Chapter Text
“Even miracles take a little time.” –Cinderella
“Who is the man behind the monster?” -writing behind Mr. Drew’s desk
Part V. The Finale
It is not a terribly impressive or skillful fight. There is no battle cries, no valiant offense. It is one of desperation, anger, pain and so much frustration that has been building and building over the years. Henry evades and ducks Sammy’s relentless lunges, pushing himself despite the strain on his frame and his exhaustion from helping Many before by shedding its unwanted items.
Sammy is a man possessed, and more than once his ax cleaves so close in the air that Henry’s shirt suffers a slice. Better his shirt than flesh, both of which can be mended by needle and thread but only one causes pain of course. He dodges the ax but is slammed with the butt of it, and it makes him groan, a dull noise of pain. Bendy isn’t here to heal him, or grant supernatural reflexes or share his inhuman instinct that can be used to out think an enemy.
The Projectionist snarls Discontent and Worry, taking a few steps at the tangling duo before swaying to a reluctant, if obedient halt. Henry is grateful for him, but is just as glad when Norm manages to resist getting in the middle of this deadly, horrible dance of death.
Henry got them all here to this point, after all. He didn’t trust his gut when it said something was Wrong and Off with Sammy. He didn’t let Bendy talk him into leaving and returning to the safety of the first floor. His pride and wish to save some Lost Ones made him a target and allowed for an envious and cold Pariah to sever his bond with the Ink Demon.
Bendy could be back in Joey’s grasp, could be suffering and scared and lost, and Henry has no one but himself to blame.
Well…that, and the man who pushed him into the river.
So this is a fight for him and Sammy. Just the two of them, on even ground.
But Henry refuses to throw a punch, to Sammy’s growing reproach.
At one point Sammy lunges in and his shoulder is down, leg over extended to complete a downward swing. Henry spots the opening and gives his first real offensive motion–and the end result is exactly what he wanted. A strong swipe that upends the ax from his frantic grip and sends it spinning into the inky lake before the Machine’s spewing maw, so high above. A splish! and gone.
“NO!” Sammy howls as if Henry shot him in the leg, and any upperhand Henry hoped to get by disarming the musician is out the window when Sammy simply switches to hand to hand combat.
“Fight back, you coward!” Sammy roars, incensed as he lunges.
The first punch connects with Henry’s jaw and sends him sideways into the rocky wall. He slams himself to one side to avoid an uppercut, hearing the strain of the banjo as it grinds into the stone. The third hit he cannot avoid. The punch to the gut is the worst hit of the two that landed, and suddenly Henry has no air. A fourth decks him in roughly the same spot and he hears Norman grunt as well.
Henry crumples, trying to crawl backwards and nearly falling into the lake. Norman screeches a frightful noise, taking several threatening steps. But he sounds more Scared than Angry.
Sammy towers over the Artist, his boot coming down onto the area already hit. One good stomp and Henry feels a rib go, and any gained air he tried to recover leaves him with a pathetic gasp. The banjo groans under his back and the rockbed, but he can’t reach for it like he wants.
He’s not even sure what good it would do.
He can’t call for Bendy, either. Henry wonders then, if this might be it for him.
“Sam–” Henry wheezes, stars dancing across his vision. He can’t make a sound but Norman is roaring in pain, though worryingly it sounds far off and distant. Even if he could move fast enough to get across the huge room in time, the upper hand is clearly the Musican’s…
“You wanted to be a Hero, Stein?!” Sammy roars at him. “Then you will die like one! I’ll have my place back on the food chain and you! You, will be no more than a–”
What Henry will end up as, he never does learn.
This is mostly because the lake suddenly thrashes in a crashing display of ink. The Many’s huge cartoon hand erupts and rises, looming and terrible. Then it’s diving down from its impressive arc, backhanding the Pariah off Henry so powerfully Sammy goes FLYING, and lands hard and doesn’t get back up.
Henry can breathe again. For a few seconds he lays flat on his back and just reaffirms himself that he is in fact, still alive.
Many’s black clawed hand moves in his peripheral. The roar is ageless and terrible as Many clamors out of the lake it had traveled into, careful not to crush Henry even as the earth thundered under its lumbering drag. It stops on the shore and the cartoon hand smears at the summoning circle, knocking the candles over and then turning its reaching white hand sharply left.
The fingers engulf Sammy with none of the same gentleness it showed Henry moments ago, and begins to drag the dazed Musician slowly into the lake.
“No…” Henry groans out weakly, the sound hardly a grunt around the screaming, dizzying pain of his body. He’s winded, light-headed, but he’s Alive. Sammy, on the other hand…
“No…Stop…” Because Many either didn’t hear him or isn’t listening. Henry prays to any Gods still watching that it’s not the latter. “Stop, don’t kill him, please–”
Norman either agrees or, perhaps he does hear the Artist’s weak, almost whispered pleas and decides to back Henry up if only for the Artist’s happiness and peace of mind. He challenges Many instantly, shrieking at Them until the huge behemoth that used to live in just the river actually does halt its actions. Henry feels a bolt of affection for his dearest friend.
It keeps Sammy pinned under its hand though, just on the shore where the Artist lay, recovering. Henry can see him as he rolls over and leans on his good side, breathing roughly through his mouth and nose. Many rumbles softly in warning, but stays in place.
“Sam…please,” He is discovering that he can either pull himself to Sammy’s side or talk, but not both at the same time. Every inhale is fire, every exhale is ice. “Just think about this.”
Sammy’s Bendy mask is gone, the black face with its indents for eyes tight and smushed into something so close to Hate that Henry hurts over the expression. How did they get like this?
“You’re weak as ever.” The Pariah seethes with venom in his voice, struggling but unable to free himself. Many presses harder, rumbling in defiance until Henry shakes his head.
“No I’m not. I just won’t fight my friends anymore.” The Artist breathes in soft defiance, and with a shaking hand he tugs at the strap and lifts the banjo off his shoulder.
“I found this.” Henry manages. “I think you should have it back…if you still want me Dead, fine…”
Sammy sees it, truly sees it without his rage clouding his mind, and stiffens.
“Here.”
Henry drops it and pushes it close to Sammy’s unmoving hand, and when he sees those fingers twitch he rallies with churning Hope.
“Remember when Susie got you this? Your old one was breaking down…all she wanted was to get you a replacement. She…” He has to catch his breath but he does so, almost falling over if not for Many’s black clawed hand that dives and props him half up. He sags over the inky hand, defeated physically but eyes burning with firelight. Norman whines and lumbers closer, but they share damage now.
Perhaps their bond wasn’t the insurance policy Bendy expected it to be.
“She found this one. S’too expensive fer her, her mom had just passed that Spring…So we…we all chipped in. Norm, me, and Tom. Even Wally and Joey.” Henry squints against the pain, collapsing fully against Many and hearing the swell of worried voices trying to comfort and keep him going.
There’s silence on Sammy’s end, and Henry honestly doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.
Then Norman’s reel tape rattles lightly, typically a gentle and soft sound, and Henry forces himself to look at the musician.
Sammy’s hand is reaching for the banjo handle. His fingers brush it ever so, but his whole body jerks as if electrocuted. His struggles wane and he lies there, silent as a grave, clinging to the musical instrument.
“S-Susie knew if you found out what w-we did, you’d be too embarrassed to…to take it, ah, God–” He waits for the pain to pass. It sort of works. “She was right, ‘course.”
Henry fills the silence, not knowing what else to do.
“W-We just…wanted our friend to have something special, Sam. Please…let this end here. We couldn’t save Susie. I’m so sorry. I don’t wanna lose you too, Lawrence. You’re still important to me, to us. Pariah or not.”
Henry’s mind reaches, swimming through the past events and trying to place himself in Sam’s shoes.
“I don’t know what lies Joey fed you to turn you into the Pariah. But the Sammy I knew wouldn’t fall for anyone’s shit. That’s why we liked him. Sure, you’re a prideful sunvabitch…but you’re our prideful sunvabitch.” He jokes lamely, not letting himself cough because when he did it a second ago he almost lost threw up.
Henry finally dares to look at Sammy, to try to parse why he’s being so silent and…he’s crying. Well, one side of his face is. The ink dribbles away, revealing half his old human face, and his dark gray eye is tired and hooded as ever. The familiar sight makes Henry twitch, wanting to move closer on the familiarity of the sight. Sure, he adored Norm even as the Projectionist but to see Sammy as he used to be…
To discover the Musician hasn’t aged, either. The realization makes Henry’s flesh crawl uneasily, and he experiences a brief sense of honest mourning for Sammy and the Life that was taken from him, too.
Fingers gripping his banjo so tightly that his exposed, human knuckles are white, Sammy’s good eye blinks a few times, as if waking up out of a deep sleep. The eye roams, and he and Henry stare at one another.
Both are beaten and broken and bruised.
The light of recognition fills Sammy Lawrence's face.
“...Henry…?” Sammy murmurs, and his voice is human and flat. The ink loosens off him, slipping and sliding until his left arm, shoulder, head and some of his upper chest are exposed. But nothing more. He seems to be remembering things the longer he stares at Henry. “Where ever did you manage to find my…?
Oh, Henry Stein. I almost killed you, you damn idiot.” And Sammy sounds so exasperated and maybe even a touch fond about it. “What were you thinking?”
“Uh, well…” Henry feels unmoored but wholly vindicated and so very right. Sammy sounded…grounded again. Like his old self! His voice no longer pitched oddly, his mind no longer circling the drain of Sanity as the Pariah drove him Mad.
“You didn’t though, Sam. Knew you were still with us.”
“Mmm. A part of me was okay with what Joey wanted to do to you, you know.” Sammy admits, and somehow that seems important to Henry. Sammy was reserved, yes, but not in the way Norman was. Sammy wasn’t sneaky, he was just a musician with specific set of social requirements and damn the fools who stepped on his toes. The Pariah was more…selective. Also, plotting and wicked and cruel.
But the man before Henry, covered in ink and looking miserable and war-torn inside, seems as authentic as he’s ever been. Henry’s still on guard of course, but things feel different now. Even better, Sammy goes on:
“But the other part. Well, the other part. I…my anger. The Pariah’s anger…the drive to stay relevant, and on top, down in the Studio depths…”
“Is the Pariah…in you?” Henry asks.
“Oh yes, Henry.” Sammy whispers softly, achingly. “Always.”
“What does it want?” He asks before he realizes this question may be one he does not want an answer to.
Sammy’s good eye blinks, and he looks confused. As if no one had asked him that before. He doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t. He seems more lost than irate now. Henry senses the change in his mannerisms and sighs.
“We don’t have to discuss that now.” Henry offers him the out. Sammy takes it, and switches subjects.
“Call your monster off, Henry. If you would be so kind.” Which was such a Sammy way of demanding something that Henry gives a wet snort. He touches Many’s black knuckle and strokes it, feeling the tremor under his frame as the huge behemoth rumbles a low, uneasy note.
“UnsureHenryNoWayNotSafe, Safe??PariahDangerousHenryShouldWeShouldWe?”
“Go ahead, big fella. Let him up.” Henry orders, and is pleased when the white gloved hand pinning Sammy to the stone rises slowly, but hovers close by, fingers flicking nervously in Anticipation.
A tiny, nervous part of Henry does wonder if the banjo will become a weapon to use on him.
But Sammy just inches up, half his face gritted as he rises shakily and grips his treasured instrument to his front as if in possessive defense. Like someone might come along and just take it away from him again. His eye flits onto Norman, likely because the Projectionist has lurched up beside Henry by now, lens focused on Sammy but reaching to tug the Artist’s arm over his shoulder and support him. Henry winces, hissing but relaxing when the right pressure keeps the pain off his side, and he grunts a grateful note to the Projectionist in nonverbal thanks and love.
“You need to get out of here, Stein.” Sammy’s soft voice is laced with an urgency too worried to be false, now.
“Not without Bendy.” Henry denies, even as both the Musician and Projectionist look unhappy at his defiance, but not entirely surprised by it. “I can’t feel him, I can’t call him to me.”
“The only room strong enough to contain the Ink Demon is the Vault, Henry.” Sammy says, pointing to the way across the lake. “Even if our dear old Boss has Bendy in there, if he doesn’t have the End Reel or his current Creator, Joey doesn’t have enough to transfer his hold on the Studio and the Ink Machine back to himself.”
“...which is why he keeps trying to get us both.” Henry marveled at things coming into place so neatly. “And…and when Norman and Bendy saved me from Henry, they did this…merging thing. It was creepy, but it drove Joey off.”
“I know.” Sammy looks upset but he admits it. “Joey told me that, too. Bendy’s found a way to use the End Reel for more than just resetting the Cycle. There’s no telling what else it can do. Joey wanted me to deliver you, and lure Bendy in. That Dark Ink of his is how he stays around down here, more memory than flesh. When trying to control you didn’t work, he wanted you dead.”
“But you said…”
“You remember how Joey Drew gets, Artist.” And the title is more gentle than it used to be. “If he can’t have something, he’ll break it so no one else will either. Maybe he thinks he can weaken Bendy enough, make him desperate. The he can lure out the Ink Demon to make a new deal. If Bendy loses you, he loses his current Soul…a pretty important factor to his Power. He’d go back to Joey. It would kill him inside, but….”
Henry shakes his head, confused and alarmed.
“But I thought Bendy didn’t have a Soul?” The cassette tape he found down in the Studio confirmed that, what feels like years ago.
“That’s exactly why he needs one, Henry. To survive. To endure. He got tired of playing second fiddle to Drew…I guess the way I got tired of you coming down and…usurping me. Which was…wrong. I…I apologize.” Sammy lapses into silence, studying Henry with a grave, empty expression. The lines on his face deep grooves of concern and unease.
Still, Henry understands the offering for what it is. Sammy has nothing else to give but any information he can.
If they’re better prepared for Joey, maybe they can stand a chance.
“Thanks, Sam. I mean, we gotta figure out what to do about the Pariah still, but…thanks.” Henry smiles, and for that second it almost looks like Sammy might try to smirk back at him.
Then Sam’s human eye widens and his skin goes sheet white with horror at something behind them.
“Yes. Thank you, Lawrence. For once again proving your value as anything in this studio is contingent on you following the damn rules. Something you just never seemed able to master.” Joey Drew’s languid and easy going voice dipped to a growl. “You’re worthless, it’s almost pathetic.”
Henry and Norman turn as one, even as Sammy blanches and shuffles slightly behind them both. Many’s hand jerks a little and then sways in confusion, but doesn’t attack. If anything it rears back into the lake with a splashing wave, until only its cartoon hand is peeking from the pool. It waits for Henry’s word, although the artist is glaring from where he leans heavily on the Projectionist.
Joey stands there, blocking the entrance back to the Village of the Lost Ones with his body, hands in pockets and Mega Searchers made of his Dark Ink lumbering close by. They wait, too.
“Joey.” It’s the only greeting Henry can muster. He limps back a few steps when the Projectionist tugs him nearer to the bank of the inky pool, but doesn’t take his eyes off Joey, following blindly and trusting Norm.
Joey ignores him, simply holding a finger up and counting.
“One, two, three…four.” Drew makes a face at the sight of Many. “Ugh, Henry. Look at that Abomination above you. A rotten, mindless relic of a failed empire. Why carry around so much baggage?” Joey wonders.
“Back off, Joey.” Henry spits, and he feels a spike of vindication as he recalls the last time they met head to head like this. “And don’t try any of that mind control crap on Many, either. There’s too many Souls in them for you to stand a chance. Just leave quietly.”
“I suppose you’re right, old pal.” Joey clucks his tongue in mock sympathy for himself. “I can’t hope to control that beast. My Dark Ink just won’t be able to win it over.”
The Projectionist hisses suddenly, and Sammy tenses too as the air shifts and they both feel it wash over them, even to their inky bodies. Henry winces, noting both his friends and warily glances around. He grips tighter to the Projectionist and whispers,
“Norm? What?”
And then a low noise of distress hits them, deep and so loud the cavern shudders.
It comes from Many, who thrashes and rises up, trying to stretch out of the lake as the ink boils and the Dark Ink collects and swarms. Joey’s Dark Ink is attacking Many, from all sides and all angles. When Henry sees a half eaten black claw try to rise from the depths, he realizes fully the danger that’s going on and panics too.
“Call it off, Joey!” He demands, then almost crumples and has to hang onto Norman when the pain doesn’t let him offer a counter attack. “You can’t do this!”
“The Dark Ink consumes anything, old pal. Even the useless and the too big, the dregs that should be Erased and Forgotten. You made it easier to destroy, so I should be thanking you…course, I might be able to call off the Dark Ink if, say, you gave me the End.”
Despite the situation, Sammy and Norman both utter wordless noises of fear and disagreement. Henry doesn’t care. But there’s still a problem.
“I don’t have it, Joey. Bendy does.” He hates that the Many is literally dying and he can’t stop it, but a small part of him sings at the anger and fury cracking across Joey Drew’s face when he’s told no.
However…that raises a new point. Henry glances at Sammy and the two share a look.
If Joey shoved Bendy into the Vault, he wouldn’t look half as angry about being denied the End Reel. A new thought races across Henry’s mind and he shivers.
Had Bendy locked himself away? To hide from Joey?
If he had, it was a clever plan.
But now it was a race to get to Bendy before Joey did. But how…?
There is answer to that, too, but it’s one Henry doesn’t like.
Many roars in agony and blunders, unable to storm onto land because they refuse to trample the trio below. Even that wouldn’t let them escape the Dark Ink, with their luck. Instead it gropes down, fingers feeling along the stone and suddenly curling round Sammy. Sammy spooks, scrambling and unsure of what’s going on.
“W-wait–Unhand me!”
Sammy is grabbed, and Many’s main arm swings like a rubber hose and rears upwards and back. Somewhere in the distance Sammy grunts–but he sounds more alarmed than in pain.
Many dives down again to them, and the clever Projectionist seems to understand the plan. He shoves Henry into its grip. Henry struggles, half from pain and half defiance at leaving Norm behind. The connection erupts in sparks of noise and overwhelming emotion as he connects with Many.
“HoldOnHenryHoldonGotYouGunnaMakeitGetYouSafeSorrySorrySorry!”
“W-what? No, nono–Many, don’t–”
“HaveTo!Henry–Safe!”
Because for once, Many is in perfect sync with every single Soul that lays within them. Even through the pain of being eaten alive by the Dark Ink, corroded and picked at like carrion as the lake bubbles and churns. Even now, Many moves with singular purpose. Many is in full Agreement and will not listen to Henry anymore.
Many has Henry, and the hand dips uneasily as it sinks further. More and more of it being eaten away as They plunge backwards through the surf.
“PainHurtOwPain! FasterGottaSave’EmSorryHenryGoodByeHenryGoodBye…”
Still, it stretches and stretches. Joey’s wordless roar of anger follows Henry across the treacherous lake.
He lands on the other side of the bank, and Many’s hand makes a final return. Henry can no longer hear it too well, but he knows the outcome and he hates it. Before it was ten feet in the air, now it’s barely two. It throws itself clumsily across the lake and withdraws, letting Norman run across its fingers and leap to the stone bank, blocking Henry and Sammy from sight as he roars triumph and defiance at Joey who is on the other side still. Sammy grabs Henry’s arm and keeps him from running headlong into the damn lake himself. Norm’s cording joins and they hold the injured Artist back.
Joey is standing where they stood seconds ago, shouting for the Mega Searchers to chase and pursue. The first Searcher lumbers into the lake, but doesn’t resurface. It’s dim witted friends hesitate.
And then Joey’s tone changes, because Many’s half chewed away, destroyed hand paws messily out a few feet, catches his ankle…
And pulls, hard.
There’s no joy in the sight of Joey being pulled under, screaming as ink fills his lungs and he curses them.
There’s no relief when the lake goes still and the Dark Ink stops glowing its poisonous shade.
There’s no feeling of victory when the Many doesn’t come back up.
Henry calls for them anyway, keening and in pain and distraught. ‘Not another,’ he thinks. Pleads.
Why can someone never help him without it coming back to bite them?
Behind him but close, he distantly hears Sam’s voice, talking to Norm.
“We need to get him to the Ink Demon. You can’t kill a Dead Man, not with all his own Ink in there.” He must mean get Henry to Bendy, and he must also mean that Many’s valiant sacrifice was in vain. Joey would return and go after them again.
And again, and again.
‘I didn’t break the Cycle. I just started a worse one. Where the stakes effect everyone else just as badly as they did Bendy and I.’
Henry isn’t strong enough to walk without limping. He certainly isn’t able to keep himself upright, let alone get open the Vault once they arrive by it.
Thankfully, connected as they are, Norman seems to have enough strength left to help Sammy turn the huge dial. Henry they leave swaying unsteadily before it, so the first thing he sees when they tug the door open is the little cramped space. Musty and cold and dark.
And the second thing, all bundled up in the corner, ink dripping and pooled all around him like he’s a melted wax figure, is Bendy. Bendy, in his original, cartoon form. That pathetic, miserable sight alone is enough for Henry’s blood to turn to liquid nitrogen in his veins. It’s a small miracle he doesn’t break an ankle throwing himself over the lip of the Vault. He falls in and crashes to his knees before the unmoving ink blot. Before anything else he has worried, gentle hands on the pitiful creature, the once fearsome and mighty Ink Demon.
“Kiddo, kiddo hey–wake up, c’mon, everything’s okay now, it’s all okay now–”
But Bendy’s head is limp and his little gloved hands don’t move when he scoops the little Devil up. Henry stays planted where he is and lets Norman and Sammy guard him, his back to them both as he jostles Bendy in his arms and moves his tiny horned head to cradle on his shoulder.
“Bendy, I need you buddy. C’mon, I can’t get us out of here without you.” Henry absolutely will not entertain the idea that he’s too late. That he woke up Sammy and lost Bendy, that Many died in vain trying to get them to the Demon’s side before Joey could get them.
The Projectionist and the Musician linger, at least until Norm’s light shutters as he swings it around, catching a terrible sound to hear right now. Behind them are several Searchers, slobbering and making a horrible racket as they haul themselves stubbornly down the hall to the Vault.
“Damn,” Sammy pushes at the heavy door, trying to block the two from view even as he knows it’s pointless. Everyone can feel the Ink Demon down here. “Got any bright ideas, Polk? Or am I to die here, defending a God I no longer believe in, minutes after finally waking up?”
“Tssch, sspare meee,” Norman remarks with an unamused snort as he stomps forward to cut down Joey’s cronies. He never did entertain Sam’s dramatics. (A small part of Sammy rather enjoyed that, back in the day.)
Sammy grouses but glances around, trying to find some weapon he can use. In the end it comes down to him and his banjo, hilariously enough. The swing is strong and somehow the old instrument holds it’s own.
But with each Mega Searcher they send back to the Dark Puddles, two or three more take its place. Norman refuses to back up, but soon even he’s looking uneasy. He and Sammy find themselves shoulder to shoulder as they try and stave off the enemies, or even just hold the line.
Soon, even that becomes useless.
“Well, it was nice knowing you, Polk.” Sammy spits. “Any last words?”
The Projectionist utters a creaky, groaning grunt.
“Could ‘ave gone betturr.” Norman decides on calmly.
“They’ll put that on our tombstones–”
And then there’s a creaking sound, followed by a great groaning as the Vault’s door is suddenly being thrown open.
It slams into the wall with a terrific bang, but nothing is louder than the thunder that is the roar of the Ink Demon’s third and final form.
Beast Bendy fills the hole as he emerges, all muscle and weight and might. There’s a blinding golden light bleeding from his round maw, jowls wide and tongue curled as he roars over Norman and Sammy, his eyeless face focused more on the Searchers than anything else.
The best thing either of them can do is share one shocked glance and dive to opposite sides, getting the hell out of the was of the Ink Demon’s rampage. So they do.
Bendy bowls forward the second there’s room, pounding on all fours into the Searchers and beginning to rip and gobble any and all down that aren’t smart enough to flee a fight they can never win. His tail cracks those behind, his fist pound those that try to flank him, searching for any opening. The Ink Demon’s armored hide soon squashes what few attempts they try, as does his vicious ripping and tearing.
Henry emerges from the Vault, looking less pale and no longer bent over, though he keeps quiet and moves with careful steps. He grabs his friend’s attention and pushes forward, following the path Bendy is carving for them out of bloody ink and raking claws.
“Let’s go, hurry!” The Artist calls.
Sammy mutters something about taking a stroll instead, but follows swiftly nonetheless. Norman bristles at the Searchers and provides what little support the Ink Demon needs.
Bendy doesn’t take them back to the Ink Machine, instead plowing his way up and into the final chamber where he and Henry used to have their final stand off before the Cycle reset. Joey doesn’t show his face once for some reason–which Henry will remark on how odd that is later–but for now the Artist is only frantic and relieved they’re getting out of here Alive–and it’s just a mountain of Mega Searchers they must fight through.
At one point Bendy circles around and ducks, shouldering Henry up onto his broad back as he rises and wheels around. The Artist clings to the spikes, body tense and braced and trying not to think of how it felt trying to ride his grandad’s bronco during a show when he was 16 and stupid. Bendy pauses to deliver a devastating haymaker at a Searcher, ink flying everywhere as he roars.
But then there’s the door, the door that once led to Joey’s apartment.
It opens by itself–or perhaps by Bendy’s command–and is pouring a harsh white light too strong to look at. The rays cause the Searchers to screech and wobble away.
Bendy’s voice bellows between Henry’s ears as he begins to lope toward it–
“TAKE US HOME, HENRY STEIN!” This order is for all the marbles, Henry knows without being told. The only way to fight right now was to retreat.
So Henry does, eyes knitted shut as the whole world rocks and Beast Bendy gallops forward like some great, inky black bullet. Henry thinks of the first floor of the Studio, warm and dust free with their rooms and their tiny kitchen. The little carved out spaces of those he managed to save, his new Family. Allison’s inventions and Tom’s tools, his desk where he and Bendy draw together on rainy days. The candlelight at night, the door that leads to the world Outside. Fresh air and sparkling water. The door before them shudders and glows whiter as the image fills his mind, reforming rapidly so that they will end up where Henry is telling them to.
He can only trust Norman and Sammy are on their tail, and soon he feels the world squish and tighten as Bendy sends them careening through what should be a too small doorway–
But cartoons never care much for Reality nor it’s silly little rules.
Henry rolls, tucking himself on instinct as the Beast melts out from under him and doesn’t reform. There’s a cartoon splat sound ahead of him, not made by he or anyone except the little cartoon Devil that just saved them. Henry tries to tell them to get the damn door shut, but there’s no need.
“Shut the door!” Sammy shouts somewhere behind them. “Move Wolf, now!”
A Searcher that is unlucky enough to make it through the door is slaughtered by Norman’s swiping cording, and he snarls as he backs up to block Allison from view as she runs over, weaponless and startled. Sammy and Tom shove the door shut–it seals and locks, and the light fades abruptly.
The door shudders once, twice…then holds and all falls silent.
Save for panting, of course. And the Projectionist’s shuttering light. It wobbles a little and Norman deflates into a chair with sagging relief. Sammy is still shaking a bit, wiping his black and skin hands on his pants leg uselessly.
Henry slowly gets his palms under him and sits to one side, staring at the wood grain of the beloved, original Studio as if holds all the secrets of the universe. He hears, dimly, voices. Allison asking what on earth happened, was everyone okay, any wounds? It was Joey, wasn’t it? Tom’s nonverbal but equally worried growls and snarling, and even Norm’s raspy speech in reply.
Sammy begins to recount the tale, and it must shock Tom and Allison to hear Sammy Lawrence do it, not the slippery and oily Pariah.
Henry lifts his head tiredly, slowly. Bendy is on model once more, his mouth a tiny frown of teeth, his pie eyes low and bow-tie and tail drooping. He wobbles upright however, hurt eyes on his Creator. Within moments Bendy is up against him, pushing until Henry sits back and his legs create a lap. Bendy takes the spot without hesitation, curling up and burying his face in Henry’s shirt. His tiny mitts grip his suspenders, and Henry chuckles tiredly as he sits patiently.
“I know, pal. I was scared to lose you, too.” He says, and a tiny fist hits his chest. It’s a harmless strike, and the fist is trembling.
“I wasn’t scared!” Bendy wails, his tone and body language showing his bold faced lie for what it is. Henry stifles a chuckle into a hum, and rubs the little demon’s black spine in small circles.
But it does not comfort Bendy like it usually does.
“This was all your fault, you know that, Creator?!” Bendy decides to try and fight with him, and Henry just shakes his head, disappointed.
“I’m so sorry, Bendy.” He says softly, not caring if the others hear them. “I did mess up but you and I both know I didn’t mean to leave you like that. It was an accident. I’m only human.”
“Yeah? Well, I a-ain’t! And I–I–!” If Bendy is about to assert he never makes mistakes, he chokes on the words. His ink dribbles, and Henry feels his shirt grow wet.
“They got ripped apart?” Allison whispers in concern to Sammy and Norm. Both nod solemnly.
“It was a close call. Bendy hid in the Vault and the Hand in the Sewer got us to him. That’s the only reason we escaped with our heads still on our shoulders.” Sammy mutters back to her. Allison must make a face because he goes on,
“Joey would never come up here. Not even for the Reel or Bendy. Powerful as that Dark Ink is, he can’t leave the Ink Machine.”
“So like Henry is tied to Bendy, Joey’s tied to the Machine?” Allison wonders.
“For now. Maybe he thinks the Reel can get him free or change the rules, but…who knows? Joey’s always the dreamer of the impossible. If you asked me a lifetime ago, before he built the Machine, I’d say that’s all he was good at. Except he managed that, didn’t he?” Sammy sounds exhausted and disgusted. “We’re safe for now. That’s all that I care about. If it’s all the same, I…need some time to think. I’ll be in the little closet I apparently call my room.”
And Sammy lurches off, itching at his exposed human skin but not mumbling hymns or poems anymore. His banjo is on his back where it belongs, too.
Henry makes a mental note to make a bigger room for the man–maybe something with a window for Heaven’s sake, but for now he just rises onto his own two legs and groans. Bendy clings to his front and still refuses to come out, but Henry can’t blame him.
“Sounds like you all had a long day.” Allison says to him, and he nods tiredly. "You got Sammy back, though. Isn't that something?"
"Yeah, we did. We went down there to rescue Lost Ones,” He knows Sammy explained this but he feels like he needs to defend himself regardless. “I never thought it’d go so wrong so quickly.”
“Did you, Henry?” Allison says, eyes full of Hope and Trust he doesn’t deserve. “Did you save any more?”
Henry thinks of Many, and he licks his dry lips, hating how his throat clicks.
“No, Allison. We…I didn’t. I lost Bendy. Sam was right. We got in over our head, and….” He looks away, ashamed and beaten. “It was my fault.”
He turns and walks for his room in the back, ignoring Allison’s call and even Norm’s trilling whine of concern.
Bendy stays silent through the exchange, which Henry supposes is agreement enough.
Henry sets down Bendy, and walks back to his room. He is too proud to run.
END.
“Why with enough belief, you can even cheat death itself. Now that... is a beautiful, and positively…silly…thought.”