh.

Only then did he unscrew the cap.

Stanley had already taken a few sips of his own when he noticed something.

The Narrator paused mid-drink, his jaw subtly tightening before he quickly took another sip, longer this time.

Then another.

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “…You didn’t realize how thirsty you were, did you?”

The older man stopped, the bottle still in his hand. His expression remained neutral, but something about it shifted.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took the energy bar from Stanley’s outstretched hand, almost like an afterthought. He examined the packaging briefly—plain, military-style, efficient. Then, without a word, he peeled it open and took a bite.

Stanley let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

The Narrator shot him a dry look, chewing with an air of pointed indifference. After swallowing, he finally responded. “I was… occupied.”

Stanley smirked. “With shoelaces?”

A pause.

“…With practicality.” The Narrator corrected, nudging the tangled pile on the pallet beside him. “These could be useful.”

Stanley glanced at them. “Uh-huh. And totally not just an excuse to do something with your hands?”

The Narrator’s silence was answer enough.

A faint smirk tugged at Stanley’s lips, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, rolling one shoulder to work out the tension.

For a few minutes, they just sat there. Drinking. Eating. Existing.

It wasn’t comfortable, not really, but it was a moment. A moment where neither of them were running, or hiding, or waiting for something to go wrong.

A moment where survival wasn’t the only thing in the air.

The Narrator finished his bar and wiped his fingers off on his gloves before returning his attention to the shoelaces. His fingers worked with practiced efficiency, his focus seemingly elsewhere.

Stanley tilted his head slightly, watching him for a moment.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he grabbed one of the laces and started helping.

The Narrator’s hands briefly stilled.

“…You know I had it handled,” he murmured.

Stanley smirked. “Sure. But at this rate, we’d be here another hour.”

The Narrator exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t argue.

They worked in silence.

For once, it wasn’t tense.

Just strange.

Strange, but not bad.

—

The first thing Stanley noticed after taking a seat beside the Narrator was how unnervingly still the air was.

No ambient noise beyond their own breathing. No flickering lights at the moment. Just the occasional drip of water somewhere in the distance, always just far enough away to feel imagined.

It had been hours since either of them had properly rested. This—sitting down, drinking, eating something real—should have felt normal. But it didn’t.

It felt temporary. Like something was waiting to be taken away.

Stanley tore open the Royal Rations energy bar with his gloved fingers, taking a bite. It was dense, chalky, but packed with enough calories to keep him going. Not great, not terrible.

The Narrator, still sitting beside him, was going through the same motions—eating, drinking, working at the tangle of shoelaces in his lap.

For the first few minutes, neither of them said anything.

Then, finally, the Narrator broke the silence.

“The coat suits you.”

Stanley blinked, caught off guard. He glanced down at himself—the thick, military-style jacket he’d found fit well enough, though a bit big on him. The gloves, too, had molded to his hands nicely after wearing them for a while.

It took him a second to respond, “Didn’t really have a choice,” he muttered, “Unless you were planning on giving me yours.”

The Narrator let out a quiet, amused huff, “Not in this lifetime.”

Stanley rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t actually annoyed. He could still feel the way the Narrator had hesitated earlier, when he first noticed how cold he was. The older man had considered it.

That was what made his stubborn refusal almost funny.

Stanley took another bite, chewing slowly before saying, “You didn’t say anything about the gloves.”

The Narrator raised an eyebrow. “Should I?”

Stanley shrugged. “If you’re going to make small talk about my fashion choices, might as well go all the way.”

A beat of silence. Then, finally, the Narrator glanced down at the gloves. Dark brown leather, fitted well, sturdy.

“Good find.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “More useful than the jacket, actually. Hands lose heat faster than most people realize. You’d be useless in a fight if you couldn’t feel your fingers.”

Stanley smirked slightly. “Oh, so you were thinking about me fighting?”

The Narrator sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I—”

Stanley chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m messing with you.”

The Narrator muttered something under his breath—probably unkind—but he let it go.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the shoelaces, fingers deftly untangling another stubborn knot.

Stanley watched him work for a moment, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again.

“You ever think about how weird this all is?”

The Narrator didn’t look up. “You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a lot of ‘weird’ to choose from.”

Stanley gestured vaguely. “This whole thing. The Backrooms. Being here. Existing in a place that shouldn’t exist.”

The older man was quiet for a moment. Then, finally, he said, “No.”

Stanley frowned. “No?”

“I don’t think about it,” the Narrator clarified, voice even, “Because it doesn’t help. We’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Stanley studied him for a second. “That’s a practical way to look at it.”

The Narrator smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Practicality is the only thing keeping you alive.”

Stanley exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right. Because survival is all that matters.”

The Narrator didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he finished untangling the last knot, then slowly tied the laces together, forming a single, continuous length of cordage.

Only when he was satisfied with the result did he speak.

“Yes.”

Stanley narrowed his eyes. “You don’t actually believe that.”

The Narrator shot him a look. “And what makes you so sure?”

Stanley shrugged, finishing off the last of his energy bar, “You act like you don’t care about anything, but you do.”

The older man scoffed, “Enlighten me.”

“You hesitate.”

That caught the Narrator off guard. Just for a second.

Stanley leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, “You’re quick to act when you need to, but sometimes—just sometimes—you pause. Like earlier, when I signed about needing a jacket. You thought about giving me yours.”

The Narrator’s expression didn’t change.

Stanley continued, “You didn’t, obviously. And that’s fine. But you thought about it.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Then, after a moment, the Narrator sighed quietly.

“…Doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered.

Stanley didn’t argue. He just smirked faintly, “Whatever you say…”

The Narrator exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he reached for one of the Almond Water bottles. He twisted off the cap and took a sip—longer than necessary.

And that’s when it hit him.

Hunger. Thirst.

He hadn’t even realized how empty his stomach was until now. Until he actually had something in his hands, something tangible, something that could be consumed.

He had been running on instinct, on pragmatism, on the necessity of movement for so long that he had forgotten about the most basic human needs.

Stanley noticed.

“…You didn’t realize how hungry you were, did you?”

The Narrator scowled slightly, but he didn’t deny it.

Instead, he took another deliberate bite of the ration bar, chewing slowly, methodically.

Stanley shook his head. “Damn. You’re really out here gaslighting yourself into not having basic needs, huh?”

The Narrator glared. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Stanley cut in, pointing at him, “I bet if I didn’t hand you food just now, you’d have kept going until you collapsed.”

The Narrator scoffed, but there was no real argument left in him.

Another pause. Then, more quietly, he said, “I’m used to ignoring it.”

Stanley wasn’t sure what to say to that.

So, instead, he just said, “Well, that’s stupid.”

The Narrator let out a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

They sat there for a little while longer, eating, drinking, tying knots. Slowly, without either of them acknowledging it, the silence between them became something different.

Not tense. Not forced. Just… there.

Eventually, when the shoelace cord was a solid 20 feet, Stanley packed it away along with two extra bottles of Almond Water, securing them in his backpack.

The Narrator stood, stretching his legs, “We should move.”

Stanley nodded, slinging the pack over his shoulder, “Yeah.”

And so they walked—side by side, through an unreasonably long hallway, talking about nothing and everything.

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