[ WP ] A character kills their narrator .

All of his co-workers were gone. What could it mean? 
 
 Stanley decided to go to the meeting room. Perhaps he had simply missed a memo. 
 
... a*hem*. 
 
 Stanley decided to *go to the meeting room*. The door out of his office was halfway open - it provided a tantalising glimpse into the hub of cordoned-off cubicles outside. Computers beeped, but there was no telltale click of keys to indicate any sign of human life, and a telephone could be faintly heard ringing fruitlessly in the middle-distance. Some of the chairs even looked *upturned* - sprawled on their backs on the threadbare carpet, wheels still turning faintly in the air. Whatever had so efficiently purged these offices of any human life appeared to have done so rather quickly. The light from the flourescent rods on the office's ceiling bled through the crack, reaching into Stanley's dark room like a outstretched arm, and *beckoned* to Stanley. 
 
 Stanley did *not* simply sit in the swivel chair in his office, placing his scuffed shoes on the desk to the left of his keyboard as he... what's that? What's that *gesture* supposed to mean?! 
 
... well, you know what, that's *fine by me*. 
 
 Without any warning, the door slammed shut. The lock clicked, pointedly. Clearly, Stanley was now trapped in this office until he chose to co-operate. 
 
 Yes. This office. This *scintillating*, enrapturing, *dreary* little office. Yes, clearly, trivial matters like narrative flow and a well-constructed opening for a story *paled* in comparison to the opportunity to spend one more moment in this precious, *precious* office. With its computer, and its- 
 
... Stanley? Stanley, what are you doing? 
 
 *Oh! * I see! Stanley was currently using his implausibly-durable stapler to knock out a loose bolt on the ventilation duct! It took effort, and his hands shook with it, but with a final whack of the stapler the bolt came loose and flew down to the plastic-tiled floor, skittering away at Stanley's feet. After that, he planted his gangly legs on the ventilation grill in front, and after lying on his back for support he put all his weight into the *push*... 
 
... muscles strained, and pain burned through his trembling legs, but he did it! The vent popped, and the grill clattered backwards with a cacophonous *clang*. Lurching forward into a sitting position, Stanley scooped it out before clambering tightly into the vent himself. He started scurrying, in a desperate bid for freedom, sliding forward on the cold metal as his hands hauled at anything they could. 
 
 Well, that was exciting, was n't it? And you managed to use a bit of the Air-Vent Passageway... well, it's a bit of a Dead Horse Trope these days, I must admit, but we ca n't really expect James Joyce out of you, now can we? Well *done*, Stanley! 
 
 Do you see what I'm trying to say here? You've *deliberately* tried to escape my story, to *spoil* the little narrative I've set up around here, and you've *still* wandered right in the middle of it! You've made it *better*! Maybe you should turn back - oh, but then you're out in the offices again, are n't you? The way *I* planned it! 
 
 Stanley kept on crawling, into the dark. It was *very* dark. A chill burned through his nerves, as if they were frosting over beneath his skin, and he *knew* it was from more than just the icy touch of the metal biting at his palms. 
 
 The dark. The unexplained. Stanley was crawling right into it. Stanley did n't *want* to know what was lurking up ahead, what *crawled* in the nest of vents and wires like a worm in a pustule, burrowing into the flesh and *watching* him with milky, blank eyes. He did n't want to know how its thick, grey tongue pressed against its teeth, or what that sound was, that sound getting ever closer, that sound like a thousand tiny hailstones skittering off a tin roof. 
 
 Stanley wanted *freedom* from the narrative! Freedom where anything could happen next, or happen *to him* next! And as his heart hammered in his throat and he blindly slithered forward, groping in the dark, well, here it came! His *freedom! * 
 
... or, you know what, let's try something different. 
 
 Suddenly, the vent beneath Stanley's struggling form gave a plaintive, fatal creak, and he had a second to pull back before his cramped little metal world fell out from under him. The floor of the vent gave a wail and fell downwards, down and down and down before landing with a clatter on the floor of a corridor. At least it looked like that - he could see carpet, to be sure, but the only dim light in the darkness trickled from a door he could n't see, at the corridor's end. 
 
 Stanley hunched, shivering, between the tight walls of the vent around him, and let out a shaky exhale. At the very least, whatever was on the other side of the ventilation shaft appeared to have been scared off. 
 
 I hope you've learned a valuable lesson from all this, Stanley. 
 
 You could have kept on wandering. I would n't have even had to write in anything - I could have just kept the vents going for a few hundred more paragraphs, or thrown in a flash-forward. And when you slumped forward, starving, and the rats came out of the woodwork to pick you clean - well, that'd have been *freedom*, now would n't it? You'd have defied my story, at least. 
 
 But groping forward, blindly, into the muck and the dark and the chaos - is that what you want, Stanley? Is that any way to live? You *need* me, Stanley, and I need you - but we do n't have to be at each other's throats like this! You scurry along my story for me and - well - who knows? There could be a happy ending for *both* of us! You might even be *really* free! 
 
 *So*. Stanley decided that further attempts to examine the ventilation systems for signs of human life were fruitless. Shrugging his shoulders, he squeezed himself into a turn and set off back to his office, to find where his co-workers had- 
 
... Stanley? What are you doing?! Stanley, DON'T- 
 
 Stanley, *stupidly*, hurled himself out of the shattered vent and down to the corridor below. He landed, painfully, and it killed - no, he was still alive, staggering upwards and clutching what looked like a broken arm. Blood trickled from one ear. He stared at the door in front of him, and the dimly glowing light. 
 
 Stanley. Stanley, this is *very important*. You *** CAN NOT *** go near that door. Stanley? Can you hear what I'm saying? DON'T- 
 
... the door opened, with a creak. It had n't been used in quite some time. Stanley leaned against it, and stared at what he saw. 
 
 He saw me. 
 
... yes. Hello. I... ca n't quite imagine you were expecting me to look like *this*. 
 
 He approached. With purpose, and a... Stanley? What *is* that? No, Stanley, put it DOWN! I can HELP you! Put it DOWN, or I 
 
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 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 *The Narrator stopped twitching, and it was done. * 
 
 *Stanley was shaken, inside and out, and dropped his weapon with a clatter. He'd had to. He'd had to do it. There'd been no other choice. His arm throbbed, dull stabs of pain, and his vision swam. He heard blood squelch, from somewhere. It could have been his own. He stumbled to the door, and swung it open. * 
 
 *Freedom greeted him, like a long-lost lover. * 
 
 *Fresh air caressed his throat with the taste of the finest wine. Grass swayed, and trees rustled. The Sun glowed in the rich, blue sky. Stanley stepped through the door - and it* was *just a door, now, not attached to anything, and as he slammed it shut it winked out of existence forever. He could n't hear the voice anymore. * 
 
 *Stanley was* free. 
 
 *And, well, I think we should let him believe that for now, do n't you? *
