Sammy grimaced. What was Wally's catchphrase again? Oh yes, he wanted to be out of here.

"Breathe out, Mr. Lawrence." Sammy attempted to follow his instructions, only for his throat to get stuck on something, and he coughed into a paper napkin that the nurse had helpfully provided. Despite having gone to see the shrink a few times and getting used to whatever meds he was on, Sammy still could not stand the taste of bile up his throat or the motion of going through these tests.

"Hmm." The doctor scribbled something incomprehensible, which was probably the point of having terrible handwriting if your patient can't see what you're writing, before nodding. "As far as I can tell, you're doing fine on your current medication, so I'll get Mrs. Dawson to arrange your next appointment with me in say, six months time?" Sammy made the cursory agreements and walked out of the clinic, slightly out of it.

He later finds himself back at the recording studio. Various instruments donated or bought lay scattered about the room, free for his experimentation. Sammy picks up one, testing the sound before putting it down. This was his custom; by trying each one and getting a rough feel, he would be able to form a tune in his head, which helped in composing. Eventually, he picked up his favoured instrument, and started finger-strumming the banjo. Hmm, it had went out of style except in country music, but Sammy could see nothing wrong with being old-fashioned to start with.

"Urgh." Yet again, a new wave of light-headedness overcame him. He stood up, but the resulting dizziness caused him to sit down again. If it weren't for the fact that both Henry and Jeanne reminded him to take his meds, he would have long abandoned it, surrendering to voices in his mind. But he knew that he had to get this done. This song was the opening tune for the first cartoon that they were making. It just needed the lyrics-

As though his traitorous body disagreed heavily with that statement, Sammy's head swam. He groaned, resting his head on his arms, willing for the ill spell to be over as fast as possible. After all, his stomach was empty and so was his mind and everything was getting so grey. Stop that, he ordered his mind, as he attempted to concentrate on forming the lyrics of the song.

"Open up, another door." Sammy quietly whispered the completed lyrics in his head. "Moon above, it's noon o' clock tonight." He started humming the next few notes. Henry's interns were fully in charge of the story-boarding, while Sammy had read through them in order to evoke the same emotion that the characters were feeling. It was make-work, the studio could have simply just handed it back to the original contractor to arrange the background music, but Sammy appreciated the lengths that Henry was going through in order to make him feel more comfortable.

Tunes did not simply come into existence into his mind as it used to. Just need a greasing of the gears, Henry commented when Sammy explained the possible difficulty in getting a former music director of a failed animation studio who had not done a proper, serious piece of work. While it was still cartoons, the animation style was all wrong. No longer were shorts of ten to twenty minutes in trend. It was either a feature animation, always by Disney (oh how it must have tweaked that bastard's nose to have a Bendy-lookalike rule the screen!) or commercials. Henry did some freelance work, raising his niece meant that he needed a steady job and drawing cartoons wasn't quite as popular if you weren't a member of a big studio, but he was gradually moving in. And Sammy had liked the familiarity of being in an animation studio that was clean, inkless apart from the animation department itself (but they had been using coloured inks! A luxury that Joey Drew Studios had never attempted!) and liked the recording studio even more. It was meant for musicians aspiring to send their tapes over to the big timers, but had found a niche for background music as Stephen and later Sammy joined the nascent sound department. Original music was arranged by the big-timer, but for in-between frames and the like, Sammy had been informed that it was either Japan, Taiwan or some other animation studio. Henry was part of the latter group.

Unlike Joey, who was focused on Bendy, Henry abandoned the characters as soon as they were on air, preferring to work on new projects. Sure, they were paid to do a second season if the cartoon were popular enough. But Henry, after coming up with the main idea, allowed the younger animators to develop the character further in search of fresher material to work with. It wasn't as if he was callous; Henry did pop in from time to time to advise on character development and story planning, but after the initial episodes, he would move on to the next production irregardless of the time spent. Sammy reasoned that it had to be why Henry had left Joey Drew Studios; their approaches were different. Henry said little on the subject, only that there had been 'creative disputes' that had went on between the two.

Upon realizing that he made an internal monologue about Joey Drew or Bendy without going into a panic attack, Sammy could not help but punch his fist into the air. Good! Progress on the avoidance of issues regarding his...experience in Joey Drew Studios. The shrink did not know the full details of what had went down, only that Sammy had been either kidnapped and fully brainwashed by a cult that worshipped a cartoon character. Sammy was still hesitant on how he wanted to explain that he was not human for a period of time. It would come out eventually; just not now.

Oh, the sheet music was getting ruined. Sammy dabbed at his eyelids with a napkin. He needed to focus on his work now. No more distractions.

Sammy objectively knew that he had taken pride in his appearance. Once.

Clad in a hospital gown, eyes sunken and dark with lack of sleep, crow's feet where there was once flat skin...He looked like a dead person. Frankenstein's monster with no stitches. In the insurmountable years that he had been imprisoned in the studio, Sammy had been broken and remade into the image of his Lord. Or was it Joey who did it to him? No matter, the fact that Sammy was a living wreck. A shadow of what he once was.

There weren't mirrors in the studio. Whatever water closets that had been installed were either choked with ink or stranded from the music department, his den was but the broken down pieces of a man's dream. Staring at this reflection, Sammy could barely recognize himself.

"Mr. Lawrence? You've been there for a while." The nurse outside helpfully reminded him, and Sammy twitched. Weaving his hands through greying strands, Sammy felt empty, as though whatever he had gone through the studio had scooped out whatever Sammy was and left a shell of a body in its place. Which could have been more upsetting were it not for the fact that Sammy had no energy to worry about that.

Sammy laid out the clothes that Henry had helpfully passed on. It was...neat, he supposed. Clean white short-sleeved shirt, grey trousers that had something wrinkly at the waist. Henry had called it an elastic waistband. Supposedly, one didn't need suspenders or belts to wear with it, making it easier for less dexterous hands. Pity that Sammy couldn't remember how to put one on.

"Mr. Lawrence?" What was that? Was ink running down his cheeks? Sammy lifted a hand to his face, brushing away the liquid that had been dripping down his face. He wiped his cheeks, before bringing it up to his eyes. It was clear, slightly sticky in nature, but transparent. Oh, these were...his head couldn't come up with the words, but it wasn't ink, and his shoulders unwound as he made this exceptional discovery.

Sammy attempted putting his hands through the shirt, while his arms were half-way through the shirt, he simply lost the energy to put his head through. As he struggled, the word for the liquid running down to his chin came to him then. Tears. It was something he was unused to, but at the same time, he recognized that it was shameful for him to come to this conclusion. Sammy broke down then and there, and he stayed there weeping as one of the male nurses nudged him out of the bathroom.

Sammy ruefully ran his hands through his hair-or where his hair had once been. Many an argument he had with Henry before eventually the decision was out of his hands. Literally. What he wouldn't do...

But that was neither here nor there. Snip. Snip. Snip. The scissors did their dirty work as the hairdresser wordlessly relieved of the stringy locks that had once been his. Sammy remembered being proud of it once. But now, it was all gone.

Henry didn't have any photos, and Sammy...just couldn't remember what color it was. After all, color had not existed back then in his world of ink and wood, and Bendy was old-fashioned even for his-its' time. Was it blonde? Was it brown? It was long, Sammy could remember it tickling the back of his neck. But it seemed that no one wore long hairstyles back then. And it was too long ago for Henry to remember such minor details.

Henry told Sammy to look forward to the future. The shrink advised for Sammy to look at what motivated him, and asked that he kept thinking on the subject when Sammy couldn't answer even after five minutes of silent thought. In the end, it became his 'homework'. Henry hadn't provided anything for Sammy to refer to, only giving him a smile and saying absolutely nothing. It was almost frustrating, trying to think for oneself. It was easier to get the answers from someone else, except no one seemed to be co-operating.

He gazed at the thing sitting in the corner.

Hey, let's put that frown upside down! Stephen, his new colleague had dragged him to a godforsaken hat shop. It was beaten down and the general untidiness had deterred Sammy; but Jeanne had launched herself into the shop after chasing them down from the studio, and dragged Sammy behind her. They weaved through some aisles, stumbling upon an enthusiastic Stephen.

Here, try this! Sammy had caught a beanie, though he did not know its name was, and Jeanne had picked it from his hands and placed it on his head.

It's no good. He looks like a cancer patient with that. Sammy had the distinct impression that he was being made a fool of, but recognized it as light-hearted teasing once some of the outrageous looking things started being unearthed from the stash that Stephen had pounced upon. A top hat, squashed and hardly able to pass muster in the general public made Jeanne titter with laughter, while Sammy had profusely rejected the maroon fez that Stephen had offered. Even those massive Russian hats with ear-flaps had been somehow sold to this shop, only to be forgotten. The shop owner had got in on the act, providing vintage caps which would have been more appealing were they not dusty to the point of having traces of white from the usual suspects. Eventually, Sammy had surrendered to the humor of the other two mad young people and actively looked for one. Not that he knew what they were looking for; their tastes were horrendous.

Do you think I'm some kind of archaeologist? It was a horrendous looking thing, feather in cap like Yankee Doodle and hardly meant for human eyes. Stephen had smirked as he posed with it, but Sammy shook his head in polite rejection. Stephen had taken his suggestion with good grace, and the shopkeeper began to lose patience as his shop grew more disorderly with each thrown hat.

Eventually, it was up to the point where they were all chased out, having bought nothing. Instead, Stephen and Jeanne had broken out into belly laughter. Sammy tried to smile along, but it felt awfully fake. He felt hollow again. It had been so good, but like a pricked balloon, the momentary amusement he felt at the younger generation's antics faded only to be replaced by bitterness. Sammy may have a failing memory of what was there before, but he was pretty sure this didn't happen. Was this normal?

The trio had gone back to the studio, Stephen weaving in to talk to some of the test audience for his soundtrack work. Officially, he was a part-timer who happened to do background music in a pinch. But Jeanne had already been plotting, not that Sammy or Henry had known back then. It was strictly a young people's affair, with many of the permanent staff (if such a thing existed in the cutthroat industry after the Disney failures and the shoddy work that Henry hated with the passion of a thousand suns) in on it. Sammy only found out later, but Jeanne must have been planning it a lot earlier than Henry had found out.

Sammy had went back upstairs, where a room had been cleared out for him after his stay. The animation studio was still operating out of an apartment complex, studio space being too expensive for a small business like what Jeanne was running. On his table was a piece of chocolate cake.

Sammy had stared at it for a while. He sat down, examining the choclate frosting on chocolate truffle. It seemed...suspicious. Sammy picked up the spoon that had been balanced on the plate, and scooped up a corner into it. The soft, exquisite taste filled his mouth, and he allowed the thing to swim into his mouth for a while, before gulping the bite down.

The act of eating was still awfully new for Sammy. Much to Henry's surprise, he had not consumed any of the soup cans that were lying about the old studio. Sammy had heard that they were horrendous to devour, but it was either that Henry had an iron stomach, or those things were still edible after 30 years past its expiry date. Jeanne posited the former as being more likely. Well, it was her uncle after all, she would know.

It was with confusion, and then growing horror that consumed Sammy when he realised just how long he had gone without food. As an ink creature, it was roaming about the studios whispering to his Lord and Savior (not that Sammy thought that Bendy was any kind of saviour now, not with what had happened in the end ), preparing rituals that Sammy couldn't quite admit to actually believing in. Being an ink monster meant that he wasn't affected by dehydration or hunger like people should, and it had been an abrupt shock when hunger gnawed at his stomach after weeks of getting broth and gradually shifting to non-liquid substances.

The doctor had gently but firmly confirmed that he needed regular diets and sleep patterns in order to adjust. For someone who remembered staying up late at night to compose, and often skipped meals, Sammy had disliked the military precision that Jeanne and Henry had introduced into his life. Then again, it wasn't as if he had anything to protest. It was just the growing lack of control that disturbed Sammy, and the haircut had been the last straw that metaphorically broke the camel's back.

Sammy guessed that the cake was some sort of apology. How had Jeanne guessed that chocolate was his favorite flavor? But he appreciated the gesture for what it was, and gratefully woofed down the rest of the slice. It was only after he finished had he picked up the note that must have accompanied the cake.

Sammy,

I know it must be hard, and I can't even say that I know your position. However, I would like you to know whatever happens, I would be here all the way. You can't shake an artist once he's got his mind set after all!

Henry.

It was...nice to read the note. Sammy could say he was even a wee bit tickled at the last sentence. Henry could be wonderfully stubborn. Exhibit A: Going back to the studio and staying even when things appeared amiss. Sammy couldn't wait for things to readjust itself to his new normal though.

The cake tasted good. Like stars and galaxies bursting in one's mouth.

A/N: inspired by tiny-smallest on tumblr. Her Sammy fic is so good.

Also, the cake was bought for two bucks at the local bakery. Henry likes cheap pastries.