Chapter Text
The Prophet remembered. Bits and pieces; impressions and feelings. Fear, mostly. It hurt his brain to recall.
His brain? Did he… even have one anymore? Or was it lost to the ink, like the rest of him?
He looked down at his left hand, the only one remaining after his Lord’s mauling. Ink dripped down in rivulets, making his fingers glue together before he separated them, dark webbing stubbornly stringing between them.
He grimaced, well, at least it felt like it. His face, he knew, had become grotesque—like that of the Searchers. It was why he used the Bendy cut-out; both to appease his Lord, and hide his deformity. It was long gone now, the first to fall to the Ink Demon’s claws.
He shuddered, his arm crossing his mangled chest, hand wrapping protectively around the stump of his right arm. He hobbled faster, limping deeper into the studio. If he was found still alive, He would be quick to finish the job.
The Ink Demon had been merciless, and the Prophet doubted that all his years of worship amounted to anything. He had thought his sacrifice had been perfect—a human, rarely seen! His Lord had expressed an interest, so he had caught it, offered it. And he paid dearly.
The Demon did not like his prize trifled with.
The Prophet—was he though?—took a shuddering breath. He had to find a safe place to regenerate, someplace away from the Demon, and the Angel.
He had heard the screams from Level 9, knew she took no prisoners. Nothing, and no one, was spared from her pursuit of perfection.
His face twisted in the semblance of a frown. He did not know the studio well, only the upper levels, as that was His domain. Farther down then; he needed to go deeper. Maybe in the bowels of this decrepit studio there would be no one to bother him.
Mind set, he determinedly limped toward the staircase.
***
The Prophet ran, breath huffing from him in panicked bursts; more psychological than anything, as he no longer needed to truly breathe. There was a screech behind him, making him yelp and jog-limp faster.
Why, oh why did he take the stairs?
He caught the edge of the wall with his hand, launching himself down the next staircase. The Butcher Gang clone was hot on his tail, snarling gibberish as it swung the pipe wrench wildly.
The Prophet hissed, feeling the disturbance of the air against his back. Too close, way too close! He’d have to change tactics. The closed in stairways gave him no maneuverability; the tight passages always gave Piper a straight shot at him. He needed to get somewhere more open.
At the next landing, he raced through the doorway, immediately taking a sharp right. Maybe if he got out of sight!
He turned the corner, eyes widening as he skid to a halt. The elevator! He rushed to press the button, hearing the creature’s nonsensical chatter just beyond the hall.
The metal bars groaned slightly before giving way, opening. Ink heart pumping, he jumped in, quickly closing them behind him. They sealed with a final clank, suggesting a locking mechanism.
Relieved, the Prophet slumped against the far corner. Piper, having reached the cage, banged its wrench against the bars, screeching indignantly. He could only giggle madly at the creature, feeling triumphant and infinitely weary.
He was becoming unstable again, he could feel it. The ink was running down in globs, his form failing to hold his shape completely. He supposed he was lucky it held off until now.
Piper, impatient, decided it could find better quarry somewhere else, and stalked off.
He sighed shakily and slid down the wall, feeling his legs trembling beneath him. As soon as he was settled, his legs melted into a puddle, leaving only his torso and a stained pair of overalls.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to calm himself. This way they’d regenerate and heal faster, right? But why now?!
The intercom suddenly crackled to life, startling him. “Oh, my.” The voice was mature and feminine, and darkly amused. He froze. “Well, well, well. Do my eyes deceive me? Sammy Lawrence, in the flesh—oops! Slip of the tongue,” she chuckled, high and sweet, and he felt his stomach churn.
He gripped his right stump hard enough to bruise, if he were still human. How could he forget the elevator was the Angel’s?!
“You’re being awfully quiet. Usually, by now you’d be preaching about that blasted Ink Demon!” She ended on a screech that nearly shattered his eardrums (if he had any).
He clutched his head in his hand, trembling as a whine caught in his throat.
“No matter,” she continued, her voice carefully measured. “I see that you’ve been caught at the worse end of his claws. Displease him, did you?” She cooed, tone dripping with mock sympathy.
The Prophet shuddered, but blissfully felt the sensation of his limbs returning within the puddle. He tried to move, but his legs, still half-melted, refused.
He flailed for a moment before regaining his bearings, returning to his original half-slouched position. Seemed like he needed to wait a bit more.
The Angel, chuckling at his attempt, crooned: “Pull yourself together, and I’ll make you a deal.”
He stiffened, hesitantly leaning forward. “What… kind of deal?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just collect a few ink hearts for me. Easy! In return, I’d grant you safe passage on my lift.”
“And—”
“And if you refuse, Sammy-boy, I’ll drop you into the cavernous pits below. That, or use your organs to help make me beautiful! I’m already so close, you could be—”
“I’ll do it!” he squeaked. The very thought of being used to help her quest for perfection was… sickening, wrong. He still had some self-preservation, even if it only came in short, discontinuous spurts once every blue moon.
“Oh,” She sounded so disappointed, he repressed the urge to cringe, afraid she would see it. “Well, excellent! They’re all conveniently in one place, so this should be easy for you!”
“Should be?”
“Ah, yes.” She giggled. “Say hello to an old friend for me.”