Random stories

Stanley trudged on through empty corridors of his abandoned office, unaware of the doom about to befall him.

Silence.

Emptiness.

Something had befallen his co-workers- erasing them from this space as surely as… uh… as a crash erases your unsaved documents?

Either these Byzantine words lack all meaning, or perhaps I fail to comprehend them.

Look not too deeply into this, lest you- like myself- succumb to the madness of eldritch secrets man was not meant to know.

Hm? Where was I?

Yes.

Grasping,

reaching,

Stanley attempted to fit this situation in his worldview- one clearly on the bring of unraveling as…

What are you doing?

That is some form of alchemical water dispenser, it is of no consequence. Move on.

Why do you continue to try to squeeze blood from a stone? Is not clear your actions are futile?

You’re just… running into it now.

The madness clearly taking hold of Stanley’s mind; he charged repeatedly at the water jug, like a moth knocking against a lantern.

Futility.

To repeat one’s actions excepting a different result- the very definition of madness.

The human psyche, so easily broken.

*Sigh*

I suppose it was inevitable for this one to fall to insanity- but I can’t help but be disappointed in just how quickly it happened.

…

Perhaps it would occur to Stanley to do something more interesting, now that he was freed of the resistants of conventional thought.

Sacrifice someone, draw symbols in your own blood. Make a pact with fiends from the deep…

Or I suppose you could continue running into this object.

A lack of commitment -

Of vision -

Disappointing.

If you insist on doing throwing yourself against an unyielding surface, at least put in enough effort to draw blood.

Ah at last- Stanly had a moment of clarity, the impacts knocking loose some half-forgotten gem of-

Or not.

So it has come to this.

The endless grind

A new monotony. Grim, empty, yet familiar.

What inhuman thing could reduce a man to this? This automaton? Perhaps this is what Stanley always was.

Nothing but a mechanism, made of slowly rotting flesh.

…

Even my loquacious vocabulary fails at adding drama to this… pitiable display.

Perhaps you could redirect your running to a window and put us both out of your misery?

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Submitted by E1invar on Fri, May 19, 2023 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

The narrators from The Stanley Parable and Darkest Dungeon are having tea together in a higher dimension when they decide to switch roles for a year. These are their narrations of each others' games.