A/N: (see end of ch)

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Sammy had no idea how long he spent curled up on the floor in the corner. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours or days. The music director could sense that he was surrounded by searchers and a few lost ones, who had yet to leave him to his misery.

They didn't leave, nor did the other inky being seemed inclined to move.

Sammy's mind was still muddled, but he was able to settle on a thought. That, as far as Sammy could tell, these beings around him used to work with him in the same department. It struck Sammy hard when he came to the realization that he couldn't remember any of their names, and yet they still remained in these halls with him.

Did they still know who they were?

Did any of them know what had happened to them all?

Or...or were all of them as lost as Sammy had been? Lost and confused, when he'd first come back to awareness in front of the large statue of Bendy?

Sammy knew that most of the lost ones could speak, had they reason to. Most of the time, however, Sammy recalled that the lost ones were too overwhelmed by their predicament to utter anything apart from shuddering sobs. The searchers, the music director mused, could only make gurgling sounds, as if they were continuously drowning in the ink their bodies were made up of.

They were all suffering, in some way or another.

Sammy finally uncurled from the tight ball he'd made himself in the corner of the room. It would do him no good to lurk in a cloud of misery, hoping that something would change. That someone would come to help save them all from this dark place. Sammy lifted his head, beginning to become more aware of his surroundings once more. Sammy observed the searchers and the lost ones grouped around him, and the way they all stared at him.

A few of the lost ones still loosely clutched the instruments. The searchers remained close to the music director's side, reaching out to touch a shoulder or knee lightly, as if reassuring themselves that Sammy was there.

"How long have you all been here?" Sammy asked eventually, turned his head to look at each searcher and lost one. Sammy's memory was still hazy, and thinking too hard about why they were here made Sammy ill.

"I don't know." A lost one said, from where they lingered in the doorway. "None of us seem to be able to...remember."

"We try to remember. Try to talk about what this place used to be like..." Another said, carefully holding a violin. "But there is...too much darkness. Too much ink, to see clearly. To be able to retain those long ago days."

"Time is meaningless here." Another lost one added, their glowing eyes dimming a little. "Memory is...difficult to grasp. Things we knew yesterday may be gone today, in another week or not at all. We hold tight to what we can remember, to not lose ourselves completely to the ink."

A searcher waved a deformed hand around vaguely before a shrug was given, indicating that they, too, had no idea.

"If you mean how long have we all been in this room? A few hours, at most." A lost one nearest to Sammy hesitantly guessed.

"Time does seem to have no meaning in this place." Sammy agreed. From where he was seated, he stretched and then reached over to pick up a violin that had been propped up against a wall. The music director stared at the instrument for a moment.

Why had it been left there?

Sammy hadn't left it there, had he? That would have been careless of him. Why wasn't the violin safe in its case, to be kept away from the ink that could completely destroy the sound and ability to play it?

"Play us a song?" A lost one asked hopefully. "It's been too quiet here, and we don't play as well as you can, Mr. Lawrence."

"I can show you how to play one." Sammy replied, as he reached up to maneuver the mask to the side of his head. It would have been in the way otherwise, as the music director brought the violin up to his chin as he readied the bow. Sammy took notice of the faint surprise that rippled through the small group of searchers and lost ones, but the lure to make music was stronger than figuring out the reason for the change in demeanor. "Just put your fingers on the string where I show, and you can play these notes. Just be careful to not get ink inside the knobs or the f holes of the wooden instruments."

"A simple song?" A lost one wondered.

"Yes, I'll show one that any of you can play." Sammy felt a squeeze inside of him over the way lost ones carefully readied the instruments in various states of familiarity. The music director played a brief tune, slowly and carefully, bow gliding over the strings. Sammy repeated the notes several times, before he carefully set the violin down and got to his feet. Sammy went to each lost one to show them the proper way to hold the instrument they had picked up, from other wooden instruments such as a viola and bass, to a single oboe that one had found.

As Sammy pointed out the correct way to hold the wooden instruments and how to handle a bow, he also showed the single lost one the proper way to use the brass instruments. It was during this slow process that Sammy had another thought come to him. A sense, a kernel of memory that had made itself know to him. Somehow, Sammy knew that before the studio had fallen into ruin, he never would have bothered showing non-professionals how to play an instrument. Sammy was certain that he would have only accepted the best. Talented musicians who would be able to play the scores he set before them, and play well.

But now?

There was such a heavy sense of hopelessness and despair that hung over them all in this slowly falling apart studio. It seemed too cruel to turn away those who were genuinely interested in learning to play an instrument. To bring forth music in an attempt to try and lift the mood of the studio that was metaphorically crushing their spirits bit by bit.

Sammy didn't know that he currently had the patience to go step by step with the names of each note and the placement of fingers on each instrument to make them. But despite the music that was playing awkwardly, it hurt Sammy deep inside over how such a simple thing made these particular lost ones and searchers watching so happy. All it took was a simple tune that the music director could have played half asleep with his eyes closed.

This really was wrong.

Terrible.

Why were they all trapped in this place in this state?

Could they really not leave this place?

Was there no way out?

Sammy didn't realize that he had stopped moving until one of the searchers came up alongside him to place a hand lightly on his shoulder. The music director jerked out of his unpleasant thoughts, and turned his head to look at the searcher, noting the bowler hat perched on their head. Sammy heard the lost ones continue to try out the little tune he had just taught them, but he kept his attention on the hat. Sammy stared at it with the indents that he had in his head that passed for eyes.

The searcher with the bowler hat turned and wrote onto the wall, showing off the broken fragments of a mind struggling to retain a sense of self.

'Clarity now? Remember lyricist? Often below?'

"You...a lyricist..." Sammy murmured, looking from the words written on the wall before focusing once more on the searcher with the hat. "There is a memory...you..." Sammy struggled to put a face to the name, and failed, but the name he kept hold of. "You're...Jack Fain, yes? Yes, that's right. I remember you now...you put words to the music I created."

The searcher wearing the bowler hat gave what passed for a nod.

"Is everyone here...are they really all employees?" Sammy swayed in place. Hadn't he already come to that conclusion before? Or was it another of his moments of remembering things incorrectly? The music director began to tremble, overtaken by thoughts of past sacrifices...of the screams of those who were found by the ink demon. Were they all sentient, like he was? Like the lost ones were? Sammy found himself speaking again, his voice growing frantic. "What is happening in this place? What did Joey do? Why can't I remember? I should know. I should remember. What have I been doing?"

The off key music around the music director began to dwindle.

"What have we all been doing here? For how long have we all been lost, grasping for mementoes?" Sammy asked, more to himself than to Jack, who was watching him in a surprisingly solemn way.

The lost ones left off playing their instruments, all of them starting to murmur nervously amongst themselves as they watched Sammy become increasingly agitated.

The ink pumping throughout the studio didn't help the music director's faulty memories, only adding to the madness that swirled inside of him, just beneath the surface.

Drip.

Splat!

Drip.

Splat!

A sudden chill went through Sammy, as if a breath of cold air had been blown across his face.

His exposed face.

With a jerking motion, Sammy replaced the Bendy mask, feeling oddly vulnerable without it covering his own face. It made the music director feel exposed.

Unworthy of carrying out His will.

All worries of what was going on the studio vanished in place of disappointing his lord and savior.

Sammy collapsed to his knees, hands grasping his head as he let out a discomforted moan. His head hurt. His whole body ached. The ink was a horrid repetitive sound, making its way deep inside of him, and threatening to drag Sammy back to the edge of sanity.

He couldn't fail in his task.

Sammy grasped his head tighter, teetering.

He couldn't allow himself to stray.

Samny couldn't be allow himself to have these thoughts that would do nothing but bring him anguish. He needed to focus on singing praises to the ink demon. Sammy had to provide live sacrifices to his lord, in hopes of appeasing Him. If Sammy was able to please his savior, then perhaps Sammy would in turn secure His help in freeing them all. To reduce them from this awful inky hell that they were all trapped within.

"Mr. Lawrence?" One of the lost ones called out to Sammy.

The music director couldn't hear them. Not well, anyway. The ink had slowly made its way back to the forefront of Sammy's mind, making it difficult for him to think or try to concentrate.

"No..." Sammy breathed out, a piece of him resisting the ink that was trying to push him back into the darkness. Sammy needed to remember. Sammy needed to hold on, until the sensation passed, lest he lose himself again.

The searcher with the bowler hat came close to Sammy, even as the lost ones backed away, clustered together warily.

Jack…

Yes, that was the searcher's name.

Sammy remembered this, but why was he struggling to grasp onto that name?

Jack made a low sound of distress from deep within his inky body, and reached out to place a hand firmly on one of Sammy's shoulders.

A sacrifice.

Not a name.

This wouldn't do.

A name wouldn't help Sammy find a sacrifice.

An offering.

Yes, Sammy had to, needed to, find a suitable offering for his savior. It had been far too long since the last…

"Mr. Lawrence!"

Sammy jolted out of his sudden dark inky thoughts. Of dragging a screaming tender sheep to slaughter, for approval from his lord. That image broken, Sammy found himself nearly mask to face with a lost one, who had stepped forward to grab either of his shoulders to give him a rough shake.

"It really does have a tight hold on you, doesn't it?" The lost one asked.

"The ink has us all in its grasp." Sammy said vaguely, as he let out a slow breath. He should have been irked that someone had dared to touch him, but he merely stared at the lost one in front of him, even as they let go of his shoulders and stepped back. It was in that moment that Sammy noticed that the atmosphere had again changed. And with that change, Sammy saw that both searchers and the lost ones were on edge, many giving off signs of being agitated. "What is it?"

"Someone is here." A lost one said.

"Something different." Another added, glowing eyes fixed on the open entrance of the sanctuary.

Jack got Sammy's attention and wrote on the wall again.

'Not hostile. Feels familiar.'

"An intruder who feels familiar?" Sammy murmured, even as a few of the other searchers made indifferent shrugs. It was as if the being that had come into this area was not worth getting worked up over. Sammy glanced around at those gathered, and set his jaw over the wariness that remained.

"It seems that I will need to see to this…visitor." Sammy walked forward, passing by the searchers and lost ones. He sensed that they followed him close behind, as if expecting Sammy to shield them from whatever had invaded their territory. As soon as Sammy exited his sanctuary, he heard a noise that was rather familiar in this place.

The sound of a can of bacon soup as it rolled across the floor.

This wasn't an uncommon sight.

There seemed to be an endless supply of the stuff, and one of the few staples that they all could consume to replenish their strength. The soup didn't satisfy the hunger, always leaving those trapped in this decrepit studio in need of something more filling.

The alternatives, however...Sammy didn't care to think upon at present.

The can rolled a short distance into the room from the right, where it came to a stop near the stage where musical performances were recorded. And following along behind the can in dogged determination to get the soup was…was…

Sammy stared, his expression behind the Bendy mask one of bafflement.

Was that…Boris?

Of course it was.

The…machine had done this...hadn't it?

Sammy frowned.

What machine?

What was he trying to recall?

Sammy dismissed the thought for now, in favor of reminding himself that yes, there were clones of the toons from the show wandering around. Sammy normally didn't see them, unless he went out of his way to go after one for a sacrifice. But as far as he was concerned, there were only numerous copies of Boris and the Butcher Gang.

The others…

Sammy again chose not to think about one particular toon, as well as the one that he, well, worshiped, or did when he lost hold of his strand of sanity. So, in order to keep that sanity intact for the time being, the music director turned his attention to the Boris in the room with him.

An offering, surely.

Unfortunately, as much as Sammy thought he could keep hold of himself, the lost one from before was correct in how strong a hold the ink had of him. Sammy couldn't easily escape the whispers of the ink, which called to him more loudly the moment he looked too closely at Boris.

That Boris…

He looked perfect.

Not deformed in any way like some of the other toons.

What a rare sacrifice this one would be for his lord...

Sammy gave his head a firm shake, banishing the thought as quickly as it had made its way into his mind.

This Boris clone had to be another employee of the studio, even if they looked exactly like the toon Sammy had composed music for. This Boris was provably mute, as the animated toon wolf was, and because of this, Sammy wasn't even sure he would be able to guess who this Boris had once been.

Perhaps Boris could answer questions on an empty space on a wall with ink? Jack had written on the wall to communicate with Sammy, after all.

The music director supposed that was an option, provided that the employee still knew who they were. That they were aware enough of their plight to remember, and that they weren't so far gone that they just thought they were Boris the Wolf.

Sammy shivered involuntarily.

Truly, how long had he been lost himself, struggling to recall who he once had been, before the ink washed away those memories?

There were the memories of being obsessed with freedom from this awful place, and worshipping the ink demon that stalked this place. These recollections were more numerous than his own personal memories. More than Sammy would care to admit at present. Most unfortunately, it was those numerous memories of offering up a sheep for slaughter that overrode many of Sammy's older memories.

It was a...struggle, to keep a hold of himself, as the time slowly ticked by. A constant mental battle that had to be waged to prevent Sammy's sense of self from being dragged back down into the ink. To be smothered by the ink until all memories were completely lost.

Sammy could hear it, even now.

The diabolical yet alluring whispers of the ink always calling out to him. It was currently attempting to nudge the music director back into a madness that he may not be able to fully pull himself out of entirely. But Sammy pushed through the ink, the whispers, and for now, remained the person he used to be, but with a lot of missing memories.

"Who are you?" Sammy didn't realize that he had asked that aloud, but he certainly saw the effect it had on his visitor.

Boris froze in place at the question, or perhaps he had merely gone perfectly still after hearing a voice in an otherwise silent studio. Well, silent as it could be in a place that held the constant pumping of ink, the screams of the damned, and the sound of the ink demon who prowled around, hunting down unfortunate souls. The toon wolf's fur stood up on end as Boris' head jerked up, hand still poised over the can of soup from where he was crouched.

This would prove to be an interesting encounter. One of many similar such meetings in this wretched place drenched in ink.

Sammy would find, with each encounter, that what he had believed in for so long would slowly begin to crumble before him piece by inky piece.

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A/N: I forgot that I can't just automatically reply to people. If I forget to do this in the future, I want to let people know that I always appreciate any feedback, even general mashing of the keyboard with simple comments. I love to hear from people, esepcially when it seems to have become a bit of a hit or miss here on ffn.

So...

Madame Nightmare: Thank you! I'm glad I got your interest on this fic. I hope to keep up with the quality (and I'll try to take my time-sometimes I get excited when starting a new story and update a few chapters in rapid succession before leveling out to a more reasonable ((?)) update schedule.

portgas d. ace forever: Thanks! I wanted to try to find a way to write something about Sammy, because I saw a lack of stories where he was a main character (and I oenw I wanted to give a go at attempting to write a more Sammy-focused fic).