“You were… ‘made for this?’” asked the Narrator. He grew slightly giddy as the implications of this information became clear to him. “Does that mean you were an artificially-engineered organism created in some sort of scientific facility? Or maybe that you’re a homunculus from one of those fantasy stories? Or – even – a fictional character, brought into the light of day by some child’s imagination?”

Quiet scratching noises issued from the ceiling; the Narrator was writing something down. “The character opportunities are endless,” he murmured, half to himself. “An eighty-year-old cartoon inkblot, drawn to repeat the same monotonous task” – his voice abruptly rose in pitch – “like Stanley! Like Stanley and his buttons!”

The Repairman’s anger quickly subsided and was replaced by confusion, though he did take a bit of offense at the “child’s imagination” idea.

He sighed as the Narrator began taking notes. He had expected a long day, but for different reasons.

“Eighty-three,” he muttered, as he began boarding up the cracks in the Wall.

He looked up as the voice suggested he was like this “Stanley” guy.

“What buttons?” he asked. If he got the Narrator talking a bit about Stanley’s life, maybe he could piece together something more to this place than yellow carpeting and a disembodied Brit.