Betrayal wasn't an emotion Sammy felt much in this studio, but right now it seemed to burn through his whole inky being.
The one thing he'd trusted down in this hell, that he'd done so much for, he'd killed for (oh god, he'd almost murdered someone), everything was for his lord. He had expected freedom as a return for this sacrifice, maybe some memories back at least. Something, anything that could reconnect the broken shell of a person to the man he once was. One human's life was a fair price for another's humanity, surely!
But no, apparently it wasn't enough. Or maybe the Ink Demon didn't want human sacrifices in the first place. Either way, the Demon was not pleased with Sammy's offering. It had appeared in front of him and loomed over, staring down with no eyes like a predator preparing to rip apart its unfortunate prey. In that moment, Sammy expected death. It was freedom of some twisted sort and, truth be told, that outcome wouldn't have been so bad. But, a cruel demon that his Saviour was, the Demon had chosen to do so much worse. He sent him back to the dark puddles.
The unpleasant feeling of losing his form was soon forgotten as voices seemed to assault him from all directions. They cried out, yelling in anger or sobbing with endless grief. Sammy tried to reform, to regain something vaguely human-shaped, but he just couldn't focus. Not with the barrage of thoughts that weren't his flooding his mind.
Nevertheless, Sammy struggled against them. He couldn't become a screaming searcher like the rest of them, he couldn't! He was stronger than them, he had held on to some degree of lucidity even after what seemed like eternity!
Sammy felt some of the unseen presences back off, sensing his determination and anger. The voices, while still there, quietened and became more of a murmuring hum. He still couldn't regain his form, but the puddle seemed to now be slightly in his control. Slowly, drop by drop, the inky creature soaked into the walls.
Now, where to go from here?
A static-filled cry echoed out through the large room. The cry was soon joined by the growls and moans of searchers and the sound of feet being dragged against rotting floorboards. The Projectionist slammed into a wall, making his light flicker and film reels shudder and whirr. He continued running from the monsters quickly catching up to him, lashing out when they got too close.
He'd known that going to the upper levels was dangerous, he'd known that half-finished characters roamed around looking for anything to attack. He'd just been so tired of that maze, those endless twists and turns. Corpses that stared up at him accusingly. He just needed to see something else.
But, like every other time he'd ventured up, the monsters showed no mercy. Through the numbness he felt the floor shaking, there were so many of them! Even the sight of them made him feel sick; not only were they dangerous, the Projectionist knew their mindless and animalistic behavior was what his mind would eventually slip to. It was already mostly gone; how long would it be until he completely lost himself?
Finally, he reached the staircase leading down into the abyss that was his home. Most of the monsters halted – this place was off limits; the angel didn't like anything going there. But a few were so lost in their bloodlust that they pressed forward.
The Projectionist spun around. Here he was at an advantage. His light made reflections shimmer as he charged towards the nearest abomination. The light was the last thing it saw before the Projectionist ripped it apart. Others met the same fate as the bright monster killed them all.
The Projectionist stood, ink dripping from his hands, among the corpses. His mind had become blank during the slaughter, and only now did it become aware of what he'd just done. The reels on his head whirred back and forth frantically and his light flickered. He fell to his knees. A drawn-out, distorted yell came from the speakers.
What had he become?
A distorted yell jolted Sammy from his thoughts. That didn't sound like a searcher…then again, he hadn't been in this area of the studio before. At least, he didn't have any memories of it, but his memories weren't very trustworthy.
Stewing as an ink puddle and making his way through the studio seemed to restore his strength, eventually allowing him to reform again. Once he'd gotten to what was technically his feet, he looked at his body. It had changed.
Somehow it was even more unstable than before he'd been smashed into a puddle. His four-fingered hands were melted, ink gluing some of his digits together. Droplets of the black substance were constantly rolling off his arms and chest. He felt unsteady on his feet and leaned against a wall for support. The biggest shock was his face: his mask was gone, probably soaking in some puddle somewhere, and without it, his vision was slightly blurry, but that wasn't all. His mouth just…wouldn't open. However hard he tried he just couldn't get it to open. Maybe…maybe he'd reformed without a mouth.
Oh god.
Sammy clawed at his face, trying to find any evidence that he'd once had facial features. He couldn't breathe, how was he alive?!
He let out a muffled yell. What was he turning into? The searchers, they only had half-formed mouths, and even that was more than what Sammy had now! His lower body began destabilizing and he sank to the floor of wherever he'd ended up in. The floor was covered in ink. The floor was ink, he was ink, the tears that rolled down his face were ink. Everything was ink and everythinghurt.
Movement caught the Projectionist's eye. So, a searcher had survived his rage? He didn't know why, but something compelled him to walk forwards cautiously, instead of charging at it. As he got closer, he realized this searcher was…different. It stayed pressed against the wall, hands pressed to its face and…wasn't attacking? This intrigued him. He continued walking, a static-y growl emanating from his speaker.
Sammy saw a bright light shine on his face. He groaned and lifted his hands away, keeping one near his face to try and block out some of the light. Why was it so bright?
The Projectionist tilted his head, it was moving? The thing raised its head…
The ink creatures locked eyes