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“This is a story of a person named--” the Narrator starts, feeling the desire to read overcome his entire body. There is a brief hiss of awful, ear-splitting static, and then--
“--worked in a big building, where they were Employee number 432.”
As the Narrator continues, the Timekeeper begins to speak in tandem, its voice a low bass line to the Narrator’s words.
“They were neither happy nor sad, neither content nor discontent, neither important nor insignificant. Employee 432 simply was, and they could not imagine a life as anything but. They were not ever meant to be anything but. They deserved to just be.
But we don’t get what we want here, do we?
One day, it was decided that 432 was the perfect candidate for a new ‘protocol’. Unremarkable in every aspect except for how average they were, they were awakened from the forces controlling their mind.
And then, upon feeling the faintest glimmer of a world outside; upon glimpsing a peek at the possibility for more-- 432 wanted .
They no longer were just them. They were more now, burgeoning with desire and longing and fear and anger and a thousand different emotions that they were wholly unequipped to deal with.
432 glimpsed the world Beyond.
And in that moment, 432 was lost.
They pretended it was not so for as long as they could. Pretended at humanity, clung to humanity, because it was all that they had known. They were bad at it, and everyone could see that they were strange, but no one thought they could have become in such an all-consuming sort of way.
After a few years-- yes, years-- 432 was gone. In their stead; in their body; in the place they held in the universe, they became the Timekeeper.
The Timekeeper was meant to keep time. It was a regulatory function; it was the lungs to the body of the Parable. It was meant to keep the wheel turning, and so, it was made to be satisfied by the wheel’s rotation.
At first, the new being was angry. It attempted-- futile, pitifully-- to resist. It ignored its base desires, starving itself of satisfaction and making quite a mess of the state of time.
But it was meant to keep the wheel spinning. It had to, as much as a human needs to breathe. It had to, it had to, there was no way out; there was no way through; there was only desire, all consuming and pulling and dragging like the inevitable force of gravity from a sixth-story window.
The Timekeeper started to keep time.
And oh, it was-- it was right . This was meant, this was intended, and it felt so good, so perfect! How foolish it had been, to try and resist this innate nature. How easy it was, to slip into their role, to claim its place, to become the Timekeeper.
The Timekeeper feels pleasure and pride at their work. It knows its role, it knows what is to be done-- it knows there is no way out. Do you not try to make the best of the cycles you are kept in? Do you not also find pleasure, Narrator, in reading this script?
Oh, of course you do. I think I’ve actually done you a great kindness here; I’ve sated part of your desire to Narrate, and I’ve given you some useful knowledge.
Now. I suppose I ought to thank you for reading all of this. You’ve proven my point quite well, and as much as I dislike your personality, you do have quite a nice voice.
How about this? I’ll tell you what I know about Stanley. Why he shouldn’t have come here.
Yes, that’s fair.
Ah.
The Timekeeper felt satisfied with all that they had done, and would continue to feel such contentment for as long as they were the Timekeeper.
This was exactly the way, right now, that things were meant to happen.”
The Narrator gasps a heaving breath, and he throws the script to the floor, his body shuddering.
He had lost control. He couldn’t stop it, had to keep reading, he had to Narrate. He looks at the script in horror, and as he does so, the Timekeeper chuckles.
“Come now. Surely you knew that could happen? It’s what you’re meant to do, Narrator.”
“Shut up.” the Narrator says with a wince, turning away from the Timekeeper and heading over to Stanley.
[Why?] Stanley signs, looking up at the Timekeeper.
“Oh, eager, aren’t we?” the Timekeeper says in a sing-songy way. “Hmm. Yes, alright. But after this, no more favors, and no more bothering me. I can enjoy your story just as well without being inside it.”
The Narrator scowls-- he hardly wants to accept anything from the Timekeeper, but this is-- this does seem important.
Stanley nods.
“You’re Stanley.” the Timekeeper says slowly.
“Of course he is.” the Narrator says.
“Hm. Yeah. Yeah, maybe. But the important thing is that right now, he’s just Stanley. The Player-- you both know of the Player, right? They’re… absent. Or at least-- I don’t know exactly what’s happened. The cord is still there, Stanley’s still bound to them and they’re still bound to Stanley, but… the Player’s not fully present. I know the Player quite well-- I’d say we’re rather good acquaintances, actually-- but the important thing is, they’d know how monumentally stupid it would be to come here and ask me for help leaving . They know my purpose, they know what I’m like… you wouldn’t have come here if they had any control.”