Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Voices.

There was a voice that spoke, tone awed yet frightened, while something snarled in close proximity.

Then, there came the crying. Begging for mercy that would not come.

Jagged, piercing pain, accompanied by more screaming. A denial of what was laid before one’s eyes, or what those eyes had become in this place mired in ink.

But that hadn’t been the end.

There had been escape, before the end had truly come.

For the time being, anyway.

They came back, yet always forgot that they returned, up until that point.

The accusation would come for a brief time, sharp and piercing, full of hurt and betrayal. Bitterness and resignation, soon followed by acceptance, from a soul who had then gone back to being trapped within the clinging ink that held with unnerving strength.

An immeasurable amount of time passed as the soul struggled to be free of the oddly thick, clinging well of ink. To break away from becoming just another lost soul unable to leave the well of whispers and screams of the ink that had claimed those not strong enough to leave.

Brief silence came with the sight of a bright light that, once reached, brought familiar surroundings into focus.

Back again.

Back in front of a statue in the image of his lord.

He was...

Ah, again, he would have to recall who he was. That was the trickiest step of returning from...wherever it was that he had been. A floor above him? Below?

It didn’t matter, for now.

Taking a few steps, and testing out legs to make sure they would hold, he lifted his head, and came to an abrupt halt.

A sign, on the wall, with a name.

Sanmy Lawrence, music director.

A brief, sluggish wash of awareness and relief took hold of him, before gratefulness was given. Yes...he was grateful. His savior had given him his name, Sammy. Surely this was a sign that he was pleasing the ink demon with his actions.

...whatever those actions happened to be. Something to do with sacrifices?

It appeared as though his memory was a little jumbled, and Sammy would need to take a step back and wait for inspiration to strike. But in any case, he was back in what had become his home.

The music department.

It had once been a place for music, lyrics, and voices to be heard, before it had been turned into...into...

Sammy resumed walking, taking notice of a few searchers that were following him from a respectful distance. Sammy pushed through a door, and stared at the instruments for a time.

There was also an axe, in the corner of the larger room.

Ah. That weapon.

Yes, Sammy remembered now.

This was a place for creativity to thrive as best it could, for music and voices to fill these rooms. But it had also recently become a hunting ground for those lost sheep who had wandered in to this place, to become a sacrifice for his lord.

Sammy had to keep his to-be savior happy, so that He would set them free.

An echo of a scream flitted through Sammy’s head, and he shuddered. By now, several more searchers had surfaced from ink puddles. They quietly watched the music director inwardly struggle to make his way through the tangled, sticky web that was his mind.

The scream vanished, and Sammy sagged against a nearby wall. He somehow...knew what that meant. His lord had come across an interloper that was attempting to lead those in this studio astray. The screaming and terrible inky darkness that had surely come for the poor lost soul was a harsh reminder of what could happen should one stray from the path set before them.

Sammy wouldn’t stray, but he was sure his savior wouldn’t mind him collecting his thoughts so that he could better serve His will. Those old songs...yes, he still remembered them, and Sammy would sing them, play them, as many times as was needed and required of him.

But first, Sammy needed quiet.

He needed his sanctuary. Sammy remembered that place and it would do nicely for him to be with his thoughts there.

Some time later, after the necessary steps had been taken, with instruments and projector, Sammy was in a better mood as he hummed along softly to the plucking of the strings of a banjo.  He went with a staccato, as it seemed fitting for his current state of mind. Sharp and disconnected, the notes were detached from one another, making it difficult to recognize the song.  Sammy played through several tunes in such a way, before he began to relax and strum the banjo as he settled on the one song he always came back to.

The sound of the music echoed around in the small room, and out the open entry way. Surely the music would please his lord, whom the music director knew wandered the halls of this destroyed place, covered in ink and mired in despair. 

And yet, beneath the mask Sammy now wore, the one he had found on his desk in the image of his savior, Sammy realized that he was frowning deeply.

This wouldn’t do.

It didn’t feel right, somehow.

Why would the happiness fade to be replaced with something...darker and brooding?

The strumming of the strings ended as Sammy, distracted, leaned over to place the banjo against the desk.

There was something very wrong.

He was feeling...uninspired, and a couple of minutes into pondering why, Sammy was struck by the likely cause.

It was the ink.

The ink was dripping into his sanctuary, close to his sheets of music. Sheets that he still attempted to fill with notes for songs to appease the ink demon.

His savior.

But even though Sammy wanted to continue to play those old songs, he found his attention drifting for a second time, unable to shake the sound of the ink.

It was always dripping nowadays.

Never-ending.

Unceasing.

For the first time in a very long while, at least as far as Sammy could reach back into  his awareness, he was distracted from his unwavering, loyal devotion.

Drip.

Splat.

Drip .

Splat.

That repetitive, horrid sound...Sammy recalled in an spark of recognition that the noise of the ink splattering down from the ceiling and to the floor drove him mad.

Or it used to.

The music director recalled that he hated the ink that encroached on his department. It was almost worse than when the stairwell would flood, because at least then, when the switch for the pump was thrown in his office, Sammy could tune out the wretched sound with music.

But now? With the state the building was in now, being overtaken with ink?

There was nothing Sammy could do about it now, because there was so much ink. But for  for whatever reason, he couldn’t ignore the noise now that he had heard the ink. The clarity of memory began to fade, however, like a fire slowly being snuffed out.

It was jarring.

“Sing a merry song, whistle a familiar tune along these empty halls.” Sammy sang softly to himself as he shuffled through the sheets of music, careful to not smudge too much ink from his fingers onto the notes that had been written on the paper. “Be very quiet, for He draws closer, ever closer. And soon, he will set us free.”

The flash of clarity came roaring back, Sammy’s hands twitching as he let go of the sheets of music, allowing them to flutter onto the table, forgotten for the moment.

How long had he been trapped in this place? How much longer would he suffer in this inky abyss of a body that didn’t allow him true rest?

The thought sputtered and died again as the music director shook his head and began to mutter under his breath, as if trying to convince himself that what he was doing was right. That he was following the correct path by giving his savor sacrifices to please Him, with the hope that each time, Sammy would be saved from his inky body.

“Soon He will come. He will save us all.” Sammy uttered aloud, as he stood up from the chair and slipped out of his sanctuary. He stood in the doorway for a moment, before passing by a few lingering searchers, to seat himself in front of a piano.

The sound of the ink had slowly begun to work its way into his mind again, and so, in an attempt to silence it, Sammy rested his fingers on the keys, his head tilting to the side as he glanced at nearby empty chairs.

Empty.

No one had played those instruments in a long while.

Drip.

Spat.

Or had they been played?

Drip.

Splat.

Sammy couldn’t help but have a memory surface then, one where he had witnessed someone familiar playing a tune to get into his sanctuary.

But there was no one there.

No one.

Only him and the other lost souls who roamed these abandoned halls, looking for salvation and untimately finding none.

But wait...

There was the ink demon.  He would set them free, surely.

...What had Sammy been thinking of before? The music directors absently caressed the keys of the piano, his mind taking so many twists and turns that he wasn’t sure what to believe.

Something was...wrong.

Wrong.

Like an out of tune instrument that stubbornly refused to remain tuned.

The ink continued to drip, uncaring of Sammy’s muddled mind attempting to make sense of his memories. Or at least, those memories that he was able to grasp that didn’t immediately slide out of his inky hands.

The ink was maddening.

Wrong.

Drip.

Splat.

It got into everything, twisting it and reforming it how the ink saw fit.

Sammy couldn’t help but feel that his music was helping him cling to what little sanity he had left, but the music director knew that he was teetering on the edge.

He was also tired.

So very tired.

Exhausted of continuously fighting against all of the screaming that trickled in through the ink that surrounded his body. The madness and the sanity fought for control, the ink making it very hard to have coherent thought.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep.” Sammy began to play the piano, his fingers dancing across the keys before him as he hummed along, occasionally singing aloud. The music director’s playing went on steadily for a time, before it suddenly began to slow, with each note, until Sammy stopped altogether.

“Even without deadlines, I still am unable to concentrate and get anything done.” Sammy murmured, a strength rising within him as he stood up and away from the piano. “The ink is everywhere, whispering to me. Is it Him? Will my savior come to rescue me? Or do I still need to prove myself to Him?”

No answers came, and the ink didn’t stop flowing.

Drip.

Splat.

The longer Sammy stood there listening to the ink, the more he began to have some...doubts.

Something was...wrong, wasn’t it? That was where his thoughts kept going back to. The wrongness he was feeling...but what was it?

Sammy slowly went back into his sanctuary and sank onto the chair.  He didn’t think that he was imagining the sense of something not quite right. A voice, a horribly familiar voice, suddenly surfaced unbidden in the back of the music director’s mind in a faint echo.

‘It really is such a shame, but it seems like you didn’t come out quite right, and we just can’t have that here. Just think of what the investors would say!’

Darkness followed those words, pain and agony close behind.

Screaming.

All of that screaming within the inky well. And then an...awareness.

Loneliness.

The mask.

Trying to please the ink demon in the hopes that the creature would save him.

Save them all.

Something was very wrong indeed, staring with his own inky body.

The clarity came roaring back, and Sammy sucked in a harsh breath, involuntarily taking in some ink that made him cough. This was wrong. It was all wrong, even if he was struggling to put the pieces together of why it was so wrong to be here in this state.

And then it hit him.

Sammy’s hands trembled, as he brought them up to face-height to stare at three fingers and a thumb.

What...

What had happened to him?

What was...

How was this possible...?

”Joey Drew...what have you done?” Sammy whispered into the silence of his sanctuary, his words punctured by the slow dripping of the ink. “How long have I...been here?”

What the hell was going on?

Sammy’s hands curled into fists at his side, an anger rising within him, more furious than before.

More importantly, what the hell had he been thinking? Had he...had Sammy  actually sacrificed people that also worked in this studio, who were as trapped as he was, to the ink demon?

Sammy slid off of the chair, staggering over a few steps to go curl up in a corner of the room. The music director’s hands reached up to rest against his head as his body began to quiver. Was he crying? Could he even cry in this odd inky body?

The sound of his near-silent break down drew the attention of some of the searchers that had lingered in the doorway to the sanctuary. Two of the braver ones moved closer, dragging their inky bodies across the floor to settle around Sammy, as if to comfort him. Another searcher, wearing a hat, came out of a puddle in front of Sammy, and reached out to pat the music director cautiously on the shoulder.

A few lost ones, noting that Sammy was all but immobile and currently non-violent, picked up some of the instruments that lie just outside the sanctuary. With glowing eyes that glanced between one another, the lost ones hesitantly began to play a discordant sound, some clearly never having handled an instrument before, but trying nonetheless.

The attempts to draw Sammy out of his misery through music and careful touch meant to comfort went mostly unnoticed. The music director was too visibly distraught to see what was going on around him as he curled into himself some more.

Sammy squeezed his eyes shut, or whatever the dents in his head allowed him for eyes, behind the mask he wore. Fingers lightly dug into his inky head further. He has to be mistaken...the memories had to be wrong, misremembered. But Sammy couldn’t explain away the steps he had taken for the ink demon wandering this falling apart studio, and those he had lured and dragged away to offer up to the demon in a hopeless effort to escape this place. 

The searcher with a hat settled alongside Sammy’s curled up form, clearly at a loss of what to do, from what could be made with of its almost...concerned expression.

Sammy let out a slow, shuddering sigh, even as the searchers huddled even closer and the lost ones continued their attempts to play the instruments.

What had he done?

Chapter Text

Sammy had no idea how long he spent curled up on the floor in the corner.  It could have been minutes, it could have been hours or days.  The music director could sense that he was surrounded by searchers and a few lost ones, who had yet to leave him to his misery.

They didn't leave, nor did the other inky being seemed inclined to move.

Sammy's mind was still muddled, but he was able to settle on a thought.  That, as far as Sammy could tell, these beings around him used to work with him in the same department. It struck Sammy hard when he came to the realization that he couldn’t remember any of their names, and yet they still remained in these halls with him.

Did they still know who they were?

Did any of them know what had happened to them all?

Or...or were all of them as lost as Sammy had been? Lost and confused, when he’d first come back to awareness in front of the large statue of Bendy?

Sammy knew that most of the lost ones could speak, had they reason to.  Most of the time, however, Sammy recalled that the lost ones were too overwhelmed by their predicament to utter anything apart from shuddering sobs.  The searchers, the music director mused, could only make gurgling sounds, as if they were continuously drowning in the ink their bodies were made up of.

They were all suffering, in some way or another.

Sammy finally uncurled from the tight ball he’d made himself in the corner of the room. It would do him no good to lurk in a cloud of misery, hoping that something would change.  That someone would come to help save them all from this dark place.  Sammy lifted his head, beginning to become more aware of his surroundings once more. Sammy observed the searchers and the lost ones grouped around him, and the way they all stared at him.

A few of the lost ones still loosely clutched the instruments.  The searchers remained close to the music director’s side, reaching out to touch a shoulder or knee lightly, as if reassuring themselves that Sammy was there. 

”How long have you all been here?” Sammy asked eventually, turned his head to look at each searcher and lost one. Sammy's memory was still hazy, and thinking too hard about why they were here made Sammy ill.

”I don’t know.” A lost one said, from where they lingered in the doorway. “None of us seem to be able to...remember.”

"We try to remember.  Try to talk about what this place used to be like..."  Another said, carefully holding a violin.  "But there is...too much darkness.  Too much ink, to see clearly.  To be able to retain those long ago days."

”Time is meaningless here.” Another lost one added, their glowing eyes dimming a little.  "Memory is...difficult to grasp.  Things we knew yesterday may be gone today, in another week or not at all. We hold tight to what we can remember, to not lose ourselves completely to the ink."

A searcher waved a deformed hand around vaguely before a shrug was given, indicating that they, too, had no idea.

"If you mean how long have we all been in this room? A few hours, at most." A lost one nearest to Sammy hesitantly guessed.  

”Time does seem to have no meaning in this place.” Sammy agreed.  From where he was seated, he stretched and then reached over to pick up a violin that had been propped up against a wall. The music director stared at the instrument for a moment.

Why had it been left there?

Sammy hadn't left it there, had he? That would have been careless of him. Why wasn’t the violin safe in its case, to be kept away from the ink that could completely destroy the sound and ability to play it?

”Play us a song?” A lost one asked hopefully. “It’s been too quiet here, and we don’t play as well as you can, Mr. Lawrence.”

”I can show you how to play one.” Sammy replied, as he reached up to maneuver the mask to the side of his head.  It would have been in the way otherwise, as the music director brought the violin up to his chin as he readied the bow. Sammy took notice of the faint surprise that rippled through the small group of searchers and lost ones, but the lure to make music was stronger than figuring out the reason for the change in demeanor. “Just put your fingers on the string where I show, and you can play these notes. Just be careful to not get ink inside the knobs or the f holes of the wooden instruments.”

”A simple song?” A lost one wondered.

”Yes, I'll show one that any of you can play.” Sammy felt a squeeze inside of him over the way lost ones carefully readied the instruments in various states of familiarity. The music director played a brief tune, slowly and carefully, bow gliding over the strings.  Sammy repeated the notes several times, before he carefully set the violin down and got to his feet. Sammy went to each lost one to show them the proper way to hold the instrument they had picked up, from other wooden instruments such as a viola and bass, to a single oboe that one had found.

As Sammy pointed out the correct way to hold the wooden instruments and how to handle a bow, he also showed the single lost one the proper way to use the brass instruments.  It was during this slow process that Sammy had another thought come to him. A sense, a kernel of memory that had made itself know to him.  Somehow, Sammy knew that before the studio had fallen into ruin, he never would have bothered showing non-professionals how to play an instrument. Sammy was certain that he would have only accepted the best. Talented musicians who would be able to play the scores he set before them, and play well.

But now?

There was such a heavy sense of hopelessness and despair that hung over them all in this slowly falling apart studio. It seemed too cruel to turn away those who were genuinely interested in learning to play an instrument.  To bring forth music in an attempt to try and lift the mood of the studio that was metaphorically crushing their spirits bit by bit.

Sammy didn’t know that he currently had the patience to go step by step with the names of each note and the placement of fingers on each instrument to make them. But despite the music that was playing awkwardly, it hurt Sammy deep inside over how such a simple thing made these particular lost ones and searchers watching so happy.  All it took was a simple tune that the music director could have played half asleep with his eyes closed.

This really was wrong.

Terrible.

Why were they all trapped in this place in this state?

Could they really not leave this place?

Was there no way out?

Sammy didn’t realize that he had stopped moving until one of the searchers came up alongside him to place a hand lightly on his shoulder. The music director jerked out of his unpleasant thoughts, and turned his head to look at the searcher, noting the bowler hat perched on their head. Sammy heard the lost ones continue to try out the little tune he had just taught them, but he kept his attention on the hat. Sammy stared at it with the indents that he had in his head that passed for eyes.

The searcher with the bowler hat turned and wrote onto the wall, showing off the broken fragments of a mind struggling to retain a sense of self.

‘Clarity now? Remember lyricist? Often below?’

“You...a lyricist..." Sammy murmured, looking from the words written on the wall before focusing once more on the searcher with the hat. “There is a memory...you...."  Sammy struggled to put a face to the name, and failed, but the name he kept hold of.  "You're...Jack Fain, yes?  Yes, that's right. I remember you now...you put words to the music I created.”

The searcher wearing the bowler hat gave what passed for a nod.

”Is everyone here...are they really all employees?” Sammy swayed in place.  Hadn't he already come to that conclusion before?  Or was it another of his moments of remembering things incorrectly?  The music director began to tremble, overtaken by thoughts of past sacrifices...of the screams of those who were found by the ink demon.  Were they all sentient, like he was? Like the lost ones were?  Sammy found himself speaking again, his voice growing frantic. ”What is happening in this place? What did Joey do? Why can’t I remember? I should know. I should remember. What have I been doing?”

The off key music around the music director began to dwindle.

”What have we all been doing here? For how long have we all been lost, grasping for mementoes?” Sammy asked, more to himself than to Jack, who was watching him in a surprisingly solemn way. 

The lost ones left off playing their instruments, all of them starting to murmur nervously amongst themselves as they watched Sammy become increasingly agitated.

The ink pumping throughout the studio didn’t help the music director’s faulty memories, only adding to the madness that swirled inside of him, just beneath the surface.

Drip.

Splat!

Drip.

Splat!

A sudden chill went through Sammy, as if a breath of cold air had been blown across his face. 

His exposed face.

With a jerking motion, Sammy replaced the Bendy mask, feeling oddly vulnerable without it covering his own face. It made the music director feel exposed. 

Unworthy of carrying out His will.

All worries of what was going on the studio vanished in place of disappointing his lord and savior. 

Sammy collapsed to his knees, hands grasping his head as he let out a discomforted moan. His head hurt. His whole body ached. The ink was a horrid repetitive sound, making its way deep inside of him, and threatening to drag Sammy back to the edge of sanity.

He couldn’t fail in his task.

Sammy grasped his head tighter, teetering.

He couldn’t allow himself to stray.

Samny couldn’t be allow himself to have these thoughts that would do nothing but bring him anguish. He needed to focus on singing praises to the ink demon.  Sammy had to provide live sacrifices to his lord, in hopes of appeasing Him. If Sammy was able to please his savior, then perhaps Sammy would in turn secure His help in freeing them all. To reduce them from this awful inky hell that they were all trapped within.

“Mr. Lawrence?” One of the lost ones called out to Sammy.

The music director couldn’t hear them. Not well, anyway. The ink had slowly made its way back to the forefront of Sammy’s mind, making it difficult for him to think or try to concentrate.

”No...” Sammy breathed out, a piece of him resisting the ink that was trying to push him back into the darkness. Sammy needed to remember. Sammy needed to hold on, until the sensation passed, lest he lose himself again.

The searcher with the bowler hat came close to Sammy, even as the lost ones backed away, clustered together warily.

Jack…

Yes, that was the searcher’s name.

Sammy remembered this, but why was he struggling to grasp onto that name?

Jack made a low sound of distress from deep within his inky body, and reached out to place a hand firmly on one of Sammy’s shoulders.

A sacrifice.

Not a name.

This wouldn’t do.

A name wouldn’t help Sammy find a sacrifice. 

An offering.

Yes, Sammy had to, needed to, find a suitable offering for his savior. It had been far too long since the last…

“Mr. Lawrence!” 

Sammy jolted out of his sudden dark inky thoughts. Of dragging a screaming tender sheep to slaughter, for approval from his lord. That image broken, Sammy found himself nearly mask to face with a lost one, who had stepped forward to grab either of his shoulders to give him a rough shake.

“It really does have a tight hold on you, doesn’t it?”  The lost one asked.

“The ink has us all in its grasp.”  Sammy said vaguely, as he let out a slow breath.  He should have been irked that someone had dared to touch him, but he merely stared at the lost one in front of him, even as they let go of his shoulders and stepped back. It was in that moment that Sammy noticed that the atmosphere had again changed. And with that change, Sammy saw that both searchers and the lost ones were on edge, many giving off signs of being agitated.  “What is it?”

“Someone is here.”  A lost one said.

“Something different.”  Another added, glowing eyes fixed on the open entrance of the sanctuary. 

Jack got Sammy’s attention and wrote on the wall again.

‘Not hostile.  Feels familiar.’

“An intruder who feels familiar?”  Sammy murmured, even as a few of the other searchers made indifferent shrugs. It was as if the being that had come into this area was not worth getting worked up over.  Sammy glanced around at those gathered, and set his jaw over the wariness that remained.

“It seems that I will need to see to this…visitor.”  Sammy walked forward, passing by the searchers and lost ones. He sensed that they followed him close behind, as if expecting Sammy to shield them from whatever had invaded their territory. As soon as Sammy exited his sanctuary, he heard a noise that was rather familiar in this place.

The sound of a can of bacon soup as it rolled across the floor.

This wasn’t an uncommon sight.

There seemed to be an endless supply of the stuff, and one of the few staples that they all could consume to replenish their strength.  The soup didn’t satisfy the hunger, always leaving those trapped in this decrepit studio in need of something more filling.

The alternatives, however...Sammy didn’t care to think upon at present.

The can rolled a short distance into the room from the right, where it came to a stop near the stage where musical performances were recorded.  And following along behind the can in dogged determination to get the soup was…was…

Sammy stared, his expression behind the Bendy mask one of bafflement. 

Was that…Boris?

Of course it was.

The…machine had done this...hadn’t it?

Sammy frowned.

What machine? 

What was he trying to recall?

Sammy dismissed the thought for now, in favor of reminding himself that yes, there were clones of the toons from the show wandering around.  Sammy normally didn’t see them, unless he went out of his way to go after one for a sacrifice.  But as far as he was concerned, there were only numerous copies of Boris and the Butcher Gang.

The others…

Sammy again chose not to think about one particular toon, as well as the one that he, well, worshiped, or did when he lost hold of his strand of sanity. So, in order to keep that sanity intact for the time being, the music director turned his attention to the Boris in the room with him.

An offering, surely.

Unfortunately, as much as Sammy thought he could keep hold of himself, the lost one from before was correct in how strong a hold the ink had of him. Sammy couldn’t easily escape the whispers of the ink, which called to him more loudly the moment he looked too closely at Boris.

That Boris…

He looked perfect.

Not deformed in any way like some of the other toons.

What a rare sacrifice this one would be for his lord...

Sammy gave his head a firm shake, banishing the thought as quickly as it had made its way into his mind.

This Boris clone had to be another employee of the studio, even if they looked exactly like the toon Sammy had composed music for.  This Boris was provably mute, as the animated toon wolf was, and because of this, Sammy wasn’t even sure he would be able to guess who this Boris had once been.

Perhaps Boris could answer questions on an empty space on a wall with ink? Jack had written on the wall to communicate with Sammy, after all.

The music director supposed that was an option, provided that the employee still knew who they were. That they were aware enough of their plight to remember, and that they weren’t so far gone that they just thought they were Boris the Wolf.

Sammy shivered involuntarily. 

Truly, how long had he been lost himself, struggling to recall who he once had been, before the ink washed away those memories?

There were the memories of being obsessed with freedom from this awful place, and worshipping the ink demon that stalked this place.  These recollections were more  numerous than his own personal memories. More than Sammy would care to admit at present. Most unfortunately, it was those numerous memories of offering up a sheep for slaughter that overrode many of Sammy’s older memories. 

It was a...struggle, to keep a hold of himself, as the time slowly ticked by.  A constant mental battle that had to be waged to prevent Sammy’s sense of self from being dragged back down into the ink. To be smothered by the ink until all memories were completely lost.

Sammy could hear it, even now. 

The diabolical yet alluring whispers of the ink always calling out to him. It was currently attempting to nudge the music director back into a madness that he may not be able to fully pull himself out of entirely. But Sammy pushed through the ink, the whispers, and for now, remained the person he used to be, but with a lot of missing memories.

“Who are you?” Sammy didn’t realize that he had asked that aloud, but he certainly saw the effect it had on his visitor.

Boris froze in place at the question, or perhaps he had merely gone perfectly still after hearing a voice in an otherwise silent studio. Well, silent as it could be in a place that held the constant pumping of ink, the screams of the damned, and the sound of the ink demon who prowled around, hunting down unfortunate souls.  The toon wolf’s fur stood up on end as Boris’ head jerked up, hand still poised over the can of soup from where he was crouched.

This would prove to be an interesting encounter. One of many similar such meetings in this wretched place drenched in ink.

Sammy would find, with each encounter, that what he had believed in for so long would slowly begin to crumble before him piece by inky piece.

Chapter Text

Sammy couldn’t remember the last time that he had seen a Boris clone around, and this one looked like he might have more awareness than most. One reason Sammy had for this was because he could tell that the toon wolf was wary. Boris was clearly not comfortable in the music director`s presence, nor that of the lost ones and searchers. 

But Boris didn’t run.

Most toon clones did, especially if they saw Sammy.

How Sammy remembered this, he wasn't entirely certain. Sammy had these...recollections, of the toons who managed to escape from him, even if those memories were a bit hazy. It made sense that they would run, because Sammy would end up drawing attention from the ink demon with the rituals he did so often. Because of this, Sammy knew that many, if not all of those trapped in the studio, took precautions to hide from the ink demon who wandered this place. And more so when Sammy happened to be around, pointedly calling the demon to him with praises and offerings of live sacrifices.

Those aware enough to be filled with fear ran and hid in the shadows.

Those who were too far gone, usually cornered by the ink demon, never to be seen again.

But this was not the case with this Boris clone.

This toon wolf was something new.

Different.

”I do not...recall seeing one of you Boris clones in the music department before.” Sammy said to the toon wolf, scrutinizing Boris from behind the mask he wore.

Boris looked at Sammy for a moment, the wariness in the toon wolf’s body reflected similarly on the wolf’s face. Boris’ reaction seemed to indicate that he hadn’t noticed the music director’s presence when he first entered the room, nor that of the searchers and lost ones.

One of the searchers lurched forward to get a better look, as the lost ones began to murmur amongst themselves at their visitor.

Boris started to look increasingly nervous the longer he remained in place. In fact, it seemed as though Boris was getting ready to bolt, even if that meant leaving the can of bacon soup behind. 

“Let him have his space.” Sammy murmured, even as he waved a hand toward the searchers and lost ones, to indicate that they should stay back. He was relieved that there was enough humanity and reason left in them that they did as he asked. 

Boris’ stance relaxed over this, as the toon wolf slowly straightened up with the can of soup in one hand. Boris looked a little less nervous over the way the other inky beings stayed back. This appeared to embolden the wolf, and he turned his attention to Sammy fully.

Sammy could see that Boris knew who he was. There was a spark of recognition that was hard to miss, but it was odd to see the sheepish look Boris gave him, as if apologizing for stumbling into the place while chasing a can.

"How oddly…familiar." Sammy muttered, feeling even more familiarity from Boris` expression. It bothered Sammy that he couldn’t recall why the apologetic mannerisms the toon wolf had given him made him grasp for threads of memory. Was Boris apologizing for randomly entering a room that was occupied by others? Or was it something more than that? Right now, it wasn't like Sammy cared that someone had entered a room unannounced. The music director did not require any silence from outside noises, as he was not recording a performance.

Sammy hadn't, for years.

But unexpected interruptions...

Why was that so...nostalgic, to Sammy?

Boris had been watching Sammy closely, before the toon seemed to be satisfied with whatever he saw. Boris began to inch backward through the door he had come in from.

Sammy saw this, and since he wanted to figure out who this toon was, the music director took the opportunity to follow. Sammy watched as Boris crossed through another door, and lingered just inside the hallway that led to Sammy’s office. 

"Really, who are you?" Sammy asked again. “Do you even remember?” Sammy hesitated, frowning beneath the mask at Boris. “I am getting this odd sense that I should know you, and it isn’t Boris.”

The toon wolf tilted his head to the side, as if considering Sammy’s words. Boris then broke into a smile, as if what Sammy had just said was a cause for joy. Boris set the bacon soup can on a nearby shelf before beckoning to Sammy with a hand. The wolf turned and began to walk away, before he paused and glanced over his shoulder, as if Boris expected the music director to follow along after him. 

Sammy was a little annoyed at this, but that irritation didn’t last for long, because really, Boris wasn’t doing anything wrong. The toon wolf just wanted to show Sammy something that couldn’t be shown within that hall.

Boris stopped partway down said hall and waited for Sammy to catch up with him. Boris still looked cheerful, though perhaps a little taken aback, over how easily the music director followed after him.

Trust wasn't easily earned or given in this place.

"What are we doing here?" Sammy stopped a short distance away and stared at Boris.

The wolf beckoned Sammy closer to a door, and waved one gloved hand at the room`s contents, which were a few broken desks and crumbling shelves that held tattered sheets of music. Boris pointed at the garbage can and then gave Sammy an expectant look.

"I don’t know what you are trying to tell me." Sammy informed the toon wolf. The music director was at a complete loss.  Why should he be looking at a garbage can of all things?

Boris went into the room and leaned over the can, before reaching inside it and taking out...keys?

"That’s where the spare set has been this whole time?!" Sammy let out in an indignant squawk. "I haven’t been able to get into the supply closet for so long." Sammy frowned at Boris, or tried to, seeing as he still wore the Bendy mask. The music director stepped back as Boris came out of the room, the toon wolf holding up the keys in triumph. "Yes? Well done finding them?"

Boris’ muzzle quirked into a grin and, still holding onto the keys, mimed sweeping, or mopping, the floor. The toon stopped now and again to brandish the keys, before Boris brought a hand to his chest and stared at Sammy intently, as if waiting.

What was...

Wait.

Sammy stilled, a wisp of memory coming back to him. Keys...yes....someone was always losing or misplacing those keys. Someone who swept and cleaned up aound the studio.

Boris pointed to the door, looked at Sammy and then hooked a thumb at the door again before jogging in place, as if leaving.

”Door? Out the door?” Sammy ventured.

Boris patted a hand to his chest.

”You?”

An empathic nod.

Great.

This was charades now, but Sammy knew, instinctively, that he almost had the toon wolf’s name. A human's name, from before this Boris had became a character from a cartoon.

Boris patted his chest again as he used his other hand to point at the door. The toon lifted a foot as if he was getting ready to leave.

”You want to...to get out of here?” Sammy guessed, before he sucked in a breath as memory assailed him.

He did know who this Boris had been.

Sammy remembered a cheerful grin, one that was at times sheepish when something went wrong.  Brief instances of indignation over having to do more than he had signed up for. To have to deal with the massive network of pipes within the studio. Sammy recalled a readiness in this person to ‘get outta there' the moment things went south.

It couldn’t be...but...

“Wally Franks?” Sammy demanded of the Boris standing there, ire rising within the music director. Before and after the fall of this studio...it appeared that Sammy would never be free of the carelessness of the janitor. The man who Sammy had given the keys to the music department many times. The man who lost those same keys from that department and others countless times.  A careless man who misplaced keys, and had mislaid these particular keys for the music department in a garbage can for who knew how many years. "Did you know these were here all this time?" Sammy's voice cracked in disbelief.

Boris offered another sheepish look before he gave a tentative nod.

"You didn't think to perhaps return them to me, if you were not going to use them?" Sammy bit out irritably. Had he eyes, they would have been narrowed malevolently.

Boris, who was indeed Wally, raised a gloved hand and gave it a sideways wiggle, to reflect the toon wolf`s uncertainty at Sammy's question. Or maybe it was because Wally was no longer certain that he should have let Sammy in on his identity. Particularly because said music director was currently shaking with an irrational wave of anger.

"You lost the keys...” Sammy breathed out, softly at first. "Found them, yet kept them secret..."

Wally slowly took a nervous step back, even as the music director took one step forward.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for those?” Sammy’s voice began to rise in pitch, cracking a little as his mind whirled over the contents of those locked doors. Contents that he couldn't reach via the ink. "How long I have wanted access to that particular closet`s contents?"

Ink.

There would be ink in those locked rooms. There were all sorts fo supplies, no doubt, including sheets of music paper. But there would also be an untold amount of bottles of ink...

The ink.

Yes, it would be there, surely.

It had to be.

Drip.

Splat!

Sammy staggered in place as a pipe cracked overheard, showering him in a brief spurt of ink. The ink that fell hit the music director with such force that it took him to the ground. The ink was all over him, and Sammy frantically began to wipe it away. But as he did, Sammy knew that there was not much he could do to rid himself of the stuff, as his entire body had already been covered in it.

And yet...and yet it felt...

Good.

Familiar, like an old friend.

Sammy coughed over the way some of it had gotten inside of his mouth, but halfway toward attempting to hack it out, he froze.

Of course.

This was a sign.

Why was Sammy reacting so badly to the ink again? There was no reason for him to be afraid.

It was a sign.

One that had to do with the ink that had been locked away by those keys.

Sammy hadn’t been able to have access to it, and now, to have a pipe crack and cover him in ink...

Surely it was a sign from the ink demon.

His lord.

Sammy's hands stilled against the fresh ink that he had been absently trying to wipe away.

His savior.

A message from a lord to his prophet.

Yes, that that right.

Sammy carried out His will.

The prophet carried out the ink demon's will.

What was Sammy doing, wasting time like this? He couldn't afford to stray. Sammy had to...he had to listen.

Listen to the ink.

Open himself up to His will, and that of the ink.

The ink.

Sammy could sense it strongly after the broken pipe had covered him with fresh ink. It clung to him, tacky, like blood, and Sammy could hear the ink calling to him. The sound was near deafening inside of his head,  screaming at him. Sammy had to answer. He had to right the wrong that had been brought to his attention, no matter how small it was in the grand scheme of things.

The ink demon would set them free, but only if His will was followed.

“You kept me away from it.” Sammy’s breathing became irregular as his inky face broke into a crazed smile beneath the mask. “You dare keep me from my lord’s intentions? All the ink is His, and that particular ink is to be used to write to Him. That ink is to be used to sing His praises, making use of those music sheets, to appease Him. The ink, that can be used on the floor before a ritual can be completed with a sacrifice." 

The name of who the toon once was gone from Sammy`s mind.

All the prophet of the ink demon saw before him was Boris.

The toon wolf`s fur stood on end, bristling. Boris was no longer smiling, instead looking almost...afraid.

“Yes, you should fear His retribution for keeping the ink to yourself.” Sammy’s thoughts were overrun with a sudden jagged anger, a sensation that overrode any rational thought. This inky body of his felt compelled to capture this insolent sheep in wolf’s clothing.

A fitting sacrifice to the ink demon.

"It seems that a sheep has come to slaughter, even if they happen to be a wolf." Sammy said in a half sing song voice, as he cocked his head to study Boris. "Soon, you will sleep, and my lord will be appeased by such an offering." It would be a demonstration to others to not abuse the ink that they had left.

Ink that did not slide and ooze within the pipes of the studio was a rare gift.

Boris took one look at the music director before the toon sprinted down the hall in the opposite direction, fumbling with the set of keys.

“You will not escape judgement from our lord!” Sammy yelled after the toon wolf as he gave chase. “He will not set us free if all is not as it should be!”

Boris reached the end of the hall and frantically jammed a key into a lock on a door to his right. The wolf turned it and pulled the ring set back out of the lock before dropping it into a pocket. With an almost pitying glance back at the music director, the toon slipped into the small room and slammed the door shut.

“Blasphemy!” Sammy spat out, all but throwing himself against the door. Ink was dribbling down what passed for lips, along with what appeared to be saliva.  Sammy continued to rave as he beat his fists against the door. “How dare you go against Him! Open this door at once and pay penance for your sins!” While Sammy was focused on the door and getting to Boris, he didn’t notice the searchers that had appeared. But Sammy certainly felt them when they grasped at him. Were they trying to stop him?

Unacceptable.

"Do not interefere!" Sammy whirled on the searchers, caught up in the grip of the ink.  "I am carrying out His will!"

The searchers increased their attempts to hold the music director back.

"You will not prevent me from taking that sheep in wolf's clothing to our lord and savior." Sammy tugged an arm free, only to have another goopy inky hand reach out to him. "The wolf did not pay the proper reverence and respect to our lord!  As His prophet, I won`t allow this insult to pass!"

A door swung open.

"Don't you see? I`m doing us all a favor." Sammy, his limbs still being grasped at by searchers making gurgles of concern, didn't notice the sound of the door or the approaching footstep. "I have to do this. He will hear me. He will set us fr-ahh!"

A sharp smacking sound rang out.

The back of Sammy's head flared with sudden pain.

Had someone just hit him?

Sammy swayed in place before the rest of his body caught up with the strike, legs buckling as he collapsed. Sammy let out a low groan as he sagged heavily into the inky arms of the searchers that had caught him, and could feel the way he was carefully lowered to the ground. Mind reeling, Sammy struggled to hold on to the sudden spark of sanity, but found that the ink was making it immensely difficult. He was drowning, even if he was not submerged within water or ink, the sound of those screaming voices in the ink threatening to overwhelm him. Sammy was unable to think properly, his head sore with a dull, throbing ache. Sammy’s sight blinked out as he fully sagged against the floor with a sigh. Sammy gave in to passing out, or whatever it was called, for those who were trapped within these inky bodies.

He dreamed of ink, ritual sacrifices and music.

The music of those old songs haunted Sammy, as did the ever rhythmic, never ending sound of the ink pumping throughout the studio.

Chapter Text

The whispers within the ink dragged him back into sluggish conscious.

Sammy struggled to come back fully into awareness after taking that strike to the back of his head. Sammy let out a low groan and lie on his side for a time. He waited for his vision to swim back into clarity from the haze of impromptu unconsciousness.

The ink.

It was always there.

Sammy closed what passed for his eyes, allowing the darkness to take over for a time as he pieced together what had happened. He had been talking to someone...had figured something out, before he had been so rudely taken from awareness.

Ah, yes.

Boris.

He had been speaking to one of the Boris clones.

Sammy put a hand to his inky head, massaging it with an equally inky hand. He had figured out that the toon wolf’s real identity was Wally Franks, who had been one of Sammy’s coworkers from before everything had gone so very wrong.

The bits and pieces of the events leading up to Sammy’s meeting with the floor filled in sluggishly. Sammy sighed and turned onto his back from where he had been awkwardly sprawled out on the floor.

By the searchers.

Yes, that was what had happened.

The searchers had laid him down, after Sammy had been struck in the head and lost control of his body. Struck, because Sammy had been caught up in the sinister whispers and demands of the fresh ink that had spilled onto him.

Corrupting him.

Twisting him back into a crazed madman who sacrificed fellow beings to the ink demon, in hopes of being freed from this place.

But that overwhelming need to find an offering had fled for the time being. 

Sammy felt relief over that. It appeared as though being knocked out had allowed for him to grasp hold of those thin strands of sanity, and remain himself.

For the most part, anyway.

Sammy felt trepidation over remembering so very little. Much of his life before he’d become an inky being in this broken place was just out of his reach. It was difficult for Sammy to know what to do with himself when he wasn’t gripped by the ink and the insanity it drove into him.

It was...freeing, in a sense, but also intimidating, as he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Sammy grimaced at the sight of his pants and suspenders ruined yet again by the ink that had spilled onto him. Movement caught his attention, and Sammy became aware of Wally carefully coming up alongside of him, the toon wolf looking at Sammy in an anxious sort of way.

Wally brandished a dust pan, the toon presumably showing Sammy what he had knocked him out with. 

“I am...myself.  For now.” Sammy could tell that Wally didn’t look very convinced but the toon wolf slowly lowered the pan. “It appears that the ink in this place...it really does seem to have a firm grip on me.” Sammy said as he stared down at his fingers. Sammy lifted his head soon after to look at Wally from behind the Bendy mask.” I feel as though I have a difficult time holding onto my sense of self. Especially when I get too close to fresh ink from the machine.” Sammy fell silent, brief confusion trickling in again.

There it was again.

The machine.

But...what was the machine?

It created ink, obviously.

Sammy remembered that much. But apart from that, Sammy was drawing up a blank. He didn’t try too hard to force himself to remember. Instead, Sammy focused on the here and now, which meant that it was time for him to sit up.

Wally stepped back, cautious.

”Are you going to stay in this area for a time?” Sammy found himself asking. “It might be easier to keep hold of myself, if someone happened to be around to prevent me from going crazy.” Seeing Wally’s wolfish frown, Sammy amended his statement. “Going...crazier?”

Wally was clearly reluctant about the idea of remaining in the same area as Sammy. But the toon wolf obviously wanted the company, because Wally agreed to Sammy’s question from before  with a slow nod.

Unfortunately, Sammy being able to gain and keep a companion in this wretched place was just something that wasn’t meant to be at that point in time. Everything went downhill as soon one of the lost ones shuffled over to Sammy and spoke.

”There is a human who hasn’t been claimed by the ink in this studio.” The lost one remarked to Sammy. “He is headed this way.”

“Hey!” Sammy let out an indignant gasp as Wally suddenly seized him by an arm and all but dragged the music director toward his own office. “What do you think you are doing?”

Wally said nothing as he unlocked the office. The toon unceremoniously gave Sammy a shove in his inky back to make him stumble inside, Wally slamming the door shut after the music director.

“Wally!” Sammy let out a soundless growl at the treatment as he turned to open the door, only to realize that he had been locked in his own office. Sammy stomped over to the long window and peered out, inky jaw setting. He watched through the window as Wally jammed a door beneath the door knob, to prevent easy escape. “What is going on?” Sammy demanded, before gesturing wildly at the locked door and chair. “What is all this for?” 

Wally pointed to the ink on the wall, and then to the pipe that had broken earlier. When Wally saw that Sammy was watching him, the toon wolf then pointed to the music director before tapping his head.

Sammy rapped the window with a fist, feeling a little irritated. Wally was already worried about him losing his mind? What could possibly come of just a single human in this place? More likely than not, this human who had come to this studio would end up swallowed by the ink.

Trapped, like the rest of them.

Lost, with hope  fading as time became meaningless.

Sammy turned away from the widow and locked door to restlessly begin to pace around his office, boots stomping to mark his agitated steps.

Why did Wally lock him in his own office?

Sammy was in his right mind at present, wasn’t he?

In-between furious pacing, Sammy noticed that Wally was watching him from the other side of the window.

The toon wolf looked away now and again, as if he expected to see someone. 

Sammy eventually sat down on a chair at his not often utilized desk. Pacing was not making him feel any better, nor was staring at Wally and attempting to silently will him to open the door. Sammy tapped three fingers against the desk in an uneven tempo, vaguely humming to himself as he made an attempt to think of a way out of this odd predicament. Sammy’s fingers slowed to a halt to curl against the surface of the desk as he studied  a blueprint on his desk.

A spark of recognition flared.

This was it.

The machine.

Sammy carefully picked the blueprint up, in a way that did not smudge the small writing with ink from his fingers.

Ink machine.

That seemed appropriate, considering how many damn pipes were around the dilapidated studio.

The longer Sammy stared at the blueprints, the more interested, as well as concerned, he became. Sammy should be able to remember this machine. He should know, because he had been in this place for a long time. Had worked in this studio for a long time.

The initials T.C. were in a corner of the blueprint.

Sammy felt as though he recognized the initials, but he couldn’t place the name.   Sammy could, however, remember that the pipes were somehow connected to the ink machine.

How?

How could he recall  such things, and yet have such a hard time remembering a name?

Sammy knew that he was starting to connect the pieces together, but he was also beginning to feel ill when he thought about how he had gotten to where he was now.

Just how many of his coworkers had he offered up to the ink demon as sacrifices? How long had he been in this inky body of his?

Sammy stared at the blueprint again.  At the ink machine schematics that were written there. 

This was Joey’s fault.

Sammy clenched his hands, fingers clenching against the paper as hell crumpled the blueprint the slightest bit at a flash of anger.

Joey Drew had something to do with this all.

Sammy knew he had thought before. But the question went back to wondering how Joey was connected to this all.

Sammy couldn't remember.

It was frustrating.

Just out of reach, like many of his memories.

Sammy was unable to concentrate for much longer, because a sudden ripple in the ink broke him from his train of thought. Sammy’s connection to the ink compelled the music director to let go of the blueprint, rise to his feet, and go take a look out the window.

What had he just sensed?

Sammy could feel it, but not see. The whispers of the ink grew louder, becoming uncomfortable in volume the moment a new figure entered the hall. Sammy barely noticed that Wally appeared to be surprised and then pleased at the appearance.

The surprise seemed to be mutual.

But all Sammy saw, in the deafening whispers and now screams of the ink, was that the newcomer was human.

A human.

Here.

How very interesting.

Sammy wasn’t aware that the ink was starting to drive him to the edge of insanity again. But with this human’s close proximity, Sammy was having a hard time ignoring the urge to claim such an offering for his savior. But the longer Sammy watched the interaction between the human and the toon wolf, the less of a hold Sammy had on his sanity.

The human, an older gentlemen, was dressed in an outfit that had seen better days, some of it and the human’s skin stained by the ink of this studio.

Sammy didn’t realize that he had briefly blanked out amongst the whispers until the human was suddenly standing on the other side of the window.

“Sammy?” The human asked, his tone wary. “What are you...doing in there?” It was almost as if the human thought that Sammy should be elsewhere in the studio.

It shouldn’t have been so surprising.

This was Sammy’s office.

The music director stared at the human for a time, unmoving but for a light sway.

”Sammy?” The human tried again. “Are you...do you remember me this time?”

That voice.

That face.

Why was it familiar to Sammy?

The man’s face was etched with weariness, his body giving off the impression of a deep seated tiredness. The human was also apparently confused, from the way he was studying Sammy in return, as if he were some sort of complex puzzle to solve.

Sammy’s hands went to his head as he let out a pained groan. Those damn whispers were scratching at the inside of his head. They were approaching painfully loud ranges, and Sammy was unable to effectively block them out.

A human.

A human was here.

Sammy slowly dropped his hands to his sides, the loudness of the whispers becoming background noise as he focused on what the presence of a human meant.

What a rare offering.

Rarer than even a perfect toon Boris.

”It’s been such a long time, since I’ve seen someone who hasn’t been completely lost to the ink.” Sammy began to say, as he turned and looked around for a weapon. “A lost sheep who has come to visit me. A fitting sacrifice to bring to my lord.” Sammy slowly walked over to one corner of his office and picked up an axe. Sammy half-turned to look over his shoulder, to make sure that the human was still on the other side of the glass. ”Surely I will be rewarded for offering Him such a tender sheep.”

The human’s attention was drawn to the axe.

“The ritual will begin soon.” Sammy hefted the axe as he stepped up to the door.  With a heavy swing, Sammy struck the axe against the door. He did not notice the human flinch back as he swung the weapon at the door again . Sammy hacked away at the door bit by bit, gripped with a feverish energy. When he made enough of an opening, he took a quick peek through the broken wood.

The human had not yet run but he was slowly backing away.

“There is nowhere to run.” Sammy taunted, switching up his grip on the axe for better accuracy. “There is no escaping my lord in His home.” Sammy straightened up as he swung the axe hard against the door, the wood splintering under the force with which he was striking it.

Rapid footsteps indicated that the human had decided to not stick around, and the extra footsteps indicated that the toon wolf had vacated the area as well.

Sammy broke the door open after a few more strong swings, able to force his way through the splintery mess he had created. Sammy gave chase to the two fleeing sacrifices, keeping his axe with him.

A human.

Sammy couldn’t let him escape, or his  lord would be most displeased.  Sammy was His prophet, and his savior would not be disappointed. 

The human was getting further away, and Boris had gone out of view. 

No matter. 

Sammy had ways to track down toons in this place.

The human took precedence.

Sammy would not let this rare opportunity pas him by. 

As luck would have it, the human ended up going down some stairs into the infirmary.

Perfect.

Sammy slowed to a halt, considering how he wanted to approach this. There were other ways that he could get into the infirmary area himself, and without the human noticing him until it was too late. Sammy smiled behind his mask, before he turned and went in another direction.

Wouldn’t the human be ever so surprised when Sammy caught him unawares?  Such a prize would not slip away so easily.  Sammy was determined to secure this human as an offering to his savior.

The ink had spoken to him.

His savior had spoken to him through that ink.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it will soon be time for...sleep.” Sammy sang softly under his breath as he approached a wall covered in many ink markings. Sammy tilted his head at the ritual circle,  before spotting a small offering, surrounded by candlelight next to a Bendy cut out. Sammy rested a hand against the wall where the most of the ink had gathered. Sammy let out a slow breath before allowing himself to pass through the ink, eager to continue to give chase to the human.

Passing through the ink in such a manner was dangerous. Unlike the ink demon, who could travel wherever he pleased, it was more hazardous to those who were not meant to perform such feats. 

Sammy’s hold on his sanity slipped a little further from his grasp.  The whispers and the screams from within the ink almost seemed to tangibly brush against him as Sammy made his way closer to where the human would end up.  The time for sacrifice was close at hand. All that was needed was for this wayward sheep to be caught and then offered up for slaughter. 

”Let us begin.” Sammy emerged from the ink in a new area, holding the axe tight in one hand. “I will have Him hear me.”

The prophet would give his savior anything and everything. Would his savior not set him free in return for such unyielding devotion?

”He will set us free.” Sammy murmured aloud, as he began hunt for the human who would make such a wonderful centerpiece for a ritual sacrifice to his lord.  “This is a most wondrous opportunity. Can I get an amen?”

Silence greeted Sammy, but it mattered not.

The prophet planned to be the one to secure his lord’s notice, and more importantly, His approval of a human offering.

Chapter Text

Henry Stein was a tired man.

Tired, with hope quickly fading piece by piece.

There was a deep seated ache within his body that wouldn’t fade away.

Henry knew the loops were getting to him.  He knew that they were, and there wasn’t a damn thing Henry could do but press on, and make an effort to hope anew that there would be an eventual end to all this madness.

The ink.

The general hopelessness of the situation.

It was getting to him more than usual.

Henry was exhausted, but he couldn’t take a breather.

Not yet.

So, as he stumbled along a hall, Henry began to wonder where he could rest that he wouldn’t be attacked and sent back to the beginning of the loop.

That couldn’t happen.

Not this soon within the loop.

Boris’ safe house, or even a little miracle station was a good contender for rest, but neither of the options would be viable until Henry met Boris. This meant that he was going to be meeting Sammy again, and that was always like stepping into a live fire.

Sometimes, Sammy was lucid, and Henry could slip by without being noticed. Other times, Sammy was a relentless, raving madman who caught Henry to offer up as a sacrifice to the ink demon.

Henry hoped that he would be able to avoid the music director’s attention this time around. Henry was simply too worn out to do much resisting at this point. Maybe in past loops he would have been up for it, but not this one.

This loop was subtly different than the others.

Henry didn’t know why, but he just got that sense.  Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t. But as he automatically made his way through the music department, there was a piece of him that had reason to hope again.

Hope that this time, this time, the loop would be different enough to break through the never-ending cycle.

Henry had not yet seen Sammy, neither on his way to the music department, or within it. All was quiet, with no searchers coming after Henry.

It made him lower his guard, and he soon found out that the quiet was too good to be true.

For the first time in a long while,  Henry decided to check the office, on the off chance that perhaps there would not be an inky mess blocking Sammy’s office.

There wasn’t, but in return, there was someone who happened to be in the office.

Sammy Lawrence, with his Bendy mask.

Outsode the door, blocked by a chair, stood a Boris clone.

Henry didn’t have much time to react to this peculiar, unexpected sight. Because the moment Sammy caught sight of him, the crazed inky man produced an axe to begin to hack away at the door in a far too frenzied way.

Eager, almost.

Henry didn't stick around and ran away.  He hated running at this point, but there was little Henry could do about it, if he didn’t want to end up being killed by the monsters in this studio. As Henry ran, he made his way to the infirmary, hoping to get a head start on Sammy. While Henry also had an axe, he wasn’t planning to confront Sammy directly.

Instead, Henry fled.

Always running, it seemed. 

Henry found it odd to be running away from someone on this leveled of the studio, instead of later on, when he would really need to. Run away from the circle drawn in ink on the floor, and run faster still in order to avoid being caught by the ink demon.

“Why are you there, Sammy?” Henry’s breath hitched as he stumbled around a corner, and toward the infirmary. “I’ve never in your office before.”

This was not at all how things had gone for the past seemingly endless times of this loop. Sammy wasn’t supposed to be in such an obvious place. Lurking, yes, and keeping a close watch, but not actually being present in a room that Henry himself would need to have access to in order to progress forward.

Somewhere along the hall, Sammy’s crazed ravings could faintly be heard.

Henry pushed himself to move a little bit faster, but knew that he couldn’t keep up the speed for much longer. He was simply too exhausted from the way the last loop had ended in disaster, what with the ink demon getting to him and ending him in a very painful way. That pain had somehow carried all the way through to this next go around, leaving Henry with even less stamina than was usual.

The constant vigilance coupled with the ever present exhaustion was wearing Henry down more and more, with less time to rest and recover. Henry knew that he was making careless mistakes more often than usual, even when he knew better.

This right now? 

Being chased by Sammy instead of being knocked out by the crazed music director?

Much more unnerving, when one didn’t know where Sammy was going to show. 

Henry did not like realizing that he had lost sight of Sammy. That could be dangerous, considering that Sammy was currently armed with something far more dangerous than a metal dust pan. Henry didn’t know what happened to the Boris that had been nearby. Henry could only hope the toon wolf had enough sense to get out of Sammy’s path. Henry felt bad about not sticking around long enough to see if it was the Boris that he would meet later or not. But Henry had far been more concerned with getting away from the sight of Sammy hacking an axe frantically against a door while spouting off some of his nonsense.

Henry stumbled down the stairs leading to the infirmary, and then went further down. He had to get the second value to continue on. Henry supposed he could have just let Sammy catch him and get on with things, but Henry couldn’t bring himself to do that. He would just have to try to get to the door before Sammy showed up, if that was even possible.

As different as this loop was turning out to be, Henry had to continue on no matter what.

Sammy still wasn’t in sight, but that didn’t mean that the music director wasn’t still around, stalking him from the inky darkness all around the studio.

The valve.

Henry had to focus on the task at hand. Henry felt that he would have to be quick, if only he could get his worn out body to cooperate. Henry passed by the small alcove where Jack Fain composed lyrics decades ago. Henry found that he was able to retrieve the valve, because the searcher with the bowler hat was not there to abscond with it. Henry stared down at the valve in his ink-stained hand.

Easy.

This was too easy.

“Don’t question it.” Henry told himself firmly, even as he warily looked around for anything else out of place. “Just press on.” With a slow sigh,  Henry began to head back to the infirmary, only to back-peddle close to the sewer’s inky ground again at the sight before him.

Sammy had just finished hacking his way through the chain link fence, the music director forcing his inky body through the gap.

Henry took another step backward, bracing himself to run yet again.

“There you are, my little lost sheep.” Sammy said, a sing song lilt to his voice.  “We can’t have our offering wandering away, now can we?” Sammy tilted his head to the side, the Bendy mask seeming to stare straight at Henry. “No, we can’t!” The music director ended up muttering some more unintelligible nonsense under his breath as he hefted his axe.

Henry’s body tensed up.

Sammy broke into a unnervingly eager sprint.

Henry fled in the opposite direction as fast as his weary legs would carry him. Henry hit the ink in the sewer and began to slog his way through the tacky ink. Henry’s gait slowed greatly, even as Sammy sloshed more swiftly through the ink toward him.

That answered one question.

Sammy was somehow aware enough of himself that he wasn’t being reclaimed by the ink. He was also wearing boots, so that may have blocked the ink from getting through to the rest of his body.

Both Henry and Sammy splashed through the ink, all the way to the dead end area where the levers and a crate were.

Henry knew that he would have normally raised that crate and then crushed the searcher with the hat to retrieve the valve. Instead, Henry was being pursued by an inky madman with an axe.

He’d rather have dealt with the searcher.

“There’s no escape, my little sheep.” Sammy slowed, brandishing his axe as he inches closer.

Henry began to carefully circle away from Sammy, aware that he was likely going to be cornered. While Henry also had an axe, he was far too exhausted to put up much of a fight. And with how weary his body was, Henry didn’t fancy allowing Sammy to get anywhere near him with an axe. Henry remembered quite clearly the second time he would normally run across Sammy in this place.  Henry knew that Sammy was strong and relentless, especially when upset.

This was a problem.

Henry didn’t even know if Sammy wanted to kill him at this point, or if the music director planned to take him as a sacrifice to offer to the ink demon, as Sammy would normally do in this area. After a swing of an axe that was just a little too close for comfort, Henry wondered if it was the former as he began to lead Sammy around in circles around the small space. Maybe Henry would find an opening to slip by and escape the sewer.

Sammy picked up on this, however, and quickly began to cut off Henry’s attempts to try and pass him by to get out of the dead end room.

Henry stumbled as he misstepped in the ink, which allowed Sammy to corner him against the crate. Henry brought up his axe to block a heavy swing from Sammy, his arms tingling as Henry scrambled to keep parrying those strong strikes.

It hurt.

It hurt a lot more than usual, blocking attacks, and it was a wonder that Henry didn’t sustain any injuries apart from soon to be very sore arms.

After a few more clashes of axe against axe, Sammy succeeded in disarming Henry.

Henry let out a grunt of pain as his numb, ink slicked fingers lost their grip on the axe. He stepped back to avoid what he felt might be another attack, but Sammy merely used the butt end of the axe to send a painful jab into his abdomen, as Sammy’s free hand reached out to shove him in the chest. Henry fell backward against the crate with a harsh intake of air. One hand went to his stinging stomach as his other arm lifted automatically in a defensive posture.

“Do not fight.” Sammy half turned to set his own axe aside.

Henry felt relief but it didn’t last for long as Sammy suddenly lunged forward to pin him against the crate, inky hands reaching for his throat. Henry brought both his hands up to grab Sammy’s wrists, not keen on the idea of being strangled.

“A sacrifice must be made.” Sammy was still  spouting off his crazy talk as he began to free his hands from Henry’s weaker grasp. “He will set us free, and with such a rare offering, surely He will hear me this time.”

Henry did not expect this turn of events, and it was all he could do to keep Sammy’s inky hands away from his throat. Henry grit his teeth as Sammy used his bulkier body to prevent Henry from being able to move in either direction. Sammy made it incredibly difficult to contemplate easy escape, and Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before he would perhaps end up passed out on the inky ground.

“Be a good little sheep, and this will all be over soon.”

Henry felt himself tiring further as he continued to struggle to keep Sammy’s hands away from him. Henry really, really didn’t want to be put in a position where he might drown in ink again. It might be a possibility if Sammy decided to pull him away from the crate to pin him face down in the ink.

It was an unpleasant kind of death, drowning in ink.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it is now time for you to sleep.” Sammy’s strength and tenacity finally surpassed Henry’s feeble resistance. The fervor the inky man had over the idea of pleasing the ink demon broke through Henry’s grapple as Sammy wrapped his fingers firmly around his neck.

Henry had hoped that Sammy wouldn’t do that, but it seemed that the music director had opted for strangulation as how he wanted to render Henry unconscious. Sammy had leverage over Henry, keeping him pinned up against the crate. Henry struggled for breath, even as he began to feel lightheaded, his vision prickling at the sides.

This was bad.

“Shh, just go to sleep, and everything will be fine.” Sammy was surprisingly calm for someone cutting off another’s air supply as he continued to utter praises to the ink demon. “He will surely be delighted to have such a tender sheep being offered up for slaughter. Perhaps rare enough that He finally free us all from this dark, inky abyss.”

Henry desperately attempted to buck Sammy off of him, but Sammy merely tightened his hold and rested heavier against Henry.

“I won’t let you slip away.”

Henry pushed at Sammy’s inky hands, making a final attempt to dislodge the music director’s fingers from around his neck. But Sammy’s hold was unbreakable. Henry finally just let his eyes close, sagging backward against the crate. He was ready to resign himself to this being another failed loop, when the pressure around his neck suddenly loosened all at once.

Sammy let out an unnervingly inhuman snarl at being interrupted.

Henry sucked in several grateful breaths of air even as he grimaced at the ache he felt. Leaning against the crate, hand to his throat, Henry coughed hoarsely as he saw Boris attempting to restrain Sammy.

Interestingly enough, the searcher with the bowler hat had finally showed up, and was currently wrapped around Sammy’s torso, one of its arms pinning one of Sammy’s own. The toon wolf desperately took hold of and held on to the music director’s right arm.

“You dare interrupt me from carrying out His will?” Sammy was clearly displeased by this setback and desperation made him fight back. The inky man’s rants become louder, as if to attract the ink demon with the din. “He will destroy the non-believers! Make those who would dare prevent such an offering from being made vanish from this plane of existence! Unhand me at once, before He comes!”

Henry dug uselessly through the ink for his axe but didn't have enough time at the moment to locate it. Sammy’s axe was too far away to chance going for without having to turn his back on the inky man. Henry wasn’t about to take that risk. Not after the near-strangulation he’d just gone through.

“I will deal with you both later!” Sammy suddenly broke away from both Boris and the searcher, the music director all but throwing himself toward Henry, hands outstretched. “I will not let such a rare offering run free!”

Henry had only seconds to make his decision, barely managing to dodge out of the way as Sammy hit the crate instead of him.

Sammy grasped at the ropes to push himself away from the crate, only to have Henry show up alongside him with an inky length of rope. It had broken off from the crate from an earlier axe strike.

“Sorry.” Henry wasn’t really, considering what had just happened, and how sore his throat was. But he was sorry that the man had lost his mind to the ink. Henry swiftly looped the rope around, pinning Sammy’s hands, wrists and forearms to the other ropes that were there and secured it with a few sloppy knots.

Sammy let out a disgruntled gasp, as if not expecting to be the one who was caught.

“The crate!” Henry backed away as Sammy began to strain against the rope to free his hands and forearms. Satisfied that Sammy wouldn’t get free any time soon, Henry turned and called over to the Boris that was there. “The crate!” Henry repeated. “Send it up!”

Boris waved a hand in acknowledgement, and oddly enough, it seemed like the toon wolf was almost pleased to pull the lever that brought the crate up into the air.

Sammy let out a pained yelp as his feet left the ground, his weight held by his hands and arms that were still bound to the crate. The music director clung to the crate, muttering unintelligibly until he finally quieted apart from a cross-sounding exhalation.

Henry was uncertain if this meant that the man was open to being spoken to, or if Sammy was merely attempting to figure out what to do next. Henry jolted in surprise when a lost one made an appearance next him and offered him a...dust pan. Henry took it, at a loss for a moment, especially because of the lost one’s appearance on this floor. Then, Henry realized that he was holding a metal dust pan. He wondered if it was the same one that Sammy used to knock him out in the past many loops.

“You delay the inevitable. My lord will have His offering. I will offer you to Him,  even if I must drag you to Him myself!” Sammy writhed and kicked the air, as he attempted to free his stuck arms.

Henry didn’t think that the dust pan would exactly solve what to do in the moment. But with Sammy still up and out of range, Henry looked away from the music director and over to Boris, who had moved to stand in front of the lever that would drop the crate down.

“Not yet.” Henry said to the toon wolf, who merely gave a single nod. Henry turned his attention back to Sammy, and saw that the man was still desperately twisting to and fro to get free.

It didn’t take very long.

“You will not stop me. This is only a minor setback.” Sammy soon loosened the ropes with his erratic movement. In a remarkable display of strength, Sammy clung to the side of the crate as he freed first one arm and then his other, before he hoisted himself onto the top of the crate. Sammy looked down as he pointed at Henry with a rather dramatic flourish. “The ritual must be completed!  I will not allow anyone, human or toon, deter me from what must be done!”

“Boris, drop it.” Henry said grimly, as he grasped the dust pan firmly in hand.  “Now!”

Sammy let out a cry as the crate unexpectedly dropped beneath him. Sammy hit the crate hard enough upon its meeting with the ground that his mask went flying off. Sammy’s arms flailed but after the rough landing, he ended up falling off the crate to land face first into the ink below with a tacky-sounding splash.

Henry went over as quickly as he could, even as Sammy, groaning, pushed himself to his hands and knees in a woozy sort of way.

Sammy hadn’t vanished within the ink.

Henry took aim, and then swung the dust pan as hard as he could, smacking Sammy hard over the back of his head.

Sammy instantly crumpled and dropped into the ink again, almost vanishing from sight but for the ink soaked trousers and suspenders. Thankfully, the mad raves had been silenced for the time being.

Henry let out a slow sigh, lowering the dust pan. That had felt good, considering all of the avoiding Henry normally had to do with his pursuers.

“What is going on? This isn’t the same as before.” Henry looked away from the unconscious Sammy to glance between Boris, the searcher with the hat, and lost one that was hugging themselves tightly. Since none of them moved, Henry took the opportunity to pass the dust pan back to the lost one, and went to locate his axe. Henry dragged his foot around in the ink around where he had lost his axe, but soon found it. Henry wiped the ink off the handle of the axe as best he could, before turning to the inky brings and toon standing there, all of them staring at him. “You should all leave while he is unconscious.” Henry waved his free hand in Sammy’s general direction.

The music director was still face-down in the ink, unmoving.

Boris shook his head as he stepped forward and stopped to awkwardly lift Sammy up out of the ink. A few weak coughs and hacks sputtered out of Sammy from being pulled out of the ink, before he quieted. The music director sagged in the toon wolf’s arms, mercifully still unconscious.

Boris looked up at Henry, and, shifting his hold on the limp Sammy, poked the music director’s head, pointed to himself, the searcher, and then finally to Henry. The toon did not include the lost one, as the inky being had already wandered off to leave them to whatever it was they were doing. Boris repeated the gestures when Henry didn’t respond straight away.

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.” Henry told Boris apologetically.

The searcher lurched through the ink to a blank wall.

Henry stared as words were written. He sucked in a sharp breath, disbelieving.

We remember. Sammy remembers. But the ink. It runs deep.

“Who...” Henry let out a slow sigh as he shouldered the axe. “Who are you?”

Lyricist Jack. The searcher paused and then added. Boris is Wally.

“So some of you do remember who you used to be. But did you remember any time before this loop?” Henry murmured, more to himself than to the inky beings. With a weary sigh, Henry forced himself to get down to business, despite the fact that he was immensely curious over just how much the other two recalled. “I don’t suppose either of you have any ideas about what to do with Sammy? We need to make sure he doesn’t attack us when he wakes up.”

Boris, or rather, Wally, offered Henry a mischievous smile, so unlike the toon wolf whose image he held.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Henry couldn’t help but offer a small smile in return. “Well then, let’s get to it, before Sammy wakes up.”

Wally hefted Sammy up, before he gave up getting him over a shoulder. Wally began to half drag, half carry the unconscious music director along.

Henry trailed after Wally, as the searcher with the bowler hat, who claimed to be Jack the lyricist, went along with him at his side.

This was different.

Henry couldn’t help but start to feel a spark of hope return to him. This was much different than before, but would he find that to be a good or bad thing in the long run? Henry supposed he would soon find out, as he entered the infirmary again, and looked around.

Now...to make certain that Sammy wasn’t going to have an easy time securing an ‘offering’ for the ink demon upon waking.

Chapter Text

The whispers of the ink were intrusive as he hovered between consciousness and sleep.

Sammy woke up disoriented but still within the grip of the ink, and he felt compelled to seek out the human. Sammy had to offer up such a tender sheep for his lord.

”Sammy?”

A voice but not that of his savior.

Sammy’s mind was spiraling with dark and violent thoughts, only to realize that he couldn’t move very well. Sammy slowly came to further as he strained against whatever was holding him down. A brief look showed that someone had dared to tie him to a deteriorating cot in the infirmary.

“Stay back.”

That same voice...

Who was it?

”Sammy?”

Why did that voice sound so familiar?

“Untie me from this at once!” Sammy demanded as he struggled against the restraints. Sammy eventually held still, slumping on the dilapidated cot, as he puzzled over why he couldn’t just vanish into the ink to get out of the ropes. Was there not enough ink? Was there something about the restraints that prevented him from escape? Sammy dropped all rational thought when he realized that his Bendy mask was missing. Sammy panicked and pulled against the ropes pinning him down anew. “Where is it? The mask! Give me my mask back! Don’t look at me!”

Wally...

Sammy chanced a glance at the toon before looking away again.

No...who was that again?

It was Boris standing there, clearly. The toon wolf was there, as was a searcher wearing a hat, and the human.

That human...

He looked...oddly familiar.

“Wally and Jack believe that you can be sane and rational.” The human looked unconvinced and let Sammy know it. “I have doubts about that, since you chased after me with an axe and then tried to strangle me.”

Sammy reluctantly turned his head to stare hard at the human, thoughts of the mask gone for now. Instead, Sammy made the attempt to slog through his old memories before he had been trapped in the studio. Sammy had trouble focusing, since the whispers of the ink threatened to get to him again. The man who stood there before him...

The man was tired, his face lined with creases, indicating an older gentlemen. His hair was mussed up, stained here and there with ink, but the rest was otherwise gray. The human’s clothing was similarly stained by the ink, and some parts of the man’s skin that were visible and unable to shake the clinging of the same ink that had devoured this studio inside and out.

The longer Sammy stared, the more small fragmented pieces of memory began to come back to him. The whispers were quieter than usual and it allowed Sammy to better concentrate.

“I remember that you threw a fit when I left.” The man said. “I had just created Alice Angel before leaving the studio.  I suppose that must have caused you even more stress, to have to compose music for yet another character.”

“Creator...” Sammy mused aloud, his blank inky face now peering curiously at the human. “The true creator.”

Wally patted the human’s shoulder and showed him his keys.

“That’s right.” The man laughed at the sight. “I do remember when Wally would try to hide out in the animation department, when he lost his keys.” The human looked down at Sammy. “He did that to avoid your wrath when those keys happened to be for the music department.”

Sammy hated that his memory was so hazy but he was grateful for the distraction from the terrible whispers of the ink.

This man... his voice and his words. He was familiar.

Very familiar.

“I’m sorry.” The human said suddenly, his face reflecting a dark expression now. “I never would have thought how far off the deep end Joey would go in an attempt to keep the studio alive.” The man let out a weary sigh. “I hadn’t the faintest notion what Joey would do with my creations after I left the studio, without the intention of coming back. I...I wanted to be with my family.”

“Joey....” Sammy’s expression grew contorted at the sound of that name. Sammy’s jaw set as unpleasant echoes of a long ago memory clawed to the surface, only to fade as recognition of the man standing alongside him struck.

“Henry?” Sammy eventually breathed out, able to latch onto the name that had been hovering just within his reach.

“Yes, it’s me.” Henry conformed wearily.

“Why did you come back?” Sammy lie still on the cot, his restraints forgotten. “Why come back to this hellhole?”

“Why did you stay?” Henry asked in return.

“I honestly have no memory of being trapped in this place.” Sammy let his vision black out, so that he didn’t have to see anything. “I’ve only been remembering...small pieces. My memories...they aren’t there when I need them to be.” Sammy let out a short, forced laugh. “But I do remember Joey Drew’s name. I remember more often that he is to blame for this situation we are now in.” Sammy paused, before letting his vision come back to stare up at the ceiling. “I wonder...was I too far gone to think about leaving, before I was trapped in this place? Or did I not care by that point in time?” Sammy turned his head in time to see a brief expression of surprise cross Henry’s face. Sammy bristled a little. “What?”

“It’s just that...right now, you are much more lucid and reasonable. At least compared to right before I was forced to knock you out. Didn’t want you to strangle me into unconsciousness before leaving me as an offering for the ink demon.”

“How did you...” Sammy frowned at Henry. “How would you know what I had planned for you?”

“You remember?” Henry asked.

“That particular kind of memory hasn’t left me.” Sammy said quietly as he avoided Henry’s eyes. “I remember all of the offerings I have left for the ink demon. Those who  I sacrificed with more own hands.” Sammy clenched an inky fist against the cot. “Only recently have I recalled that many of those sacrifices were my coworkers and I...I...” Sammy lapsed into silence.

“We shouldn’t stay here for long, but I’m sure you can understand when I say that I’m hesitant to untie you.” Henry said, checking the rope over. “I have...concerns over when you might go off the deep end and become the raving prophet of the ink demon that you were before.”

Sammy said nothing because really, there wasn’t anything to be argued against since it was true.

Wally indicated the door, the toon wolf wearing a concerned look.

“I know we need to go.” Henry agreed with the gestures that Wally made. “We really don’t know if or when the ink demon will decide to show up. For all I know, this time he might appear in a different place too.”

Sammy was confused by Henry’s words but then, the music director froze against the cot.

A horribly familiar sensation rolled over him.

Sammy recognized this feeling. Sammy could feel Him. 

The ink demon.

Why didn’t Henry, Jack or Wally run? Didn’t they know that they were in danger?

“I can hear Him.” Sammy raised his voice. He  fended off the faint, insidious whispers of the ink as best he could. “The demon is headed this way. The ink...the ink says so.”

Henry gave Sammy an incredulous look but turned to look at Wally for confirmation.

The toon wolf’s ears were tucked down and back, the toon wolf’s fur standing on end.

Wally sensed something too.

“Time to go.” Henry hefted his axe. It looked like it took him a lot of effort to do so, from the way the man’s arms trembled a little.

Sammy flinched as the axe came down a hairsbreadth from his right side, slicing into the ropes that had tied him down.

“Wally?” Henry turned to the toon, hands still holding tight to the axe as he kept Sammy within eyesight.

“Jack.” Sammy ignored the mistrust. He felt it was well warranted, considering what he had done earlier. He could still feel his hands grasping the human’s throat. The ink that hasn’t been wiped off was still there, marring skin. Sammy slowly sat up, stretching his inky arms out as he turned his head toward the searcher. “Go to the others. Tell them to hide.”

Jack made some gurgling response to this, head tilting to the side as a goopy hand waved at Sammy, as if the searcher wanted to know what the music director was going to do.

“I believe that it is time for me to leave this area.” Sammy told Jack. “I should see for myself what is happening in the rest of this studio, before I completely lose myself to the ink, and be unable to fully come back.” Sammy stared at his three inky fingers and thumb, before curling them into a fist. “I can’t stand the thought of existing forever as someone who sacrifices my coworkers, without even realizing it until it is too late.”

Jack lurched forward to briefly rest an inky hand on Sammy’s shoulder, before the searcher unmistakably offered an understanding nod. Jack sank into the puddle of ink beneath him, vanishing from view.

Sammy slid off the cot onto his feet, and retrieved the Bendy mask that was hanging from a nail in the wall. Sammy stared down at it, aware of Henry and Wally watching him.

“Sammy?” Henry asked after a few moments had passed.

“Mm?” Sammy hummed distractedly, glancing up from the mask.

“How close is the ink demon?” Henry looked at the walls. “I don’t see any distortions yet.”

“He’s headed here. I can...sense him.” Sammy said, titling his head to one side and then the other. While he couldn’t hear the demon, Sammy could certainly feel its presence. Much like the ink, Sammy found himself very attuned to the ink demon. “He draws near.” Sammy put the Bendy mask over his own face once more as he stepped over to a corner of the infirmary, where he produced an axe.

Henry’s grip on his own axe tightened, and Wally ducked behind the human, a wary look on his wolfish face.

“The valve?” Sammy asked, aware of the others reactions to him. As before, Sammy knew it was a fair reaction but right now, it was more important to focus on the problem at hand.

“I already put the valve back in place, and drained the stairwell.” Henry said, still keeping a rather close eye on Sammy.

“Then we better leave, before the ink demon is able to corner us.”  Sammy walked past Henry and Wally, heading up the stairs, away from the infirmary. Sammy could hear them follow after a moments hesitation.

Understandable.

Samny was rather surprised at the sudden clarity. As if the ink had trouble seeping into him, poisoning his mind and actions, was unable to take hold. Sammy desperately clung to this new sensation, and repeated his coworkers names to reassure himself that he remembered.

Wally.

Jack.

Henry, the true creator of the toons.

Sammy led the way down the hall, becoming more concerned with the sensation of the ink demon’s approach. 

The feeling was getting stronger.

Sammy could feel His presence.

His lord...his lord had come for him, to directly take an offering of the tender sheep in tow...

Sammy gave his head a rough shake, left hand reaching up to the side of his head. He took a few calming breaths, and focused on the names of his coworkers again, this time in a more frantic manner.

He wouldn’t forget.

Jack.

Wally.

Henry.

Sammy refused to let the ink drag him back into insanity so soon. The madness of the ink slowly, almost reluctantly, slid away from Sammy, for the time being.

“I can find my way through this place.” Henry commented, coming up alongside Sammy, wholly unaware of the struggle the other was going through. “I’ve become...very familiar with this place, unfortunately.”

“As have I.” Sammy said. “I know these halls well.” Sammy continued to lead the way to the stairs that were now drained of ink. “Shortcuts that you may not know of.”

“Like how you got me to the room that was set up for a ritual sacrifice after knocking me out?” Henry asked curiously.

Very specific, that.

“You knocked me out.” Sammy grumbled, a little puzzled as he descended the stairs and opened up the door. “What are you talking about?”

Henry’s response was cut off by the appearance by the ink demon at the far end of the hall, as the skeletal being emerged from the ink gathered heavily on the wall.

Sammy didn’t even think. He reached out to seize Henry by the arm instead, and dragged the human along the hall to the right.

Wally raced after them, clearly terrified.

The ink demon could be heard letting out a shriek, and presumably began to give chase.

Sammy hurriedly led Henry and Wally to what appeared to be a dead end. Sammy knew what it looked like, but before anyone could voice a complaint, the music director acted. Sammy grasped Wally’s suspenders firmly and tugged the toon wolf down along with Henry as he fell to his knees. Sammy braced himself for a second, and then allowed himself to fall through the ink, taking his two passengers along with him. Sammy was careful to keep a tight hold on both of them lest they be lost to the well of ink.  Sammy was not entirely certain how this manner of traveling would affect a human but it was the fastest way Sammy knew of to get away from the ink demon, while confusing it at the same time.

The distance also brought Sammy further away from the constant whispering.

The group of three ended up on the inky floors of another area in the studio, far away from the ink demon.

As Sammy pushed himself up from the floor, he felt that the music department would soon be safe again. If he and Henry weren’t around, then the the ink demon would likely go back to his usual hunting grounds. Sammy tried to stand up, but ended up sagging backward against the nearest wall. He didn’t realize how drained he would feel. Was it because he took others with him though the ink?

Henry was nearby, retching and then dry heaving.

Sammy presumed that this meant that traveling through the ink was not best for humans, and checked in the Boris clone.

Wally looked miserable, the toon’s ears drooping.

Sammy turned his attention to the ink around him, a hand resting against a patch of it. It was...a relief to find that he could barely sense the ink demon now.

Good.

Sammy rested heavily against the wall behind him, relaxing the faintest amount while he let out a slow sigh of relief.

Safe.

They were all safe, for the time being.  Whether that lasted more than a few moments  remained to be seen.

The ink demon and Sammy himself weren’t the only dangers that lurked in this studio.