Chapter Text
“But as he came to his wits and regained his senses, he got up from his desk, and stepped out of his office. Before he did, though, there was something he perhaps needed to be warned about.”
Stanley glances up from his computer screen. As far as the Narrator’s diversions from the script generally go, this is either a terrible premonition or a very promising start.
“You see, Stanley,” the voice continues, “I’ve been doing some research lately on human traditions. Your holidays, your customs. All the strange little rituals that seem to keep you entertained—and I do know how important it is to keep you entertained.”
‘Terrible premonition’ is not yet off the table, but it’s teetering closer to the edge. Stanley tilts his head and waits for the elaboration—which he knows is coming, because the Narrator is exceptionally verbose and rarely spares him detail, especially when it comes to something he’s done or made himself.
“You may be aware that we’re coming up on Christmas.”
Stanley had not been aware. He does not voice this.
“And so,” says the Narrator, the usual self-satisfied glee slipping into his voice, “I’ve taken it upon myself to redecorate, suiting the occasion. Which is to say, should you step out of your office and find that some things have moved around, try not to be too amazed.”
Stanley raises his eyebrows. This, he decides, is definitely a promising start; he’d never refuse a change of scenery, and the Narrator sounds happy enough, which is always a good sign.
With the Narrator seeming to have given his piece, Stanley comes to his wits, regains his senses, and finishes the usual routine.
He quickly finds that the Narrator had not been exaggerating.
Tinsel lines the desks and walls and windows, mostly glitter-gold with the odd stretch of red or blue or digital green or violent eye-bleeding near-impossible neon pink. Paper snowflakes dangle from the ceiling at odd, haphazard intervals, low-polygonal and all completely identical despite everything Stanley’s ever heard about snowflakes. The computers have antlers stuck to them. The clock on the wall is wearing a beard. The balloons that usually decorate the office are unchanged at first glance, bar that they seem to have multiplied threefold.
The Narrator’s even either gone multicultural or gotten slightly lost, because there’s a menorah sitting over on Employee 432’s desk. One of the candles has been stuck wick-first in the pencil sharpener. Stanley does not see any provided way to light them, which he admits is probably wise.
He pulls down one of the balloons. The print on it reads ‘Happy 12th Birthday Step-Niece’, except the words ‘Step-Niece’ have been hastily scratched out in black sharpie, with ‘CHRISTMAS!’ written over them in white. Stanley wonders why the Narrator didn’t replace the word ‘Birthday’ instead. He does not ask.
On the whole, the Narrator’s handiwork is quite a sight to see. It’s bizarre. It’s eclectic. It’s fantastically misguided.
It looks like shit.
Stanley absolutely loves it.
“There’s that smile,” the Narrator says fondly. “I’ll admit, I’m not terribly well-versed in how this holiday operates, but… I gave it my best go. Do you like it?”
He thinks for a moment, then makes a little heart shape with his hands.
“Good,” chirps the Narrator. “I’m glad. It’s nice to have someone who appreciates your work.”
Stanley does appreciate it. Because he never refuses a change of scenery, obviously. And the Narrator sounds as happy as he’s been in a while, which—far be it from him to admit it—makes Stanley happy, too.
He does, of course, swat down some of the tinsel while he walks by. Just to be a pest—it’s the gameplay instinct, he can’t help it. And it hardly matters, anyway, because as long as Stanley’s still smiling, the Narrator doesn’t seem much to mind why.