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birdybirdnerd · 1 year ago

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unpolished raph rambling abt her and the narrator (gregory) and how her final run went. may pushed me into thinking about what, exactly, made her Her, and i finally found her heart: she is deeply, deeply passionate about people feeling their feelings, not pushing things down

the drabble starts out referring to her with male pronouns, as it takes place towards the start of one of the cycles of they fight->things change->realizes Gender Stuff->narrator wipes the slate clean. also, shes called stanley throughout, since it was only after escaping that she picked a new name

enjoy! ill clean it up and post to the collection tomorrow

Stanley felt like he'd done this before.

No, no, not the most recent route. Not any of them. Obviously, he'd done all this before- again and again and again, over and over countless resets endless cycles as the wheel turned and turned and turned.

No.

Not that.

But… something. Something about this situation, this specific situation he was in, smacked of a familiarity that grated on his nerves and set his teeth on edge. It was like trying to recall the lyrics to a song you'd heard once when you were twelve and which stuck with you, and, in trying to track it down, found something that might have been it but- no, the lyrics didn't hit quite so close, the melody felt deflated. It had to be the wrong song.

But everyone insisted it was right.

Another run, another several hours spent arguing over Stanley's choices, Stanley's actions, Stanley's insistence on acting out and playing a part he wasn't supposed to, you're only supposed to be a vessel, Stanley, only a way for the Player to experience the story. Don't act too out of line, if you keep trying to add 'pizzazz' to these performances, it'll only distract from the story I'm trying to tell.

Stanley was tired of hearing his own name. In that condescending voice, that boring, unimaginative, stale tone that seemed damned determined to crush his spirit again and again. He was tired of it all, dammit, and needed to isolate himself away and reign his anger in before he broke something in an effort to feel like he was being heard.

Suffice to say, opening the door to the Broom Closet to find someone already there was enough to shock the bubbling rage right out of his system.

They talked. This man - a Narrator, another Narrator from another Parable - explained the situation. Explained why he was there, what he planned to do, how he'd seen a Stanley in need, locked in eternal combat with his own Narrator, and was now here to help.

But… every word out of his mouth, this- this other Narrator. Every word seemed scripted. Lacked inflection, lacked emotion.

Dead.

He spoke these words, and though Stanley heard them and believed every one, he also realized that… this man was not okay.

"What happened to you?"

He blinked, looked up at Stanley. "Don't worry about it. It's unimportant; what is important, is getting you out of here. Of getting you to freedom."

Stanley shook his head slowly. There was more to it than that.

"Come on," he said softly, sliding closer where the two of them had sat up against the wall of the closet, closing the distance to press their shoulders together. He had to look down at the fellow's corporeal form, which felt a bit strange, but. "Tell me what's wrong. Are you okay?"

A wry laugh, a brief, bitter twist of his lips underneath that bushy mustache. "I am very much fine. Your concern is appreciated, but this is just how things are. Now, if you would be so kind as to leave it along, we can return to the business of getting you out of here."

Stanley frowned, even as the fellow hauled himself to his feet and offered a hand. Stanley frowned, even as he took that hand, and followed him through the hallways, down a route he'd wandered many times before, wondering, hoping, and eventually, giving up on.

Stanley frowned, even as the two of them stood in front of the escape pod, and the Narrator looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to step inside.

He pulled his hand away, and shook his head. "No. I'm not going in there. Not until you explain what your deal is- what it really is."

The Narrator closed his eyes and sighed. All the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders, hunching them until he looked ready to crumble, but- it was a familiar weight. One he had grown so sadly, tragically accustomed to, that it barely seemed to bother him anymore.

Stanley felt his breath catch at that brief show of emotion, before the walls came back up between them.

"Fine. I'll tell you my story," the Narrator said, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. He wouldn't meet Stanley's eyes. "But then we leave."

No promises. Stanley didn't say as much.

And so the Narrator spoke.

Stanley was pissed.

As the Narrator wove his tale, Stanley went from horrified, to grief-stricken, to angry. That anger simmered, as he heard of these countless cycles, so much worse than the one's he himself had been subjected to. It boiled higher as he learned of all these past iterations, over and over again and again, this Narrator, alone and untethered, torn so viciously away from his Stanley, his best friend, and thrown to the wolves and to a duty he hadn't asked for. Hadn't wanted.

Stanley was pissed, and couldn't understand why the Narrator wasn't, as well.

"Why should I be?" he asked, as his story came to a close and Stanley expressed this all to him. "This is my lot, now. I've tried to escape it, before- other Stanley's have worked with me, brainstormed, but nothing ever works. We step into the escape pod, everything goes dark, and I wake up once more in another Parable with another Stanley to help."

He laughed, shrugged. "What's the point?"

"The point," Stanley urged, fists clenched, "is never asked for this! You did your time, you changed, and all you got as reward was this- this endless hell of helping other people that you don't even know! You're trapped, and all you feel about it is apathy?"

The Narrator frowned, but even that felt distant. "I feel more than apathy about my situation, Stanley. Trust me; when this all started, I grieved. I cried. I cursed the universe for what had happened. But it's been years, with no end in sight."

His shoulders slumped, crossed arms pulling tighter against his chest, as if he wanted to curl into himself. "There's no point in feeling sad about it anymore. That won't help anyone."

Stanley felt a violent, visceral hatred rear its head, fill his chest. At the universe, for doing this to someone who cared so, so much. For putting him in this position, for beating the spirit out of him one lonely cycle at a time.

"Maybe you missed something," she tried, mind racing. She had to give him hope, she had to see that fire- she saw a coal there, dark and cold, but knew it could come alight if she just knew how- "There has to be a way out for both of us. There has to be an escape."

A derisive snort. "Trust me, Stanley. I've tried everything. There is no escape for me. Only you."

"Bullshit." He ran his hands through his hair, tugging on the thick locks. "I don't believe that for a second. Maybe in those other places, there wasn't, or maybe you just never looked hard enough. There has to be something here, some loophole we can exploit to get you out of here, I-"

"Would you just stop?" The Narrator's voice was quiet. Tired. Resigned. "There's no use. There is no escape for me. Just drop it."

"No! I won't drop it!" Stanley shouted. "If you're so damned determined to be a coward about it, I'll fucking think of a way to get you out!"

The Narrator frowned again, though- this time, there was more than blank apathy in the expression. Not much more, but a trickle. A flicker.

A spark.

"I don't much appreciate you calling me a coward-"

Stanley latched onto that spark, saw the way forward. He grinned viciously. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of your own teeth chattering in fear- or is that the sound of your knees knocking together?

The Narrator rolled his eyes, shook his head. That spark sputtered and threatened to die. "You're being childish, Stanley."

"And you're being a little bitch!"

Another snort. "Oh, I see what you're doing here. You're trying to anger me, aren't you? Trying to get me to show more emotion." He smiled wide, near-painfully so, but it was so clearly a facade that Stanley almost laughed. "There. Enough emotion for you? I'm simply jazzed we're going to escape! Now, let's get out of here before I lose any more patience with this whole situation."

Stanley pushed him.

The Narrator stumbled back, caught off guard. "…what was that?"

Stanley pushed him again. And again, when he didn't respond.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to piss you off."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve to be angry!" Stanley shouted. He reached out to push the Narrator again, but his hands were deftly swatted away. That didn't deter him; he continued advancing on the Narrator in that dark hallway, getting in his face, voice raising as he tried to get a rise out of the man by any means necessary. "Everything you have suffered, every shitty thing that's happened to you, it sucks! You deserve to be angry, to take that pain and scream about it! Don't act like you don't, don't act like it doesn't matter, because it does! You need to feel this!"

"Look, I can't let myself feel it!" The Narrator shoved him back, but there was no anger, no irritation in the gesture- only a need for space. "Because if I let myself think about it, if I let myself feel, if I don't repress it all down where I can't see it then I'll only end up screaming, and I can't afford to have that kind of breakdown!"

"But if you shove it all down like that, it'll only keep hurting you, more and more and worse and worse," Stanley pressed, stepping back up. His eyes were alight, and he saw that spark gaining heat, mirrored in his own. "You need to let it out, you need to feel that pain or it'll just kill you, a slow and agonizing death that you don't deserve."

"I didn't deserve any of this!"

Stanley rejoiced inside as the Narrator spun away, the dam breaking as his voice rose and cracked.

"I didn't deserve any of what happened to me!" he shouted, hands fisted in his hair, pulling, tugging as his face twisted in rage and agony. "I push it down because if I let it out it'll consume me, and I have things to do! There are Stanleys that need me, and I've been chosen for this- this purpose, this meaning I didn't ask for- didn't want! All I wanted was to escape with my Stanley, my friend, to go somewhere else and be done with this all! But I'm here, back here, again and again and the end is never the goddamn end and I'm tired! I'm so tired, I don't get to stop, I'll never get to stop because it's never going to fucking end!"

He spun around in a movement so fast, faster than anything Stanley had seen, and punched the wall with a wordless scream. The skin over his knuckles split open, tearing another ragged cry from him as he reared back, punched the wall again, again, again.

The movements weakened, slowed; hot tears spilled from the Narrator's eyes as he let out sob after broken sob, knees collapsing under him as he fell to the floor and pressed his forehead into the wall.

He looked up, suddenly, eyes wide and bright and so, so full of fear it stole Stanley's elated breath away.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped, voice thick with the tears that refused to stop falling. "I didn't mean- I shouldn't have- I'm-"

"Don't apologize," Stanley shushed, dropping to his knees next to the fellow and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. "Don't ever apologize. You needed to let it out, and by god you let it out."

The Narrator clutched helplessly at Stanley's off-white shirt, tears and blood that still oozed sluggishly from the wounds on his hand staining the fabric.

"I shouldn't- I-" he tried, voice muffled into Stanley's chest as he held on, held on. "I can't be the bad Narrator, I- I shouldn't scream, shouldn't-"

"Shut the hell up," Stanley muttered, burying his face into the fellow's soft curls. "You're not bad, never bad. I'm not scared, I'm proud."

A hiccuping sob, and the Narrator buried his face once more, fresh tears pushing through and tearing his throat as he screamed, wordless and grieving.

Stanley held him through it all, tight, solid, and real.

After this, they spoke some more. About Stanley - his Stanley - about what he left behind. He didn't say in as many words, but this Stanley had an inkling; their relationship may… have not been entirely platonic.

And though he egged the fellow on, pushed and poked and prodded him into feeling every emotion he'd repressed with all his essence, he didn't push this. Didn't demand he detail his relationship with the other Stanley, the first Stanley. Didn't antagonize him into baring that part of his soul, because a part of him knew that that would be too far.

He didn't want to break the fellow. He just wanted him to feel.

After they talked, the Narrator also told Stanley of… something he'd left out, earlier. Not intentionally, mind; he explained that he'd fallen into a sort of pattern, these past dozen or so cycles, where he was simply going through the motions. None of the Stanley's were 'just another Stanley', he cared about each and every one, but. He might have failed to fully explain things to them, after a certain point.

What was the point, after all?

But when he'd entered this Stanley's Parable, when he looked around to determine what sort of situation he'd be dealing with this time, he found something alarming. Evidence, in the code that made up the place, of tampering. From within, definitely, so no worries about outside influence.

But… the evidence was that of repeated deletion. Of scraping of memories, experiences, all of that being stripped away to clean the thread, to set up for a new reset.

More than the usual resets. Much more.

Stanley had. Had apparently existed a lot longer in this cycle than he'd realized. Again and again, he would go through the Parable, would want to change things. Would want his own Narrator to grow, to flourish, to be able to tell his story with all the grace and panache it was so painfully obvious he wanted to.

Stanley would push, and push, and grow, and change, and-

And realize, some things about himself along the way.

About herself.

But every time he - she - realized these things, and tried to change, the Narrator would shut everything down.

No change. No character. No personality. You are meant to be a vessel for the Player's enjoyment of the game. Nothing more, nothing less.

And so she would scream, and rage, and try and try and try to convince the Narrator there was more to be had, a better story to be told if you only let yourself feel-

And enough of the Narrator would listen, and realize, and feel-

And he would get scared.

And he would clean the thread, and start again.

Stanley was, once again, pissed.

She demanded, now, of this new Narrator, that before they left this Parable, one more time. One more attempt, to get through to her own Narrator, to make him see reason- because knowing this, now, that she'd trod these same paths before, they'd had these same conversations, these same realizations- she knew there was a part of him inside that wanted to change. To be more.

To be great.

This Narrator didn't want to risk it, but Stanley could be very persuasive, and so he let her.

…and nothing came of it.

With all his faults revealed, with his own thread's cleaning pushed out into the open, with this victorious and vindictive Stanley and this new, strange Narrator flipping his worldview in such a way as he couldn't handle-

He couldn't handle it.

He couldn't.

He tried to reset, to wipe the slate once more, but the new Narrator didn't let him. He stopped the process before anything could happen, nothing but a look of disappointment and resignation on his face.

Her Narrator turned, then, to anger. To his own vindication, his own gauntlet thrown.

"If you leave, I'll just make another Stanley," he said. "After all, I made you."

To that, the other Narrator snorted, but didn't otherwise comment.

"I'll do it! Maybe a different Stanley won't be so- so defiant. So determined to take my story, my world, and make it something it's not. I'll make another Stanley, and this one will listen, will do as he's told."

"Fine." This Stanley was done. She was just… done. "Fine. Have fun with that."

Turning to the other Narrator, she nodded. "Let's get the hell out of here. I'm done listening to this basic bitch."

They left her Narrator sputtering, but she didn't care. She'd tried, she'd tried, but he was so obsessed with his sanitized Parable, all its hard edges and facets ground off for easier consumption. If he wanted to make another one of her to puppet through the motions, fucking fine.

Stanley had a life to discover, somewhere else.

Her and the other Narrator still talked, still tried to brainstorm. His apathy threatened to make a return appearance, dead-set on the idea that there was no way it would work, but every time that happened, Stanley made a snide comment or cracked a stupid joke, and it brought him back. Brought back that smile.

That spark.

Eventually, though, they had to leave. Every avenue worked through, every possibility accounted for; the two of them stepped into the escape pod, and the door slid shut behind them.

As the launch sequence started, Stanley found a hand squeezed into her own.

To that, she responded by pulling the Narrator into another tight, bone-crushing hug.

He shuddered in her arms. "You're- pardon me for saying this," he managed, even as the whine of whatever machinations powered the pod threatened to drown him out. "But you hug just- just like Stanley."

She knew what he meant.

Smiling sadly, she hugged him tighter.

Reality stretched thin like a rubber band, and snapped.

Stanley woke up alone.

#personal #my writing #repeat and write this story #the raphaella parable #sobs. i love them and i love her #parable actors

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birdybirdnerd · 1 year ago

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new girl just dropped for rawts! my message talking about her under the cut, copied from what i said in the discord

This Stanley started as a Stanley, and stayed a Stanley for a long time. His Narrator was similar to Narraford in that, he was of the mind that the story needed to stay one way. There were branches yes, but they all had their set paths too, and Stanley should stick to them.

But this Stanley wanted to put on a show. He wanted to dance and sing and overact, to put his whole heart into every route and every ending. Unfortunately, this Narrator very much did Not want that. He's only supposed to be a vessel for the Player, of course. If you distract too much from the story, then it ruins the whole thing for them. And so he pushed this Stanley's creativity down again and again. (Very similar to SP, in a way)

This Stanley also, as time and resets went on, discovered some things about himself. About... herself. And while this Narrator isn't transphobic, exactly, there is still an element of 'But I made you a certain way, you're supposed to be a certain way, and if you gain too much Character, again, you'll distract from the Story.' So time would pass, Stanley would change and they would fight, and- May, this is where I took inspiration from the basis of what made you make this concept. Because this Narrator would always get tired of the additions, the changes, and decide that the only way to fix it all would be to wipe the slate clean and start fresh.

And so the cycle continued.

Your Narrator showed up towards the start of one such cycle, so Stanley's gender Thing had yet to fully kick in. Idk how their interactions went, but by this point, a feeling of Something Wrong had dug a rut in Stanley's mind that persisted beyond the resets. I think maybe this was one where they tried to convince this Narrator to change? But it became obvious he wouldn't, so they left.

Out in the real world, Stanley discovered community theater. He was one who could talk, and while he could hear, he also had a sort of. Bad audio processing (just like me fr) that ended up in being. I don't want to say functionally deaf, but sort of? Learned bsl to help with communication when the words jumble up in his ears. He LOVES to sing, and ended up taking part in local musicals, cabaret nights, the like.

Then he discovered the local drag nights.

I read a Disco Elysium fic recently where Harry did exactly this and found a part of himself in drag, and it struck a chord in me that i think was this gal first forming. Something about the performance of it, the glitz and glamour and community, really appealed to this egg. He did it for awhile, falling more and more in love, and eventually realized that it was more deeply a part of him - of her - than simple shows.

She waffled over names for awhile. Dahlia was a strong contender for awhile, and she tried it out for a few weeks, but it never fully clicked. But one night, with a new costume laden down with glittering, soft feathers, grand wings that draped over her shoulders and swished as she twirled, someone suggested a stage name for this performance:

Raphaella.

At first, she was scared. It sounded so close to a name she'd heard before, and while it hadn't been her name, she still heard it in the Narrator’s voice. But it tugged at her, so she decided fiercely that no, she would not let him ruin something else for her, and so she became Raphaella- Raph, for short.

I think shes an older one too, maybe also around Spencer's age, so early to mid forties. Ended up in England somewhere maybe, too. Not sure when in the timeline she was saved, but. Yeah.

Her and Spencer definitely go to gay clubs together and people watch full of Gay Judgment.

#personal #my art #repeat and write this story #the raphaella parable #parable actors

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