Douze [Nice hat.]

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No point in delaying once the machine got percolating. There was never a choice to start it or not, anyway. He might as well head down to the music area. He always fell, but it didn't even raise his heartbeat anymore. Hell, Bendy reaching for him through the boards did nothing but give him the cue to bolt.

When did horror become mundane? How often had Henry asked himself that question?

Sammy was sure to be ready for a new loop… unless he'd given up on helping Henry and just throw him into the Ink. That'd be fitting. The Seeing Tool in his back pocket weighed enough to remind him it was there, but he still reached back to check for it now and then.

Henry, axe ready, stepped into the music room, having skipped the tapes of Sammy's voice. He looked up to the projectors booth, brows furrowed. No prophet. "Sammy?"

Something thumped as someone knocked it over, and in a moment the ink man was skidding out onto the balcony. He gripped the rails with trembling hands. "My apologies, little sheep." Sammy's smile was heard, a glowing wave of warmth at seeing Henry. "I have something you must see."

Henry raised his free hand to stop the ink man from leaping over the rail. "You don't have to-"

Whoosh. Thud.

"Never mind." The cartoonist smiled at Sammy. "What is it? Did something else come back?"

"It did!" With a shaking hand, Sammy grabbed the Bendy mask, and pushed it up just enough to show his chin. "Hello, Henry."

"A mouth!"

He pushed the mask back down in an instant, but his mouth was visible through the hole in the mask's teeth. "I know! Oh! This means we're doing right by the path we are on!"

"I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Thanks to you."

"I don't know about that, Sammy."

The musician scoffed. "Oh, doubting me already?" It hadn't even been an entire minute!

"Now that you know where this leads, I don't…" He cleared his throat. "I don't know why you put so much trust in me. Last loop went better than the past ones, but it wasn't enough to get out."

Sammy frowned, head tilting. "My hands are whole, my lips are restored, my mind is clearing… and you are kind to me." He tilted his head down. "You always were. Why would I not follow you?" In the memories he had of Henry, the cartoonist was always the kindest part of them.

"We might not get it this time, or next time… I don't want to give you false hope." He peered at Sammy over his glasses. "I don't know how long this will take, Sammy, but I'm doing all I can."

Sammy tensed at that, fists clenched. "False hope is what the Ink Demon gave me. You are not the Ink Demon." He smiled, finally able to really do so.

"So you aren't upset?"

His hands unfurled and raised about chest high. "No. Why?"

"You said last loop I was trying to shake you."

The prophet tutted, a hand raised to wag a finger his way. "No, no. I was trying to, er… lighten your mood."

"Well… it worked a little."

He smirked -he could smirk!- and adjust the strap of his banjo. How lucky was he that it was right where it usually sat? "I aim to please, believe you me. Where to, little sheep?"

"Well…" He reached back and pulled out the tool. "You could look through this thing, if you wanted. If it triggers anything, it might help to do it here."

Sammy gingerly took the bit of glass and wire, frowning at it with much scrutiny. "Have you looked at yourself with this?"

The cartoonist made a face, eyes downcast. "I can't see myself. I've looked in mirrors, but I just see a message asking 'Who am I now?'."

The ink man tilted his head forward, grasping the tool with both hands. His hand on the frame tapped it in a waltz. "You're Henry Stein, if that helps."

He huffed a laugh. "It's the same with mirrors."

"You can't even see your reflection?"

"No… and I'm worried about what that means."

Sammy hummed in thought. "I'm lost on that as well, but-" he lifted the tool and gestured to it with his free hand- "I can give you a look over. Tell you what I find."

Henry nodded, set the axe down on a chair, and stood straight. "Go ahead."

Sammy lifted the Seeing Tool to Henry, starting at the feet. Other than normal black ink, his legs were fine. No gold ink to be seen. Traveling up the torso, Sammy paused at Henry's hands. "Turn your hands over."

Henry did, palms out. "See anything?"

"Your palms are coated in gold ink."

Henry squinted. "What does the gold ink mean? Do you know?"

"No… but it makes sense that you'd be the source."

Henry sighed. "Maybe."

Sammy raised the tool again. "I'm right… again…" He paused, newfound mouth going still. Henry's chest and upper arms were covered in hand prints of gold. They were five-fingered and four-fingered, some dragging down, leaving trails of gold in their wake. Across his collar bones was the word HONEST, with a simplified heart in the middle, underneath. He panned up to the mans face… "Oh."

Henry squinted. "Oh? That a bad thing?"

"I…" He paused, mouth agape.

Henry was looking at him head on, brows raised in concern. "What's wrong?"

Sammy shut his mouth slowly. The cartoonist had the word GUILTY scrawled in small print across his forehead. Trails of gold ink ran down his cheeks from his eyes. That ticked something in the back of the ink man's mind. The whispers of the ink curdled and thrummed. Do something. He's hurt. The ink man reached out with his free hand towards the cartoonist's face, the need to do something pushing proper conduct out of his mind. Do something. Henry was hurting. Do something. Henry was in pain. Do something!Henry was gently grasping his wrist to stop him from touching him.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" He asked, concern growing.

He shook his head to clear it of half-hissed commands and pulled his hand free. Bad prophet. That is not allowed. "The gold ink covers you in hand prints. It writes the word honest over your heart… and the word guilty on your forehead."

Brushing a hand through his hair, Henry nodded. "Makes sense."

"But the gold ink." Sammy passed the tool back to Henry. "The ink… it traces your face as if you've been crying your heart out."

He took the tool and stuck it back in his pocket. "I'm okay."

Bullshit. "... are you?"

He thought about it, hazel eyes searching the floor. "I'll feel bad later." The cartoonist turned and headed out the doors. "Let's go find Buddy." He had no right to feel bad when so many others had so much worse things to deal with. In this inked hellscape, his pain could wait as long as it took to get out.

The ink man stood still, hand outstretched and fingers twitching. He wanted, needed, to do something. That melancholy he'd felt radiating off the man ran so much deeper than he'd assumed. How did he not break under the sheer weight of it?

Henry leaned back into view, brows up. "Sammy?"

"Coming, little sheep." He strode out of the room, grabbing up a wrench on the way out.

/

Down the stairs and past the infirmary, Henry and Sammy made their way to the tunnel. Oddly enough, Henry hadn't had to break the boards to get the valve for the past two-dozen loops. The hatted searcher chucked it at him and scrambled away.

Henry cracked his neck with a satisfying pop. "That's better. Falling through a floor will do that to a guy."

"What a sound."

"Old stiffs make the best noises."

"Old? You don't look it."

He chuckled. "Trust me, I'm getting up there."

"At least you know your age."

"We could figure yours out. You weren't much older than me."

"I recall being a decade older than you, little sheep."

"Well, you don't look it," Henry chuckled.

"Fantastic," he drawled, pausing at the sealed off tunnel. It felt… not familiar, but… Henry would know if it mattered. He sure didn't anymore. "Henry, have you been in this tunnel before?"

The man turned. "Yes, but not for a while." He gave the boards a crooked frown. "The searcher down that way is Jack Fain. Has a nice hat."

"Hat."

"Yep." He nodded, focus back on Sammy. "Usually, he has the valve I need to drain the music department. I have to go down the tunnel after him, and he tries to crush me with crates."

"How rude." A loud gargling noise sounded from within. Sammy looked down the tunnel and lay a hand on the nearest board. "Was that him just now?"

"Most likely." Henry shrugged. "He just hurls the valve my way and runs."

Sammy frowned at the tunnel, head lowering. "Last loop, I remembered a man named Jack. He was only mentioned, an echo, but it felt important." He blew out an inaudible sigh and tilted his head back. "For all I know, everything's important."

"There is a tape of Jack down there, but it's up to you. We don't have to." Just like he hadn't mentioned the tape of Susie in by the recording booth.

The ink man drummed his fingers against the boards. "Hm… let's say hello." He stood back to give the man room.

Henry cleared the path and held out his left hand to direct the ink man into the tunnel. "After you."

"Why, thank you." He strode on long legs down the tunnel, holding his wrench at the ready.

Something slithered out of sight, splashing ink along the way. It definitely had a hat.

"There he goes." Henry frowned at Sammy's back, the axe over a shoulder. "Think you remember him from that? Or do you want to get closer?"

"Closer? I don't..." Did he? He couldn't say. The hat was familiar, but not who was under it. The echo of a memory thrummed in his head. "I do. I think so, at least. Let me just…" Sammy leaned against the near wall.

Henry approached, brow knit. "Sammy?"

The musician rolled his head to look at him. "Half the time, my memories send me crashing to the floor." He smirked, turning to look at Henry. "My dramatic flair shining through, I think."

"We can sit down if you want."

"Mm." Sammy bent his knees and sank to the floor with a squelch. "Oh. That's a pleasing noise. Might have been a B-sharp."

Henry dropped to a crouch, smirking slightly. "You sat on something sharp?"

A chuckle. "No, no, I-" He paused, smiling. "Trying to get a laugh out of me."

Henry's gaze softened a bit. "You can smile, so I might as well try."

Head tapped wall. "I appreciate it, little sheep."

"I know you don't exactly need to eat, but I know there's soup down the tunnel a ways."

"Oh, the horror of the ink man feeding. You truly want to go mad, don't you?" Despite Henry having seen him eat before, seen his lack of face before, he was still self-conscious. He couldn't quite remember his old face, but he knew he'd been a hit with the ladies. His head rolled on his shoulders, gaze back on Henry. Henry could probably win anyone over with his personality alone.

"You good?"

"No. I'm dying." It felt like dying, at least. But he wouldn't complain if Henry was the last thing he saw. "Gaze not upon my ruined mouth, little sheep."

"Kinda hard not to. You have a hole in your mask."

He covered the hole with his hand. "Oh, the horror. I'm exposed. Blindness awaits you."

Henry smirked and shook his head at the sheer theatrics. "I'll live. I've already-"

"-seen you at the cafeteria. You eat, right?" Henry was giving the musician a look that was too gentle to be scolding.

Sammy smirked. "I run on coffee and spite. Part of my charm." He took a sip from the green mug in his grip. The coffee had long gone cold, but the caffeine would help get him going. He could pause for a drink or a brief chat, but full on lunch? Inconceivable.

Henry shook his head and set something on the top of the upright piano. "Here you go."

The blonde reached out a spidery hand and took the apple. "Really."

The cartoonist ran a hand through his auburn hair. "Yeah?"

Sammy frowned and leaned an elbow on the closed fall board, propping his chin into his palm. "Henry, you don't have to worry about my diet. Trust me."

"I never see you eat. I sometimes don't see you for an entire week!" He peered over his glasses. "'scuse me if I worry a little."

He righted himself and gave a long-suffering sigh. "If I eat it, will you let this go?"

"For now, but… you should eat more, Sammy.""Don't want to ruin this sharp figure, Henry." His frown turned crooked as he buffed the fruit against his pant leg. "You're lucky I like you. I like a grand total of six people. You're one of them and you're on thin ice."

Henry chuckled. "I'm flattered."

Sammy took a moment to scrutinize the apple. "Don't be. My reputation of being an ass isn't just a rumor." He took a vicious bite of the apple, the crunch and tartness perking him up a little. Not bad. Not his favorite fruit, but it helped.

"Eh. I think you're fine." Henry grimaced at the sound of footsteps outside. "Ah jeez." His grimace turned warm, if still tired. "Joey's been kinda crazy lately. I just need a minute away. Stretch my legs and make sure you didn't nail yourself to the piano bench."

"Mm." He swallowed and was about to say something more, when someone popped into the music department.

Thankfully, not Joey.

Sammy smiled at the short, older man in the doorway. "Oh look, one of the other six."

The portly man waved the blond off. "You keep telling people you got a list, you're gonna see it shrink."

"I'll live. Half is fine by me."

Jack adjusted his hat and nodded at Henry. "Stein."

Brows went up. "Hey, Jack."

The lyricist shot the cartoonist a look. "When'd we get on a first name basis?"

Brows went down. "We… weren't before?"

Sammy gestured at the cartoonist with a friendly smile. "Easy, Henry. Jack's all bark, no bite. Biting people's heads off is my deal, anyway." He took another bite of the apple.

"This is why you ain't married, Sam."

The blond snorted. Right, that was why. Swallowing, he pointed with the hand holding the apple. "Jack, you keep scaring people off, you'll be on thin ice."

Henry smirked. "I thought I was on thin ice?"

The lyricist shook his head, smiling beneath his thick mustache. "Everyone's on thin ice with this guy." He patted the folder under his arm. "Lyrics are out of the rough drafts, courtesy of Mister Drew rewriting the entire damn thing," he finished sourly. "Man had no clue what syllables are, I swear."

"Well, I better get back to the drawing board. Don't wanna interrupt the creative process." Henry said, heading for the door.

"You could sit in?" Sammy offered, earning a surprised look from Jack. "I watch you draw-"

"-often enough." He was back in the studio. He turned to Henry, who had knelt next to him with the axe head to the ground. "You were… always taking care of me."

"Not always, but when I remembered."

Sammy laughed, a bitter noise. "You and Jack both."

Henry peered over his glasses. "You got something for Jack?"

"Just barely. Lyricist. Worked together, I-" Sammy froze, then leaped to his feet. "Jack!" He made a beeline for the tape recorder and hit the play button.

"I love the quiet, and that's hard to come by these busy times. And yeah sure it may stink to high heaven down here. But it's just perfect for an old lyricist like me. Sammy's songs always got some bounce, but if I didn't get away once in a while, they'd never have any words to go with them. So I'll keep my mind a-singin' and my nose closed."

The wet patter of footsteps alerted him to Henry's approach. He stopped short of being too close.

Nothing else burbled up. "Nothing. Just… noise." Sammy sighed. "It's all just noise."

Something squelched down the tunnel a ways.

Sammy didn't look up, then reached out a hand to Henry. "May I have the tool?"

He placed it in his inked hand without a word.

Holding it up, he found no golden ink lining the walls. No messages. "Are there any in here?"

"Yeah, but… I think I wrote the one by the crates when I was having a bad loop."

"You have those?" A huffed laugh, and Sammy headed further into the tunnel. "Well, now I must see it."

"Jeez." Henry followed, axe at the ready. "By the way, Jack mostly plays peekaboo up at the crates. Get too close and he'll bolt."

"Peekaboo? What a silly word." The crates soon came into view, a hat floating on top of the ink. "Ah. There he is." He lifted the tool and focused it on the hat. "No notes for the hat." Lifting it up to the SING WITH ME splayed on the wall, he frowned at what Henry had scrawled on top. I DON'T SING WITH PSYCHOS. "Ah. Rather fitting, little sheep." He lowered the tool and found the hat was gone. "Fitting indeed."

Henry entered the crate room and paused, eyes downcast. "Like I said, it probably wasn't a good loop."

The ink man turned, lips pursed in thought. "Do you physically write these things, or do they just seem to show up?"

"I know for sure I didn't write guilty on my forehead, if that's what you mean."

"Mm. Fair enough-oh!" Something tapped on his pant leg, and the musician looked down. The hat had moved to a foot away from him, and a flipper of ink was patting him to get his attention. "Hello."

The ink scooted backwards, a melted face peering up at him. The flipper waved shyly from the muck.

"Hey, Jack," Henry uttered softly from behind Sammy.

Jack nodded slightly Henry's way. With both flippers, he gestured at the two men with a confused shrug of his… bulk. He didn't exactly have shoulders in this form.

Henry smiled gently. "We're trying to get out. Do you want to join us?"

Jack flattened and shook what was left of his head. A flipper patted the ink next to his bulk.

Sammy felt a wave of disappointment at that. For Jack's sake, being here was likely better for his

stability, but… well, from what he remembered moments before, he'd liked Jack. "You sure?"

A firm nod that made the hat bob.

Henry shrugged. "Okay. Let one of us know if that changes."

The searcher gave what was likely a thumbs up before oozing away back into the darkness.

Sammy sighed when Jack was out of sight. "So much for that." He grasped the strap of his banjo and headed out of the tunnel.

"At least we know. Jack's kinda aware. If he's alright down here, pushing him won't help."

"Mm."

Henry swallowed, brows knit as he followed. "I don't think you're psychotic anymore." He sighed inwardly. "If that wasn't clear, I mean."

Sammy turned to glance at Henry over his shoulder. "I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"I mean it. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" The ink man turned fully to the man. "Henry. I've tried to kill you. Often."

Henry adjusted his glasses. "Still."

"If you offended me, you'd know. I'd never let it go." Sammy smiled and passed the tool back to him.

The cartoonist gave a lopsided smile in return. "Fair enough."

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Glad to be back.