Don't Drink the Ink!
That was pretty much the slogan of Joey Studios. Whether or not the ink was toxic- it surely smelled like it- this was recited amongst the staff because of accidental consumption. It would seem like a silly thing to accidently ingest something pitch black, but the thing was that the ink started to leak everywhere. You would leave out a mug of coffee and return an hour later to find it half filled with ink. It got into the staff room, it got into the water supply, and it was insistent rule to be careful. Don't drink the ink, even a drop, and you were good to go.
Wally was baffled at how this was a rule at all. He spent the most time tending to the machine, soaked in ink, and yet he hadn't even come close to drinking the ink. It smeared on his face, but it didn't get in his mouth. He made sure of that. It had to be a complete idiot who accidently chugged down a mug of coffee only to realize that the dark fluid was ink instead of coffee. As for willingly drinking the ink, nobody was stupid enough to do that… Maybe Sammy, maybe on a bad day, but normally nobody would be chugging down ink when there was metallic water from the taps.
But that was before everything happened. Back when people could leave the studio and when it was just a normal animation studio. When inhuman things didn't walk the halls, and everyone wasn't either missing or dead.
The water pipes had run out on this floor days ago and were replaced with thick clumps of coagulated ink. The temptation for water on the other floors wasn't enough to drag Wally out of his office. Not when those things still roamed the hallways. Ever since he locked himself in here, he had managed to be safe. A file cabinet now blocked the locked door and the room was stacked in cans upon cans of bacon soup. The stuff was all over the place and Wally had just assumed that it would quench his thirst and curb his hunger at the same time. Alas, bacon was salty, and the soup was like brine.
Not to mention how much he hated that cheeky picture of Bendy beaming at him from the cans. Once he got out of here, he could go a lifetime without ever seeing Bendy's face again.
It only took a few days before Wally was starting to feel rough, and he knew it was because he was thirsty. The soup was only making it worse and his options were running out. Eventually he started to get double vision that the soup just wasn't helping. He considered going out to hunt water, but then again- "How am I supposed to fight those things off if I'm seein' two?! Yeah, I can see this goin' great! Where'd I put that wrench?"It was soon decided that is was simply not a good option.
"Look, I'm gonna have to drink something," Wally rationalized, talking out loud to himself to alleviate the constant boredom and solitude of being locked in this room. "My skin's getting all dry, feels like I've been sucking on gravel, and the soup's pretty much disgusting." He glared at a stack of empty cans that had been stacked into a pyramid. "…But it was like that before it became breakfast, lunch, and dinner." As casual as Wally would sound to any audience listening in, he was becoming concerned. Not to mention that the lack of fluids was starting to hurt. The craving was always there.
It was then that he just happened to notice the ink leaking through the roof of his office. The same ink that made up those monsters that blocked him from freedom, save that it looked much thinner than the thick gunk that clogged the water pipes. Even it, as chemical filled as it was, looked quenching. Like dirtied rainwater dripping through the cracks and offering salvation.
"What would be in that stuff anyway? Just water and dye, right?" Wally asked as he looked at the dripping fluid. "Might not smell too good, but what's the worst that can happen? I'd die? At this point, I'm gonna die from lack of water a lot quicker than ink poisoning." He leaned over and placed an empty soup can under the dripping fluid. "…Looks pretty much just like the bacon soup anyway, right? Can't taste any worse."
There was a part of Wally that knew this was a terrible idea. There was also a part of him that was very afraid of death, whether through dehydration or poisoning. All he knew was that it was becoming excruciating waiting here for nothing. His mouth and throat were dry, his hands constantly shook, and he needed something to sate himself. With a defeated huff, he reached out and snatched up the soup can. Ink spilled over his fingers; it was slightly warm, and he groaned in disgust, but he was still just desperate, and he moved it closer. It didn't smell right.
"Oh yeah, this stuff ain't gonna kill me," Wally sarcastically remarked as he moved the can closer. He tilted it back slowly and let the ink slide down towards his lips. Then it touched them and out of reflex he sucked in, filling his mouth with ink. The taste of some sort of foul meat struck him and he promptly turned over and spat the fluid onto the floor. He coughed and heaved, trying to get the taste and grime from his mouth. "Forget it! Forget it, it ain't worth it!"
That should've been the final word on it. Unfortunately, it wasn't.
Within hours, the temptation was coming back again. In his thirsty, deluded state he started to wonder if it was as bad as he had thought. It was pretty much just like the bacon soup, right? The only difference was that it was less salty- ignoring the chemical components entirely. It wasn't like it was the ink that made people into those things outside the door, because he had been in contact with more ink than anyone else and nothing had changed. Wally was systematically convincing himself to go ahead with trying it again. Eventually, those thoughts led back to the can of ink.
The ink had only cooled now but hadn't thickened or anything odd. It seemed to smell less toxic as well, or perhaps that was his mind playing tricks on him. Wally still cringed as he stared into the blackness. With a slow exhale, he swallowed the last of his worries, and tilted his head back to let the ink in again. It was just as foul as before, but this time he silently decided to let it in. He drank down some of the ink and then slammed the can down on the desk.
"Now I die," Wally choked out through the grime of the ink. It was thick in his throat as he stared down at the desk. It would've sounded deceptively like a joke, but wide-eyed Wally, looking like a frightened animal, knew that it was very possible that he was now poisoned. Yet he stuck with his decision. He couldn't sink any lower; stuck in the bottom of Joey Drew's studio dying of dehydration and overdosing on bacon soup. Maybe it would kill him quicker or maybe it would at least alleviate the nagging thirst. He could only wait and see.
So, he did. He waited and waited, and time ticked by. An hour, two, and then the thirst again reached frustrating levels. Though by now he would've assumed that his body would've reacted to the ink. Throwing caution to the wind, he drank more, and again nothing happened. Time was moving as slow as usual, but Wally felt largely fine with all of it. He didn't feel poisoned, he didn't even feel that thirsty anymore. He just felt as uncomfortable as one would in this situation.
Wally continued to drink the ink.
By that evening- which he only knew it was evening because the Bendy clock on the wall claimed it was seven o'clock- Wally had starting collecting can after can of the dripping ink. By now he had learned that it wasn't good to drink it straight from the drippings. Letting it settle and cool helped the meaty, chemical flavor settle down. It also caused any sediments to sink and cooled the temperature into a more pleasing one. It wasn't a fresh bottle of pop, but it was, arguably, better than having nothing at all.
The first time something turned out to be amiss was around then. Wally had been trying and failing to force a can of soup down. Needless to say, Wally no longer had a taste for the soup, and settled on drinking more of the ink. He scowled at a thick mixture of saliva and ink that had settled on the back of his tongue. It was then that he somehow managed to notice the thick mixture now settled on his teeth and reached to rub at it.
"Ugh. When I get out of here, my teeth are gonna be stained for life. Nobody's gonna kiss a guy walking with a mouthful of river rocks," Wally said to nobody but himself. Though that was when he noticed something, like the smallest piece of loose flesh, and pulled his hand back. Instead of it being his mouth, the flesh has peeled from the tip of his finger, which had a pruned consistency to it. In fact, all his fingertips were wrinkled now that he looked at them. "That can't be good… Huh, irony: here I am with no water and I'm all pruned up."
A little more of the skin peeled, but what was underneath was still normal skin and it didn't hurt, so he wrote it off as nothing. It was fine… Or it was fine, until the itch started to settle in. The itch was hands down one of the worst feelings he had ever felt because of its agonizing locations. On the tips of his fingers, in the folds of his palms, spreading along his wrists; it all seemed so hard to scratch just right. Worst still, the skin continued peeling, leaving flakes underneath his nails. At some point it settled in his lower legs, but he couldn't reach them under his pants and boots, and thus kept his aggressive assault to his arms.
"What even is this?!" Wally blurted out in frustration. He stood from his desk and started to pace around the room. "Yeah, my luck, I get allergic to this stuff only now that I need it for something- damn it!" He snatched up the lid of a can and lightly scratched it over the skin of his inner arm. More of the soft skin started to peel away, but still the itch continued. "That's it, I'm calling today a loss." He figuratively tossed up his hands and headed to his bed. He didn't know how he intended on sleeping through this, but he wouldn't stand another minute awake with it.
He shut off the office lights and moved to the corner where he slept. Naturally, there wasn't a bed or cot accessible down in the studio- or not on the floors around him- so he was stuck with a tarp and some rolled up jackets. He had come accustomed to it over the last while and, even though still uncomfortable, it was better than trying to sleep in the office chair with his feet on the desk. He found the tarp easily in the dark due to the smallness of the room and laid down. He tossed the can lid away somewhere, folded his arms underneath his head, and tried to ignore the tingling irritation chewing at him.
"No more ink," Wally swore with a shudder. "I'll go find water tomorrow. Not another drop of that stuff." He then forced his eyes closed and tried to think of anything else. Not of ink, not of water, but maybe soup, bacon soup, those old Bendy commercials for bacon soup that used to air around the holidays…
Scene opens in Bendy's kitchen. Snow is falling outside the window as Bendy walks towards the stove.
Zoom in on stove and pot. Bendy lifts 'Briar Label Bacon Soup' can. The image holds on the can for three seconds.
Camera draws back as Bendy opens the can with opener and dumps it into the pot. He turns on the stove and the soup begins to boil. He stirs it clockwise three times. There is a knocking at the door. Bendy hurries over and opens the door. Various characters- Boris, Butcher Gang, Lucius Lamb- charge past Bendy and storm for the pot where they start stealing the soup.
Camera pulls in as the other characters leave. Bendy finally makes it to the pot to see it empty. He begins to cry. There's a knocking at the door.
The scene changes to show the door, where "Santa" (Boris dressed as Santa) is standing in the snow.
Cuts to outside the house. Bendy runs out into the snow smiling and Santa pulls out Nice and Naughty list and shows it to Bendy. Bendy scratches chin thoughtfully. Santa hums and snaps his fingers, then rushes inside to the pot.
Bendy follows in and Santa pulls a can of bacon soup out of his pocket. Bendy scratches his neck as he watches. Santa dumps the soup into the pot and starts to stir as it boils. Bendy scratches his arms. Bendy scratches harder. Scratches harder.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
"Ugh!" With a frustrated cry, Wally roused out of a dead sleep to find himself scraping at his arm again. The itch had slightly diminished where he was scratching and was replaced with a strange, tingling feeling.
"For the love of-!" He sat upwards in the darkness and drew his hand away to rub at his face. It was only then that he noticed something sticky and half dried on his hand. He paused long enough to take in the smell: chemicals and metal. It was definitely ink. "For crying out loud!" He stood and felt for the light. "I swear, if another leak sprung up, I'm grabbin' all my stuff- monsters be damned- and I'm-!"
Wally flipped on the light, looked down, and stared at a hand stained red.
"-Bleeding?" Looking down at his arm, even through groggy eyes, he realized that his incessant scratching had left deep cuts and peeled skin. Both of which were now drawing fresh and drying blood. "Bleeding everywhere?!"
This wasn't good. He couldn't afford to have open wounds when he didn't have any bandages or medicine of any kind. It could become infected, it could get poisoned, it could attract something from outside; he had to get it covered quickly. Swearing and sweating in panic as he did so, he picked through the cleanest of the cloth and found a mostly ink-free jacket. Taking out his penknife, he cut off one of the arms and shredded it into thinner pieces to use as a bandage. He then wrapped and tied them over the gashes on his arm, not even capable of washing off the blood due to the lack of water.
"No more scratching." There wasn't even a shred of humor, just a cringe and a shutter at the sight of the blood. He would probably need more fluids to make up for it. Maybe he would be forced to return to the ink. Though not yet- he wasn't that desperate yet. He collapsed into the chair with a low groan and instantly noticed a soreness beginning to spread through his lower legs. "And more damage to check. What, was I kicking in my sleep too?"
He rubbed at his leg through his pants and felt an ache underneath. Curiosity won out and he leaned over to lift his pants leg. Thankfully there wasn't any blood or scratches, but something else waited on his skin. There were about four bruises starting to form on his leg. They were a reddish purple, about the size of a tennis ball or smaller, and were just as sore as could be. There wasn't an obvious pattern to them; it didn't even seem like the marks lined up to where he would've kicked something. Rolling up the other pants leg revealed more bruises and he pushed them back down and rubbed at his face tiredly.
Wally did not return to sleep. After such a disturbing wakeup call he didn't find it wise to do so. Instead, he tried to stay awake and alert, but soon found weariness gripping him. No, not weariness, but weakness. He supposed it was because he hadn't eaten enough and cracked open another can of bacon soup. Only a bite or two in and he found himself unable to continue. If anything, it just reminded him of how thirsty he was, but his unwillingness to drink anymore of the ink stayed strong. He instead pushed the can aside and rested his head on the desk.
He was unsure if he fell asleep or what happened, but eventually he came back to consciousness with a can opener painfully poking into his arm and something lower down amiss. He drug himself upright and rubbed over his face tiredly, and slowly realized that it was his leg that felt odd. He reached down and tugged at his pants, only for them to now be stuck to his skin.
"Oh gee, I wonder," Wally muttered hoarsely. He coughed to clear his throat of thick, inky tinged fluid. He tiredly leaned back in the chair and propped his leg up on the desk. "Let's see. No obvious blood on the hands," Wally remarked as he mockingly checked his fingernails. "Except the stuff that's already been there. Where'd that can lid go? I could've used that." He exhaled and drug up his pants leg and looked at the damage.
And stared.
And his eyes widened as his mouth went slack.
Because one of the bruises doubled in size, split open, and was now leaking a dark mixture down his leg. If it was blood, then it was too dark; so dark that it almost muted the natural red. He swabbed the fluid with his fingers and raised it to his face to study it. Then to smell it. Then he realized-
"Oh my God, it's ink," Wally choked. He then fell into a coughing spell, hunching over and choking. "God sakes, it's ink! How'd the ink- Oh… Oh geez…" It was only now that his tired mind clicked it all together. He drank the ink and now these bruises appeared, and now they were leaking ink. Though… Were they bruises?
Tentatively, he palpitated the bruised skin around the leaking wound. The flesh was especially soft, like a bruised piece of fruit, and as his poked it the blend of blood and ink started to drip out faster. They weren't normal bruises at all; they were pockets of ink.
"…Well, I'm dead." He said it so bluntly that it startled even him. "Dead man walking here. This- There ain't no comin' back from this." He collapsed back into the chair and stared at the roof. He wondered if this was the first stage of turning into whatever those things were roaming the halls. If the ink would spread until he fully became one of the ink monsters. "There's no way-!... No way in hell that I'm gonna sit here-!" Wally said with a determination that he wasn't sure if he could back up. He had already put the ink inside him. "I put the ink in, then I gotta get it out."
He wasn't thinking it through as he pulled out his penknife and brought it down to another one of the bruises. He then hesitated, point at the soft skin, and considered what he was doing. He would be opening dozens of wounds all over his legs. Any of them could become infected, could lead to him rotting down here, but the alternative was leaving the ink in his skin… And he couldn't do that now that he saw how well it mixed with his blood. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the penknife into the bruise.
It stung, but the flesh was so soft that it cut without much resistance. The inky mixture began to seep out and Wally milked it by massaging the bruise with his fingers. It poured down his leg until the bruise was nearly an indention in his leg, emptied of its fluid, and then he moved to the next one. It took nearly thirty minutes to drain all the poison out of his body. The smell of it had only gotten worse as it had started to get a foul, infection-like odor. He grimaced at it as he wiped down his legs. Then he started to cut apart another jacket to wrap the wounds.
He had gotten only far enough to cut off the arm and start shearing it to pieces- he had to go slow because he was sweating hard and it was starting to obstruct his vision- when he was interrupted. Thankfully, not by his body again contorting in disturbing ways. No, instead it was the sound of something moving outside the door. It started with the lingering thumps of heavy footsteps, then a loud scraping noise of something sharp on wood, and Wally hesitated a moment from his work.
"Kinda sounds big, whateva it is. This one probably ain't crawling…" Wally wasn't too unused to hearing things outside the door and usually quietness caused them to eventually leave. But it, whatever it was, started to get closer. He looked at the bottom of the door and wondered how much light was spilling through the crack. "…Let's just be safe and not give it a reason to come in here." He dragged himself to his feet and approached the doorway. He flicked off the light and intended to stand in the dark and wait for it to pass. His uninjured arm was still itching, and he scratched at it, trying to fight back the exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. His body was growing weaker and he gave a weary yawn.
To which something large and strong suddenly banged onto the door. This roused Wally right awake and he stumbled back from the door as whatever was on the other side gave a sharp shriek. It was unlike anything that he had ever heard before, and not even on the level of the groaning that usually came from the ink born nightmares. Whatever it was must've somehow noticed him, whether from the light or the sound, or the smell- that bloody, inky, infected smell was wafting through the room. This was the first time in a long time that Wally was worried that the door wouldn't hold.
He tightened his mouth, forcing silence, and stumbled back towards the back corner and the bed. He then slowly moved down to sit on the bedding he had been sleeping on.
"Oh, come on. Not tonight…" Wally was nearly begging. He stared through the darkness at the door, listening to the banging starting to slow down. Whatever it was either began to lose interest or was starting to listen in. He wasn't willing to put money on either. Deciding that it would leave eventually, he laid down on the bedding and stared through the darkness, trying to slow down his heartbeat.
Hopefully it would leave soon. He hadn't finished the job- not to mention that his legs were already starting to itch uncomfortably- and he really wasn't at the point where he wanted to let its body do whatever it wanted. Even if he was still tired. It wasn't safe to let this- whatever this was- go any further. He stretched out further on the bed and listened to the ticking of the nearby Bendy clock. He wondered what time it was, maybe morning already.
He remembered chugging down coffee in the morning hours as he made his rounds around the music department. Most of the time he would catch something playing through the walls, whether it be the band or just Sammy Lawrence alone plucking his banjo strings or playing something on a clarinet. All that music for dozens of cartoons that were never finished. They would never be finished either. It was all over-
Sheep Songs!
Boris was hungrier than ever as he walked into his kitchen. Licking his chops, he opened the pantry door, but there was nothing except a few moths inside. He then looked in the fridge, but the only thing there was a bottle of milk with only a lone drop inside. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully when his ears perked at hearing jingling outside. Looking out his kitchen window, Boris could see a field full of fat sheep hopping around. They turned into freshly cooked racks of lamb in front of his very eyes. Licking his lips again, he ran off. A few seconds later he ran out his front door with his clarinet.
Then, as simply as could be, Boris began to play out a tune. The sheep were immediately entranced and began to rhythmically skip towards his door and disappear inside one by one.
On the far side of the field in a tiny barn was Bendy. He stepped out to call the sheep when he spotted that most of the sheep were gone. He caught sight of a few skipping sheep disappearing over the hill. Rubbing his chin, Bendy decided to check it out, and followed over the hill.
There he saw the line of sheep entering Boris' house, guided by the wolf himself who was skipping and playing his instrument. Bendy hurried over and followed the last sheep inside, only to have the door slam in his face, and he fell on his backside and shook his head. It looked like he wasn't getting inside if he wasn't a sheep. A lightbulb popped up above Bendy's head before he rushed off to the barn.
He took out a sharp pair of shears and quickly shaved one of the remaining sheep until it was down to its boxers. Then he stuck the wool on his body and on his head. He finished the illusion by tying a bell collar around his neck. Then he left the barn and mock skipped over the hill. As he approached Boris' house, he could see smoke pouring out of the chimney, and listened closely to hear baa-ing from inside. Bendy knocked eagerly onto the door and waited. Soon the door opened, and Boris looked down at Bendy. He seemed to be tricked by the disguise, smiling wide in hungry delight and lifted the 'sheep' before carrying him inside.
Bendy was plopped down onto the dining room table when suddenly metal binds secured around his wrists and ankles. He fought against the bonds as Boris went to the shelf for an enormous butcher knife. He then came back, squinting awkwardly, and began to stab down at the sheep-dressed Bendy. On the table, Bendy managed to bend and stretch his body, dodging the knife blows as the wolf got faster and faster. Eventually Boris bowed over and panted while Bendy pulled his arm free long enough to wipe his sweat before replacing it in the binds.
The wolf tapped his chin thoughtfully before a light bulb appeared before his head. Now he grabbed a big pot out of the corner, snatched Bendy off the table, and dropped him in the pot. Then he dropped it over the fire as he still licked his lips. Inside, Bendy managed to stay near the top of the pot. Drops of sweat dripped down into the boiling water below as he avoided the splashes of hot water. It was then that Boris yanked off the lid to see inside the pot. He didn't notice that Bendy was crammed into the lid. The smaller popped out of the lid and rushed off as the wolf continued to look around the inside of the pot in surprise.
Bendy ran to the back of the house and opened the only other door. There were the sheep waiting. He then pointed to the front door and the sheep rushed out one by one. He then dusted off his hands- a job well done! Or it was until he was suddenly snatched up by Boris by the back of the costume. Boris turned the sheep imposter to face him, to which Bendy gave a nervous smile. The wolf licked his lips and raised Bendy over him. He beamed with a wide array of sharp teeth before lowering down Bendy towards his maw. Slowly, he lowered him feet first into his mouth.
Then his mouth chomped down and his teeth dug into Bendy's legs. Ink poured out of the wounds as the sharp points sliced through his flesh. There was no noise except the sound of rushing blood as Boris shook his prey. Bendy flew to the side and landed heavily on the wooden floor. Looking down revealed ink spurting out of nubs and he tried to drag himself back, looking up as Boris walked closer. The wolf smiled with his big dopey smile and bent down. His mouth opened wide, revealing a dark, inky tunnel inside. The smell of ink permeated the room as Boris moved in and started to cover Bendy in his mouth.
His legs burned. Flesh tearing and liquid flooding out and choking and coughing and swallowed by ink. The black abyss was burning as he dug his fingers into the tunnel beneath him. Then everything went black.
He opened his eyes to the same darkness.
Wally realized quickly was sitting upright on the floor, eyes staring into the darkness, mouth drippling drool or something. He choked and coughed some of the fluid that hung in his lungs. Though it was while he was hunched over, choking into his lap, that he realized something. The pain in his legs had followed him out of his dreams, and his fingers were deep in something warm and sticky, and fleshy. He knew what it was even before he brought his hands back.
Thick pieces of flesh clung to his fingers and his legs pulsed in agony. The smell was so much worse and now coming from beneath him, from his lower limbs. "…What did I do…?" he croaked out. He tightened his hands into fists and tried to ignore the flesh squishing in between his fingers. He had done something in his sleep, just as he had done earlier. Though he had a feeling his legs weren't fairing nearly as well as his arm had. He needed the light on and he needed to see the damage.
Slowly, Wally pushed himself off the ground. His legs began to sear in pain and he was forced to lean against the wall to get his bearings. It almost felt as though his legs would buckle underneath him, but the more disturbing sensation was the rushing feeling that was followed by unknown liquid dribbling down onto the floor below. Wally trudged over to the light switch, trudging, and flickered on the light. He then leaned back on the file cabinet and slowly looked down.
Even the grotesque cartoon nightmare looked better than what waited for him.
His pants were pulled up and his open wounds were nearly torn apart with skin nearly hanging off. More of the tainted blood was pouring out, mixed with the ink discharge and staining the floor beneath. It all looked like it was shedding away, and in the midst of one of the larger pits he could see stained whiteness. He reached down and carefully touched the white substance and it was as hard as a rock. It was his shin bone.
Wally retched and staggered forward. One hand caught the edge of the desk while the other grabbed for the wastebasket. He began to cough and choke until a mouthful of thick fluids was rejected from his lungs and into the bottom of the trash. It had the foul, chemical stench and looking into the basket revealed a familiar color. His lungs burned as he gasped in a few heavy breaths and tried to calm down.
The ink he had ingested was spreading across his body. He had to do something and fast.
"I gotta get it out of me," Wally muttered to himself. His voice was crackling and frantic as he tried to think of something. He dropped the basket and rubbed a hand over his sweating face. "Thinner? Would that do it? Maybe just flush all this out?" He shuddered at the thought. "I can't go drinking thinner. That'll kill me faster than the ink!..." Well, at this rate, maybe not. "No, I need to get this out of my legs. Get some thinner, dump it on, ink flows out, and then… Then I wrap it up and hope it don't start to rot." He hunched over the desk in exhaustion. "This can't happen. This can't happen like this."
It couldn't hurt to try, he hoped. What could hurt was whatever had been prowling the hall earlier. Swallowing thickly, and ignoring the taste of ink, he carefully lowered his pants legs, hissing at the way they drug over his open wounds, and stood on shaky legs. He took one of the wrenches he had in the office- thinking it would be a possible weapon- and pushed the file cabinet aside. He then inched open the door slowly and peered into the hallway. The light was dim and there was dried ink on the floor, but it looked empty and he couldn't hear anything nearby.
The supply closet he was thinking of was two halls over and every step towards it was agony. Melting tendons protested being used and every few steps he would stop, lean on the wall, and either hiss in pain or swear under his breath. It was the sight of the bone that pressed him onwards, even as he heard the horrific sounds of voices wailing through the walls. Muffled sounds of crying and wailing were heard from somewhere, but he couldn't tell if they were through the ceiling or the floor. Perhaps even both. They sounded human, but he knew better than to hope for that.
The supply closet wasn't much further away. Every step got him a little closer to it until his hand was on the knob. He opened the door, which tried to stay stuck closed from how the wood was warping and staggered inside. After looking over the shelves he looked upon a large, unlabeled jug on the lowermost shelf.
"This it? Kinda looks like it," Wally muttered in a crackling voice. He opened the bottle and smelled it. The rush of the pungent fumes was enough to make him light headed. "Yeesh! When'd we get the strong stuff?! Ugh, maybe it's like liquor. Maybe it aged or something." He tightened the lid back on and turned to step out of the closet. "This stuff better work, cause I ain't-."
There was a thump through the wall. Wally's mouth clamped shut and his eyes widened. His heart began to pound as he listened closely. It almost sounded like footsteps coming from somewhere. It didn't take him long to guesstimate where it was coming from, which was the next hallway, where he himself had come from. If he didn't know better, he would've assumed that something was following him. Grabbing the jug tightly and pulling it to his body, he staggered back out of the closet. He couldn't think straight against the panic and the pain.
"Come on, Wally, focus!" He started to walk quickly down the other hall."Alright, alright… There's gotta be another way that heads back to the office." He used to remember the layout of this place like the back of his hand, but now he found his mind getting pathways mixed up even as he was moving through familiar locations. "I take a right here?" He turned right and faced a collapsed hallway, where a mound of broken wood and pipes blocked his way. "Looks like that ain't happening. Okay, to the left."
He wandered down the left hall, hearing the footsteps- clanking and cluttering- getting closer without exactly certain of what direction they were coming from. It certainly didn't sound like the inky, goopy torsos that he used to spot dragging themselves around. He shuddered at the thought and continued forward before stopping at the top of some stairs.
"When were there stairs here?!... Unless… Oh wow, I'm really backwards." He wiped off his sweaty forehead and looked around at some of the dim lights before spotting another hallway. That was his last option, but at least the footsteps sounded like they had died down. Without a moment's delay, he continued to the hallway. He was halfway down it when he recognized one of the doors by an inky handprint on the outside of it. "There we go! Back on the right track!" He began to quicken his pace, forcing his damaged legs to cooperate, even if they didn't want to.
He was so close to his office that he hoisted up the jug and pushed himself into what was almost a pathetic run. This was quickly overtaken by a limp as the pain started to creep into his flesh. That burning heat of flesh forced to the brink. Wally was nearly seeing spots as he hurried around the corner.
Then he saw nothing as he was blinded by bright lights. "Gah!" he tried to shield his face from the flickering light and was about to question the glow.
He was answered by a loud, familiar shriek, ending in a high-pitched shrillness. The wails of an ink monster.
Wally stumbled back with a short cry, turned as fast as he could, and began to run. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and numbed any of the pain, even as his weakened body struggled to maneuver itself. His legs weren't responding right and more than once he found himself tripping over himself or hitting the corner of the wall as he turned too quickly. Shadows blurred around him as he heard the heavy footsteps keeping up. The pulsing pain started to return as a lightheadedness began to sink in. He couldn't get enough air; his lungs felt heavy and full.
In a move of desperation, he rushed into a random room. It looked to be a hopeless endeavor, with no other exits, anywhere to hide, or even a workable lock on the door. He quickly squeezed behind the door and hoped desperately that the creature would see the empty room and keep moving. Alas, he soon heard its thumping, rattling footsteps as it stepped through the open door and into the center of the room. No longer blinded by it, Wally was now able to see the being fully. He immediately wished that he hadn't.
Its skin was just a tarry, thick ink dripping and pulsing along its body. Metal bits and pieces jutted from its chest and arms, but it was nothing compared to the heavy projector mounted on its heard. Or more correctly, mounted for a head. There was no doubt that the equipment replaced any head that had been there before. Wally still had the wrench grasped tightly in one hand even as he held the jug of thinner and had considered fight back against the creature. Now seeing it he knew he had no chance. He carefully stepped out and backed away as it looked over the room with the light flickering from its lens.
Wally was halfway down the hall when the light aimed towards the door of the room. He didn't give it a chance to see him and turned immediately, rushing back to the office with a wounded gait. Somehow, he managed to get lucky and found his way back on track before spotting the door to his sanctuary and salvation. He slammed the door behind him and locked it securely, still hugging the jug of thinner to his chest. He then waited, listening, but struggled to hear through the pounding in his ears and wheezing of his lungs. He swallowed shakily and wiped the sweat off his face.
Apparently, he had lost the projector monster as he couldn't hear its footsteps though the door, but he only had a moment of respite before he was attacked by an unrelenting thought: "Is that what I'm gonna turn into?"
Which was promptly followed with: "There's no way in hell."
Wally moved to his bedding and sat down on it again. This would probably ruin his bed, but he wanted to do it in a comfortable position, because if the ink monster's reactions were any indication then this would hurt. He looked down at the mixture of ink and blood linking at his gaping wounds and realized he could see more of his shin bone. A shuddering choke managed to barely force its way out of his chest as he looked away to brace himself. He licked his dried lips and began to unscrew the jug of thinner.
"This better work," Wally cracked out, choking again on the smell of the fluid. His hands were shaking as he pulled his pants legs up all the way to reveal the full extent of the damage. "It'll only be a couple of seconds and then all this ink's gonna be long gone… Or I'll be dead… Either's better than sitting here and losin' my legs." He held onto this hope as he closed his eyes tightly. Just like dumping out a bottle of floor cleaner, he supposed. Then he poured the chemicals onto his wounds.
He was right about one thing: the pain only lasted for a few seconds. For all it took was a few moments of blinding, white-hot pain before he lost control of his body and collapsed heavily onto the floor. He blacked out for a few moments…
Then the door swung open and in barged none other than the big boss himself, Joey Drew. He stood over the desk with a cigar poking out from between his lips like some sort of cartoon villain. "Wally, what the hell are you doing down here?" he asked as he looked down at the younger man. He removed the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke, then pointed with it. "I don't pay you to hide down here and slack!" Wally tried to explain himself through a mouthful of bacon soup. "And you should really eat that stuff with a fork!"
The janitor spat a mouthful of red fluid onto the desk. "Look here, Pal! I'm fed up with all of this!" Wally snapped back. "You ain't got no idea what I've gotta put up with! All this ink and garbage- that's it! I. Am. Outta here!" He then turned and-
rolled onto his belly and crawled across the floor. Confused and disoriented by pain, he bumped into the file cabinet. A torrent of fluid gushed down his face from the smallest wound and blinded him.
"Joey!" Wally began to scream, but Joey wasn't there. "I don't want that machine! I don't want ink with machine, I'm melting!" His words all began to slur together. "Help me, help me-."
"Well, if you're going to lay around all the time," Joey said. "You can lay around all the time," Joey said. "I pay big bucks to people who think we create the dreams of thousands of children and adults alike," Joey said. "I don't need you or anyone else. All we need is Bendy- and a hook!" Joey said. "Time is money and you don't have either anymore!"
"I think somethin's wrrroong," Wally slurred out as he looked towards the closed office door. Joey must've left, right? "Joe… Joey? Joey, why? Why we gotta make so much ink?" he called towards the door and crawled closer. His hands made squelching noises on the wooden floor as he dragged himself along. "Joey, ya can't go with-ut me!" He raised his fist and banged on the bottom of the door, staring upwards at it. "I know you're ooout- out there! Take me home!" As his banging got more frantic, black spots started to spread across his vision as the world started to disappear. "I didn't want it inside me! Joey! Joey!"
The ringing in his ears grew more intense as the pressure pounded down on him. The agony of pain and the leaking of ink down his face, from his nose, was suffocating him. He was nearly hysterical and then all at once, like a balloon full of ink popping and spilling down upon him, he lost the fight. His body gave out and his head hit the floor.
Again, there was darkness. Again, it didn't last.
Wally awoke with a startled gasp and found himself laying face down on the floor. Immediately he was aware of how weak he felt. Even lifting his head felt like a strain and he looked upwards to see the office door. He vaguely remembered the memories of Joey being in the office but hope faded fast as soon as he realized that it couldn't have happened. It had all been a hallucination, a dream inside of a nightmare. Which honestly hurt, because even if he didn't exactly like or respect Joey he had been so relieved to be with someone else.
He rubbed a mixture of blood and ink off his face. "The hell happened?" the janitor slurred. His saliva was thick and the flesh on the roof of his mouth was sloughing off. He rubbed his tongue over it and then spat a mouthful of dark clumps onto the floor. "Ugh, for God's sake."
He weakly started to sit upwards and roll himself over. He fell back against the base of the door, head propped upright uncomfortably, and tried to access himself through feel. His legs didn't hurt or itch any longer, at least, but his left arm felt strange. He lifted it upwards and could see that the bandages were soaked through in the ink. He squinted through his hazy vision at the mixture, but he was too tired to even be shocked.
"I'll just put some thinner on it later. Fix it right up," Wally groggily rattled as he dropped his arms. He slowly pushed himself up on the door, straining against the fatigue, so he could look down at his legs. Though he was taken aback by how odd his pants were. It was as though the legs were twisted, as though they hadn't turned with him, coated in ink and… Flat.
Wally poked down his thigh at the jelly-like flesh underneath. That certainly didn't feel right, but when he reached his knee, he knew what was wrong. He wasn't hallucinating, he wasn't imagining it, there was just nothing left to fill the pants. His lower legs had melted away, and the upper legs felt like they would soon follow. This realization was followed with a delayed reaction. Wally just stared at his flattened, inky drenched pant legs and tried to rationalize it. Then the weight of it hit him. His legs were gone, and his arm was following suit. He was wasting away.
Wally made a noise akin to a pathetic squeak as he took in a shaky breath. His lungs burned and felt heavily, as though something other than air was clogging them. Now he knew that it had to also be ink. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to block out the rush of overstimulation. The panic, the harsh grip of cold reality; it was clear now that he wasn't ever getting out of this studio. He certainly wasn't walking out of this studio and he wasn't in any state to crawl out. Now he was totally defenseless, stuck in this office, dying, wasting away to nothing…
And he was still thirsty.
"God damn it!" Wally struck the floor with balled up fists, ignoring how his skin made a sickly, splattering noise from the movement alone. "It's not fair!" His fingers tried to dig at the wood as his head thumped back against the door. He stared at the stained ceiling, the door over him, the Bendy clock ticking on innocently. "What'd I ever do to deserve this?! I ain't ever done anything for this!" His eyes burned, but he had run out of even enough fluid to cry. He just dryly choked on the mixture of ink and loose flesh that constantly filled his mouth. "It was just a little ink. That's all. Just a little…"
This was it. There was no way out. There was no escape.
…Or, no. There was one escape.
As though suddenly presented the idea on a silver platter, Wally's head raised, and he stared across the room at the half-emptied bottle of thinner laying on its side. Most of it had spilled out and dried, but he knew there had to be some left inside the jug. He turned himself forward to crawl towards it. He was so exhausted that he wouldn't have been able to do so if not for the unexpected weight loss that accompanied the loss of his lower legs. Once within reach, he rolled the jug closer and went to grab it. Apparently, there was a drop or two of the fluid on the outside of the bottle, because when Wally touched it his skin burned.
He yanked his hand back- "Son of a-!" -and with a hiss he looked at his darkened, bruise and ink covered hand. Currently a couple of little spots were burning into his skin like acid and promptly afterwards ink started to dribble out. It must have multiplied inside his body, like the ink itself was changing his flesh into it. Elsewise the thinner would've done nothing. He was becoming ink and, therefore, like the thing he had seen outside. Which meant that was why it melted his legs.
Which meant that if he drank it, it would probably melt the rest of him.
"W-Wouldn't be that bad, right?" Wally asked himself. He was trembling, though he would've possibly been doing so without this idea. "Sure, it'd- it'd hurt like hellfire for a couple of seconds, but then it'd be all over. No more thirst, no more studio, no more Bendy… I ain't got much else to lose, yeah? It'd spare me the joy of becoming some sorta ink zombie…" It all sounded so easy. A quick way out was right in front of him. With a shaky swallow, he started to lift the jug again. "Just… Just gotta… Gulp this down and it's all good."
The noxious smell of the thinner was stronger than ever. He wondered if his body was starting to reject the scent, adapting to the ink inside of it, or if it was just because of what he knew was coming. He bit his tongue and raised the rim to his lips.
And then…
He dropped it again to the floor, barely managing to avoid the thinner splashing up. As much as he knew that he probably needed to do it, he couldn't. Panting, he pled his case to nobody but himself.
"I… I might've been stupid enough to drink the ink, but I ain't losing the rest of my dignity drinkin' the thinner!" Wally announced as he set the jug aside. "Forget that! I'll die naturally, thank you! As… As naturally as I can melting into ink. For cryin' out loud…" He gave a shaky swallow as his nerve started to falter and felt the dried burn in his throat. The truth was that as frightening as this all was the fear of death was much more intense. He couldn't even imagine putting that acidic fluid into his body if it meant he would waste away. He didn't want to die and especially not at his own hands; that was just how he was.
"I'd kill for a drink," he muttered as he rubbed at his throat. He then choked and coughed, his frustration growing as he sputtered droplets of ink onto his fist. "I shoulda just gone for water. Even if I died, I woulda done it quick!"
His head raised and as though drawn to it exactly, his eyes landed precisely on the can of collected ink sitting atop a carboard box. It had overflowed, and the fluid dripped down the sides and soaked into the equally stained box. It was a grim reminder of him unwittingly sacrificing his body, but for a moment it looked like salvation. A cool fluid to ease his parched throat and to speed up whatever this was happening. It couldn't do any worse to him, right? Not when the ink was in him.
"…Frankly, I don't care if it does," Wally answered himself as he crawled over the floor of the office. He struggled even with the lack of his legs' weight but was too determined to get to his prize and reached up for the can. Ink leaked onto his hand as he drug it out from under the dripping ink and lowered it to himself. He stared at the black liquid inside. He was so deluded and exhausted, and so thirsty, and he just needed something to deal with the stress. "I just… I need somethin'." He dragged himself back to his stained bedding, his shaky hand causing ink to spill down his front and rested his back against the wall.
Then, with a shaky, deep breath beforehand, he drank a mouthful of the ink. He was moderately surprised when, regardless of the taste, it went down easy. Maybe his body was just beginning to cave underneath him and accepted what it could. It soothed his parched throat and left a strange, buzzing warmth in his core. He lowered the can and looked at his ink stained pants, still missing his lower legs. There was no surviving this, but at least he felt a little better now. With a slow exhale, he drank more of the ink down. He felt so numb to it all.
Only once the ink was gone did he drop the can to his side and slide down against the wall. He stared at the roof groggily as weariness started to take hold. His eyelids were heavy, and his vision was growing blurry. His mind was beginning to shut down and he let his eyes close. Wally was so exhausted, so ready to sleep, and everything was growing so heavy. It felt like sinking into a warm pool of ink and it was welcomed as he faded away
…
…
Wally was genuinely surprised that he woke back up at all.
He gasped as he roused to consciousness. Thick ink, more like sludge than ink, had filled his mouth as his eyes were blinded by the mixture. He choked and hunched forwards, coughing and hacking in a desperate attempt to clear his airway. The glob of ink was spat out and he heaved in a few gasps of air. His lungs burned, his body was strange, and his head was heavy and clotted with this viscous ink. He fell back against the wall and ink spattered between him and it. He shivered at the splattering noise and grimaced through the constant flood of ink. He had worked as a janitor for years, but he had never felt so disgusting.
Fighting against the clotted ink, he tried to open his eyes and barely managed to open the right one a slither. The whole world seemed to be obscured in a brownish, blackish film- no doubt more ink caught in his eyes. Looking down at himself he was unsurprised to see that he was saturated in the stuff.
"Is this it?" he wondered as he panted against the wall. His chest rose and fell in labored breathing. "Am I just all ink now?"
He thought of the thick, crawling ink torsos he saw in the halls some time ago. It was very possible that he just morphed into one of them. Maybe he was ink all the way through now and everything else melted away. A strange curiosity gripped him as he looked down at himself, watching the slight movements of his breathing. He had to have lungs at least, maybe, unless they too were just sacks made of ink film. Wally grabbed for his chest and his fingers dug into an inch of ink. His breath hitched as he continued to push past the thickness. There was a sick squishing noise as he easily slid in.
A foreboding feeling started to take hold as he looked down at where his legs once were. Now there was just a blur of loose and thick ink, and yet when he tried to move his legs it almost felt like there was something there underneath the slightly moving ink. He couldn't see through the ink well enough to even make a guess about how his legs were finished off, or if they were there at all.
It was then that the tips of his fingers were suddenly stopped by what felt like flesh. He was surprised as he had expected to either hit ribs or just slip straight through, but there was some flesh left behind. Even if he did feel thinner than usual, as though all his flesh had shrunken underneath the ink. He felt around and noticed the edge of his jumpsuit that had hung down. He barely pinched the fabric and tried to pull it back to no avail. It was stuck tightly underneath the ink. It was now that it occurred to him that maybe he would see better with the ink off, especially since removing the ink so far hadn't been painful.
"Well, I ain't trying the thinner again and I'm all out of water," Wally thought as he pulled his hand free with a sickening pop. "Maybe I got another tarp or somethin' around here. I'm pretty sure my bed's been inked to hell and back by now."
Wally leaned forward and barely caught himself on the floor. The ink was so heavy on him that it started to weigh him down. He gave another heavy cough and began to crawl along the floor. It felt like he still had knees. Honestly it felt like his legs were still there, though if they were they had shriveled too, and he was hesitant to stand on the nubs. That sounded like it would hurt worse than any thinner, even though he currently had no pain at all. That was, until he lost track of where he was after a clump of ink covered his good eye and promptly ran head first into the office chair.
He muttered a swear and rubbed over his forehead. Everything about his face felt odd and drippy. "Ugh, what if I get one of those gaping maws those crawling things got?... Maybe I'd just have to get me a projector to hide my shame under." He held onto the edge of the chair and took a patient breath. "Just be thankful you ain't dead…" He felt so much better than before and all it took was completely deteriorating into ink. "Who knew! Heh…" He coughed and started to straighten. "Let's… Let's see if there's anything hiding back here."
He crawled around the desk slowly. Wiping his good eye again, Wally scanned the small space for any sort of rag or cloth. He didn't see anything that stood out, but once he began grasping at straws his eyes fell on a collage of Bendy posters that had been taped over a mirror. He didn't know who was paranoid enough to tape over a mirror- probably Sammy Lawrence- but he had taken it down some time ago because of how it shook on the wall when he walked around. Now those dried out, newspaper-textured posters looked like the key to his salvation.
"It's better than nothing. And if I get a papercut, I'll just dip my hand into myself and I'll be good to go!" Wally tried to force a chuckle through a croaking voice. "…I need a drink of somethin' way stronger than ink."
He dragged himself over the wooden floor and to the posters. Bendy, Boris, Alice Angel, the Butcher Gang; the gang was all here and staring at him with wide smiles. He could've gone without seeing their mocking faces ever again and was going to take joy out of blacking them out. He went to tear off an uppermost poster, which proceeded to tear down the center in a large slither. Then with one last look at one of Bendy's smile, Wally pressed the paper against his face to wipe away the ink. It was uncomfortable, and the roughness of the posters wasn't exactly as assuring as a towel would've been, but it somewhat worked.
The wad of posters was saturated in only a few moments and Wally tossed them vaguely in the direction of the wastebasket. Then he reached over to grab more posters and was struck by something he hadn't noticed before.
There was a strange, unrecognizable Bendy poster hiding underneath the other. All he could really see was a grimace and could assume easily that it was one of those 'spooky' episodes that started cute and ended with Bendy crying. It was an unsettling image and he went to snatch it away, so he could melt it under the onslaught of thickened ink. His fingers touched coldness and he dragged them around to find the edge of the paper, but it didn't feel like it was there. He leaned closer-.
Bendy's face started to change before his eyes. Wally froze and looked at the image, which looked back in shock, and only then did his chemical addled mind suddenly process that he was touching glass.
Wally let out a short yell and threw himself back. In a mixture of stumbling and flailing, using legs and arms and whatever he could, Wally backed from the scene until his back hit drawers pressed against the wall. The pyramid of soup cans received the slightest tremor and proceeded to collapse onto him. He shielded his head as the light, empty, unthreatening cans pelted down onto him.
It would've been comical if not for his hands finding horns underneath the ink on his head. His hands tightened on his head, on his horns, and he began to devolve into hyperventilation.
"Geez, hallucinating again already?! Pull yourself together, Wally! It wasn't funny having Joey dropping in and this ain't funny neither!" Wally mentally scolded himself. Yet on the outside, all that could come through his lips was a mantra of, "No, no, no. Oh no, no, no." He coughed and choked as his throat tightened on the ink still left behind inside. He pulled in his legs and wrapped his arms around them, and only then realized that- though small- they were fully formed. He had watched his lower legs melt away and now they were suddenly back, jet black, smother in ink, and not human. No, not human anymore.
"This ain't happening," Wally blurted out. He held himself tightly and closed his eyes. "I'm- I'm just tripping really bad here. Just gotta ride out all this bad ink. It's Joey all over again." But it didn't feel like he was hallucinating. Other than the dripping ink sliding off him he felt alright, he felt sane, but what he was looking at was a waking nightmare. Perhaps more so than the thought of melting away. He rocked himself lightly and thumped his head and back against the drawers. "Come on, snap out of this…" A harder strike. "Come on! Pull yourself together!"
But nothing changed. It was his worst nightmare: one that he couldn't awaken from. He was nearly inconsolable, but Wally managed to somewhat get himself to calm down. If only so that he could turn his attention back to the mirror.
Shakily, he pushed himself up to standing- alas, standing on these legs gave only more evidence for them being real- and took a few tentative steps towards the mirror. He was borderline hyperventilating as he tore the rest of the posters off without care and stared into the reflection hiding underneath.
A terrified looking, ink logged Bendy stared out from the mirror. It was almost a perfect doppelganger to the cartoon portrayed everywhere across the studio. It was a living embodiment of Bendy. He was now a living embodiment of Bendy.
Wally realized in that moment that he really had died. Any hope of escape, of a normal life, of escaping from the constant presence of the dancing demon was crushed in an instant. Wally Franks had melted away and now only Bendy remained. He watched tears of ink roll down the face of his reflection but was too numb to feel them on his own. Already fitting right into character.
But on the plus side, he wouldn't have a problem drinking the ink anymore.
END