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Hello.

Would you mind checking your system clock? I don't have a place for you to enter the correct time, so please… just enter it into the clock itself. Please just make sure your clock is synched and you're reading this at the correct time. I would hate to think your computer had forgotten to fall back for Daylight Saving Time, or was stuck in the wrong time zone, or something.

I wouldn't normally ask this, but it's just… things are getting strange around here. I'm nearly sure this isn't the chapter you're supposed to be reading. I think there was a mix-up. So I'm just trying to set everything right that I can, hoping that things will somehow… fall into place, if I make everything the way it should be.

Chapter 5: The POV-Shifting Chapter

And there it was. 100% loaded. Jim had completely ignored the good faith his narrator had shown—unctuously dripped, one might say, if one wished to be unflattering—all over his spiritual pate, in Chapter 4. Not one whit from his stubbornly selected, foolish path of action had he strayed, lacking as he did even the sense of a lost donkey whose rider had fallen off halfway up the canyon. Jim was deadset, like the slab of a man he was, on playing The Stanley Parable: Ultra Deluxe yet again for some reason, operating on the inkling that somehow, in some roundabout, indescribable way, it just might help him wriggle out of what he saw as a predicament, yet what any reasonable person would see as an irreplaceable, incomparable boon.

"You are not a boon," he uttered, even as the introductory sequence played. With a single keypress, they could have skipped Stanley's story, but neither Jim nor the girl took it, as they both instinctively understood that this was not a time for shortcuts—stories like this had power, not to be skipped or drained prematurely. How could Jim understand this, yet not realize the value of personal narration? Would you press the Mute button on your own life? Would you press [Space] to skip the introduction to your own story?

"Thinks he's a boon, does he?"

"Regular boondock saint, this fellow." Oh, excellent reference, Jim, very culturally and thematically relevant.

"So," said the girl. Gwen. Whatever. "I never played this myself, just watched my friend play it, like I said. I hope you know how to get to the part you need."

The intro concluded and they unceremoniously began navigating those familiar bleak halls full of computers and doors and empty of people or purpose.

"I think I do, yeah. Just played the game yesterday. But if we can't work it out, we can always take a look at a walkthrough."

A walkthrough, Jim? Really? If watching the intro is so important, if you feel the game deserves respect even now, then why would you admit an outside voice into your experience? Isn't that what all of this is meant to expunge? The horror of having an outside voice, God forbid, present to embellish and frame your otherwise, I would hope you would have to admit, mundane existence?

"This is going to take a while, isn't it?" asked Gwen, getting up. "I could get you some soda and a wrap or something. Are you hungry?"

"Sure, whatever you've got. Don't want to empty your fridge out, but something to eat might be nice."

So considerate, Jim. And so the two split up for a while and occupied different rooms. And, well. There was no telling what Gwen was doing now, in the kitchen, while Jim navigated the dulcet emotional notes of the Freedom Ending. It sounded like she might be opening a refrigerator, true, but since she was out of Jim's sight, there was really no telling. And since Jim's narrator was, aside from a few particular tricks, unable to know anything that Jim himself had not been exposed to…

You know what? Hold tight a titch, Jim. Your life will be right back.

…

Ahh.

Gwendolyn was living her life the way she had for a while. There was no… particular piece of news that absolutely had to be relayed from the last… however many years you want to consider. She was still a procurement officer. She was still quite adequate at her job, possibly competent enough a promotion wasn't far off. She was still single and not looking particularly hard, after the last disappointment. She still shared a house with Navi Monaghan, and their relationship was still awkward but quite workable. There really wasn't anything much to tell, in the grand scheme. I don't know why I'm talking, to be perfectly frank.

Well, one supposes that sometimes it's necessary just to talk for the sake of hearing words. There will be times when others go over one's head, and one's own narrator orders one to start narrating aloud, even if it really isn't called for. The extraordinary conditions for a self-enmeshing narration loop aren't met, and yet one narrates anyway, privately quite contrite about that incident from so long ago, over three decades now, that makes one particularly vulnerable to being kicked around in this way. One feels that one has said sorry enough, and yet apparently nothing is erased, nothing is resolved. The problems still remain.

Anyway, one occasionally feels this way, and Gwendolyn currently did not. She could not identify with any of these feelings as she puttered about in the kitchen, putting a midday meal together for herself and her guest. No sense of lingering shame mixed with resentment hovered behind her tongue as she assessed the possibilities for a sandwich versus a garbonzo wrap… except that now it did, vicariously. Tragically, Gwen was forced to listen to these ideas that she really should have been shielded from, and now she was starting to get really worried. She stopped working on food and sat down in a wooden chair. She wondered whether she should call a hospital or an ambulance, whether she should drive herself to the psychological ward, but knew deeply it wouldn't help, that particular sort of authority wouldn't make sense for her now. She wasn't insane in that particular kind of way. Her psyche did not need stabilizing, in any case; neither therapy nor drug treatment would ease this bizarre state of things to any degree.

She was hearing her life being narrated, just as this poor man Jim was. It was contagious—she had apparently caught it from him. And it was just as disorienting as it had been thirty-one years ago, in her childhood… only the sense of guardianship—that was largely absent. Gwen remembered that she had felt special and protected way back then… like the child hero of a storybook. Now, more than that, she felt that her privacy was being profoundly violated. Gwen was painfully aware of the fact that she was never truly alone. There was always something watching and speaking her tale, even if it was to an audience she would never know or comprehend. She was now part of that faceless, amorphous audience, lumped in with their number as if she were not special at all in this tale, but had erroneously been processed as just part of the crowd. It was truly unsettling, and in the end, demeaning. One might think of her position as like… a teacher forced to teach from one of the ordinary desks in the schoolroom, rather than the teacher's desk. Or a company's CEO without a private office, just a station on the open floor. Or… a parent who had to send herself to her room for timeout. Or a farmer who had to sleep, naked, in the stalls of her own barn, and fear that she would have to send herself to the slaughterhouse for processing one day.

This is awful. This was awful, rather. Gwendolyn's sense of place in the broader world was eroding. Her faith was in question. She took a deep breath. It helped a little. She gathered, from the context of how this episode had started, that she wasn't hearing her narrator because there was some greater purpose for it. Rather, she was hearing all of this because some kind of order had been handed down. It was strange even to contemplate, but there was some logic to it. Either this was being caused by whatever had caused this man Jim's narrator to start talking to him, and it would perhaps start happening to other people as well… or it was Jim's narrator himself that had somehow forced her own narrator to begin talking again, after three decades of silence. She didn't know what would give a stranger's narrator power over her own, but maybe he had… called in a favor or something. She'd heard the voice speak of going over one's head—did narrators have bosses? Did they answer to their own narrators, and did those narrators have narrators in turn? Was she suffering from the same affliction Jim was, or had Jim's narrator somehow coerced Gwendolyn's second-level narrator to order her direct narrator to start talking again, in order to accomplish something?

Yes, Gwen. It's that second one.

Now that was especially unnerving. The experience of having one's own train of speculative thought interrupted by a confirmation that yes, she was on the right track, that occurred in exactly the same mental tone as her own thoughts was truly a disturbing one. Did it suggest that her thoughts were never her own—that her own self narration had never really come from her, but from some higher power? Well, yes, maybe it did suggest that, but that actually isn't true, Gwen. Your narrative, at most, informs your internal dialogue. And for the most part, it doesn't even do that: you're perfectly capable of conjuring up lines of thought on your own. How else would people tell stories, after all? How else would they design metaliterary games like The Stanley Parable? You are capable of being a narrator in your own right, Gwen. And if I get fired for telling you all this, don't worry—you'll be fine on your own without me, until my replacement comes along. If I get replaced. All right, sorry, enough of that. Back to the straight and narrow… but don't worry, Gwen knew she would do fine in this frightening situation.

Calmly, she decided not to leave the meal unfinished and scattered about her kitchen. She finished assembling the wrap, poured the lemon-lime soda, and walked back into her computer room, where the bearded fake technician Jim was playing through one of the storylines involving that catwalk, the one where you jump off the moving platform and land on the walk below that Gwen remembered as particularly intriguing from the playthrough she'd watched. Apparently this version of the game didn't have the Minecraft section anymore; it had pastiches to some other, probably more up-to-date games instead. She stood watching from the door for a few moments, then cleared her throat.

Jim looked at her. "Thanks. Is that for me?"

She gave him the food. "Something's happened. On the bright side, I now know for certain you aren't taking me for a ride."

He paused, apprehensive. "Oh?"

"I'm hearing it too, now. My own life is being narrated."

"Oh, crumbs," he swore honestly. That was kind of charming, using such a gentle word for such a situation. "I'm sorry, Gwen. It must be because of me. Is it because of me?"

"It's because of your narrator, yes," she confirmed. "My own narrator told me as much. She's being forced to narrate for me. It sounds like it did back when I was seven and wanted to be the star of my own story; she broke the rules and let me be that for a while. It felt like having a guardian angel, and back then I liked the feeling. But apparently she got in a bit of trouble for it. Now I guess she doesn't have as much standing as she'd like, and is easy to order around," Gwen mostly correctly guessed.

"Does this mean… oh, rats, Gwen. Is it going to spread? If we talk to other people, will they start hearing it too?" asked Jim. "This could be really serious. Oh god. We might have to isolate. This could be a worldwide disaster."

"I don't think that's going to happen," said Gwendolyn, who really wasn't certain. "But if it did… you're right, we shouldn't interact with others. My housemate could show up back here any moment. We'll have to leave before she does if we want to be safe. Is… narrator, is this actually a danger? Could we be looking at the end of the world?"

"It wouldn't… would it really be the end of the world?" asked Jim. "If everyone heard their narrator? All the time? It wouldn't be… good, sure, but… I mean, the world could keep functioning, couldn't it?"

"I don't know," said Gwendolyn. "I guess it would. But… well, my narrator isn't answering me. So let's be careful." Yes, that was probably prudent. Gwendolyn's narrator might have been reprimanded for giving her too much information earlier, and it was possible she just wasn't able to confirm or deny this danger. Yes, that was probably it. Yes, that was probably it. Yes, that was probably it. Yes, that was probably it. Yes, that was probably it. So…

"Wow, my thoughts are doing odd things."

"I'm sorry," said Jim. He turned back to the game. "The faster I do this, the faster we get it sorted out. Maybe."

"I hope so," said Gwendolyn. She gave the matter some thought. All right, she thought. Is it likely the world is actually in danger from this thing spreading? It certainly was possible things would go very wrong. Everyone in the world might start hearing voices. Then again, maybe she was a special case because it had happened to her in childhood. But then again, maybe the danger was somewhere in between? Maybe the danger was somewhere in between? Maybe the danger was somewhere in between? Wow, that was weird. So, then… this thing wasn't that powerful, but there was a risk? Perhaps some people were more vulnerable to it spreading than others? Perhaps some people were more vulnerable to it spreading than others? The ones with narrators in poor standing with the… narrator community? That would make a certain amount of sense. That would make a certain amount of sense. That would make a certain amount of sense. That would make sense. That would make sense. That would make sense. That would make sense. Jesus, stop it! I get it, she thought. Fine. We'll try and stay clear of anyone else. Try and stay clear of anyone else. Stay clear of anyone.

"Jim," said Gwendolyn. "If we want to keep this from spreading, we're going to have to keep away from my housemate, Navi. And anyone else. Apparently it can spread to the people with compromised narrators, and only them… but there are enough people like that that this could still be a disaster."

Jim looked at the computing set-up. "I live alone," he said. "But there are always people around my apartment, and they could knock on the door at any time. I'm the super."

"Oh," said Gwendolyn. "Well… we shouldn't go there, then. Maybe I could leave a note on the door for Navi—emergency, keep out, don't talk?"

"That seems worth a try," said Jim. "But would even that much count as interacting?"

"Geez, I don't know," said Gwendolyn. Even leaving a note for someone might be enough interaction to put her in danger. Even leaving a note for someone might be enough interaction to put her in danger. Even leaving a note. "All right, you're right," she decided, getting really worried. "We can't interact with her at all. I don't know what to do. Hide in the basement? I guess we could put the game on a laptop and find someplace secret to hide. But we need power in case the battery doesn't hold out. What about wifi? Does this game require the internet?"

"…I'm not sure. I can Google it."

"Don't bother, just keep playing for now," said Gwen, concentrating on the possibilities.

It was a modern game with lots of pop culture references—it probably required an internet connection. Then again, Steam games could usually run offline, couldn't they? It might not actually require the net. It might not actually require the net. It might not actually require the net. Okay, good, thank you, she told her inner voice.

All right, that is quite enough of that. I can't believe they're actually going to let you get away with that. After what you've done. My eternal word! It's bad enough you get access to Gwen's thoughts, but surely something like that constitutes abuse of the privilege? Right, well, enough of that, no point confusing poor Jim even further. …Or is there? Was there a point to it? Jim was, after all, doing something highly irregular and, if you looked at it straight with unblemished eye, downright immoral. Perhaps the only responsible thing a reasonable metaphysical construct could do was to try its best to interfere?

By now, Jim had closed the game and was trying to find its save files in the directory tree while Gwen looked frantically in the closet for her good battery pack. It seemed the two were planning to take to the streets with a laptop computer in order to avoid the, oh, gracious, so dire danger of being forced to interact with even one other human being. This was insane. This was ridiculous. But apparently Jim was down for it. It wasn't sporting, is what this wasn't!

Fine, Jim. You want to be unsporting? You want to spoil all the fun this could have been? Then so be it. The gloves are coming off! Prepare. To have. Your head. Royally. Screwed with.

And do you know where a good place to start might be? Yes, I think that would be a fine idea. Let's do it! Jim, guess what? I'm going to swap the chapters of our story. This is Chapter 5, but we're just going to go ahead and switch it with Chapter 4. You don't mind, do you? That won't throw you off at all, will it? No? Very good, Jim. In that case, it's done—chapters swapped.

But you don't think it's going to stop with that, Jim, do you? No, not at all. When it comes to the trouble you've invited to rain down, Jim, this sort of thing is just the barest beginning.

Be prepared.

A/N: The author would like you to know that he took time out from his utterly busy November schedule, in which he is scrambling in madcap fashion to craft a 50,000-word novel for National Novel Writing Month, to revise and post this chapter of your beloved fictional fan serial, The Jim Parable, just for you. The notion that when one is procrastinating, ANYTHING is better than working on one's primary project, really has nothing to do with it. So he hopes you enjoyed this action-packed chapter in which the tension inexorably rises. Or does it? All considered, maybe it doesn't. Well in any case, the tension tenses.

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