"Look you can't do this, Henry! We're just making it big, and you go off and join the war?" Joey was furious. Despite his leg, he was standing at full height. Henry could not help but back away, but verbally, he held firm.
"I got drafted, Joey. I can't pay the fine, not with what I've sunk into your animation studio."
"Henry, if you walk out of that door, you'll never be able to come back to the animation studio!" A pause, before Henry turned on his heel, giving Joey a thousand mile stare.
"Then so be it, Joey. I quit!" The door slammed down on more than ten years of friendship. Perhaps for the rest of their lifetimes, but Henry was done. He had lost weight, often sleeplessly making his way back to the studio to meet deadlines, and he could no longer take the harsh working conditions of the field. Maybe quitting like that was better than staying on and feeling their friendship withering away.
There would always be time to mend the fences.
"I said all of that. And yet, I'm here." Henry sighed, as he stared at the letter, and then towards the studio.
Even now, he could feel the intent radiating from the letter; it was as though Joey had put all of his desperation into it, judging by how he had flourished his pen as he signed his name.
The Bendy cartoons had fallen out of favour, both due to the stringent Hays Code and afterwards with the domination of colour. The final straw that broke the camel's back was Hanna-Barbera and their terrible limited animation techniques. And Joey Drew Studios fell, like many other independent animation studios after their heyday. Now the big guys were outsourcing to Taiwan and Japan, for sweatshop labour.
Henry hadn't done any proper animation work, tied up in illustration projects and live-action posters and thus had little passion for what creative output he had done post-war. He regretted that. It was hard not to like the little devil darling, especially since he often took his sons and wife to look at the pictures. But the time of shorts were done, and many of his co-workers had left the field as American animation quality dropped along with rising pay elsewhere.
In fact, that was why he was here. One lone man, dropped off by his son, out to look for Joey Drew at his own bankrupt studio. His old workplace, and what a fine sight it was to see the dilapidated place that was once his second home. Henry was disappointed. How had it come to this? Joey hadn't changed with the times, said one former colleague. Still insisted on slapstick humour, out of touch with the changing trends, and reluctant to leave the rubber-hose style behind despite animation shorts going out of style.
That was besides the point. He had received a strange letter from Joey, and the sheer feeling of fear and hopelessness had made his skin crawl when he had first received. Being an empathetic sort of guy, Henry had been deeply disturbed at the register used. 'Best pal'? They had broken off their relationship more than thirty years ago! Henry was only coming back after a letter from the lawyer handling the assets of Joey Drew Studios had requested if he wanted the rights to Bendy. Henry was still surprised he owned it of course, but that meant that Joey hadn't taken his name of it despite earlier threats.
No point going on it further. Best to step inside, and ask where Joey was, to leave him the rights to Bendy. Which could only mean Joey was dead, but Henry had tried searching for his name in the obituaries. Then, a few of the old-timers were reported to have never returned from the studios a few weeks back. Hence, here he was, staring at the studio, refusing to step in.
His wife was curious, but she set her concerns aside and had supported his decision fully. Poor May, who had stuck with him throughout the war and raised their two sons dutifully. But here he was, still hesitant to walk in. Was it the stifling atmosphere that he remembered from his last years, just as Disney was pushing through his Silly Symphonies? Or was it old memories haunting him?
He took in a deep breath, before closing his eyes. Henry opened the door of that old place he called home, and strode in like he deserved to be here. Back in Joey Drew Studios.
"That was odd, that they'll keep my old place here." Henry's work table was left untouched. Unlike the other animators, he had been tucked away in a cul de sac before they managed to rent the whole building and eventually buy out the other tenants. Henry stood in his old quarters, feeling a bit silly. Character model sheets still hung on an adjacent wall, while yellow, crinkling paper was half-stuffed into a drawer. Even his old doodles were still there, frozen in the span of time that he had left. Joey Drew Studios had obviously grown, but his table remained as a memorial and a warning to other animators.
Henry chuckled upon the printed 'NO' placed over his silly scribble of Bendy. At that time, he had left the studio without a hint of his resignation. He forgot to pack up, that was foolish of him-
Oh crap. Henry slapped his face. He had forgotten to retrieve his items. He had broken the cardinal sin of any resignation, that was a gag worth laughing over if it did not happen to him. Well, not as if anything could be done. All of stationery would have been repurposed by the studio to cut costs. Too late to retrieve anything of value now.
Still, he hoped that they hadn't used his old pens and papers for anything else other than drawing cartoons. The more absent-minded ones had been laughed at for snatching an ink well rather than drinking their cup of black coffee. In fact Joey and Henry joked that the blacker the coffee they drank, the blacker their soul-
"Oh my god", Henry exclaimed once he caught sight of the corpse on the stand. "Joey, what were you doing?" Henry felt disgusted. They had been rebuked over and over for incorporating 'Satanic Rituals' and racism into their cartoons when their intention was completely the opposite. And now, dissection! Of Boris the Wolf! A goddamn real-life cartoon! Henry would never have expected it of Joey, but evidently he didn't know his old friend very well at all.
And talking about moving cartoons, there were Bendy cutouts everywhere. Henry could have sworn some of them move, and one had even peered round the corner at him! Henry would have immediately left if he hadn't sensed the letter growing warm. Upon examining it, the words on the letter changed, instructing him to turn on the ink machine. It was when Henry felt an overpowering command to follow the instruction on the letter did he realise that something was amiss.
Henry felt his nerves tingle with anticipation. It was as though he was on a battlefield, armed with a letter and his wits against an insurmountable enemy. It was far from the ordinary day, that was sure. And Henry hadn't been looking forward to retirement and the slow hum-drum of life. Not to mention his natural inhibition to sloth that made his curiosity grow more and more as he found Wally Franks' recording.
This is interesting, Henry thought, as he gathered the items. He recognised his inkwell, and retrieved it next to Boris' corpse. The other pictures were more puzzling, and it took him some wild guesses as there were only a certain number of items that he could pick up. Again, suspicious. But the letter told him to start the machine, and Wally's recordings told him what items were needed for the pedestals. Once he had accumulated the items, he had flicked on the pressure switch in the projector room (scared out of his skin when the projector started running a short of Bendy dancing on the screen) before flicking on the power switch.
That was when the light started flickering, and the Ink Machine Room started flooding with ink. Followed by some humanoid abomination that appeared to be Bendy. Okay, Henry thought to himself, screw this. He was getting the heck outta here-
Missing step.
"Holy pitfall~!" Henry couldn't help but echo one of the blasted cartoons that his sons enjoyed when they were younger as he careened down at least two floors and hit the wooden floor with an audible thump. Still, he found himself relatively uninjured, and decided to take a flight of stairs back up, and hopefully avoiding more crazy holes in the floor. It was only abandoned for a few weeks, the wood couldn't have rotten to the point that it broke easily. Must have been lack of maintenance, Henry thought to himself as he went down two flights of stairs, only to stumble into a nightmare.
"Pentagram?" He thought wildly to himself. "Coffins?" He mouthed an apology even as he picked up a nearby axe. There was definitely crazy shit, as his son would put it. But this, this was nonsense. Well then, he just had to press ahead, even as unease started picking up the clues and assembling them to an unsettling picture. Henry dearly wished he had taken a look at Joey's autobiography, 'The Illusion of Living'. That would have offered a better explanation to his whereabouts than simply investigating the studio, which he was whole-heartedly regretting at this instance.
Henry, with some reticence, tapped the coffins. Empty, he wondered. What could they have been containing? He sighed as he lifted his axe. His arm was going to be so sore after this.
"Finally!" Henry could not help but cheer. Sammy's spite had led to the Music Department being a nightmare to navigate, besides the ink creatures that Henry had tentatively named 'Searchers' and the mysterious increase in the number of Bendy cutouts that Henry had tripped on. Henry had quickly found the strange message that Sammy had left, opened the secondary section, and found the stairwell. Which was promptly filled with ink.
The letter that Joey had sent had warmed, creating new objectives for Henry to complete. In fact, he was definitely sure that Joey had dabbled in something that the polio sufferer should never have gotten his hands on in the first place, but what could he do? He was going to have a few words with Joey once they met, if they did. It may involve 'Work-Place Safety' and 'Union Rules' and a good punch in the side.
As he headed to the stairwell, mind ringing with complaints and swears as his body felt adrenaline filling his veins, he could sense the back of his neck shiver. Being a good war veteran, he dodged, and gave a good kick backwards. His ears heard a satisfying 'Ow' as he turned on his heel, ready to give a swing of his axe.
Henry tilted his head. Blinked. Okaay~.The human covered entirely in ink was huddling in a corner, clutching his leg and whimpering. That person was also wearing a Bendy Mask, albeit one that was torn up and flimsy to begin with. Was that a pair of suspenders? Was it actually slipping off the figure's shoulders? In fact, where was his feet?
"Who the hell are you?" He asked, making sure to inject a tinge of dismay and humour in his tone as he edged away from the figure, hoping to be able to run away and shut the door behind him. But it seemed as though the person had thought differently, and opened his mouth to reveal cigarette-stained teeth and sharpened canines-
"Sleep, rest your head, sheep." The growl was familiar to say the least. Granted, it felt more slimy and yet hoarser than what he remembered, but it was probably Henry's former work colleague.
"Sammy? Sammy Lawrence? Is that you?" Henry questioned. Sammy Lawrence was a very difficult person to get along with, with his low tolerance for bullshit and incompetence earning him few friends in the studio, and no one back then was going to tell the high-strung music director that it was precisely because of his personality that no orchestra would hire him. Of course, his work was better than the usual lot, and he worked harder than anyone else in his department, which was why he was kept on when the Depression hit them with the force of a hurricane.
Sammy's earlier recording and the words 'He will Set Us Free' crept into Henry's mind as he edged away from the ranting fanatic. Henry knew that it had been thirty years, but it was as though Sammy had changed into a completely different person. Sammy was by no means plump, especially living day to day like the three of them had been when they had first started out, but his waist was half of what the trousers he was wearing fitted, and there were way too many ribs to be anatomically correct. Did he have seven pectorals? Henry's mind wandered, cataloging the sight for sore eyes both literally and metaphorically.
"...He appears from the shadows to rain his sweet blessings upon me. The figure of ink that shines in the darkness. I see you, my savior. I pray you hear me." Sammy was regurgitating that spiel he had recorded even as he raised his arms, but his actions were telegraphed. Too obvious, Henry thought, as he swatted away Sammy's arms and gave him a vicious punch to the chin. The man reeled from the blow, cut off mid-rant as Henry followed up with a side blow, snapping the string that tied Bendy's face to the man.
"Don't. Do that!" Henry grouched, feeling particularly like the typical curmudgeon that most old men were recognised to be as he slammed his knees onto Sammy's legs, causing them to collapse onto the floor, Henry sitting uncomfortably on Sammy's legs as he tried to pick up some sign of recognition.
Huh. Henry adjusted his glasses. Must be his eyesight going. He stared further, before leaping off Sammy with a strangled howl. Sammy's eyes were bloodshot, but what was more important was the lack of a face. No nose, no ears, not even any cheeks to define facial structure! All that Henry saw was one great giant blot of ink that made Sammy's previously well-defined face shapeless, even half-melted.
"Hear me, Bendy! Arise from the darkness! Arise and claim my offering! Free me! I beg you! I summon you, ink demon!" Henry hissed, feeling his eyebrow twitch more and more frequently. The strange texture of that ink, gooey and slimy and far too much for Henry's fastidious nature to tolerate for long. Finally, he had enough.
"Okay, that is it. Let's clean your face of that blasted ink." Sammy let out a screech as Henry searched his pockets and found a clean handkerchief. Sammy had not shifted, and thus Henry was more comfortably seated as he rubbed away at the ink, hoping to make out Sammy's facial features. But all the cloth did was to become more and more ink-stained, and Henry threw it away, frustrated with his lack of progress.
"Stay here, I'll get more cloth." To tie you up, Henry finished in his mind as he kept his back away from Sammy, unwilling to chance a possible blow from behind. He knew he saw the infirmary a way off, it was time to get some bandages from there that were hopefully good enough despite the visible wear and tear on the place. Now, where was it-
"HOLY SHIT!"
Between him and the infirmary stood the same eldritch creature that had greeted him from the Ink Machine Room on the first floor. How the hell had it gotten here? Did Sammy somehow summon the devil from where he was? God damn and blast, Henry was sick and tired of this creature. Now he had to find a way around the creature. Wait a minute, was that creature moving?
" #$%%$%^&(*!" That was all that echoed in Henry's mind as he tipped around a corner, leading the monster on a merry chase, which would hopefully end with a door and locks between them and safety on the other side. He made the mistake of turning behind, and saw the creature sliding around corners, waving its arms wildly about as it continued to growl with rage. Henry tipped his way into a shaft and slammed the door on the creature, locking it.
"Okay, I did not sign up for this crap." Henry muttered to himself as he scratched his head. "Sammy, if you can hear me, I blame you for setting him on me. Good grief, you give this old man more grey hairs than he needs." He strode his way through a series of rooms. Hmm, he hadn't been this way before...These new extensions were giving him so much trouble. Ah ha, the elevator shaft. Good. Time to leave this hellhole once and for all, and come back with reinforcement.
The can sent his heart into a flutter as it rolled towards him. "Hello? I know you're there." He bravely cried out as he stepped away from the can, mindful of what could creep up next. Did that abomination make its way into the room despite the door? Or was it more Searchers out for a haunt? His blackened heart could not handle further stress.
Oh, it was Boris. Hey, wait-
"Boris?" Henry was pretty sure that he saw Boris' corpse being cut up earlier on, when he was still investigating and not trying to escape the studio. So what was he doing here?
"Ah, seriously? You've got ink smears on your face." Sammy huffed as Henry whipped out yet another of his handkerchiefs in an attempt to make him look presentable.
"Gerroff!" Henry snickered as Sammy uselessly batted his hands at him. He didn't need Henry to wipe the ink away, he could do it himself!
"Too late~!" Henry sang as he dodged Sammy's flailing and whisked away to his desk, whistling as he wiped his ink-stained hands using the same handkerchief that he had used on Sammy. Sammy scowled, before looking into a nearby reflective surface. Henry was being as much as a busybody as usual, and Sammy couldn't help but feel the blackened cockles of his heart warm at the thought. Stupid man, he could take care to neaten up his own appearance!
"Sammy?" Joey's voice rang out, and Sammy rolled his eyes. Yet another typical day. Hopefully Joey wouldn't set yet another impossible timing for him again, he was still rearranging some of the orchestra's scores.
The figure that once answered to Sammy picked up the abandoned handkerchief. He could vaguely make out the homely, earthen smell of grass and hot...probably pie, he thought, mouth attempting to water in vain as whatever saliva in his mouth dissolved into the ink that coated his insides. He remembered someone wiping away at his face like the sheep had done, in the same motherhen-like manner. He had to ask Alice; the angel would know what to do with it.
Do you think she'll bother? Help our Savior to capture that precious sheep. It has been hard to come by - no, he thought, he needed to have him alive. Who was he? He was pretty sure he knew that face from somewhere...
Alice peered at him as she closed the book with a loud clap, when Sammy knocked loudly and clumsily at the alcove she called home. Well, as much as anywhere safe could be away from the monster, but Alice counted her blessings one at a time.
"What do you have there?" Sammy presented her with the cloth, and she could not help but drop her book. Something new! Sammy refused to let go of it, so Alice tiptoed to examine the thing. It was painstakingly embroidered for someone with the initials H. R, with a beautiful blue border around the corners. An exquisite piece of work, to Alice's untrained eyes.
"He's. an intruder." Sammy bit out, breathing heavily. He bent his head low, ink dripping down to the already stained floor as he leaned in for comfort. Alice didn't disappoint by pressing it into her shoulder, and stroking his head. Strange, where was the mask that he wore? Had he thrown it away? Sammy moaned with her touch, raising both hands to cover his ears. Oh, that.
"Kill him?" Alice's brow furrowed. Sammy had an external voice who he called the Prophet. It had formed sometime between turning into this cartoon form and Sammy starting to lay down bacon soup cans as 'sacrifices'. Alice had to figure out what to do as the cantankerous music director withdrew from conversation in order to listen to what the Prophet said, and acted as the restraining bolts on him when they were near.
Of course, that also meant close skin contact with Sammy whenever he got into these moods. Alice had been wary at first, but as time passed, she reasoned that no one was able to help them. Like many other occasions, she asked politely if she could touch Sammy. Once Sammy had affirmed, she gently pressed her palms over his, covering his ears thoroughly.
"Better?" Alice queried once Sammy seemed to have recovered. He nodded as he sat up, but unlike his usual behaviour, he grasped her hands, swinging them from side to side.
"I know who he is!" Sammy gurgled, lost in some deep emotion that Alice needed some time to fathom. Why had Sammy suddenly changed moods?
"Who?" Alice, no, Susie asked.