Deux - The Prophet remembers.

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Sammy awoke not long ago, but his day was starting with so much interesting work ahead. According to one overexcited searcher, there had been an intrusion from above. Someone had come to the studio to visit, it seemed. Of course Sammy was going to make a trip to the higher levels.

Another thing that made today so interesting? Someone had started the ink machine. It was possible something connected the two events, but who was he to say? If he were fortunate, his lord would be gracious enough to explain.

A trill of anticipation traced up Sammy's back; Today may be the day Bendy set them free. Perhaps the intruder was the last piece to the puzzle that was the studio. Sammy pulled himself back from euphoria by tapping each of his fingers to his thumb. Index, middle, ring, in time with a beat only he could hear.

His delight could wait; still much work to do.

Starting with the Bendy cutout on the far wall! How it had landed on its side was a mystery. He'd prefer to blame gravity than some careless searcher or lost one. The wonderful reminder of his savior was so light in his hands, a feeling so familiar to him; arrange cutouts for his lord to better see the flock.

The ink man stood from his crouch, humming softly to himself. His gaze wandered around the deep supply closet, idly counting crates to take stock of just how much bacon soup remained—

Wait. What was that wedged between two soup cans?

Sammy tucked the cutout under his arm and plucked the object from its place, giving a questioning grunt. Nothing special. A small, tattered book sat on a crate. Cardboard cover, ink splattered on the spine. The wording had long faded away from age, but the pages were in fine shape. Prying the book open with a forceful thumb, the prophet hummed at the scrawl on the front page. "Property of-"

"-Henry Stein. Our lead animator and my dear friend." Joey's grip on Sammy's shoulder was so light as to be hardly there as he steered the lanky man to the younger man sitting at a table. Joey walked away from the musician and clapped a hand to the shorter mans shoulder, his grin widening. "Henry, this is Sammy Lawrence. He will be our music director."

Sammy blinked. This was Henry, then? Shorter than Joey, but he had a sturdier build. Tan, freckles, auburn hair, glasses. The musician knew cute. He wrote music designed for things dubbed cute. It irked him that Henry was cute. He said nothing, but stuck out his hand to shake.

Henry took it. His grip was warm and firm, not the death grip Joey's had been.

Speaking of Drew. "All right! You two have fun getting some stuff percolating." Joey quickly left their sight off to do who knew what.

Henry cleared his throat. "I'm not much of a talker."

"Mm. Fine by me." The blond peered down at the cartoonist, barely cracking a wry smile. "Anything to show me? Give me an idea of just what I'm getting into?"

Henry nodded and offered his small sketchbook to Sammy. "Some early sketches. These are the ones Joey thinks will work the best."

Sammy fought a scoff but took the small book. He flipped to a random page and found a… rather adorable little imp. A black body, white face and gloves, the brightest smile. Childlike. The words Bendy the Dancing Demon above it in large neat print. "This is our star?" He flipped the page to find a different creature, dubbed Boris the Wolf, holding a clarinet.

Henry nodded, a brow raised. "Any input?"

"He's charming." He closed the book with one hand and passed it back to the man. "But who'd ever believe this little guy was a demon?"

Henry took the book with a shrug and a soft smile. "Give it a week and Joey'll have something."

Sammy chuckled. "A week?"

"The quick and dirty." The younger man pulled off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. "And be ready for rewrites."

The musician gave an exasperated sigh and tilted his head back. "Fantastic."

Sammy's head met the wall behind him and jolted back into reality. The contact made him jump and drop the small book, and he sucked in a ragged breath with arms raised ready to strike the unseen foe that hurt his head.

But what he had relived… That… was him. The real him. He'd known his name and tidbits of his past, but he lost much of his true self in the ink! This booklet was a mote of truth in the foray of black!

Also, Sammy recognized those voices. He'd heard them in that little flashback. He'd known them at one point. He'd- the image of that friendly artist from his flashback, older and tied to a support beam, flashed in his mind.

The cutout slipped from under his arm. Sammy's brow furrowed behind his mask. This… this was more than a simple case of déjà vu. Sammy had brought pain to that man so many times.

The friendly man was Henry Stein. He was the lead cartoonist when this place wasn't hell on earth. He left a year after the studio started up. There was a fight with Joey—the name alone made his jaw tighten and his thoughts rage- and Henry had left them all here. Left Sammy here. Henry was… was…

Sammy dropped the cutout and grasped the side of his head from the pain of remembering all of that. It wasn't even that much, but it hurt like splinters in his brain! It wasn't stopping, growing deeper and harder to block out. The memories even muted the whispers of the ink!

Then… he was in the future, in the past, on a loop that ended with him standing over Henry. Henry, on the ground and staring up at him. Sammy could feel the ax in his hands as he raised it to bring down-

- he was on the ground, a blade biting into his head. Then came blackness darker than the ink.

In the present, the ink man shuddered at the very real memory of an ax breaking into his skull and then… fading. Back to the ink. He'd wake up back in his cot within the Lost Harbor when he sensed an intrusion from above and had it confirmed by a searcher. The memories and the pain ceased, but the prophet remained hunched, hands clasping his head from the shear pain of information overload.

All right. Okay. Shit.

Calming himself, Sammy stood and stared at the cutout on the floor. If this happened more than once, why did he come back to this same route? How many times had he done this? It felt like… more than twice? Less than a thousand? Enough times to know this wasn't the first.

Plucking the cutout and book from the floor and making his way to the sigil on the wall, he spoke. "Sheep, sheep, sheep, it's time for sleep."

"Hey! Hold on!"

Sammy sped up just a touch at the sound of Henry's voice and quickly disappeared into the wall.

If memory served him well, for once in this place, Henry was going to mill around the music department for s bit, then he'd have a chance to speak with the man. He'd get answers from Henry himself. Obviously, if they both would have to repeat this scenario, then there had to be a greater reason.

/

Henry hummed quietly as Sammy was nowhere to be found. So many loops ago, the ink man had deviated from the pattern without prompting from him. After so many tries and getting nowhere, Henry decided to just… press on. As always. It could be a fluke or progress, but standing around staring at a wall wasn't going to answer anything.

At least swollen Jack was kind enough to lob the valve his way instead of playing keep-away with it. That was nice. Henry left the poor thing in one piece as thanks.

The cartoonist saw no need to waste time and pressed the button. Sammy's static-laced voice purred out of the little speaker yet somehow filled the music room. "He appears from the shadows to rain his sweet blessings upon me. The figure of ink that shines in the darkness. I see you, my savior. I pray you hear me. Those old songs, yes, I still sing them. For I know you are coming to save me. And I will be swept into your final loving embrace. But love requires sacrifice. Can I get an amen?"

Henry counted down to when he knew he'd hear Sammy speak from the projection booth.

"Henry, can I get an amen?"

That… was different. The cartoonist turned, but as always found no one there. Henry entered the music room to find the projector running already. No music, but the mid-point of Tombstone Picnic was playing on the screen. He didn't need to steel himself; he knew Sammy was up there. He could feel that burning stare against the back of his head the moment he stepped through the threshold.

"It is Henry, isn't?" Sammy stood where he always did, but leaned over the railing with folded hands. He had no face beneath the Bendy mask, but his body language screamed 'quizzical'.

He nodded. "Sammy Lawrence."

"Indeed. It seems that you are haunting me."

Henry squinted with pursed lips. "How so?"

Sammy said nothing but gripped the railing and hopped it in one heavy thump onto the music department floor.

The cartoonist raised his ax.

The prophet raised his hands. "I'm not here to fight, little sheep. I wish to speak with you."

Well, that was new. Henry nodded but didn't lower his ax.

"I had believed it was all déjà vu, and it had always correlated with you. Always focusing back onto you." The Prophet steepled his fingers, head held high. "You've been here dozens of times. Every time, you play my tape-" he motioned with a hand to the recorder. "-and every time, I strike you with the dustpan."

Henry adjusted his grip. "Still not sure how you knock me out with that thing."

Sammy huffed a chuckle at the idea of the cheap aluminum implement crumpling after meeting the back of Henry's head and having no effect. "Only the finest for this place. But, the matter at hand." Sammy lowered his head a tad. "This isn't the first time we've done this."

"You've said."

"You've been here, doing this same process, the same insane path, knowing how it will go. Over and over, like a runaway carousel."

"Yes."

The Prophet paused. "Why?"

The cartoonist sighed and released the head of the ax to swing freely. "I'm trapped. I've done this route well over two hundred times. So have you. So has everyone I've met in this place." Henry let out a sigh, bracing his hands over the end of the ax, the blade between his feet. "I don't know why you could remember."

"Two hundred?" The absurdity of it made the musician laugh, a hand to his mask. "You must be crazy. I've only been through a dozen or so."

"You have. But you can count the tallies on the wall by the exit and tell me I'm wrong then."

Sammy shook his head. "Oh, what a test this is! My faith can't be shaken, but my curiosity is tingling." He wiggled the fingers of one hand, a delighted lilt to his speech. "Enlighten me, little sheep. What could have brought you here?"

Henry scowled. "An old friend invited here me. This ends the same way each time I go through it. Enter the studio, start the machine-"

Sammy closed the distance in a looming stride. "You started the machine?"

The cartoonist didn't flinch. "Yes. Before you ask, I have no choice. I was stuck in the upper levels for days trying to figure something else out. I've got finding and setting up the offerings down to three minutes flat."

"Then..." The prophet paused with a giddy noise. "It is fate."

Henry gripped the ax and adjusted his feet. "How is any of this fate?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? The man that created Bendy, back to where it all began." The ink man flung his arms wide at the music room, head back in elation. "Someone sent you to restore Lord Bendy to his full glory so he will set us free!" His head snapped down to stare at Henry. "And I, as his prophet, will assist you in this endeavor."

The cartoonist glanced at the closest exit and lifted the ax to sit blade out on one shoulder. "No. I'm good. I've done this enough to know what I'm doing."

"You may have followed this inky path countless times-"

"Two hundred and fifty-one."

"-but these creaking walls have been my domicile for decades. These lost ones, my companions! And I can tell when my Lord is near, being so very… intimate with the ink myself." Sammy once more violated Henry's personal space. "Allow me to help you end this, so we may be free."

Henry sidestepped the man and glared. "What's stopping you from sacrificing me to the Ink Demon when you get a chance?"

Sammy tensed at the accusation. "An ax to the skull a dozen times will open more than your eyes."

"You didn't know the first time?"

"I didn't know it was the first time. A dozen times repeating the same steps as my dreams woke something inside of me. The déjà vu wasn't what it seemed. I remembered you, just for a few seconds..." He referred to Henry with an upturned hand. "And you? You fight the searchers, play my song, turn the pump on, allow me to strike you down and tie you up." A cruel sliver entered his voice. "I'm starting to think you like it."

"I like it about as much as I like seeing Tom cut you down."

The prophet flinched at the memory, quick as the flap of a moths wings. "Ah. So, the one armed wolf has a name other than Boris? Interesting… but unimportant." The prophet circled Henry slowly, mask always to him with hands behind his back. "Be on your way, little sheep. Your shepherd shall be watching from the shadows."

"Why not just come with me?"

The ink man chuckled. "The believers need their prophet to guide them. They appreciate a... hands on approach. My duties stretch beyond following you, but be assured, you're being watched by the keenest eyes of the flock." Sammy folded his hands behind his back and nodded Henry's way. "Tend your creations, little sheep."

Henry frowned, but gave a nod to the ink man. He saw no way to talk Sammy out of this idea of his.

The cartoonist left the music department. The prophet stayed behind, watching.

Truth be told, Henry had only known Sammy Lawrence, the famous composer for many a beloved cartoon, for a year before he had left the studio. Sammy, a sharp and sarcastic man who enjoyed watching Henry work in his spare time. While neutral to most and hellbent on his melodies, the man could appreciate an artist when he saw one.

The composer had been… handsome. Anyone could see that back in the day. Slender and blond with an aquiline nose, a tension in him that made him seem ready to snap at the wrong word or noise. He conducted like a general commanding a battalion, and he enjoyed every second of his work. At least when he wasn't being dragged away from it for something Joey had to say that couldn't wait.

That wasn't Sammy. Not the keen and critical man he'd known for a short year. This… groveling sycophant ink man was not the sharp and determined composer Sammy Lawrence. Not completely. Not yet. But if this change to the pattern was anything to go by, then Henry would continue to help the lost souls in this place find freedom. Sammy would be at the top of that long list.

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