Disclaimer: I do not own Bendy and the Ink Machine.
~Grinning maliciously in the dark, he stalks the halls without a heart. A heart he once had, but now is long gone, thanks to the Creator who betrayed us long ago. If ever you should hear the beat of his soul—now infected with poison far worse than a snake's venom—if ever you should encounter him…
Run.~
The audio recording clicked off, and Henry let loose a shudder he didn't realize he'd been holding as he listened to the unfamiliar voice speak. Their voice was reverent, much like Sammy's after the ink had corrupted him, and obviously belonged to a worker, but Henry could not recall to whom it belonged.
Whoever they were, he didn't need them to tell him to fear the Ink Demon. More than three times as he ran around, doing errands for the malignant Angel who had forced him under her wing, he had heard the loud thumping of the Demon's heartbeat (or whatever it was that was pumping away in him, giving him life) and he had dashed away, quickly finding a Miracle Station to cower in until the inky tendrils snaking the walls disappeared and the growls of his mysterious silent predator faded.
What were the Miracle Stations? he often wondered whenever he passed one or darted into one as he had not long before. With a black halo decorating the door, looking as though it had been hand-painted there with ink, initially he had thought them to belong to the Angel, to hide from the Demon whenever she had to go "shopping". Now that she had Henry to do the chores for her, obviously she need not stray from her sanctuary, somehow hidden from the Demon's prying tendrils.
Henry stepped away from the table hosting the tape recorder, and cautiously pressed on, holding onto his plunger with both hands. Of all things, why a plunger? He thought she must really enjoy tormenting him, and he supposed that for her twisted mind it was logical and somewhat understandable; she had been virtually alone for thirty years, hiding from enemies who sought to corrupt her further. Although Henry was unconvinced that she was not already totally corrupted, that the ink hadn't already tainted all of her mind. It mattered not how much she blatantly denied this.
At last, he was done with the task of plunging ink beasts for their excess fat. Great. Now there were stains all over him.
Henry couldn't help feeling a bit bad for the creatures, however. Although they constantly attacked and tried to kill him, he never felt comfortable taking another's life, even if that other was a mindless ink creature whose thoughts were only kill, kill, kill.
He began making his way back to the Angel's sanctuary, back to Boris, who would be waiting for him in the elevator. Poor guy. Scarred for life and so traumatized that he couldn't even step out of the metal cage to accompany Henry into these bowels. The Angel had done much to him, but perhaps so had the Ink Demon. Worse, maybe, seeing as how Boris had been comfortable with following Henry into her sanctuary, but not enough to accompany him through these tasks.
The man shook his head. How had things come to this?
He was almost to the elevator. Just one room, one corner away.
And then ink began snaking around the corner, and Henry swore aloud. The Demon growled, and before Henry could turn to run, a large gloved hand grabbed the doorframe and the tall ink beast peered around the corner to leer at him, horns dripping, bowtie drooping, teeth white and positively malignant.
Was he smiling or baring his teeth at him? What was the difference?
Henry ran.
A loud growl from behind. Footsteps as the Demon gave chase. It was amazing he could run so fast with a bad foot. Henry briefly wondered how the injury had been received before dashing the thought out of his head; he had more important things to worry about—like not getting killed.
His lungs burned as they heaved in air. He scrambled down stairs, the walls all around him growing black as his pursuer drew closer. He had to make it. Where was the last Miracle Station? Hadn't he passed one not long ago? Why hadn't he come across any?
He was going to make it, he told himself firmly, and his grip on the plunger tightened.
He was a middle-aged man now, no longer quite so fit, but the adrenaline in his veins and the will to survive lent him the speed he needed to sprint around a corner, nearly slamming into the wall as he made the turn—and he spotted one, on the other side of the adjoining room. His heart lifted.
He dashed into the room and crashed into the Station, slamming the door shut inside him.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
Tha-thump.
Why was he still standing there? Every other time he immediately stopped giving chase and limped off, to shortly afterward disappear into a wall. It was like Henry no longer existed, or at least did on another plane of existence—somewhere the Demon could neither get to nor sense.
But now he simply stood there, staring in through the slot in the door. As if he could see Henry through it, clear as day.
Something icy cold clutched the man's heart, dragging it back down from where it had earlier leaped in premature victory. He should not have been so hopeful. But how could he have known that the Demon would change the rules?
Or was it the Angel? Did she suddenly find him disposable, and, assuming the Stations were linked to her, had done something to them so he could no longer so easily hide?
Too many questions. His hands trembled, his grip almost nonexistent on the plunger. Not enough time to answer them.
Probably no time left at all.
The two of them stared at each other, the strong, mighty predator, the small, weaker prey. Minutes passed—Henry knew not of how many. If the Demon did not leave soon, he decided, forcing the stab of fear he felt at the thought deep into the back recesses of his mind, then he would step out of his corner and fight. Although he knew he would die (there was no possibility of surviving now), he would rather go down with honor and bravery than cowardice.
Even if his saber would be a shit cleaner.
A laugh bubbled past his lips. For some reason, he found that incredibly funny.
The Demon's manic grin faltered. He seemed to have heard him laugh, and the aura around him weighed down. Although his expression had hardly changed, Henry knew he was pissed.
He told himself to stop laughing, and he managed to, but the grin remained.
Now the other's was gone, replaced with a frown more chilling than his grin.
Without warning, the Demon stepped up close to the Station, so that his inky face was practically pressed against the slot. Henry backed up instinctively, his back bumping into the wall.
The Demon's grin returned.
"NoT sO funNy NOw, eH?"
The throaty voice pushed through a mouth clogged with ink, though his teeth never separated and his grin barely moved.
Henry froze, baffled. It had never occurred to him that the Demon should speak. He never had before, so he had come to assume that he could not.
He should really stop assuming things.
He forced his breathing to calm. He wet his lips, then summoned up the courage to speak to the Demon, his voice only slightly wavering.
"You never were, even in the cartoons."
The smile disappeared again. A growl resounded in the Miracle Station, but Henry straightened his back, stood up tall. He refused to be intimidated any further.
"Yeah, all those bullshit black-and-whites? Never liked drawing them. Least of all you. Why I ever put you to paper I'll never know."
Another growl, louder, and while no words shouted through it, the meaning was clear: Shut the hell up!
Henry gave a half-grin.
"You always did have a nasty temper."
The Demon rattled the Miracle Station in frustration, and Henry had to hold onto the slot for dear life in order to keep from tumbling all over the place. When the rough movement stopped, he took a slow, steadying breath and removed his hand for a clear view of the room beyond.
His foe still stood there, scowling and glaring through dripping ink, fingers clenching as though itching to wrap themselves around the smaller man's throat. He had stepped back, as though to give his prey space to step out. He was daring him, Henry realized. Daring him to come out, to speak up outside of his tiny safe zone, where he could deliver insults without fear of consequence. Not like if he stepped outside.
Well, I've got nothing to lose anymore except my life, Henry told himself, and pushed open the door. He stepped outside.
Henry opened his mouth to speak, although he had no idea what he was going to say; like before, as the words just flew out of his mouth, borne from justified anger.
Before he even had the chance to speak, the room was suddenly a blur. Gravity seemed to have loosened its hold on him, as he was no longer on the ground. In fact, he was flying parallel over it. It took a moment, but it registered in him that he had just been flung. Time, which had seemed to be moving incredibly slowly in that moment as he processed what had just happened, sped up to normal pace, and he crashed to the floor, the plunger flying out of his grip.
His body ached. He was pretty sure one of his ribs was cracked, if not broken. He realized he had flown clear across the room. Who knew the Demon was so strong, especially for a being made of ink?
Henry began to pull himself to his feet, but before he could fully stand, there was another blow delivered to his chest—the Demon was so fast!—a lesser blow, so that he merely fell down where he stood.
An ache blossomed in the space behind and between his eyes. His vision was blurry; he saw triple of everything. Triple of the walls, the ceiling, the ink dripping on his face. Triple of the smile.
The smile was suddenly larger. He was dimly aware of something tightly squeezing his throat. His legs were dangling about two feet off the ground. The Demon was choking him, he realized. Choking him to death. He could no longer catch breath. Just as blackness was about to consume him, just as he was about to plunge into the unescapable abyss, air rushed into his lungs in a painful gasp. His vision returned.
I'm not dead, he thought, amazed. Then a more negative thought: Not yet, anyway. He knew that the only reason he was still alive was because the Demon enjoyed playing with him; he enjoyed making him suffer.
Henry fell to the floor, quite abruptly. He felt too dazed too move, vision still foggy, breathing still ragged. He struggled to no avail to replenish his strength, but with every breath it seemed to drain away, slipping just past his fingers' reach.
Then the floor was moving underneath him, his cheek scraping against the harsh wood; a large hand held him by the leg. He was being dragged across the floor, through the studio, one moment in a hallway, the next by a Butcher Gang poster. His consciousness drifted in and out, so he wasn't always aware of his surroundings. But he had a vague idea of where they were heading.
His sanctuary.
Although Henry would call it more of a hellhole.
…
When he awoke, he felt restricted, like his limbs were being dragged down, making it impossible for him to stand. All he could do was slightly jerk his arms and legs, clench his fists. At least he could swivel his head to get a good look around. Then, as his head began to clear so he could more easily perceive and understand his surroundings, he realized that he was being held down—strapped to a table, the binds tight and too strong for him to remove.
There was an inky chuckle from somewhere beyond his sight, behind him. The room was dimly lit by the occasional candle, but he could tell that ink covered virtually everything here. It dripped from the ceiling, covered the walls, and flooded the floor; some things floated in it, some of them indiscernible, others close enough to be identified as loose floorboards or ramparts from the ceiling; there was even a floating chair in the near corner.
Even if he could escape, if he were not tied down as he was, he would not be allowed. The ink would trap him, and he might as well have not tried at all.
Dragging footsteps. The clink of metal. What was he doing? Oh, God, he was so scared! Why had he mouthed off to someone so powerful, so volatile and dangerous?
Because he had foolishly thought his death would be swift, though not without some degree of pain. He hadn't expected this; not goddamn this!
He gave up struggling; he knew it was futile. He fleetingly thought of begging for forgiveness, but that thought was laughable. The Demon would not give just for a few hasty, sputtered, false apologizes. Besides, Henry did not beg, no matter how dire his situation.
Footsteps in his direction. Right by his ear, ragged breathing. Something dripped onto his face. He looked up. A malignant sneer above him.
"STill fiNd sOmeThIng fUnNY?" he asked, almost chuckling as he said it.
Henry, wanting to say something defiant but unable to find anything to say, fixed the Demon with a cold stare. The grin widened.
"NoT sUch a SmaRt AlECk aNymOre, huh?"
He did not beg.
He stood tall.
In response, Henry grinned.
The sneer returned and the Demon raised his hand. In it was a syringe, large and shiny, its needle point gleaming in the semi-darkness. Henry forced himself to continue to smile. Even if he could not find the words or strength to speak, he would continue to smile. He would continue to defy the Ink Demon, for as long as he could.
He would continue to stand tall even as he was torn apart from within.
Ink filled the vial of the syringe. The needle pierced his skin, entered deep into one of his veins. Henry winced.
He continued to smile.
The ink flowed through his system, purging his blood cells, filling him up, choking him, drowning him. The needle ejected. The pain flooded him.
Henry lost the smile.
Henry screamed. The Demon laughed. No one messed with the Ink Demon and got away with it.
…
…
Except Henry did.
The process may have lasted for hours; it was excruciating, longer than he could bear. So much was the pain, he could not tell time; all he could do was scream and writhe in his restraints and listen to the demonic laughter echoing in the room. Gag as the ink spurted from his mouth, flooded out of his eyes, spurting his body with its black substance. The area between his legs dampened.
Then everything was darkness. He knew he was dead. No one could have survived that. But wait…the darkness was slipping away like ink. Suddenly he was standing before a giant Bendy statue, completely fine, unharmed, fit as a fiddle in May. Completely devoid of ink, both in and on him.
Disoriented, amazed, and baffled all at once, it took him a full minute to process that it was over. But he had died. How did he end up back here? And when he looked up and down the hall, he found himself utterly alone.
Alone.
The Demon was elsewhere, nowhere in sight. He had just drowned him, but he had never landed in his inky claws. Or had he? Was he being given a second chance? A chance to do what, he wondered, besides not die and to so stupidly slight the Ink Demon?
Out of all the things he had witnessed and endured in this hellish studio, this one was by far the most mind-staggering.
But—besides the heartening realization that he was not alone and had a friend in the Wolf who lent help to neither the Angel nor the Demon—this was the most comforting.
He had a second chance. A do-over.
He still could set things right. He could still escape. He could help Boris, find Joey, bring an end to this madness.
Somehow….Somehow he would.
He wondered if he died again, he would be returned to life.
He didn't want to test the theory, though he thought it might be true; besides, now he would be much more careful of where he stepped.
And of what he said.
For some reason, his mind went back to something the Demon had earlier said: "Not so funny now, eh?"
Henry looked down at the plunger (which had appeared miraculously in his hands, mysteriously devoid of ink) and smiled.
"Yes, actually. It's very funny."