Heavy breathing was heard amongst the turning of the gears and plopping of ink. It cut off with a sudden gasp, as if their owner was wracked with a sudden spasm of pain. It transformed into a pitiful, tortured whine with the telltale clinking of metal.
Those cold chain links dug harshly into his knuckles, rubbing against the already irritated wounds they were threaded through. He wanted to cry, but this monstrous form he'd taken on prevented that. Instead, he settled for howling pitifully, intermixed with the occasional sob at his predicament.
The floor beneath him had long grown littered with his dripping ink, his life blood. His oversized arms were chained to the floor with those stigmatas that had been forcefully torn into his hands. He had precious little room to move, let alone lay down and sleep.
His mind was awhirl with confusion, grief and fear. Why? Why wasn't he good enough? Why?
He knew the answer already, however. Anyone who he had approached before his imprisonment had been apprehensive or terrified. He was confused before he found a mirror. The reflection that greeted him scared him just as badly as it had them.
Not a cartoon, just a monster. Who would laugh at him? They would just scream and run away.
He couldn't make anyone laugh. Never again.
He gazed up at his old cartoons, melancholy and nostalgia sputtering up inside of his scarred heart. His real form was so much cuter, so much more capable of getting a laugh out of somebody. What went so wrong when they brought him here?
Even he didn't know. He didn't want to know. He just wanted to entertain, to get a smile off of somebody's face, even at his own expense, like in his old reels.
Ink dripped down his face in a facsimile of tears as he wanted to cry.
Was he starting to go crazy, or was the whole machine shaking?
Oh, wait, that was just the cold. He shivered against the icy metal of the floor. He couldn't even rub himself for warmth.
Wait. No. The floor was actually shaking.
Was-was somebody raising the machine up?
Hope and cynicism warred within his heart, but a tiny sliver of hope emerged intact. Maybe someone was here? Maybe they could help him?
He jerked at his chains, ignoring the flares of pain in his knuckles. They rattled across the floor and then got caught in a stray gear, yanking him to the floor with a cry. The gear whined as it strained against the links, but the power of the ink machine won out, shattering the metal to pieces.
A surge of elation flew through him. He was finally free! Quick as a whistle, he dashed out of the machine entrance to the top of the gigantic behemoth, chains rattling behind him as his enormous hands propelled him upwards.
The smaller machine began moving upwards slowly, and he leapt atop and grabbed hold of its own strings of chains for stability. It swung somewhat, but soon stabilized and continued its journey upwards to the highest floor.
It was agonizingly slow, however. He took the opportunity to inspect his stigmatas. Maybe he could pry the links off?
He began with his right hand, carefully maneuvering his giant teeth and fingers around both sides. With a grunt, he pulled at both sides. They came apart with a slight screech of bending metal, and then it was off. He repeated this with his other hand.
With a gasp of relief, those inkstained chains clanked on impact with the surface of the machine. He clenched and unclenched his throbbing hands, still in disbelief. He was really free, he realized with a burbling giggle.
He was finally able to shrink back down into his half-as-terrifying state, the holes in the palms shrinking into nearly unnoticeable slits on his right hand and being covered with a white glove on his left. A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly threatened to send him into unconsciousness, but he persevered.
The soft glow of noonday met his obscured eyes as the machine quietly clunked into place. The rays filtered through a wooden ceiling that was starting to fall apart. An uneasy feeling formed. How long had he been stuck down there, bound and tethered like an animal?
A soft gasp of shock echoed around the chamber, and he jerked his head around for the source. He spotted a greying man on the landing before the machine, staring at the ink being with something akin to awe and terror. The man's face, though old, looked startlingly familiar.
Oh. Oh! It was his Creator! His Creator had come back! His Creator had freed him, however unintentionally!
He leapt from the dangling machine with a shout of glee, pouncing on top of Henry Stein in a hug.
The old animator hit the woodwork as the strange thing dove at him like a fighter plane. It had that wide grin, though now it was trembling on the sides in...fear? It buried it's face in Henry's front, a pair of lopsided horns dripping something like ink on his shirt.
"Please...don't be scared of me?" it pleaded faintly, voice akin to a child's. A little boy, to be precise.
"Um...okay?" Was the only thing Henry could get out before it- he, Henry vehemently decided- started shaking and sobbing in what could only be relief.
His mind finally caught up, and the horns, the grin- by heavens, the VOICE - finally tipped him off as to who this was.
"...Bendy?" He tried.
"...yeah, Creator?" came the faint, sniffling reply.
Oh gosh, it was real. Bendy , through whatever bullcrap Joey had somehow pulled, was real .
A confused, but joyous laugh left the animator. It was like he was a little kid, and Christmas had come early! The distorted toon looked up at him in surprise, giving his trademark grin when he realized…
Someone was finally laughing for him. It didn't matter what Bendy looked like; to his Creator, that wasn't important- he was still Henry's little devil darling.