34- Who They Used to Be

"The plans of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord." - Proverbs 16:1

"Do you know what it feels like?"

The words came just as she stepped onto the platform across the room, ink once again lingering off her lower body and back into the pool, a ferrofluid ocean of black. She dropped her shoes upon the ground and had begun to replace them back to her feet as the next statement followed.

"The suffocating, inky darkness that chokes this studio every waking moment? The suffering- the struggle to simply be a person again- denied to me at every opportunity, just as I have hope it's within my grasp."

Francine's palm touched the doorframe, approaching the final entrance.

"I didn't send you to Norman just to watch you squirm, silly cherub. I sent you to him so that you can finally understand. There's such a terrible audacity about you- how you walk among us, flesh and blood, and think that simply talking can lead everyone to their own personal solace. NO!"

As Alice spoke to her, the last statement made the woman flinch. Was it in fear? Yes, but not of the usual kind. For once, she was afraid she was wrong.

Could…could she have been wrong for wanting what she did from these people?

"We all suffer here, Francine. And we always will. The most we can do is just try to search for what used to make us human."

As Francine clenched her left fist and stepped into the dark hall, a correction was made:

"…Some of us more misguided than others."

Shadow swallowed her. It also swallowed something else- the noise.

"We're all so selfish, Francine. I can't trust anyone- ANYONE- to help me be the perfect Alice…not even you. So, why would anyone trust you then, if even I cannot?"

Indeed, the walls were muting the angel's voice. It betrayed that finally, finally, Alice was physically present somewhere up ahead. That wasn't the only thing that gave her shivers. Just as Francine broke through darkness's veil, someone stood up ahead, and she had a message from above.

"And that's why it's so…SO interesting Sammy seems to have allowed you live."

A silhouette was straightened from its lean on what appeared to be a podium atop a stage. No, it couldn't be that; it had a metallic sheen at its back. Either way, this was her world now. The woman had begged her way into it, and by God Alice would make sure she'd get everything she was in for.

"Tell me, did he try to kill you already? Or do you still have that coming?" A bit of white flittered above an empty eyesocket- the curve of a horn through the dim lighting. "Do you… 'believe' in his savior, that horrible wretch that patrols these halls, waiting to take us back to those terrible, AGONIZING PUDDLES?!"

Oh, how fast did a monologue devolve into a wound as open as the ripped side of her face. With a shriek, the angel threw back her arms with balled fists, one confirming the large object was, indeed, metal as it slammed against its side. Finally, Francine would be taught her place.

"DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO I USED TO BE?!"

The slight bend forward at her waist deepened, Alice's head dipping to look at the floor. A soft noise.

Crying.

She was crying.

And suddenly:

"I don't think I've ever shown anyone. I never had a reason to." The angel straightened up once more, a strange sort of resolution etched upon her face. "…Until today."

And although Francine came here to talk, it was clear that this was Alice's time. And if the prophet was going to have his story told- the one who threw away everything he was-, then Alice would be damned if she wouldn't have her own peace. Not that Francine could talk back now anyway.

Especially not as the angel's hand- gloved by ink- suddenly held her uncoated one.

Black fingers stroked over her forearm, almost as if feeling what she would never have again, until their tips came to the woman's palm. There was a small press just before mortal hands were gently closed shut, and the angel slowly pulled away just as mildly- so extraordinarily mildly- as she came. Mouth agape and shaking, Francine looked up in time to see a sliver of Alice's face as she began to turn her back, hair and halo glistening underneath lightbulbs.

"…Do you think you can help him?" Such a small laugh then, hollowed by the decay of both body and spirit. "I'm not sure you can even help yourself."

It was such a grave, unsettling tone; it was like Alice was asking this to a god above rather than who stood before her, as if they were all helpless but to see whatever the woman would do- whatever would be done to her. Indeed, Alice's opinion of her changed over and over, much like Sammy's had. In the eyes of an angel, Francine was a fool. Her pursuit of "truth" was no truth at all. Of course, Alice was agitated. After all, the last fully human person that graced her presence had brought with him the worst of fates. She had plenty of reason to be tired and wary of one such as the woman.

And yet.

"Don't be a bleedingheart, little cherub," she began, voice abruptly firm, "Not if you don't want to wake up in a pool of your own blood. If you leave me be, I'll leave you be. And so my advice to you? Leave us ALL be if you want to stay alive- IF you can stay alive," she added, remembering the demon. But then the one wearing its face came to mind again, and her purpose with the mortal returned. One last squint fell over her shoulder as Alice stepped back onto the stage, one arm stretched up to grab a handle at the ceiling. "Don't trust him."

And just as quickly as it began, Alice once again barred herself from the rest of the world, a metal sheet crashing down to separate the two women one last time.

Francine needn't know how strange it was for Alice to open up in the first place.

It was a minute or two before it was certain the mortal had left her. Even as a wall now separated them, it was not enough to serve as her quarantine. How terribly disturbing it is to allow someone to get so close. A question rang through her mind as she gazed at her now empty hands.

Why allow it at all?

Indeed, it greatly confused her. Everything about the woman confused her, but somehow it was how Alice reacted that became the most perplexing. It was only minutes ago that Francine's life was threatened, Alice afraid of whatever the ink demon intended as she witnessed him linger over the mortal as she journeyed his halls.

But it wasn't only one kind of fear she felt. For the first time in a long time…she feared for someone besides herself. The possibility came that she should be fearing for Francine.

It was undeniable that her very nature was almost a calling card to trouble. Persistent. Outrageous. Tactless. This was all true. But…-

Alice felt one side of her lips purse.

…She didn't seem to be anything more than that. Certainly not a being she'd expect to be in association with the demon. She showed neither Sammy's fervor for Bendy nor the "lord's" power, and so the woman's place in this studio was so very unusual. It didn't make sense unless she was hiding something-…

A chill ran up her spine at yet another twist in the ropes that tied them together.

Or unless something was hidden from her.

And so Alice herself was twisting and turning with her plans and emotions, her care for the woman's destiny so deep that her only choice? It was to remain neutral. She had to detach. She had to. It was the only way to reconcile both the great upset and the great worry that the mortal's presence had rained down upon her, as split as the seraph's face. One last thought cut from her mind into her heart, sharp with uncertainty.

"God help her."

Francine didn't stop walking until she was once again in the room of corpses. Somehow, some way, such a horror was a relief from that confessional. It barely grazed over her head the irony that the one that wished to talk didn't end up talking at all; it was already so overwhelming. It felt like being scolded in the most insulting of ways- rightfully critiquing her existence in a way Francine had never considered before- and then shoved back out the door. She didn't even get to-

She was so shaken that her only reaction to realizing she had forgotten to ask about Sammy was to put a quivering hand to a forehead drenched in sweat.

She found she could not, however, as something was in its way.

The hand fell before her stomach and she uncurled just one of the fingers of her fist. As she did, a sharp corner of yellow teased its way into sight.

Soon in her grasp was a piece of paper, white creased into it like veins where the folds had been. It trembled alongside she, but even so, its image stayed clear. In dulled black and white sat a woman- dark hair, pale skin, painted lips. In her own hands she also held a paper, what seemed to be a script seeing how a microphone sat in front of the lady's elbows, bent onto the table in a casual manner. Another's hand was pointing to it. Over her shoulder was a dark-skinned man with large glasses and a noticeable tuft of hair at the front of his head, under which was a brow raised in what seemed to be the interest of normal conversation.

They looked happy.