A/N: hah

Congrats guys. It's a nother chapter of bULL SHIT

Summary of this chapter: tying up thirty years in a certain amount of words. Yey. also know as i get lazy and shortcut on everything

And hey I got another sentence summary for this AU! 'I give myself more reasons to cry myself to sleep'! :D Oh! And, 'I make completely irredeemable characters likeable Instance #478!' Woo!

Thanks to RainFlight31039 and Dancing-Ink-Demon! Both of you reviewed and that made my day so thank you so much

Enjoy.

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The next eight years were, in short, hell.

It went from basic training to straight up front-line work. Not that he was anywhere really important- but it sure wasn't pretty.

It could be summed up as fire, guns, screaming, blood, bad things everywhere and I can't breathe but I have to keep moving.

Of course, that wasn't the entire thing. Of course there were breaks. Of course there were moments of peace. But not often.

Sometimes, though, the noise would stop. The gunfire would die down, the screams became a little quieter. Things would calm down, and there were times when a whole group would band together and relax, talk, have a drink. Something to take your mind off the insanity that laid ahead and that lurked behind. The calm before the next storm rolled in.

But, of course, those moments were few and short. They happened often, but not often enough to make a huge difference. At first, the conversations had been simple, normal- but soon those who made it through the day had different things to talk about rather than the news and whatnot.

Eventually, they talked about dreams.

Some talked about their families, showed off a few photos that they dared bring with them. Some talked about their spouses, hours of endless poetic about what was the reason they loved their spouse the most. Some talked about what they were going to do when (never if, always when) they made it back, talked about jobs and careers and college and futures.

And, listening to them, Joey was constantly reminded of his own dream.

He never said it aloud- but he was going to get back there. Fix whatever issues had undoubtably arisen in the time he was gone. Using the many ideas at his disposal, finally bring the studio into fame- make it a household name. And then, they were gonna be rich. With enough popularity, he could finally do a lot of things. It was gonna be great.

But that dream remained in his head, because there was always the little whisper of what if.

And time passed, filled with the same things just about every day- but with just enough variance to make it different than the day before. Just enough new things to make today different than yesterday- because one day this person will be here- and another day, they're gone.

And yet, Joey survived.

Not completely, though. Bits and bits of a person can flutter away every day in a war, like ashes on the wind once the fire's gone out. But those can be the lucky ones- some people get caught in the flames, and even though they make it out, they're never the same. They get tagged unstable and unsafe- and they may never make it home anyways.

Sometimes, the lucky ones seem to be the ones who don't leave the battlefield.

Soon enough, though, a bullet in his left arm got his an honorable discharge and a medal. Soon, he was out.

Soon, Joey was finally allowed to step back inside his own house for the first time in eight years, in the middle of the night- something thousands of others would never get to do.

He looked around, but there wasn't much to see. Even in the dark, it was obvious- everything was plain, bare and simple. Nothing much was left out except for the furniture. He made his way down to his room, trying to keep his eyes open so he didn't trip on anything.

After pulling the dusted, untouched comforter from the bed, pulling another one out of the equally dusty closet, the first thing he did was sink into bed and pull the covers over his head, mindful of the cast covering his arm. He was out in seconds.

Upon waking up, Joey forgot where he was- just for a minute.

Then, he remembered and stood, pulled open the curtains- winced at the light, then choked on the dust- and took a minute to look outside before heading out to get groceries, exercise and information- his fridge was empty, he'd been laying around for quite a while- and he had quite a few questions.

Three hours later, Joey managed to get a semblance of normal in the old house. The groceries were put away, utilities were back, and a stack of old newspapers sat on the table. It was still dusty as hell, of course, but he felt too tired to clean one handed. He took a minute to breathe- then went to the phone, pulling out a handwritten booklet. Flipping it open, he read one of the many numbers listed inside, then set the booklet down and tapped in the number.

He waited.

Soon, though, the operator was speaking, the number you are attempting to reach does not exist- but he set the phone back down.

It was fine, Joey told himself. It's not like he knew what he would have said anyways. It'd been eight straight years with no response… of course Henry probably wasn't going to answer that number… he'd probably gone through a ton of phone numbers...

Instead, he sat down at the table, pulling the stack of newspapers closer. A gift from one of the neighbors- an older man who said they might interest you. Knew you worked at that one place…

It took three days to reach the one. Three days of skimming through a few each day, and finally one popped out- the one his neighbor had wanted him to see.

Joey Drew Studios Bankrupt

Joey stopped reading through the newspapers.

He didn't directly admit it to himself, but he knew that that was the point. The point everything was defined as changed- as something inside gave up when reading it. Something crumbled into pieces- dissolved, into thin air. And he knew exactly what it was- the last few remaining scraps of an old hope.

A normal person might have gotten depressed.

Instead, he pulled out a sketchbook and a pen. He drew every character he could remember ten times over. He sketched out anything and everything that came to mind. For hours, Joey Drew sat in an empty house, hunched over a sketchbook.

Eventually, though, he lost focus. His eyes drifted to the header on the paper, and the date. Soon, he set the sketchbook down, and stood to get something to eat.

It hadn't even been two full years. They hadn't even lasted two full years.

No wonder the studio's phone had been listed as non-existent. There probably wasn't any power left. Hell, the place was probably in shambles by now- if it hadn't been replaced with something else…

Honestly, he'd prefer to see it in shambles. Even if technically it wasn't his anymore. He'd rather see the little bit of his dream he'd managed to make real than someone else's dreams flourishing in his place.

Time came and went. The house got fixed up, cleaned. Filled a little more. Sketchbooks began appearing all over the place- Joey would start in one, sketch whatever came to mind- then he'd leave it somewhere and get an idea, and would start in another one. They were the only thing that made the place seem off- the only thing that wasn't quite normal.

The only thing.

Joey didn't go out much at first. Sure, he talked to the neighbors when he went out, but didn't do anything major- until he realized he still needed a job. Sure, he had some money at the moment, but it wasn't enough- not enough to go the rest of his life without a job.

Soon enough he landed a job in one of the cities nearby- a job that paid enough. A job editing articles for a newspaper. Not the greatest, but not the worst- just something. A nine-to-five job. Simple.

But it wasn't really easy. There were only a few editors for the whole thing, and most of them had fought to only edit articles for certain topics. Joey, having not specified any preferences, got stuck with just about everything else. There were about 30, two-thousand word articles written every two days on average, and while most didn't even make it into the paper, he still had to edit almost each and every one that even had a miniscule chance of ever getting published.

So he stayed up late a lot more.

Not that it mattered. Even when Joey finally finished and managed to get to sleep, something else kept the former animator up. Nightmares. They'd appeared shortly after his return- the night he'd found the paper, as he'd called it. They weren't exactly easy to ignore, and after spending several minutes making his heart rate go down, he'd get up and start sketching again. He'd pour whatever he could from his mind onto the paper- and hardly anything that needed put on paper made a pretty picture. Those sketchbooks became journals more than anything else at this point.

So he stayed up a little longer.

Soon, though, he'd pass out- on the couch, a sketchbook in his hands, or at the table with one in front of him. Then he'd wake up a bit later and drag himself back to bed to sleep for just a few hours, until the sun rose and the day began anew.

Years passed like that.

Very little changed. Sometimes, Joey tried to call someone- anyone, anyone whose number was written in the little booklet- but none of them answered. He was lucky if someone, a relative or family member, picked it up and informed him that no, she's not here…. or, sorry, we haven't seen him in a while…. Eventually, Joey stopped calling- all except one number, because he needed an explanation. Something.

Nobody answered.

One day, long after the cast was gone, after months and months of rehabilitation techniques helped bring back the use of his left arm, Joey drove to the studio- and was both glad and relieved.

It was still there- maybe not in one piece, but still there. The doors and windows boarded up, nothing visible from the outside, the sign faded and in pieces… but it was there.

After staring for a while, he finally got back in the car and left. Some part of him wanted to turn around- to go in. To pry the boards off and walk in.

But he didn't.

Instead, he went back home, and pulled out a sketchbook.

More time passed.

Some of the neighbors moved out, renovated their houses, or died. Eventually the neighborhood became full of young couples and their children- and somehow, they all wanted to ask Joey a million and one questions as soon as he walked out of the house. They pried, poked and prodded- one of them had seen him on the weekend, on his porch, sketching. Naturally, they were interested.

So one weekend he chose a blank sketchbook and brought it outside, then sat on the porch and waited. Within the hour the children appeared- and he let them sit next to him as he sketched. He started simple- a small sketch of Bendy. One of the children, who had apparently never heard of the toon, asked a small question- and from there everything snowballed.

Over the next few weekends, the neighborhood children learned about the entire crew- Bendy, Boris, Alice, anyone. Any of the characters that had ever appeared in an animation or unfinished idea appeared in the sketchbook, and were consequently asked about. Soon, Joey Drew had become a small legend of sorts- not just a reclusive animator, but the man the children flocked to to ask about a cartoon series that had been run into bankruptcy.

At first, the parents had been a bit wary- but the older residents were always outside when the children were, and watched- and assured the parents it was perfectly fine. Eventually, they relaxed- in fact, on Halloween one year, the kids managed to get their hands on an old projector through… suspicious means (having discovered one weekend that Joey still had some old reels stashed away in his closet) and found a big white sheet. Joey had the sheet lashed to the side of the house, then set up the projector and set a couple shorts running.

The kids loved it- and thus, it became a tradition.

Even more time passed.

The nightmares were still there, the job was still difficult. Not much had changed- but each weekend, he still went outside and sketched, and answered questions from the children. Something, at least, had gotten a little better.

Things were getting better.

And then, finally, a letter appeared in the mail.

Thirty years had come and gone, and someone had finally responded.

A letter addressed Joey Drew, in a handwriting that the man didn't recognize until he opened it and read the writing within.

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A/N: the man's not okay and neither am i

I have made Joey a completely different person. But not entirely. I think that when he's talking to those kids, he's basically just answering their questions…. Then getting them interested in the show enough that they start to want to watch it. Basically a sales pitch to kids. And damn does it work.

Not that he can sell anything anymore, of course. Most of the reels and shit are at the studio- he probably just had the finished ones at his house. He probably has a lot of shit stashed away somewhere, a just in case if something happened at the studio, like a fire…. Or bankruptcy.

Like, i'm actively avoiding making him completely nice, or completely forgivable- I just crumpled most of his reasons to be an asshole, though, as far as we know- so I mean there's gonna be some changes. A lot. Eugh, I'm not really good at this crap….

Did i mention i regret this playlist? Yeah the corn nuts commercial is playing. You know the one. Look up corn nuts radio commercial and it's the jingle. You'll know the one. You'll know because you'll see why i regret putting it in this playlist while i'm writing THIS STORY-

Next up: moving pictures! Yeah! Finally out of this bs! Yaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy heh would you look at that, I have absolutely no resources for this… fuck. Time to watch some playthroughs yeAAAHHHH

Edit: what happened when I was writing this author's no- you know what, I don't want to know.

Double Edit: The line breaks didn't appear! Sorry, might have been confusing without them... eugh, didn't realize...