Trente-quarte [The lighter side of Hell.]
/
Sammy awoke in his room in the Lost Harbor.
But it wasn't like the three hundred and thirty-three times before.
His mind was horribly, blessedly silent. The oily, painful tug that had been the Ink Demon was different. Not the tight wires of dread that it had been. The tight fist waiting to splatter him was now an open hand waving goodbye.
He wasted no time in getting to the upper floor, banjo strapped to his back and alarm clock in one hand.
Getting up to the higher floor was no small feat now that the portals were off the table. He couldn't risk losing any part of himself when they were so close.
But the alarm clock kept time, ticking away to when it would go off. His own idea, just to be sure he got the timing right. Sammy had time signatures engrained into his bones, but this needed precision even he couldn't risk.
The machine swung as if blown by a soft, summer breeze. The chains and rafters creaked from its weight. It hung, lifeless, out of sight, harmless until started. No one was going to. Not after today.
It was a hole going straight down, all the way to hell. And he knew he had a duty to uphold.
The alarm clock went off, and he silenced the painful B flat with a kick of his boot, cutting it off as it hit a wall. Amber eyes watched the door, the exit that never opened for any of them, just for his little sheep.
It remained firmly shut.
The musician grinned.
Sammy Lawrence spun his banjo around and played his heart out. Every song he knew. If they could hear him as well as he hoped, then they'd come. They had to.
He played until his wrists, and fingers begged for mercy. There was… noise. So distant but there. Those lost below were searching for the machine, but they couldn't quite find it. Couldn't quite locate the very last step. What could be louder than a properly played banjo? He couldn't run to the music room and blast it through the sound system. They had to come to the hole in the floor. What could be louder than his banjo? A Trumpet? Could he even play it in this state?
... then it clicked. That last loop, he'd found Henry after the man screamed. He'd heard him all the way down in the harbor and came running. Sammy Lawrence could play anything well enough, but his voice? Well… he wasn't at all unique in the singing department, but he was loud. He'd always been loud. The backing background vocal to many old choir performances. The strong and strident tenor that filled out rounder notes for baritones.
So he sang.
"If it were up to me, I'd leave here eternally. If it were up to me, I'd pack up a sack and flee." He hated how rusty his voice sounded, how old this song was to his tongue, but it was loud enough to carry to the bottom of the Machine's path, all the way down to Hell. "But if I'm honest, darlin', with you I'm just so swell." Sammy took a breath and belted to the rafters, "You're the reason there is even a lighter side of hell."
He could hear them. Sloshing and footsteps. Groans and growls. Allison's bright voice above the din to lead those lost in the dark to the light. The distant, faint ticking of a film reel. A low, two-toned voice humming along. The clatter of pipes, axes, wrenches… they made their way to the machine.
"Now, you call me confused, I can't say you've got it wrong." For the first time in the longest time, Sammy Lawrence felt honest-to-god hope rising in him. "Me and my foolish heart, just a-singin' this sad song." He turned to face the exit door and knew from the growing sounds behind him that he wasn't alone. None of them were. "It's a silly feelin', one I know so very well, darling when you're with me I'm in the lighter side of hell."
When the wrath of the trapped came alive and drowned him out with clanging, righteous fury, the musician knew he'd done it right.
He'd keep playing until they came up to him. He'd keep it up for as long as it'd take.
It didn't take long at all. Maybe a minute. The combined force of a hundred trapped souls with as many bits of fury and cold steel they could find, when something cracked. Sharp and deep, a perfect C, before more cracking clangs rang out. There was a hiss of damp air being pushed aside as a massive object fell to the floors below. It was quiet for two, three minutes. Sammy didn't even play a note, waiting with wide eyes and a rising heart.
A deafening crash of metal and gears as the corpse of the ink machine finally crashed down and took the entry to Bendy's lair with it, followed by cheers from further down the hole.
So Sammy Lawrence grinned and played on. The sounds of marching grew closer with every strum and pluck.
Time to finish this horror show.
\
The man at the sink didn't turn around to greet his so-called friend. "Henry? So soon? I didn't expect you for another hour yet. Now you're just trying to impress me."
Henry stood still, burning holes in Joey's robed back. He strained his ears to find some sign the door would open. He couldn't fight the script forever, try as he might.
"I know... I know... you have questions. You always do! The only important question is this: Who are we, Henry? I thought I knew who I was... but... the success starved me. Nothing left but lines on a page. In the end, we followed two different roads of our own making. You, a lovely family... me... a crooked empire. And my road burned. I let our creations become my life."
The cartoonist tried to will his legs to move, to let this be the point where he could fight back. His body betrayed him, stock still and unable to get free of this hold that forced him through this monologue hundreds upon hundreds of times.
"The truth is, you were always so good at pushing, old friend... pushing me to do the right thing. You should have pushed a little harder." Joey, propped on an elbow, extended his hand to the door in the wall. "Henry-"
"No."
A single word tumbled out of his mouth, and it was enough. It broke the rule of silence that had bound Henry to the cycle. One word, now a guillotine. It felt just like being in the tunnel after a death, but so much stronger. As solid as a set of eyes finally taking their focus off of him.
The liar and the cartoonist stared at one another, stalemate for but a moment in time.
Joey lowered his arm to lie on the counter. "No."
The tension and rigidity of the loops peeled away, and Henry at last took a step forward. "No, Joey. You didn't need me to push you. You needed to learn self-control. All you did was drag people to your level. Trapping them with contracts or letters to get your way, to keep them where you wanted them. This is why I left over thirty years ago; the moment you're not in control, the moment you're not the center of attention, you turn into a monster." Henry clenched his fists at his sides. "Not anymore. Not after this."
Joey Drew was silent and frowning. He patted the counter and leaned forward on folded arms with a sigh. "... seems, old friend, you're missing the key to all of this." The wrinkled face twisted into a grin, tight and toothy. "I made all of this. That door, my crooked empire, all me. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sorry for what happened to you and all those workers." Joey drummed his fingers on the counter. "But sorry doesn't put you on any map. You may think you've found a way out, but even if you can break free this one time, you'll go through that door, eventually. No where else you can go."
"Yeah, you made this place, but I made those characters. You got a hold of them and turned them into monsters." Henry felt heat rise in his neck. "Why even do this? Why drag people back to this place? Why torture them and me?"
Joey shrugged. "You're right about those characters being yours. You had a hand in how this came to be!" He smiled and pointed at the cartoonist. "I hoped having the right personalities thrown in would help… but it only got to the halfway point. Alice Angel an insane mess, Boris the wolf was almost perfect! Until he broke my hand." He glared at the door, then focused back to Henry. "Clones need souls to work. That soulless thing was never gonna be Bendy. Not without you. But, it's the damnedest thing, Henry! It never went how I'd hoped. You did the opposite of what I'd intended, and now? We've got nothing, but a broken story… and last I checked, I wrote the scripts for my show. All you did was give my ideas life."
Henry's mouth had gone dry. "That doesn't explain why."
"Why? Well, who'd have been a better Bendy than the man that made him?"
Bile rose in his throat, but Henry gulped it down. "That's why you put me through hell? For your stupid idea?"
"You mean the loops?" The old man shifted stiffly, a hair away from being sheepish or honest. "I hoped you'd give up, eventually. The only reason I gave you the reel was so we could try again in the next one! But the more loops I put you through, the farther away you got. You never gave up, and that's your own fault. But… well, too late now, Henry."
"And the gold ink? What was that?"
"Come on, you're smarter than this! You made those toons but no one even knows who you are? Henry, that one's easy!"
"Just tell me."
At the bitter tone of the creator, the man in a robe shook his head. "Come on. Invisible ink from an invisible man. Simple as that." Joey's grin turned razor sharp. "Don't think it matters. Now that you broke the cycle, it'll just be a footnote for the next loop. Just gotta tweak a few things and try again with a cleaner slate! I know you'll do what I need you to this time, old friend." He paused and leaned upwards a little. Despite his age, his eyes were as keen and cruel as ever.
"I won't."
"You don't have a choice."
"I will never go through that door again."
"You will. Eventually. Maybe after breakfast or after a nice long nap. But there's only one outcome." Joey sighed, brows raised as he pointed to Henry with an upturned hand. "Truth is, you're powerless. You always were."
Hands shook just a pinch, then stilled to stay as clenched fists. "...you're right. I'm powerless."
Joey sneered but hid it with a softer, self-assured smile.
There was a knock on the door. Joey's face fell.
Henry's eyes lit up at the sound from the studio door. "But they're not."
Someone rattled the handle wildly from the other side. Then they were tugging until the wood groaned. When that didn't work, a metal hand punched the wood of the door open, sending splinters into the air. Henry scrambled out of the way, but Joey wasn't so lucky from his place behind the counter and fell.
Tom moved out of the way for Norman to shoulder the door apart as inky-ridden amalgamates poured into the small room. Somewhere in the cacophony, Susie shrieked for blood.
Sammy made a beeline for Henry and grasped him in a hug that pressed all air from his lungs. "Did he harm you?"
"No. He tried talking me to death."
Amber eyes glowed with hellfire. "Good." The musician let Henry go, his grip firm to his arms. "They heard my song and came running."
"You got everyone?"
"Every soul left to be freed is here. Jack's bringing up the rear."
Henry hugged back, the cool silk of the inky body so welcomed in the room's stuffiness. "Good."
They broke apart as lost ones and searchers poured into the house, scrambling to get as far from that exit door as they could. Some laughed, some wept, most were silent as they went. Jack, hat firmly affixed to his head, slimed his way to the two. He tugged Henry's pant leg and gave a thumbs up.
"That's everyone?"
A nod.
"You're sure?"
Who knew ink could glare?
"Alright… I..." But the sensation of all those eyes upon him, all those scowling, unhinged faces. "I-"
Sammy blinked. "Henry?"
Henry gripped Sammy's hand and took a steadying breath. "I can't push him through that door." Something flickered gold out of the corner of his eye. He looked back at the doorway, brows furrowed.
The musician nodded, frowning hard. "I'll do it. For you." He strode forward only to feel his hand being squeezed in a firm but gentle plea of 'Don't'. Sammy turned, brows raised in shock. "Henry. We have to."
"We don't."
"Henry!"
A firm squeeze. "No. Look." He pointed to the doorway, still wide open. Beyond the broken frame, something… shifted.
The splinters of the doorway and frame clattered back together, drifting towards their proper places like a film thrown into reverse. The door and its frame were perfect once more. With a soft creak, it opened inwards, revealing… ink.
Ink, enough to rival the ocean, swirled up and splattered the sepia walls. It climbed high and curled to the ceiling, spinning until it formed the tunnel. The tunnel that followed Henry's many deaths, as a matter of fact. This time, there were no whispers or warm glow at the end that meant another turn. Only ice and gaping blackness.
From the depths of the ruined doorway, something roiled at the other end. Quick as lightning, a massive, white gloved hand reached out of the blackness. It wasn't the hand from the river, but a massive, pristine, two-dimensional glove. With wriggling fingers, it closed itself around Joey and hoisted him from the floor. Joey didn't even have time to scream as the hand withdrew, and the door slammed shut.
All that remained was a wooden door. Then it wasn't. As quick as blinking, the studio door was a scratchy scribble on the wall, before the ink it was made from glowed with molten gold and vanished. Quick as blinking. Easy as breathing. Just a blank wall.
Like nothing had happened.
Then everything happened.
The house, crammed to capacity in every room with ink people, shook like a snow globe in the hands of an angry child.
The loop ended with a cramped room filled with panic-struck screams and a cut to perfectly normal black.
/bbq