Cinq – The Prophet meets the Wolf. [trigger warnings – suicide [flashback]]

/

Standing guard wasn't as dull as it seemed. The lull of quiet in the studio wasn't rare, but the peaceful strum of the banjo sure was. Sammy would not squander having his fingers back. In the Pines drifted gently, We Shall Overcome crooned softly, and Careless Love Blues made the ink man sigh for reasons he didn't grasp. Sammy was halfway through Brass Willows when he froze. Fingers still crooked over the head and pressed to the strings of the neck. Someone was close… but he was more alarmed that he didn't know just who or what was close.

Deep within, rooted like twining vines of ivy, the sensation of the Ink Demon was… not in the hallway. Still down by the vaults, possibly resting. Hearing no grunting or growling, the ink man knew it wasn't butcher gang fodder. Besides, in his past ventures monitoring Henry, those amalgams didn't show for another level or so down. Sammy stood at attention and squared his shoulders. "Show yourself."

A lone can of bacon soup rolled down the hallway and thumped into the booth door.

Sammy tilted his head, not taking his gaze off the darkness from down the hall.

The can tapping the booth as enough to wake Henry from within. Sammy stepped towards the intruding entity. He shoved the banjo back to sit behind him and pulled the ax free of its loop.

The wide awake cartoonist stepped out of the booth. He bent to lift the soup can and asked, "What's happened?"

"A peace offering, I suspect." Sammy hefted the ax, and it landed in his palm with a wet smack.

The shorter man's brows furrowed as he stepped around the ink man. "It's okay to come out. We're not gonna hurt you." He knew who it was, anyway. Who else said hello with a can of soup?

Sammy turned to look at Henry, making a low noise. "Little sheep, they might hurt you."

Henry smirked. If only Sammy knew.

Slowly, his ears back and brow scrunched, Buddy Boris emerged from around the corner.

Wasting no time, Henry stepped around Sammy and smiled at the wolf. "Hey, Buddy." His smile slipped as he stared over his glasses. "You remember me at all?"

Buddy stared, and let out two gruff little noises. The same ones he'd made when turned into a brute. The only noises he could really make. The wolf smiled and waved, then pointed to the can of soup.

Henry chuckled and nodded. "Right. You want this back, Buddy?"

The wolf shook his head and pointed a gloved hand at the cartoonist, then patted his stomach.

"Thanks." Henry popped the tab on the soup, but offered it to Sammy.

Replacing the ax, the ink man shook his head. "I have no need."

"You sure?" The ink man had to eat sometime, didn't he?

Sammy nodded and approached the wolf. The wolf took a step back, head cocked. He… knew Boris. He'd seen mutilated clones hundreds of times, but this one? This one was perfect and familiar in a way that made him ill. Like he'd done something vile but couldn't place the deed. "What did you call him? Buddy?"

The wolf nodded to answer for Henry, but didn't take his eyes off Sammy.

How strange, to be scrutinized so hard by a cute little wolf. Well… little wasn't right. He was as tall as Sammy, not counting the perked ears.

Henry broke the staring match when he hurled the empty soup can down the hall. "Okay, Buddy. Show us the way."

The ink man fixed Henry with a confused tilt of the head. Buddy gave the same look.

"Safe house?" Henry offered. Buddy seemed to have memory issues, but they always found the safe house when given prompting.

The wolf blinked and pointed at Sammy.

"He comes, too."

The wolf offered an open palm to the ink man, who drew back just a little.

"Yes, I'm sure."

The wolf blinked, shrugged, and turned down the hall with a loping gait.

Henry made no move to follow. Instead, he held his hand open for the ax at Sammy's hip. "I'll take that back."

"It's fine."

He frowned, brows set in a firm line. "Buddy's not dangerous, but he doesn't know you that well." He wasn't blind. Buddy never so much as snarled, but he could tell he wasn't comfortable with Sammy coming with. "You having the ax won't help him trust you."

"Wolves don't trust shepherds. It's as much his nature to distrust me as it's my nature to protect the sheep."

"Then trust the sheep, I guess." Movement caught his eye, and he waved to the wolf now leaning around the corner with a quirked brow.

Sammy gave a long-suffering sigh and passed Henry the ax. The wolf around the corner perked a bit and turned to lead the way.

/

The safe-house was neither cramped nor sprawling. It had a few rooms, even a bathroom, a stove of all things, and some furniture.

But it was bright and secure. Better than the dark of the studio by some slight stretch of the imagination. The trio weren't inside the place more than a minute before the Boris clone scooped up a lighted hardhat and a messenger bag from a jutting nail nearby. He gave a gruff little noise, flashed a thumbs up, and left. The door closed behind him, securing itself with some groans and clicks.

Well, talk about the welcoming committee. "Is he always so quick to leave?"

The cartoonist rubbed the back of his neck with a lopsided smile. "Well, he has three people to feed instead of just two." Henry took a seat at the table. "Buddy never lets me out with him to find food."

Sammy cocked his head. "What do you do while he's away?"

"Read. Draw. Listen to music. Play solitaire. Sleep." Plenty of entertaining options!

"...and he always comes back?"

Henry smiled softly. "Always." His smile faded. "But… I always lose him. Later on, I mean."

"I've noticed his absence." Sammy leaned forward but didn't quite loom. "What exactly-"

Hazel eyes flicked upwards with warning. "I don't want to talk about it." Not yet.

Sammy drew back, hands raised at the sudden change in tone. He had to remind himself that Henry wasn't Bendy. Henry would not strike him over questions. Sore spot located, he'd do his best to skirt around it. "Seems I've asked plenty of questions… but you never seem to have many, if any."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Sammy. I don't even know what to ask."

The ink man tilted his head the other way. "Satisfaction brought it back. If we are to work together, you may as well ask questions."

"What if I don't have any?"

"You just asked one, little sheep." His smirk was heard from beneath the mask.

That sparked something. "How do you see while wearing the mask?"

"How can you see without yours?"

Oh, that's the game they were playing. Okay, then. "I don't have one."

The prophet straightened, his gestures growing less restrained. "All the more reason to have me shepherding you, my little sheep."

Mild apprehension snaked up Henry's spine. He'd have to figure out what triggered Sammy's prophetic tendencies. He wasn't a fan of that side of Sammy, but back to the matter at hand. "Next question. How do you get into your overalls?"

Sammy stared from under the mask. "With great difficulty."

"Do you want to take a break? You could sit down if you want."

That… sounded nice. Sammy sat and stared at Henry. He wasn't sure why he enjoyed staring, but he did.

"Better?"

"Very."

The cartoonist nodded. "When you get tired, you can take the cot."

An irate huff. "I have no need."

"Keep saying that." He scoffed quietly. A worrying thought stirred in his gut. "Do you sleep?"

The musician leaned against the wall. "Not how you do. Not anymore."

"What about food?" He held up a hand. "And don't say you have no need."

Sammy tilted his head a little, so it lay against the wall. "If I eat, will you stop asking questions about my body?"

Both hands up now. "You said ask questions, but if I'm making you uncomfortable, I'll stop. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

That… felt good to hear. "Not discomfort. I simply…" He drummed his fingers in the four beats, still feeling a trill of joy at having all of his fingers. "Dislike being reminded that the ink has changed me against my will."

Henry blinked. "That's what uncomfortable means."

"Ah." Sammy took the soup can and pulled up the top. He froze, staring at the dark contents. He'd eaten it before, but not with someone watching.

"Would it help if I covered my eyes?" Henry offered, tongue-in-cheek.

Sammy lowered the can and fixed Henry with that unseen-but-felt stare. "How will you see me if you cover your eyes?"

"The same way you see with that mask." He then took off his glasses. "There we go."

"You're blind without them?"

Henry managed a chuckle at the question. "Might as well be."

The ink man stared a moment longer, before carefully pushing his mask up just enough to reveal the fused trench that was his mouth. A few chugs later and he had the can finished and empty. "Don't… ask how I do that without an actual mouth." His shreds of dignity were hard to keep intact. Now, what to do with the can?

Henry held out a hand to take the empty tin, noting how carefully Sammy passed it to him. Funny, the ink man was fine with touching him when he pulled him from the floor. Tossing the can into the empty trash bin behind him, he turned back to look at Sammy. Then he remembered he'd taken off his glasses and quickly put them back on. "Buddy won't be back for a bit. He's usually gone for maybe an hour."

"Nothing left to ask?"

"Not for now. But… if you have any, I'm open."

"I have no need," Sammy drawled, perching his chin on his open palm. Henry chuckled, and Sammy felt himself smile… well, best he could. "Actually… why do you call the clone Buddy?"

Henry would have flinched had Sammy's tone been less benign. The cartoonist sighed. "That's what his name is. Was." His brow furrowed, and he peered at Sammy over his glasses. "He wrote it down. How he became a clone. I still don't understand the how of it, but… his name was Daniel Lewek. Buddy was his nickname."

Sammy nodded. That name didn't ring bells, sadly. Something hard and square pressed into the pocket of his overalls, and he lifted his head. The sketchbook. The little thing that had them across the table from each other. "Oh!" He pulled it free with little fanfare. "This is what jogged my oldest memory of you." How had it stayed in his pocket after so many loops?

The cartoonist smiled fondly at the little book. He found such familiar and innocent faces within. "I haven't seen these sketches in decades." Still so many blank pages left. One of his worst artistic habits had been leaving notebooks halfway full and forgetting them. Henry cracked a smile. "Thank you, Sammy."

The ink man turned away, not from embarrassment or shyness but something… else. Nameless, but lighter than air. "I should thank you, Henry. That little book helped me remember some small bits of our past."

"Would looking at it again jog anything?" Henry passed the small book back, eyes hopeful.

Sammy took the book and flipped it open. A moment later, he sighed and passed it back. "Nothing."

Henry flipped to a blank page. "Was worth a shot." He picked a stub of a pencil from a tin mug nearby.

Sammy pulled the banjo from his back to sit comfortably in his lap. "...perhaps."

So it went. Henry's soft scratching at the paper and the gentle plucks of the banjo were the only sounds in the small space.

For Sammy, it felt… safe.

/

Buddy returned, soup filling his messenger bag. That meant the wolf was done for at least a day or so, according to Henry. After Sammy trounced the two of them at a few rounds of poker and played some of his more lively music, the trio had worn themselves out.

Sammy refused to take the cot. Henry had insisted, but Sammy was stubborn. He liked that Henry allowed him to say no, that his refusal to bend wasn't met with hostility. Still, this new life was… difficult. Breaking from praising in favor of existing. How could he look at Henry, who'd been a beacon in this inked hell, and not thank him profusely?

He'd been thrust into the role, chosen by the ink, deemed himself a prophet when he clawed out of the blackness. The Ink Demon never spoke, but Sammy knew that He was the one to set them free. He of unshakable faith. He who kept the searchers and lost ones in check and out of the path to freedom. Sammy, the prophet of the Ink Demon, formerly under the employ of the false creator known as Joey Drew.

Then Henry popped up and was kinder to him in the span of a day than anyone had been in the last fourteen years.

He realized that what the ink and its demon had been giving him was not love. Sammy didn't even know what love was when he was a human, but after being with Henry for not even a day, he figured this was closer to it. No wrath, only warmth… but the urges rang clear. The whispers never ceased.

The urge to hit his knees and bow. The urge to sing praises and call lost ones to their side. This man on the cot, the savior of those lost to the ink… but Henry had clarified that that was off the table. Sammy glanced at the sleeping man to his right. He'd chosen to sit near to the cot, but out of arms reach to not be… intrusive.

He'd learned somewhere, a long time before the studio, that fear was the heart of love. Sammy wasn't sure how true that was. He did not fear Henry, who slept peacefully beside him as if the ink man hadn't tried to sacrifice or bludgeon him countless times. Great. He'd been staring.

Sammy thumped the back of his head to the wall behind him. The musician-

-sighed and set down his pen. Guess the score revisions would have to wait. Rubbing his tired eyes with index and thumb, he dragged up every ounce of patience for the young man. "What is it now?"

Wally stopped short when he thumped into the door frame. The key ring on his hip jingled, which only confused the blond more.

"I can't get Mister Cohen to let me in his office." He didn't let Sammy get a word in. "It's late, and he's usually gone home by now, but the lights are on! A-and I didn't see him leave."

"Did you try knocking?" he drawled, eyeing Wally with scrutiny. How was ten at night late for half these people? How could anyone be asleep when midnight oil burned the brightest?

"Yeah." The janitor shuffled and fumbled at his keys. "But nobody answered. Mister Drew's said I can't keep skipping rooms just cuz people tell me off. I wear plenty o' hats, but cleaning is what I'm paid for."

Sammy stood. "So you bother me."

"You yell at everybody. You don't count."

The older man grumbled and made his way down the hall. He wasn't close with… anyone but Susie since Henry had left, but he was hard on Wally because he never stumbled over himself when he failed. He grinned and got to work… much like a certain cartoonist he'd known. "I'll look. Do you have his key?"

Wally handed over the key ring, holding up a brass key.

"Alright." Sammy took the key as they headed to Management. "But when this turns into nothing, you owe me a cup of coffee."

"Got it. But if it's something, you owe me something." They stopped before Grant's office, and the light was indeed on. "Dunno what, but something! Like a donut, or a new push broom, or a-"

"Wally," Sammy stated sharply. It was just a locked door, but the blond was growing concerned. There was no sound on the other side of the door. Not a typewriter going at it, a calculator popping out numbers, not even a sigh or a snore. "I want you to stay out of the room."

The redhead blinked. "Whyzat?"

"Just stay put." Sammy unlocked the door with a twist of key and knob. It creaked slowly in a shrill B flat. Organized chaos. To the right was an inky scrawl across the wall above the desk, half gibberish and half legible. $48,128 SHORT. TIME IS MONEY. WHAT WILL JOEY SAY. TAXES. Numbers that Sammy knew were too big to be good. He turned slowly to where Grant kept his filing cabinet.

Grant wasn't beside his file cabinet. Grant was hanging from the ceiling.

"Christ!" The musician charged out of the room and slammed the door behind him. His heart raced to the point of pain, hammering to escape his rib cage. Wild eyes fixed onto Wally, who had listened for once and stayed put. He jabbed a shaking finger at the startled young man. "Wally, stay put. Lock the door. Don't let anyone in."

"Whatsa matter? Sammy!"

Sammy took off in a dead sprint towards the far end of the studio. He rounded on the stairs to Joey's office and flung the door open. The man never seemed to head home, workaholic and dreamer in one peppy package.

Unfazed, Joey looked up with his classic grin. "Sammy!" The permanent smile fell at the look the musician gave him. "What's wrong?"

The slender man drew a breath. "Grant's dead."

Joey leaped from his seat and ran past Sammy. "How long?"

"Don't know! Wally was trying to get in to clean-" He paused as he skipped the last stair to catch up- "He came to get me when Grant didn't respond to knocking!" Thank heaven the kid hadn't opened the door himself!

They arrived to find the door to Grant's office cracked halfway open and Wally leaning against the wall across from it. The brashness had gone from his frame and something ghastly and tired took its place. Wally never took his eyes off the door, even as the two men approached.

Joey darted into the office and cried, "Holy shit!" before darting back out, closing the door tightly and pressing his back to it. "Jesus Christ… this is…" The director covered his mouth to slow his breathing. The man had never looked so pale.

Sammy felt heat coiling around his neck, but his hands were like ice. "Wally, I said not to-"

The janitor's mouth quivered, sniffing sharply. "I'm outta here." He pulled his hat down over his curls to hide his eyes and turned. The only further noise from the young man was the sound of his key ring dropping into a trash can.

"Wally!" Sammy's heart thundered against his ribs, sinking slowly as the cold of adrenaline wore off. Grant was dead. Wally might not be coming back. Joey was-

Joey stared hard at the musician, a hand clapping firmly to his shoulder. "Sammy. I want you to head home for the night. I'll handle this."

"Joey, the cops will want a statement-"

The hand squeezed painfully, fingertips digging deep enough to bruise. "I'll handle this. Now, go home." He patted Sammy's shoulder and fixed him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And don't tell anyone else what happened here. Understand?"

The ink man came out of the old, abhorrent memory with a gasp that sucked the air from the room. The sensation of sharp fingers digging into his shoulder lingered. Decades past, but fresh as if Joey had just let go of him. "What." Grant Cohen was hanging from the ceiling. Grant Cohen, the high-strung man in charge of finances for the studio, killed himself over a missing fifty grand.

And Joey had… oh god. Sammy covered where his mouth had been and hated the trembling in his hand.

"Sammy."

He hated that he jumped, but he didn't hate Henry for making him do it.

The cartoonist was sitting up, propped on his elbows and hands folded over each other. He squinted before placing his glasses on. "What is it? Is he close?"

The ink man shook his head at Henry and promptly pulled down his mask. Henry didn't need to see what lay beneath, even if he had the ill luck of seeing it so many times before. Henry did not deserve nightmares. "Grant."

Henry frowned. "I didn't know him well. What happened?"

"...hanged himself. I found him."

Henry adjusted his position and blinked in the darkness. "I'm sorry. Was there a reason?"

Sammy twirled a hand in the air to trace out the note left splattered on the wall. "Time is money. Taxes. Forty-eight thousand one hundred twenty-eight dollars missing from finances." Sammy's hand dropped and the ink man stared at nothing. "Joey had the bright idea to blame Grant for the missing money. Made a show of it. What will Joey say? Joey said Grant stole the cash and ran away. Besmirched the name of a dead man to protect his ass," he spat bitterly.

Henry knew of the writing… but the tape full of horrible gargling next to it raised another question. "If Joey said he took off, where'd the body go?"

"I… don't know." But he did. Deep down, he knew Joey's experiments with the ink machine were growing darker and vicious. As to what came out of the machine when an empty corpse went in… he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to know. Sammy shuffled and extended his left leg, right still folded up. "Go back to sleep, little sheep. Your shepherd is fine."

The cartoonist shot him a flat look. "You sure?"

Sammy didn't respond.

Feigning sleep or down for the count, Henry didn't know. But he knew that Buddy in the hammock across from him was watching, pie-cut eyes wide in the dark. Henry gave him a thumbs up and rolled onto his back. They could always talk in the morning.

/