Like all not so great beginnings, you awake with a start. Because you had flinched awake from a terrible falling like feeling, the bruises over your ribs flare up immediately just under the surface. Once the pain dulled from your injury, via being dropped down a stair case by Demon, after several slow shallow breathers you take stock of yourself. 'in pain but, in one piece? Check. Glasses with, miraculously undamaged, whole lenses? Check. Company or threat. . .?'

Now you take stock of the newer surroundings. The previous inky companion, Sammy, is nowhere in sight or hearing range. You're laid against a heavy looking barrel much larger than yourself but not much else is in reach of your grabby hands. However, are internally surprised to see the axe from earlier in sight but totally out of reach. While that's one familiar object, the rest sadly isn't so. The lighting and low ceiling is familiar but that's not much to go along with now. To your left are two openings in the wall, one just a small square opening with- could you believe it- a very, very large stone statue of the Dancing Devil Darling them self. 'Cult' flashes again in your mind. You can only assume the other indent leads out to another hallway beside it or you'd really be stuck at a dead end. Just past that is a ceiling high shelf filled with bacon soup cans but sadly, you can't even get your appetite going because just directly across from you- is an actual very real, very religious looking sacrificial circle drawn right on to the wall. You do a quick triple take to make sure you're not placed in one. You're not.

You're not. . . restricted either. But no murderer really needs to cripple or tie up a hostage if you're already injured. . . none of those thoughts really help to calm you. 'Deep breaths.' you think to yourself between nervous trembles 'Now, how did I. . . get here?'

Foggy film reel like flash backs slide in just behind your eye lids in quick succession, bits and pieces rushing back.

Lawrence was talking aloud some more, going on and on repeating lines to his Lord. He appeared to be recording on an audio tape, that's how you'd found out his name before, written in fine ink with his signature labeled on the back. You remember being sleepy, just numbly taking in anything you could process, though a hazy state and bone-tired senses. The axe wielding cultist bless fully silent in between naps. Sammy holding you gently against his chest while he carried you. . .

And he hasn't. . . harmed you. Carful even though he looks like he could split your head in two. Patient even though he doesn't know you. If he wanted, he could do a lot of things to you in this state. Sammy jam may have nursed you back to health but, (and you have to be painfully honest with yourself here) he hasn't help you out of here either. Just took you along for the ride, heading deeper down toward his mission. And sadly, as the final nail to that coffin, by the looks of the offerings painting and complete settlement he doesn't appear to be planning on leaving any time soon. . .

Suddenly, while clenching your hand under your chin, terribly deep riding down that train of thought you hear several loud 'thud, thud, THUD' soundwaves in succession just a bit louder and closer than the last following your location. It sounds like its coming from down that out of view hallway and

. . . above?

If the past few minutes didn't get your heart beating it's with atrocious timing revealed that you're very much, in fact not alone. A hand is placed on your shoulder. The hollow Bendy mask of Sammy's follows your eyes with every movement, looking down, with not a single shred of doubt in your mind, directly into your soul. He offers a gleeful nod and gives your shoulder a firm (warning or comforting?) squeeze.

"It is almost time, lamb chop. Finally, . . He will set. Us. Free."

It's the first time you've heard from him in a hot bit but its absolutely unmistakable, how he says it with such security, whispered and giddy directly in your ear that he's definite his prediction with be true. You're sure now that you'll never forget those words for as long as you live, an echo chiseled into your mind like water droplets on an undersea cave.

When he's done conspiring, he leads himself away from you. With antagonistic purpose he takes the axe and hides it behind a whole Bendy carboard cutout glued to his hip. You're not really sure what happens then. . .

Your head aches with some sort of horrid DeJa'Vu and fight to blink away the nefarious black spots obscuring your sight. When you finally calm down from your almost panic attack, Sammy is gone. The Cardboard cutout in the sacrificial circle.

But that's not who your attention is on.