Chapter Text
Bendy, my devil darling,
It’s been so long since you left home; almost 30 years, hasn’t it? Your family is still waiting for you. We don’t want something bad to happen because you ignored them, so we?
We all miss you terribly.
Your creator,
Joey Drew.
Bendy stared at the letter, the horror he had first felt at its presence a dull ache in his chest now as he stood before SillyVision’s front doors.
When he’d first received the note he could barely keep himself from quaking in fear, fingers crumpling the paper as ink dribbled down his face, staining his coat and scarf. Joey Drew. It was a name he could have gone his entire life never hearing again, and yet there it was, written in black and white. He thought he’d been so careful, wearing disguises wherever he went, living on the street, never leaving a trail.
And yet it clearly hadn’t been enough. He’d been discovered, found, and he knew he had to go back.
When he’d first escaped Joey’s grasp Bendy had hoped that Boris and Alice would follow behind him, but he had grown to accept that Boris would never leave, the wolf only ever seeing the best in people, and Alice wouldn’t leave him to face Joey alone. It had broken his heart to do it, but Bendy had had to leave. He knew that if he stayed then he would lose his mind.
And yet here he was, standing in front of the doors he’d promised himself he would never enter again. All because of the note in his hands.
The building was much more dilapidated than he remembered it ever being before, with boarded up windows, the sign broken and missing several letters, and overgrown plants sticking out from gaps in the brickwork. The once immaculate lawn and clean pavement were now infested with weeds and cracks, and it looked like a part of the roof had caved in.
Bendy had heard that the company had gone under, but he hadn’t realised it had been this bad.
Taking a deep breath, the dancing demon stepped up to the door and pushed it open, wincing a little at the creak of old wood and rusty hinges.
“A-alright Joey,” he muttered into the dark interior, trying to keep himself from shaking too much, “I’m here. What do you w-want from me?”
Stepping in, he closed the door behind him and looked around the corridor. There were posters on the walls displaying his image; The Dancing Demon, and Sheep Songs with Boris the Wolf. There was something dripping from the ceiling, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was, and the floor looked like it had been repaired a time or two.
What the hell had they been doing here?
Stepping further into the building, Bendy found it wasn’t quite as dark as he had first thought; light came from above a desk in the centre of a sparse yet dilapidated room – one he could remember only too well – as a projector flashed blank slides against a wall where a cardboard cut-out of him leaned against the wall. Paper littered the floor, cracks and holes in the wall were boarded up ineffectively, and the whole place felt more like a ghost house than an animation studio.
“H-hello?” Bendy called, slowly walking around the various corridors and looking at the papers stuck to the walls. “Is anyone here?”
Silence and turning gears were his reply, and he found himself following a route he had once known so well.
At the end of a corridor sat a drawing desk, a chair, and a stool, the stairs behind it boarded up – probably to prevent people from running into the collapsed roof – and on that desk sat dozens and dozens of animation slides, images of Boris and Alice… and of Bendy. On the walls surrounding the desk, there were numerous doodles, some drawn by sure and experienced hands, and others by shaky new ones.
This was Henry’s desk. The animator had spent hours upon hours sat at this desk, scratching away at the panels and slides for the next episode, and Bendy would sit on the stool in the corner and doodle, just to keep the man company sometimes.
Black tears pooled in the corners of Bendy’s eyes as he thought of those times, of the man who had treated him so well, and couldn’t help but feel guilty. He’d barely thought of the humans in the studio over the years, most of them having ignored him, but Henry had always been so nice, treating them as people, rather than things.
What had happened to him? Had he escaped, or had he been trapped here like the others? And where was everyone?
Shaking himself and wiping his face with a well-worn sleeve, Bendy noticed a spanner in the corner, which was odd as he couldn’t remember Henry having anything to do with mechanics. Picking it up, Bendy decided to take it away, only to notice that he recognised it. It was the same spanner that Joey had used to ‘appease’ him. But what was it doing here?
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to let it spoil Henry’s space any longer, and he moved away, letting his eyes linger even as his body pulled him back into the main room.
His body still remembered this place, even after so much time had passed. It was still a part of him – part of his ink – and he doubted he would ever be able to shake it. He was created here after all.
As he headed down another corridor, he froze. “What…?”
Across the wall before him three words had been written in thick, deep black; DREAMS COME TRUE. Why would someone write that? And why was there ink dripping from the ceiling? Was that what had been by the front door?
What had happened after he’d left?
Continuing on his way, Bendy soon found himself facing… It. The Thing that had brought him into this place. The Ink Machine.
For the first time he could remember, it was silent, and the only sounds Bendy could hear was his own footsteps and music from a locked office.
Wait.
“Hello?” Bendy called, banging his fist on the door. “Is anybody in there? Hello!”
The door shook a little, but the music continued to play, and the light under the door glowed undisturbed. Maybe there wasn’t anyone here after all.
Continuing on, Bendy avoided That Room and continued on, still clutching the spanner as a makeshift weapon as he trudged his way through the halls, glaring at the book Joey had raved about writing as he passed it, only to jump when a wooden board fell from the ceiling, only to land with a loud ‘dunk’ on the floor.
He could barely breathe for several moments, pressed against the wall as his eyes searched for any other dangers as he quivered, heart racing. As time passed, he became more and more aware that it seemed to have fallen on its own accord, and he took a steadying breath to calm himself down.
“It was nothing,” he told himself, forcing himself to walk further forward. “It was just a plank. It wasn’t… it… wasn’t…” He choked, eyes wide as he stared at the familiar figure strapped to a table. “B-B-Boris?”
No. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t… not him. Not Boris.
But it was. It was the tall, dungaree wearing wolf. It was him that was strapped to the table. Boris who’s chest was ripped open and gapingly empty. And he hadn’t been there to stop it.
Bendy choked, stepping closer, swaying on his feet as he approached, and reached out for him. “B-Boris,” he choked, his throat constricting as his scarf grew ever darker from his tears, and he stumbled, collapsing to his hands and knees as his fingers brushed at the wolf’s feet. “Boris, I’m s-so sorry! I didn’t… I didn’t… I should n-never have left! I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t…”
This… this wasn’t making any sense. Boris shouldn’t be like this. No matter what happened, if one of the toons was hurt in any way, then if they got enough ink…
Bendy’s mind stuttered to a halt, and he stared blankly at the floor.
Ink. The Ink Machine. That had to be it! It was silent, off, broken, he didn’t know what, but if he managed to fix it, then maybe, maybe, he could save Boris! Yes. Yes, he’d have to get the Machine to work again… and then everything would be alright again.
Fingers curling, the ‘Dancing Demon’ found himself looking down at the spanner, and clutched it tight to his chest. The offerings. Of course. If the spanner had been hidden, then maybe the others had been too. In fact, that book had been one of them he was sure.
Pulling himself to his feet, Bendy wiped at his eyes and gave Boris a look of determination. “I’m gonna save ya buddy,” he said. “I’m gonna get you outta here. You’ll see.”
Clutching tight to the spanner, he took a quick look around the room, shuddering at the WHO’S LAUGHING NOW? lettering on the wall before finding an ink well and pen on a shelf. That was two. Were all six missing then?
Making the trek around the corner to the break room, he found that all pedestals were empty. It was eerie. He’d never seen them all empty before. He remembered playing with the squeaky doll a few times before, though Joey had always told him off for it, and Sammy had – with great reluctance – shown him what the record was, but almost always the pedestals had things on them.
Standing on his toes, Bendy placed the spanner and the ink well in their appropriate spots, looking at each of the others before heading out again in search of holy cream on a cracker! Was that always there?
Bendy stared at the cardboard cut-out of himself in trepidation, unsure of who put it there, or why – beyond scaring the bajesus out of him that was.
“Hello?” he called again, edging closer to the cut-out, looking around for any sign of the one who’d put it there. “Joey? ‘S that you?” Once again, nothing. Seconds slowly passed and Bendy sighed, stepping past his image. “I don’t smile that much,” he muttered and headed over to the table to collect the Book, only to notice Sammy’s record beside it.
After that, it was a bit of a scavenger hunt for the last two items. He searched through storage rooms, the small theatre, one or two of the offices that were open, and even the main area before he found the squeaky Bendy toy on a chair off to the side.
It still held its squeak, though it did wheeze a little now, and as he held it, he couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d seen it, sitting there, looking almost exactly like him. That was the day he’d discovered he was famous, that kids all across America loved him, and that some of them wanted toys of him so they could pretend he was real.
Which of course had confused the hell out of him. He was real, wasn’t he? He had arms and legs and a body and a head, he could feel things and talk. That meant he was real, right?
And then Joey had told him. Told him the truth. That he was a cartoon, a thing, something that had been made, and that Joey was his creator. Bendy had run away from him then, wanting to hide from the hurtful words, and ended up hiding in Henry’s corner.
Henry, of course, kept him hidden from Joey for the rest of the day, holding him and comforting him with soothing words and hands, telling him that being a cartoon didn’t make Bendy any less real than he or Joey was. That night, the toon had fallen asleep in the animator’s arms, more at peace than he thought he ever would be again.
Bendy had always loved Henry’s hands. They were rough, ink stained, and strong, but always, always, gentle. They were the best hands, and he’d found himself remembering them on odd occasions over the past years.
Though clearly not enough.
With a shake of his head, the Dancing Demon dropped the toy into his pocket before heading towards the last room.