Dix [Cartoonist above, musician below.] [Trigger warnings–[flashback: implied racism, homophobic slurs and sexual harassment.] Real-time: sexism.]
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Sometimes, Henry wished the crash killed him.
Permanently.
It couldn't hurt as badly as what came when he regained consciousness. Buddy, patting his face and shaking his shoulders. That cloying humming as the two-faced twisted angel strut into view.
The lights went black. Then as quickly as they had, they came back if only to show Buddy being ripped backwards into hell. Arms still stretched out to him like the damaged, dizzied man could do anything.
It happened like that every time… and every time Henry wanted to scream.
/
If someone were to ask Sammy why he thought he could outrun the Projectionist, he' have multiple answers but none of them would be good. The saving grace that kept him alive was the fact that object permanence was nonexistent for the beast trundling around.
Too-many close-calls later had run the musician ragged. Better ragged than dead, he supposed. He was grateful that his overalls and boots hadn't leaked. What luck that he hadn't been harmed yet.
Henry, however… well, he had heard the crash. He'd been near the platform, trying to figure a way to get the elevator to work, only to have the lift go screaming down into the depths. Half a second of noise, gone in thick, black smoke.
Sammy knew Henry wouldn't stay dead, should the fall kill him, but… well.
Best not to think of the icy guilt that plunged into his stomach. Being in the lift would change nothing, but not being there, to have not even the chance to fail…
Shake it off. Keep moving. The musician adjusted the axe over his shoulder and went back into the realm of the Projectionist.
He paused at the sight of a tape player on a crate. That must have been the one Henry had asked him not to fiddle with… but Henry wasn't here. He needed to hear it to understand himself better. Checking around before trying anything foolish, Sammy spied the Projectionist wandering about, back to him, and turning a corner out of sight.
He hit the play button. Norman Polk's voice wasn't what Sammy expected. "Now I'm not lookin' for trouble. It's just the nature of us projectionists to seek out the dark places. You see, I've learned the ins and outs of this here studio. I know how to avoid being bothered by the likes of this... company. "That projectionist", they always say, "creeping around, he's just lookin' for trouble." Well trouble or not, I sees everything. They don't even know when I'm watchin'. Even when I'm right behind 'em."
... that didn't help at all. It may have explained away the fact the creature once called Polk was lumbering around in the darkest parts of this place. Wasn't there another, a searcher in a hat, that did something similar? Sticking to themselves and lobbing objects at Henry? Sammy felt a wave of something close to nausea, pins shooting into his head and down his spine. Why the hell was he remembering-
"-anything about projectors, mister Lawrence?" "Only that if you shouldn't touch the bulb bare handed." Norman nodded, smirking. "Know why that is?" Sammy shook his head. He and Jack had finished their latest piece, and it was now up to Joey Drew to completely botch it. He figured he might as well watch Norman, the projectionist, do his duty of projector maintenance. The older man held up a white-gloved hand. "Oil from your fingertips gets on the bulb, the bulb gets so hot the oil boils. Bulb shatters, and then I get sent up here to disassemble and clean a projector." He screwed the new bulb into its socket and hefted the projector onto his left shoulder. "I'm impressed. I'd think you'd need a manual for that thing." He shrugged his free shoulder. "No need. Been fixing these for decades." "I didn't think someone like you could do such a complex task." Norman frowned, brows lowered. "Someone like me." Sammy raised his hands in defense. "I only meant-" "I know what you meant, Lawrence. Don't change the fact if you don't learn you don't eat." The taller man glowered. "If you're gonna fiddle with my machines, you're gonna learn how to treat the projectors right. You breaking the biggest part of my main job ain't gonna fly if Grant has to budget out for more parts every other week." Sammy huffed. Who was Polk to speak to him like that? Then again, for things to go smoothly, he'd have to bite his tongue and pay attention. Starting with! "Right. Fantastic. What else do you do here?" Norman's brow smoothed. "Projectors, some electric. Gotta wear more than one hat with mister Drew as your boss." His confinement to the music department said otherwise. Four months in this place felt like a lifetime with the workload Joey had given him. He only got a break around Henry. "I'm fine being a music director and composer." "Give it time, he'll give you more to do." Norman set the projector back down with a thud-
Susie chuckled, her voice a loud whisper as she drew close to her microphone. "It's a shame, really, that such a handsome man would be an eternal bachelor. I wonder who else knew about your dirty secret, false prophet?"
Sammy was thrust back into the moment at the voice, dizzy and aching. Were it anyone else, he'd be grateful. "Funny. I don't recall you seeming to know any of my secrets yourself."
"You said you loved my voice, but you know what I think? I think you loved having me close to keep curious eyes off your wandering gaze." The false angel thumped something with a fist. The dark undercurrent beneath her voice bubbled up, thick and unnaturally deep.
She wasn't wrong… it disgusted him he'd used people the way he had. "Just keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, I suppose." Sammy trudged through the knee-deep ink. Knowing now that the twisted angel could hear what he and Henry had said made his insides roil. "Or don't. I really can't find time to care what you think of me, Miss Malice Angel. If I wanted a woman nearby, I could rent one who did a better job than you at hiding suspicion."
"Is that the story with Allison Pendle? A rental that got too chummy?"
The ink man looked up for a speaker to shout at. He could only remember Allison enough to know insulting her set him off. "I had no power over what happened to your role!" It wasn't his fault that Joey changed his mind on Susie! It wasn't his fault that Allison was such a wonderful fit for Alice Angel! "But keep blaming me for your misfortune. It's done you so many favors!"
Expecting a volatile retort, Sammy got a condescending, childish giggle for his outburst. "And yet, I am the only angel here." There was a clicking hiss of static, and the twisted angel went quiet.
Hot, amber light and an unholy scream cut through the darkness. The Projectionist had Sammy in his sights.
"Shit." He ran, but made the mistake of getting cornered. Between worn wood and lattice work, Sammy had nowhere to go and nothing to hide behind. Projectionist was lumbering forward and swinging madly, giving the ink man another atrocious screech. Trapped but determined, he didn't want to give up now. He couldn't give up now. Henry needed him up at Bendy-Land! "Polk!"
But the Projectionist drew closer and closer with his light blinding the ink man, before he swung once more and-
Black.
Wet.
Cold.
Black.
... he already felt black, hadn't he?
... who was he?
Was he even he in this place?
This place. It… what was…
... who…
... wait… he knew this one…
He… he was definitely he, not just part of this place… but who was-
Sammy Lawrence. Musician. Prophet.
Okay, he had that.
Which parts were genuine… he'd think that up later.
But… what was he doing? It was missing, but it felt… not black. Not cold. Kinda wet? What was he-
Curved horns.
Unending smile.
I see you, my savior.
Praise him.
He shines in the darkness.
Praise him.
Love requires sacrifice.
PRAISE HIMMY LORDAMEN!HE WILL SET US
Hazel eyes. Freckles. Glasses. Kind. Cartoonist. Melancholy. Henry.
Where was Henry?
The ink couldn't penetrate his shock. How could he forget Henry? Now if ever, of all people, Henry!
Damn this corrupt ink!
He had to get to Bendy-Land!
Sammy came up from the ink with a shout and stumbled out of the corner the Projectionist had splattered him in. Soon as he got his breath back, he swore a blue streak. At least the overall's stayed on! How did that even work? Where the hell was his banjo? Was his mask still in place?
The flickering of a reel and the shambling, metallic footfalls of the Projectionist called his attention. Just stay out of his light this time. Just- where was the axe?
Some feet away, floating in the ink. Sammy reached for it, using all his willpower to not be claimed again. A wave of horror almost pulled him down; did he lose his fingers?
He checked, trembling in the darkness. Index, middle, ring… pinkie. Okay. Changes caused by Henry were permanent. Good to know if he fell to the ink again. Sammy reached for the axe again and pulled it from the ink without issue. Maybe his best bet was to stay put? Wait for the Projectionist to saunter by before he tried to leave for the abandoned theme park. How long had he been-
"-a while since we've done this, eh?" Sammy nodded, brows set in a firm frown. "The second there's breathing room means there's more room to work." There had been a terrible workless lull between Henry leaving and creating cartoons. Empty, dull, and no quiet workplace to hide from the beloved tyrant in. He ignored the fingertips that ghosted across his back. Joey always had a thing for touching people to get their attention. Sammy focused on what was before him, the storyboards pinned up in order. They offered enough for him to get an idea of what was to come. New characters; a set of trouble makers called The Butcher Gang. As if the little devil darlin' needed more creations
to hog the spotlight. "These new critters are gonna be a hit, I can taste it!" Joey held up his pointing stick and rambled on about the setup on the cork-board above. "Now, your folly work is spot on, but Edgar here's a special little fella! I'm thinking a cute peeping noise instead of dialogue." Sammy nodded, already feeling his attention slipping. It'd be at least a month before these things would even see the silver screen. They were still just lines on a page, the basic movements and plot points. He let Joey talk. The sooner he ran out of steam, the sooner the musician could get back to work. "-but I'm thinking of using a triangle instead of an actual service bell! Unless you've got a service bell?" Joey grinned, but it faltered. "Busy day, eh?" "Mm? Oh. Yes. Very. Four songs all due by tomorrow morning will do that to a man." If Joey knew how to set a proper deadline, he wouldn't be dead on his feet. Joey set the pointing stick behind him and he settled a firm hand on Sammy's lower back. "I wouldn't give you that much if I didn't believe in you." …but suddenly Joey's hand drifted too low and Sammy spun, pinning the shorter man with a burning glare. "Watch it, Drew." The director was unphased as ever. "Not fun, is it?" His grin turned predatory, eyes cold. "I gotta wonder, Lawrence! Was this how Henry felt?" Oh shit. "Excuse me?" Joey playfully tugged Sammy's closest suspender. "Y'know… Norman's damn good at keeping me clued in to what's going on where I can't see." He let it go, and it snapped back. Sammy hid a flinch and glowered. "Come off it, Joey. Whatever Norman's telling you-" "Norman's an outstanding worker. All he had to tell me was what he saw! He has no reason to lie to me, Sammy. But you?" The smile faded, and Joey's real face glared up at him. "You're a natural-born liar. Not a fan of those." "Then fire me, if you hate me so much." Joey scoffed. "Never said I hated you! But this attitude of yours might get you on your ass!" Arms behind his back, the man's gaze danced over the storyboards up on the wall. "You two were awfully chummy. Believe you me, Henry was my best pal." His emphasis on the word my was burning with bubbling, furious jealousy. Joey turned his head and fixed the blond with a wicked smile. "Thought you'd know to keep your hands to yourself…. but it's not like a faggot would have self control-" The blond struck like a cobra and his punch landed true, dead smack into Joey's nose. The director fell back and clutched his face. Hand over his bleeding nose, he heaved a few deep breaths… then cackled. "I didn't think!" He broke off, laughter going from darkly amused to searing hysteria. "Oh, boy! Sammy, I tell ya! Didn't think you had it in you!" Like Joey was the first bold bastard to try some funny business. Sammy loomed and felt himself redden and shake. "Hell do you think you are, Drew?" Joey pulled his hand from his nose. Bright, fresh red gleamed under his nose and against his palm. It leaked between his fingers. "I'm your boss." His clean hand pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, which was quickly stained red as he cleaned his hands and face. Rust stains remained in his pencil-thin mustache and on pale flesh. "There's something you seem to forget; I'm running the show." His smirk, that cruel crack of a grin, returned. "And you know it." "You don't own me, Drew," Sammy stated levelly. "You try that again, I'll do worse than pop you." "Your contract says otherwise, but those pianist hands sure got some bite!" The Cheshire grin returned, and the shorter man cleared his throat. "Good talk, Sammy! I'm sure you'll give these creations your best effort, but I've got an appointment in… Oh," He glanced at his watch and headed for the door. He pulled it open, a bit of blood rubbing off on the knob. "Fifteen. So we'd both better get back to what we're meant to do." Sammy left without a word and stormed out. "And keep your hands to yourself from now on!" Joey just had to get another damn word in. It made the slender man move all the faster, and he shouldered into the bathroom. He heaved a breath, but his lungs couldn't pull in air. Lungs starved of air and heart hammering as if trying to take flight, Sammy did what he always did when he felt this shit come on; wait it out. Not the best plan, but the only one he had. The blond slammed himself onto a toilet and latched the door. Flexing his hand even a little hurt like hell. Sammy turned his hand over. His knuckles were bleeding, a narrow scrape from one of Joey's teeth, he was guessing. The infirmary had gauze… but then he'd have to come up with a reason for how he hurt himself. His stomach clenched as the anxiety hit full on. Joey knew. Norman saw something. He was bleeding and scared to death. He stood from his seat and turned, the contents of his stomach spilling out-
-but nothing came out, having no mouth to vomit with. His heaving stopped, the hand to a wall slick with shed ink. Parts of him dripped and writhed… the broken face of Bendy peered up at him, floating away. He affixed it back to his head with stiff movements. If the projectionist could hear, he'd have charged Sammy's way, but he just lumbered on, light flickering brightly.
The projectionist. Norman Polk. That flashback… it left Sammy feeling an ugly mix of sick and outraged. What the hell had Norman said to Joey that'd make Joey try something like that? What had Sammy done to Henry to elicit that amount of Joey Drew's brand of hostility?
An unhinged shriek tore through the depths, and Sammy raised the axe at the sudden oncoming brightness. To hell with figuring the projectionist out; he was not going back to the ink! The man charged and swung, landing a blow that shot sparks into the humid air. The blade bit into the speaker on the creatur'es chest, sending out a spray of ink and wires.
The Projectionist lurched, the bulb flickering madly as he screeched again. Sammy screamed back and swung with all his might, the blade catching a fin on top of the beast and tugging it until it bent. He skipped backwards and the beast reached for him and he swung again, blade flat to knock it down. The Projectionist fell bulb-down into the ink and lay still. The ticling click of an unseen reel slowed and came at last to a stop.
The musician was tempted to poke Polk to see if he would move, but shook the thought away. If old light head were still alive, then Sammy'd just have to face him when the time came. For now, the only thought was Bendy-Land. Focus on Henry, and not whatever Norman had seen that made Joey act so… perverse.
"Shake it off, Sammy. There's much left to do." The only sound he made were sloshing footsteps. He really didn't feel like humming.
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Bertrum was a nightmare. A pompous, swinging nightmare that couldn't be reasoned with no matter how loudly Henry shouted. It always ended the same way, a gasping head in a steel cage, limbs strewn about and a mix of ink and oil spraying the room.
But the lever was thrown, and the only one left would come after he lured the Projectionist up the stairs.
He wondered how Sammy was faring. As the ink passed his knees on the way to the room below, he felt a sinking in his gut. Sammy hadn't shown up, and he'd been… expecting him to. Expecting the be called a sheep from a higher part of the studio, or to suddenly find the broken Bendy mask fill his vision.
Henry decided it best to not question how he kept the axe used on Bertrum. It beat not having a weapon at all.
Not far, but not spying him yet, the Projectionist lumbered about. This part was straightforward; pull the lever, lower the platform, run like hell.
Henry did just that, not running until the Projectionist screeched and pounded his way.
Back up the stairs, Henry was halfway up when he realized the Projectionist wasn't chasing him. He turned back and squinted into the dark. The creature had turned away, as if looking for something. Frowning, axe ready, the cartoonist thumped back down the stairs, and wandered back into the hot, amber light.
Okay, that time it worked! Old Light Head was sprinting full tilt his way, and Henry scuttled backwards up the stairs to get out of range, knowing the booth to his back would protect him once the Projectionist got close enough to-
A set of black arms shot out of the miracle station and wrapped around Henry's middle. He was pulled backwards and held firmly against a cool body that smelled faintly of pine and heavily of ink. The broken Bendy mask staring down at him was a good clue as to what the hell just happened.
"So, you do have a death wish, my little sheep," Sammy breathed, grip loosening around the man's waist.
"Sammy, that better be you," he said back, relief flooding him. Sammy made it.
"It is I. I have news-" He gasped at a stab of pain as he felt the Ink Demon drawing close, oblivious to how tightly he grabbed Henry. "It can wait."
Burning amber light and ticking of film reels drew close, and Henry gripped his axe tighter. "Here we go."
The Projectionist's light tilted with his head, and he reached for the booth door.
The Ink Demon screamed from the left and charged, earning a screech from the Projectionist in return. The fight ended after several swings and the projector being torn from the body it had merged to. This fight never lasted long. Polk never stood a chance.
The Ink Demon paused, jolting where it stood, and turned to the gap in the booth. It stared inward, eyeless and grinning, before it gave out the same two rough grunts like before. It reached down and grasped the Projectionist by the legs and limped back out of view.
The hall went quiet.
Sammy's grip loosened. "Alright. It's safe."
Henry nodded and pulled himself out of the ink man's arms. He kicked the door open and stepped out, his axe feeling heavy in his grip. "The angel got Buddy." He sighed, not turning to look back. "I don't think this loop is the one, Sammy."
"Considering Polk and Buddy are gone? I suspect so."
Henry turned then and peered at Sammy over his glasses. "And… you're okay with that?"
Sighing, he tapped his fingers in the beat of a waltz. Henry was exactly what he said he was; just a man, lost in this place like so many. He was the key to freedom, but he was just a man. "Too much pressure on you could snap you in half." The musician huffed a chuckle. "I prefer you in one piece, where I can protect you. Besides, in this place I've learned that miracles aren't massive."
"I'm sorry."
"There is no need for an apology. The Projectionist splattered me against a wall, but thanks to your effect upon me, I'm the same creature you had to leave below. Nothing lost, and memories gained." He held up his left hand and twitched the pinkie. "I must say, I could get used to these… little miracles of yours."
Henry smiled sadly.
"Well, I did lose the banjo." A sad smile was better than no smile. Sammy shifted on his feet. "Little sheep… what comes now?"
"Well… we ride the haunted house ride and end up in a room full of junk… then Buddy pops up and…" He took a deep breath. "Throws me against a wall."
"That sounds… unpleasant." He had grown to like Buddy in the day he'd known him. Silent but friendly, willing to help unless scared.
"Yeah." He lifted the axe and headed to the haunted house. "And I don't think we can both fit in a train car."
The musician let out an irate grunt. "Poor design choice, if you ask me."
The cartoonist already felt lighter, even when the weight of this studio pressed him to the breaking point. "Oh, definitely. All I get is a lap bar."
"A lap bar? Really? Is it padded?"
"No." He chuckled at the indignation Sammy's voice held.
The ink man gesticulated sharply. "What a travesty."
"I don't think cushions were in the budget."
Sammy barked a laugh.
/
I skipped the fight scene with Bertrum because I, like Henry, am tired as fuck.