Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

The Projectionist screeched, tearing into the—INTRUDER—ink creature that had entered his home. The Fisher clone squealed, head swinging wildly in an attempt to attack him.

Irritated, he plunged his hand into the ink mass of the creature’s chest. Fisher began writhing, babbling and screaming. His hand gripped a sluggishly pumping organ, and pulled.

He dropped the twitching—KILL—corpse, turning his lens to the spasming ink heart in his hand. After a minute of blank staring, he dropped it next to the body, the speaker on his chest letting out a buzz of static.

Something was nagging in the back of his mind, reeling from what he’d just done, but he brushed it off.

He returned to his never-ending patrol, sludging his way through the flooded halls. He felt more… aware than usual. His neck hurt, his back hurt, he was tired. But he was compelled onward.

He glanced around the maze, ignoring the various animations playing on the walls. Was this all there was for him?

The Projectionist’s light flickered, a staticky whine escaping his speaker. His gaze landed on an animation, looping over the same scene. He paused. Something about it was… familiar. Not the actual animation, but something else. I can’t hear it.

He tilted his head. That was odd. He thought the Voice was reclaimed by the ink; it’s been so long since he last heard it. What made it return now?

He refocused his lens, sloshing through the ink to get closer. There was no noise coming from the animation, or there would have been vibrations. Why can’t I hear anything? Yes, there was supposed to be noise, right? Music?

There was a painful pang in his chest. He pawed at his speaker, a whimper warbling from it. Why did it hurt? Why did his inability to hear feel like so much of a loss?

Sudden vibrations echoed through the ink at his feet, disrupting his thoughts. He growled. That only meant one thing: the—PATCHWORK—Angel. This particular vibration was caused by the intercoms scattered throughout the building, and if it was sounding on his level… it never boded well.

There was another, increasingly steady source of vibration he identified as the elevator, but this didn't concern him as it rarely reached his level. But combined with the Angel's presence…

It wasn’t often that the Projectionist felt uneasy.

His speaker let out an apprehensive sound as he rocked back on his heels. Still, there was nothing for it. He resumed his trudge through the sludge-like ink, but all his senses remained on high alert, wary.

His body, tight with anticipation, made his movements stiffer than normal, jagged even. More like a machine than a creature. He tried not to let the thought bother him.

Only a few rounds in, he felt the ink lapping at the back of his legs; vibrations not made by him or the speakers. Someone was following him.

He turned, a screech resounding from his speaker at the sight of the—PREY—figure behind him.

STOP! At the startling cry from the Voice, he hesitated. It was enough for the ink creature to run away, the vibrations indicating it was yelling as it did so. He raced after it, but the distance made it near impossible to reach it.

The Projectionist’s speaker was roaring and sputtering with static in his rage. How dare this—DRIFTER—Lost One enter his home! How dare the Voice try to stop him!

The ink being was faster than he thought, especially through the mire of ink at their feet. Oddly, he noticed, gouges were scattered all over its body, as if something had torn it apart.

Confusion broke through some of the blood-haze (ink-haze?) over his mind. Quickly, he shook it from his head, focused on reaching his prey.

He reached out, nearly snagging the back of its overalls. Overalls? Lost Ones didn’t wear overalls. He snarled, frustration bubbling. What was this thing? And why did it keep running?

It turned the corner, faster than he could manage, and it was gone. Out of sight, at least.

Fists clenching, he eyed the area, unable to tell where it went. No vibrations led him in any particular direction; the pursuit had muddled his senses, churning the ink around them to the point of ‘blindness’ for him.

Growling, the Projectionist returned to his route, scanning every passageway with precision. Without the distraction of a chase, his curiosity bubbled back up.

Still, a twinge of uneasiness prickled at the back of his mind: just what was this ink creature? He’d never seen anything like it—like a combination of a Lost One and a Searcher. But it didn’t have the temperament of either; it didn’t attempt to attack him, nor did it freeze on the spot.

Nothing had ever run from him before.

What was he supposed to do with this—OUTLIER—creature?

Chapter Text

The Prophet wheezed, leaning heavily against the railing. There was absolutely no way he was going back in there.

The Projectionist, she’d called it. He shuddered, gripping the wood tighter when he saw that bouncing light appear from the maze. It ambled out into the open space, head bobbing with each step.

He wrinkled his (non-existent) nose. Projectionist indeed.

It gave the open space a once-over, something it hadn’t done before. A chill skittered down his spine. Was it looking for him?

Finding nothing, the creature continued on, back into its labyrinthine home.

The Prophet huffed, sliding to the floorboards. Why had he agreed to this again?

He glanced up to the elevator, the Angel’s threat echoing through his mind. Ah, right. Can’t forget the homicidal pseudo-angel breathing down his neck.

Yet, there was something familiar in her voice at times, but it was elusive. Almost like a tune he knew in his head, but was yet unable to truly play. There was an echo there, a knocking at the doors to his psyche.

Pressing the fingers of his left hand to his temple, he groaned, feeling the beginning of a rather nasty headache.

So, he did what he normally did to get the migraine to stop; he stopped thinking about whatever brought it on, which usually pertained to things from ‘Before’. ‘Before’ what, he wasn’t sure. He lost that curiosity a long time ago; it brought too much pain to process.

Expelling the thoughts almost instantly granted him a reprieve from the pressure. The Prophet sighed with relief, dropping his hand.

“Sammy! Stop brooding and get me my ink hearts!”

He jolted heavily, gripping his overalls tightly as he lurched up. “I wasn’t—why do you keep calling me that?”

“It's your name, you idiot.”

He frowned. The sheep had called him that as well, hadn't it? “My name? But I’m not—"

Alice grunted. “Look, now’s not the time to be having an identity crisis. Just grab the hearts and deliver them to me. Then you can sulk all you want.”

The intercom clicked off, leaving the Prophet in the now-suffocating silence. He clenched and unclenched his hand multiple times, mulling over the Angel’s words. Unless she was just doing it to torment him…

He had a name. He used to be somebody ‘Before’.

He reflexively glanced down at his hand, the ink shifting with the change of gravity as he brought it up, inspecting it. What had he done to deserve this?

Images flashed through his mind’s eye. An older face. A beckoning hand. Ink. Everywhere. Everything. Voices. Screaming, crying, begging—

Pain exploded in his head. He cried out, crumpling to the floor as he clawed at his temple, trying in vain to relieve the pressure.

Hurts, hurts, stop! Forget, I want to forget!

The pain ebbed. The Prophet lay, trembling, form reduced to a vaguely humanoid goo-pile. He shuddered, curling into a tight ball.

He remained in that state for a long while, slowly regaining his form; even minutely regaining his sanity.

He shakily pushed himself up.

Note to self: never contemplate the ‘Before’. Groaning, he rubbed at his face, looking over himself.

He shifted his legs, noting their newfound sturdiness. He stood, experimentally tracing over the parts of his chest that had been gouged out. There were indentations, but nothing like the gaping holes that the Ink Demon had made. No pain either, just a dull ache that he knew would fade.

The Prophet’s arm was still mostly gone, though the ink had manifested it up to the elbow. Relieved, he cautiously tested its range of motion, gritting his teeth when a sharp pain traveled up the limb. Too tender to use just yet.

“Alright,” he grunted, “Let’s get this over with.” Rolling his shoulders, he crept back down the stairs, keeping an eye on the entrance to the maze. His first few steps into the ink were just as horrible as the first time.

The ink clung to his feet, trying to merge with him, and he felt the buzz begin in his skull. Whispers, voices from the ink trying to pull him in.

He snarled, forcing himself to take another step. He was an individual, he was not part of the ink. He continued the mantra in his head, pushing out the crying voices. I am the Prophet, I am the—. The ink caught onto his hesitation, latching eagerly to his legs.

Shaking his head, he growled. No. I am me. I am—I am Sammy. I’m Sammy.

He pushed his name to every corner of his mind, blocking out the screaming voices. He would not be lost to it again.

Continuing his wading through, the ink lost its tight grip on his legs, rolling off in globs. Relieved, he sighed as it backed off, recognizing it had no hold over him.

He reached the crate just before the labyrinth’s entrance, leaning heavily against it for a moment to regain his bearings. Something on its surface jostled, drawing his attention. It was a… a…

Audio log. Ah, yes! He vaguely remembered using one early on, using it to show his deference to his Lo—to the Demon.

Sammy frowned, tilting his head. How did one—ah yes, the triangle button. He glanced up, scanning for any evidence of the Projectionist. Seeing none, and knowing the creature wouldn’t view him from this angle, he pressed it.

There was a faint whirr, then two clicks.

“Now I’m not lookin’ for trouble. It’s just in the nature of us projectionists to seek out the dark places.”

He felt frozen, some inexplicable emotion lodging suddenly in his throat. He shoved it down, continuing to listen.

“You see, I’ve learned the ins and outs of this here studio. I know how to avoid being bothered by the likes of this… company.”

Sammy knew that voice. And it sent chills down his spine. Good or bad, he couldn’t quite tell.

Familiarity probed at his mind, seeking the closed doorways of his psyche. Not as aggressive as it had with the Angel, but simply… there.

“That projectionist, they always say, creeping around, he’s just lookin’ for trouble. Well, trouble or not, I sees everything. They don’t even know when I’m watchin’.”

His stomach seemed to leaden, harden. His eyes burned. Something felt off, wrong in a way he couldn’t describe.

This was… someone. From ‘Before’. He knew it. Knew that voice. It was…

Sudden light crossed the cassette player. Sammy gasped, whirling around so fast he tripped over himself. His backside landed in the ink with a heavy splash.

“Even when I’m right behind ‘em.” The voice ended, and there was a final click.

The Projectionist stood there, lens focusing on his face. Blinded, he scrambled backward, thoughts flurrying through his mind.

His back hit the wall, and he whimpered, closing his eyes tightly against the harsh light. Was this it? Was this how he died?

He waited, trembling. The light moved, darkness returning to the back of his eyelids. He swallowed hard. There was no sound of sloshing ink, so the creature hadn’t moved away.

Sammy peeked open an eye.

It was still there, gaze centered on his chest instead of his face. Its hands were loose at its sides, and it loomed over him, but it didn’t feel threatening. It felt… familiar, to be dwarfed like this.

He grimaced, looking it over. What was it doing? Why wasn’t it tearing him to pieces?

He glanced back at the audio log, silently cursing it for somehow giving him away. Wait.

His eyes moved frantically between the silent Projectionist and the cassette player. There was a connection there, he was sure. The feeling, same as when he realized he knew that voice, struck again as he looked over the creature.

Lean, but deceptively strong, always hiding in the shadows, silent, listening. Always so bright.

The door to his psyche slammed open with the force of a roundhouse kick.

He was always sitting in the projector booth or hiding in dark corners. Quiet, but with his own opinions. When we talked he gave me his full attention.

Someone could drown in that much attention. I reveled in it. But he was… I shouldn’t have gotten so attached.

He choked. The familiar voice, towering height, presence.

“Norm—” his voice cracked “Norman?”

Chapter Text

The Projectionist's head tilted in curiosity. The—OUTLIER—creature had returned, signaling its presence with the vibrations from the crate at its feet. Ever curious, and rather territorial, he'd investigated.

The Lost One had panicked upon seeing him, which was strange, at it had summoned him in the first place.

His lens whirred as it focused, realizing his mistake. He moved his gaze downward, out of its eyes.

The creature went still after a moment, and he watched quietly for a sign, any sign to proceed.

After a short pause, he caught the tail-end of… something with its mouth.

Speaking. Yes, that. It repeated the motion—word, then it trembled a bit, more words forming, tumbling out like a cascade.

The Lost One continued a steady stream of vibration until it was visibly heaving, gasping with some intense feeling. Ink flooded its eyes, trails of it dripping down its face.

The sight was… It made him…

The Projectionist took a step forward without conscious thought; the creature didn’t appear to notice, too absorbed with rubbing away excess ink.

He leaned down, cautiously entering its space. With most beings, this triggered their fear reaction; fight or flight. Baffling him, the—WANDERER—Lost One merely looked up, thin rivers of ink carving paths down its cheeks.

Tentatively, almost timid, he reached out, a single finger tracing the path of ink downward. It didn't seem to pain the creature, much to his relief.

He paused, drawing his hand away, avoiding its wide-eyed stare.

Relief? Why was he relieved? He had torn—INTRUDERS—others apart, rent them limb from limb for even trespassing in his home.

This one… he'd attempted to do the same and yet… it came back. And against all instincts, the Projectionist didn't feel the urge to kill it now.

Do NOT. He’s a friend. He twitched, flinching at the Voice's snarl. The Lost One, noticing this, winced as well, huddling back against the wall.

His speaker crooned, trying to settle the—ALLY—creature. He did not like when it was upset, it reminded him of… something, someone.

A much shorter man paced in front of him, muttering beneath his breath, occasionally glaring at the pipes as if they’d personally offended him. “A pump switch. Right in my office! Do you know how distracting it is to have people in and out all the time?”

The Music Director could be bumping his gums all day and he’d still listen to whatever he had to say. There was just something about that voice that drew him in every time.

He smirked. “I don’t know, how many times a day have you made me leave the booth and make tracks for the hall?”

The man sputtered, pink dusting his cheeks; still, a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Damnit, Norman, that's not—”

The Projectionist reeled back with a screech. His head hurt, why did it hurt? His hands tugged at his projector, unable to help to vocalize a whine.

Sammy. The Voice chirped, perking up. It was different; breathier, expectant. The word carried a desperate edge. No, not a word. It carried some importance with it, like a title, or a name.

He grunted, shaking his head. He didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop.

Something brushed over his hand, almost making him stumble out of sheer disbelief. Nothing dared to touch him.

Hesitant, he lowered his hands, raising his light to make out the Lost One before him. It still had one hand raised awkwardly in the air, eyes squinting at the harsh assault of light. It slowly lowered the limb, leaning back a bit as it appeared to look him over.

Its mouth moved again, vibrations telling him it was speaking. Annoyance prickled over his body, an unwelcome feeling. Didn’t it know he could not understand?

The Projectionist shook his head again, slower this time. The—ANOMALY—creature’s face fell a bit, brow scrunching together in apparent thought.

It brightened up after a moment, beginning to mime something with its arm and hand. A… circle? A sweeping motion into a circle, connecting its hand to the somehow-grown stump of its right arm, then a quick jab of a hand to its right.

What? He eyed the creature sideline, unsure.

The Lost One frowned, repeating the motion, slower this time. It reached out as if reaching for the whole of the area, encompassing it in the circle of its limbs, before again pointing to the right.

ALL… RIGHT?

The Projectionist’s light flickered. It pointed at him, then went over the careful gestures again.

YOU ALRIGHT?

He raised his right hand in a fist, fingers curled, thumb pointing up.

YES.

The—FRIEND—creature grinned, teeth making a stark appearance.

The Projectionist froze. He should feel threatened by such a display, shouldn’t he? But there was only a warm, bubbling feeling in his chest at the sight. It felt like he should respond in kind, but the projector, stiff and unyielding, could not make any expression.

His speaker responded for him, letting out a bubbly gurgle that could be taken for a happy noise.

The Lost One grinned wider, but a sudden rumble swept through the room, abruptly startling both of them.

That—DAMNED—Angel! Whatever she said, the creature flinched, any sign of the previous smile gone in an instant, replaced with a panicked expression.

He snarled up at the ceiling, quickly returning his light to the creature. There was a rising urge building in his abdomen, and he acted on it without thought.

The Projectionist reached for its hand, curling his fingers around the smaller digits. It jumped, finger twitching. He ignored the reaction, firming his grip as he pulled it into his maze, away from the Angel’s prying eyes.

He didn’t know what the Angel wanted with it, but nothing good came from associating with her.

Chapter Text

Alice scanned frantically through her portals, all connected to the network of intercoms within the building. She looked out into the inky swamp of Level 14, unable to get of view inside the Projectionist’s maze.

Baring her teeth in a silent snarl, she shrieked, “Sammy Lawrence, if you don't get me those hearts, I'll drop you down the elevator shaft!”

No response, no growl from the Projectionist even. She slammed her hands down on the console, closing her portals with a hiss.

Shaking her head, she took to pacing the floor. Sammy Lawrence had betrayed her. For that thing! Granted, she wasn't planning on letting him live, but she needed those hearts, damnit!

She needed that stupid man! She couldn't go down there with all that ink! She wouldn't survive it. She'd be reduced to nothing, dragged back into the… no, no don't think about it.

Shivering, Alice hugged her arms around her chest, her whisper fervent, “I will not let it pull me back.”

I'm scared. I don't like the dark.

She sighed, lightly rubbing her arms, mumbling, “Me either, Susie. Me either.”

She shook her head, taking a deep breath. She had to figure out what to do that damned errand boy. He was much too clever for her liking.

He'd likely not give her the hearts now; probably aware she'd not let him live for his rebellion. Did she have to be so predictable?

And there was the matter of the Projectionist himself. For whatever reason, he hadn't killed Sammy. Could he be sentient? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it.

Alice had been keeping an eye on him all these years, and he’d never shown any higher capacity of thought. Just a dumb creature, like the rest. Perhaps he just hadn’t been hunting? Regardless, Sammy had gotten very lucky.

Sammy… he was a strange one. He walked a thin line between Lost One and Searcher, but never seemed to lean one way or the other. Aware, but not lost to despair; part of the ink, but not lost to it.

His ink could be the last thing she’d need to finally be perfect. Herself. Not… She grimaced, rubbing lightly at the right side of her face.

Garbled speech broke her from her haze.

She sneered, feeling the side of her face stretch with the motion. Those insufferable, wretched things, always trailing around their corrupted ink!

Shaking her head, Alice growled beneath her breath, “Another one of those cretins. At my door!”

She stalked further into the room, granting only a passing glance to the large window to her left. As she reached the operating table, she quickly unlocked the shackles, a manic grin crossing her face. This would teach that creature for even daring to enter her halls.

Alice glanced to the faint reflection of herself in the window, scrutinizing her appearance. She smoothed down her dress with both hands, then finger-combed her hair back.

She stared at herself for a moment, then covered the left side of her face. “Soon,” she murmured, dropping her hand. She vigorously shook herself, taking a deep breath.

Turning around, she leaned down and grasped the rough wooden handle from beneath the console. She hummed approvingly as she ran her thumb along the sharp edge of the axe’s blade.

“You will do nicely,” Alice purred, beginning to saunter down the hallway.

Fortunately, it did not take long to find the little ink monster. The Piper clone was ambling about just outside her door, muttering gibberish to itself. She felt light, airy; excitement and anticipation were making her giddy for the real treat to begin.

She struck it from behind, causing it to stumble forward, a panicked squeal escaping it. It whirled around, gent pipe lifting in retaliation.

Grinning, she grabbed the pipe as it swung towards her. With a slight cackle, she delivered a swift kick to its chest, forcing it to let go as it fell back.

It lay still for a moment, as though stunned. Seeing her slowly approach, it began crawling backward, away from her, making whine-like sounds.

Alice chuckled, throwing the gent pipe down into the ink. “Oh, leaving so soon? I wasn’t done playing yet.” She hefted the axe, slamming her foot down on the corrupted toons body to keep it in place. “This’ll only hurt a lot.”

Rather than using the bladed side, she swiftly struck Piper unconscious with the blunted end. She picked it up by the scruff, hauling its limp body down the hallway.

She hummed softly to the tune of “I’m Alice Angel” as she made it back to the Torture Room, feeling rather cheery despite the earlier… incident.

Strapping the clone in, she tightened the ropes as far as she was able, smiling wide. Nothing was as cathartic for her as torture.

 Alice paused, feeling a sudden sense of anticipation she was sure didn’t originate from her. She frowned. That was odd.

Her form felt… tight, all of a sudden. Not enough, disconnected. She flinched, scrambling for her console. The ink was in an uproar, she could feel it. Piper was already writhing on the table despite being unconscious.

She was suddenly very glad she’d managed to separate most of herself from it. Something was coming, something the ink was anticipating with a zeal she’d never felt from it before.

She opened her portal, and immediately the ink lurched into action, zeroing in on a… man? A rather stout, older man. He was cautiously making his way towards Heavenly Toys, glancing all around like he was cataloging his surroundings.

She stared, and the buzzing of the ink grew louder, more insistent. Creator, Creator, Creator!

This… was not what she was expecting. Alice brought her fingers to her chin, studying the man’s face.

Henry, it’s Henry! She froze. She had never heard Susie this loud, this adamant before. She nodded absently.

Perhaps… She grinned wide, a wicked idea planting itself in her mind.

“I believe,” she murmured, “I’ve found my new errand boy.”

Chapter Text

Norman’s grasp was warm. Sammy followed as it gently tugged him along, the creature winding through the passageways with ease.

Faint whirring filled his ears, and he blinked at the numerous projectors scattered around. Cartoons played on all the old film reels, the animation one of the earliest the studio made. He flinched as Bendy made his way onto the projection.

The hand covering his squeezed, drawing his gaze to the Projectionist, who was very determinedly not looking straight into his eyes, gaze instead hovering at his collarbone.

He blinked, slowly looking down at the hand covering his own. Five fingers, more human-like than his cartoon-like four. And Norman’s ink was warm, alive. The last time he’d felt warmth was… the Sheep!

But where the human had been like a burning bonfire—as likely to hurt you as warm you—the Projectionist’s warmth was like that of a hearth, all comfort and homely nostalgia.

He swallowed hard, looking back up at Norman. The projector was tilted to one side, and he rocked back on his heels, a steady stream of low noises escaping the speaker centered on his chest. Sammy knew, somehow, that he was worried.

He cleared his throat, tentatively reaching a hand to prod the projector upwards so that the Projectionist could see his mouth. Maybe he’d recognize his moth movements and lip-read? It was worth a shot.

“It’s okay, Norman. I’m—”

" I’m fine,” Sammy snapped, waspish in his irritation. He turned back to his desk, sorting through the papers, most soaked with ink.

Norman snorted behind him. He refused to turn around, carefully sorting out the most legible music sheets with ink-stained hands. Of all the damned times…

A warm hand was placed on his shoulder. He froze. He inhaled slightly, the welcoming scent of sweat and oil invading his nostrils.

“At least let me help you.”

Grudgingly, he handed over some of the stack. Neither said a word as they filtered out the best-kept sheets, only the sound of rustling papers and dripping ink keeping them company. Sammy found himself relaxing in his chair, his anger and irritability fading for the moment.

It was peaceful.

Sammy shook his head, blinking back the sudden pressure behind his eyes. “I’m fine.”

The Projectionist appeared doubtful, but turned and continued walking, hand still firmly grasping his. He allowed himself to be led, a soul-deep weariness tugging at him. He wanted to sleep, to rest someplace safe and shut the horrors out for a while.

They finally stopped, in what looked to be a back hallway of sorts, with no projector playing that cartoon. An involuntary shiver passed through his limbs. He had not expected such fear, from a mere animation of all things. It seemed the Demon had come to haunt him here, too.

He sighed heavily, jolting when Norman released his hand. The sudden panic was stifling, and rather embarrassing. Disliking the lack of contact, he wrapped his hand around the elbow of his stump.

The Projectionist’s hand hovered for a moment, as though unsure. Lens whirring, it began making motions to him.

He first pointed to the ground, then held up both hands, palm down and moved them down in a firm motion. Then he hugged himself, lens brightening.

Sammy’s brow furrowed, squinting as he replayed the motions in his mind.

Here, Down, Hug? That didn’t sound right. He raised his arm up in a shrug, hoping it conveyed his confusion.

Norman tilted his head, repeating the motions the same as before. Sammy felt lost, unable to interpret what was being said.

After a few more tries, with the same unsuccessful results, the Projectionist let out a frustrated sound, leaning back, arms folded. It reminded him suddenly of a child pouting.

Sammy let out a breathy chuckle and began searching the area for something to help clear their communication issues. He walked around in a loose circle around the hall, noticing the light following after him.

A Boris poster down the next corridor caught his attention, and he perked up, turning to face Norman. The Projectionist’s stance had loosened, arms hanging neutrally at his sides as he watched him.

His lips quirked in a faint smile at the attention, and Norman let out a happy gurgle in response.

Sammy leaned down, scooping up some ink, hearing a confused trilling behind him, and felt more than saw the Projectionist hovering behind him.

He reached up to the wall, writing with large letters. YES/ NO.

He looked over his shoulder to see Norman lean back, a baffled noise escaping his speaker, then he leaned forward, making excited sounds.

The Projectionist shuffled back, grabbing a handful of the ink flooding the ground. Sammy’s smiled widened, staring as he began writing, unsteady movements creating barely legible words. He didn’t care, more intent on the possibility of better communication.

Norman was uncharacteristically silent as he concentrated, careful to get the lines right. After some time, he stepped back, looking over his words, hand still half-raised and dripping with the excess ink.

He nodded decisively, then turned to Sammy expectantly. He took a step forward, reading the shaky scrawl.

HERE STAY SAFE

With a trembling hand, aware of the light focusing on it, he pointed to another word.

YES

The Projectionist let out another excited chirp, gaze meeting his, making him squint. The light was quickly pulled away, but it didn’t appear to dim his energy, more sounds escaping his speaker.

Sammy chuckled quietly, his enthusiasm catching. Suddenly, a yawn overtook him. He sighed, rubbing at his face. It had been a long, long day. And if Norman deemed it safe…

The Projectionist picked up on his fatigue, quieting his noises, replacing them with a smooth croon.

It was strangely soothing, making his eyelids heavy. He huffed, shaking his head sharply. He needed to find someplace comfortable to settle, and as he began walking, he felt Norman’s presence at his back, following.

Thankfully, there was a Miracle Station just around the corner. He stepped up to it, eyeing its size. It was rather large compared to the others, and, as he found upon opening, had a lot of bench room.

The Projectionist let out a startled sound, reaching for the door. Sammy stepped back as he swung it open and shut, gaze riveted on the motion. He felt along the inside of the door to where it connected to the station itself, staring at the hinges with fascination.

Smiling tiredly, he stepped inside, sitting on the wooden bench with a deep breath. Norman paused as he passed, watching him climb in with rapt attention.

Sammy huffed, moving to lay down, folding his legs up in a fetal position. “In or out, Norman.”

Whether he saw his mouth move and understood or not, the Projectionist timidly stepped inside, looking down at him with a tilted head.

He groaned, “Shut the door.” Norman let out an inquisitive noise, perking up when Sammy mimicked the swinging motion of the door.

The Projectionist glanced between him and the open door, eventually reaching out and pulling it closed. Sammy gave a lazy thumbs up, his mind feeling hazy with the promise of oncoming sleep.

He blinked, long and slow, and suddenly Norman was sitting against the wall closest to his head. He was quiet and still as he’d ever seen him, chest rising and falling with even breaths, light dim.

Just before he dozed off a second time, he felt a warm hand reach for his own.

Chapter Text

“Norman?”

He blinked, looking up for the gutted projector in front of him. Wally Franks stood fidgeting in the doorway, a wide (though nervous) smile fixed to his face.

He grunted, wiping his hands down with an old rag. “What’d you do this time, pally?”

He didn’t look up when the boy began sputtering, only half-hearted defenses and inquiries. “I don’t—I didn’t— Ugh, how did you—?”

Norman felt the corner of his lip quirk up, an amused huff escaping his nose. He threw the soiled rag off to the side, turning to give his full attention.

Wally’s arms were crossed defensively over his chest, his shoulders hunched up to his ears as he gave his best put-out expression.

“So,” Norman chuckled, leaning back in his chair, “what hole have you dug yourself into now?”

The younger man frowned, pursing his lips. “I may have… eh, misplaced my keys. Again.”

“And you came in here to hide from Sammy?”

“Actually,” he grimaced, “I thought you could help me?”

Norman blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “What’s your story, morning glory?”

“I meant, well… I was wondering if you could distract Sammy for me while I go looking?”

He raised a dubious eyebrow. “I can’t leave the booth. What makes you think he’ll come up here?”

“Pssht.” Wally waved a hand. “That’s the easy part. He always comes up here to talk to you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hiding Susie up here. He acts like he’s dizzy with a dame every time he goes up or comes down. I mean, I wouldn’t blame him one bit. That canary’s cute as a bug’s ear.”

“Get to the point.” His voice sounded dead, flat even to his own ears. He quickly cleared his throat, forcing his tone to be gruffer. “He doesn’t come up here that often.”

The look the boy gave him could only be described as deadpan. “Uh, yes, he does. If someone doesn’t know where to find him, your booth is the first place they go looking.”

Norman’s hand twitched on the armrest of the chair, rubbing his thumbpad along the nail-bitten ends of his fingers.

Wally, oblivious, continued. “You two even eat lunch together when you can. Your friendship is the most widely known in the studio. Well, besides the one between Henry and Joey of course. I swear, if one of them was a girl, they would’ve already been married by now.”

His hand gripped the wooden armrest tightly, sure he would be picking out splinters later. “Wally.”

“Hm? Oh, right. So, can you distract Sammy when he comes up here? Just for a little while, until I find my keys. If he finds out I lost them again, I’m outta here!”

Norman sighed heavily but nodded. “Fine, but scram. Someone’s going to notice your absence.”

“Aces! Thanks, Norman!”

As soon as Wally left, he placed his head in his hands, rubbing firm circles into his temples. He doesn’t know. None of them know. Keep it that way.

If they knew, they would… He was Black and gay.  If he got lucky, he’d be fired on the spot, if not…

“Norman, you up there?”

He flinched, jerking up at the sound of Sammy’s voice. “Ye-ah.” He winced at the crack in his voice, shaking his head at himself. Twit.

Something… strange happened as he heard Sammy coming up the stairs. The wood of his booth appeared to rot and degrade before his eyes, posters yellowing and fraying at the edges. Ink began dripping from the ceiling.

“What the—” He turned, just as a massive thing of ink crested the stairs. Startled, he yelped, pressing himself into a corner, as far from the… thing as possible.

“Norman?”

He froze. It had Sammy’s voice. Why did it have Sammy’s voice?

“No, nonononono,” he babbled, pressing his back to the creaking wood.

“Norman,” it whined.

“No way, no possible way.” It wasn’t Sammy, it couldn’t be Sammy.

"Norman!” Sammy shrieked, sounding terrified.

The Projectionist lurched up with an ungodly screech.

Panic suffused through his system, tearing his gaze around for the source. He was in a dark, wooden room like before, but this seemed more closed off, secure. His light landed on the ink creature next to him.

The Projectionist flinched away, pressing his back to the wall behind him as he had before, panicked whines steadily escaping his speaker.

It was the… thing! It was… it had…

It was motionless in his trembling light, two bright eyes watching him. The—DANGER—creature looked… concerned.

Very slowly, it lifted itself from its reclined position, sitting up. It paused and waited every time a terrified sound escaped him unwittingly.

The creature carefully mouthed words at him. He couldn’t hear it. It was supposed to sound like Sammy, right?

The Projectionist stiffened, gaze flickering around its form, looking for any sign—Sammy wore overalls. It was wearing overalls; granted, they were ratty and caked in ink, but he recognized Sammy’s favorite pair with the patch in its leg. The eyes that were staring, unblinking into his own, reflected all the stubborn determination Sammy always had.

A garbled moan escaped his speaker as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. What happened to us?

The—SAMMY—creature hesitantly scooted forward, mouthing more words at him, moving his arm in a small swinging gesture.

Memories flooded back, causing his light to blink at the assault on his mind. He shook in the wake of it, unable to control himself. The door. Just focus on opening the door.

Norman shakily stood up, feeling like a newborn colt. He stumbled to the door, quickly opening it and stepping out.

He stared at the wall of the maze, trembling. Had he really spent so much time down here? Patrolled until his sanity had all but fled?

He jolted at the vibration through the ink behind him. Sammy was stepping out, casting him wary glances as he made his way toward the writing wall.

Norman was silent as he followed him.

Sammy hesitated before scooping up some ink, glancing once at him before writing.

ALRIGHT?

He didn’t even need to think about it. He pointed.

NO

Another worried look, then he began writing again.

NIGHT-TERROR?

Norman tilted his head, dipping his hand into the ink before writing. Sammy’s eyes widened, drinking in the sight of Norman’s old hand script, clearly legible compared to his attempt yesterday.

MEMORIES

REMEMBER

He paused, hand still poised to continue writing. His light whirred. Slowly, he resumed.

REMEMBER US

Chapter Text

Sammy couldn't breathe. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of him at once. He nearly fell to his knees, only Norman’s quick reflexes saving him from dropping to the floor.

His grip was firm, warm on his shoulders. Concerned whines made him look up, ignoring the stinging pressure behind his eyes. Norman abruptly went silent as they stared at each other, the sound of dripping ink and his own uneven breathing loud in the sudden quiet.

God, Norman. His breath shuddered. Just how much did he remember? Did he realize it had been decades? Did he remember the people?

His own memory was still hazy when it came to the people, but Norman… god. Did he remember him as much as he did? Did he remember…them? Please, just this one thing, and I’ll ask for nothing else.

Sammy broke the fragile silence that had descended on them both. “How much?” His voice was brittle, choked around the mysterious lump in his throat. “How much do you remember?”

Norman hesitated. Sammy turned to the wall, preparing to write out his question, but the hands on his shoulders tightened, preventing the movement. He stilled, turning back, feeling his eyes beginning to flood with ink. Norman pulled him closer, insistent.

He followed, confused but dare he say… hopeful. A jolted when Norman’s grip softened, then began to skim down his arm, causing little shivers of delight to spark along his spine.

His hand finally reached his, and they twined their fingers together—with a little difficulty, as he no longer had all five—but they managed. Pressed palm to palm, the ink sliding against each other—nothing like it used to be—but it felt right.

Tears were flowing, he could feel them running down his cheek, but he didn’t care. His sole focus was the soft clasp of their hands. When had they last done this? Simply held hands and kept close like this?

Norman let out a soft noise, his other arm settling on his back and pulling him near. Their joined hands were pressed to their chests, kept close. He openly sobbed, flinging his arm around Norman’s back, hesitating when he encountered wires. Norman only held him tighter.

He kept his grip on him loose, not wanting to unintentionally harm him, and Norman seemed to understand. He felt Norman place his projector over his shoulder—damn, that was heavy—and felt his entire body marginally relax.

How long has he been carrying that weight? Sammy pressed his face into Norman’s chest. The double meaning was not lost on him. He’d never realized just how tense he always was, always alert, on guard. Even in the Miracle Station, he’d remained on the floor, sitting upright and watchful.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and felt Norman’s hands tighten. Then he shuddered, a long mournful-sounding wail escaped his speaker, muffled by their proximity. It was Sammy’s turn to hold him.

He braced his legs as nearly his entire weight went limp on him. Norman’s speaker let out loud, convulsive gasps, intermittent between his cries and whines. It took a long while before he seemed tired out, passively letting himself be held together.

Sammy hesitantly stroked the wires, trying to soothe him. It seemed to have the opposite effect. Norman’s breath hitched, entire body tensing.

Norman let out half-startled, half-strangled sound as his hand latched to his shoulder, pushing him an arms-length away. Still, he refused to release their clasped hands.

“Wha—?” Sammy stared, squinting in the suddenly bright light. “Ah, too much?”

Norman stared for a second, still breathing hard. Then he pulled him over to the Writing Wall, absently scooping some ink along the way.

SENSITIVE

“Oh.” He paused. “OH.” He sheepishly wrote out his response.

SORRY

Norman chuckled, squeezing his hand reassuringly.

Sammy reached his free arm to scratch at the back of his head, but awkwardly stopped himself when he realized he couldn’t. Before he could return it to his side, Norman’s free hand caught it, gaze eyeing the uneven stump with a staticky sigh.

He released it to write something else.

HURT

Sammy shook his head.

I’M FINE

Norman let out a rather dubious snort, eyes (rather obviously) flicking to his arm.

Sammy let out an exasperated huff. It was like trying to reason with a wall. A really, really stubborn wall. He pointed.

I’M FINE

Norman growled softly, gathering more ink. Writing new words and pointing at others.

NOT FINE. OUTSIDE NOT SAFE. HERE SAFE. STAY. HEAL.

Sammy followed Norman’s finger, making sense of the torrent of words flung at him. “I… I wasn’t going to leave.”

Seeing Norman’s frustration at his lack of hearing had him promptly scooping up more ink.

NO LEAVE. WHY THINK?

Norman’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief. His next words were slower, calmer.

BEFORE SAID FINE. THEN LEFT. OFTEN. A static sigh escaped him. NO ASK HELP. CAN HELP NOW. OUTSIDE DANGEROUS. SAFE TOGETHER. He paused, shoulders lifting slightly. ALLOW?

Sammy blinked, going over it all. Yeah, he knew he had trouble accepting help from others, but didn’t Norman know he was the exception? Only Norman had managed to weave around his walls of insecurities and fears and see him.

Of course they’d go together, was there really any other option? But, he had to acknowledge it would be better to recuperate down here where it was safe, then… what? Leave? How?

He shook his head. One thing at a time.

He pointed.

YES. STAY. HEAL. LEAVE TOGETHER.

The projector may have been expressionless, but he got the feeling that Norman was beaming at him.

Chapter Text

Henry grimaced, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with an ink-stained hand. The bodies of the Striker, Piper, and Fisher clones were scattered in front of him, degenerating back into ink in a matter of seconds.

He unclenched his hand from his pipe, allowing his fingers to loosen from the death-grip. Relief and guilt warred in his mind, the reality of what he’d just done hitting like a train.

He didn’t want to hurt anything—anyone—here. He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

Damn it, Joey. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out what had likely happened, especially with all the pentagrams and summoning circles drawn around. He just… he never thought Joey would go that far.

Henry's chest was tight, his skin overly sensitive to the coolness of the air, the clinging wetness of the ink around his feet and lower legs. His chin quivered.

He didn’t want to think about what had happened in his absence, what happened to his coworkers, his friends. Hearing Susie’s voice progressing about her connection to Alice through his time down here was only cementing his worry.

His inability to reach out to his old coworkers never felt so damning. He cursed himself, tightening his grip on the old gent pipe. If only he had just—he could’ve—

Please tell me he hadn’t. That he didn’t.

No one deserves a fate like that.

“So quiet.” Henry jolted at the soft voice, a shudder involuntarily running down his spine. “Like a welcoming grave. I like the silence, don’t you?”

No, he didn’t. I gave him time to think, time to… dwell. Perhaps that was why he spoke to Boris so often, even if he couldn’t respond. It was nice to have someone around. Physically, anyways. Alice’s presence was… uncomfortable, domineering.

Still, she controlled the elevator, and he needed it to reach the surface again. Maybe even… for them all to reach the surface again. Sighing, he turned back to the door, readying himself.

“I hate leaving work unfinished! Fortunately, I have you to pick up the pieces.” He carefully schooled his features from the brief hint of a frown, loathe to draw any of her ire.

“But you’ll have to go even deeper. Down, down, down, into the abyss.”

Henry did not like the sound of that.

“Take the lift down. Say hello to some old friends. I believe you’ve already met one of them before. Sammy-boy, correct?” She chuckled, low and mocking. “He’s been trying so hard to pull himself together. But he’s missing something very important. Luckily, I have just what he needs.

“The other one, well. He’s just a shell of himself, like those clones you’ve just fought. No higher thoughts or awareness. Just baser urges: essentially, killing you. It would be a mercy to free him from himself.”

“I—” Henry’s voice cracked, “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Hmm,” her voice was monotone, perfectly level, and it terrified him, “And what if he is stuck within his own mind, watching as his body tears others apart. Begging for some way to stop himself from killing any who enter his maze. Would you not save him from himself?”

“Who? You keep saying he. Who is—who was he?”

“Norman. Norman Polk.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “You said Sammy was down there as well.”

Images flashed through his mind, Sammy and Norman laughing up in the booth, their hushed conversations down in Sammy’s office. The stark terror on their faces when he first encountered them in a more-than-platonic fashion. Their relief when he assured them his silence.

“Ah, yes. I tried to warn him, but he was adamant. I suggest you hurry before Norman does something he regrets.”

The words sent an icy chill up his spine. Norman wouldn’t—but if he was— Henry took a deep breath. He wouldn’t let Norman kill Sammy.

“I’ll do it.”

“Sending you a little present. A little firepower. Take good care of it. It belonged to someone very special.” There was a satisfied lilt to her word he couldn’t quite place, but it made him uneasy all the same.

You’re doing this for Norman. You’re doing this for Sammy. Norman would never forgive himself.

Henry turned, depositing his pipe into the box, looking up at the Tommy gun provided. His eyes dulled as he looked over the weapon. His shaking hands grasped it, pulling it from the drawer cautiously.

It fit his hands nauseatingly perfect; the phantom weight of other guns, in another time, weighed heavily. He shook himself. The war is over, you’re not there.

He returned to the lift, every movement stiff and repetitive, like machine work. Boris kept giving him concerned glances, eyes lingering on the gun in his unnaturally steady hands.

“I’m fine, buddy,” he murmured. Boris only stared, ears drooped from their normal perked position.

He pressed the level 14 button, silent as the doors closed. Henry would do this, not for himself, not for Alice, but for them. Sammy and Norman wouldn’t suffer anymore. Sammy would remember with Alice’s help, and if he never forgave him, he was alright with that.

But he knew, just knew if Norman was aware inside his mind, and his body killed Sammy, it was the end of them both.

This way, at least one of them would survive.

Chapter Text

Norman froze, hand stilling from where it had been about to place an ‘X’ and cement his victory in tic-tac-toe. Sammy had been the one to suggest a game, something to pass the time and get their minds off… other things.

There was a steady, all-encompassing vibration traveling through his flooded halls, one he knew could only come from the elevator. He slowly pulled back, glancing at—LOVE—Sammy as he did so. Sammy appeared unaware of the vibrations, only looking at him with confusion.

He watched as his mouth moved with words, lip-reading to the best of his ability.

‘Alright?’

Norman minutely shook his head, reaching for—PARTNER—Sammy’s hand. He hadn’t realized his hands were shaking until Sammy steadied them; gripping them as well as he was able, a worried crease forming between his brows. He said something else, but the vibrations were getting louder, closer.

No one besides Sammy or the Angel used the elevator.

His ink heart beat erratically in his chest, near painful. Something dangerous is coming.

Before he could even think on what he was doing, he was pulling—DEAREST—Sammy toward the Little Miracle Station, ushering him with what he hoped were encouraging noises.

Sammy startled at the sudden handling, but allowed him to place him inside without much fuss. He attempted to speak to him, but he was not patient enough to read the words. Something was coming down; he could feel it approaching their floor.

A chill came over him, one that had nothing to do with the coldness of the ink, the freezing temperature of his basement dwelling. All at once, the vibrations stopped. It was here.

Sammy appeared to pick up his disquiet, going just as silent and still. Norman placed himself closest to the door, shielding—BELOVED—Sammy with his body. He was still hurt, still recovering. He wouldn’t last long on his own.

He could protect him. He could protect them, something he’d never been able to do before.

He flinched, feeling a distant echo through the ink. Whatever it was, it had step foot into the ink, and it was wading closer.

Sammy trembled against him. He carefully pried his hand free of the death-grip, taking a step back. Sammy looked stricken, hand crossing to clutch at his other arm, fervently trying to whisper something to him. He could only make out the word ‘No’.

Even Norman could practically hear the strained, desperate sound he made. With still-shaking hands, he reached up, carefully cupped—DARLING—Sammy’s face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over his cheeks.

Tears were beginning to form in his eyes, and he cautiously bent down, managing—with much difficulty—to press his dimming light to Sammy’s forehead.

Sammy shuddered, then pulled his projector down with unexpected strength, pressing his lips to his light, cupping the back of his ‘head’ with careful fingers, avoiding the wires that connected there.

He trembled, leaning forward. Another sudden vibration had him reeling back, panic suffusing through his body. With a firm, but gentle hand, Sammy turned his attention back on him. This time, he could read—DEAR—Sammy’s words perfectly.

‘Come back’.

Norman hesitated, then nodded. He’d try. By god, he’d try.

He made the universal ‘stay’ sign with his hands, holding them out, then pushing them down.

Sammy nodded, face twisting with worry. He stepped forward, gently tapping his light over his head. With another long look, he retreated from the small sanctuary, firmly closing the door behind him.

A heaving sigh gust out of him. Sammy was safe. For now.

Norman resumed his looping patrol, the vibrations coming strongest just outside his maze. Just like when—BELOVED—Sammy had… Ah, it was listening to the audio log.

He quickened his steps. If it was distracted, he could easily sneak behind it, finish it. He’d make sure no one and nothing would bother them again. He could protect Sammy for once.

Once he reached the end of his maze, he hesitated. His light would easily give him away should it not be properly distracted, but the intense, localized vibration told him it was still listening to the tape, pacing once in a while.

Rolling his shoulders back, Norman stalked into the open.

Its back was turned to him, thank goodness. It was… strangely colorful, compared to the dark, muted colors surrounding them. It was most certainly not the—DAMNED—angel, as he’d partially expected.

It held a long, metal device in its hands, and something pinged at the back of his mind, warning him. It was a weapon; this thing was a threat.

This thing was something to be feared, but then again, so was he.

Norman crept closer, ignoring the instinctive urge to screech in the presence of this… INTRUDER.

The log was still playing, and the thing appeared to be making its own noise in accompaniment. At last, he was finally behind this thing, keeping his gaze low to avoid detection.

His hands reached out, ready to strangle, MAIM, TEAR this creature apart for existing as a threat to his MATE.

The THREAT turned.

Flinching from his light and his grasp, it gasped and ducked beneath his claws. Unbidden, the Projectionist's familiar screech rent the air around them.

The death-stick it held was swung up, aimed directly at his chest. He lunged.

There was a booming, thundering sound that caused the ink to fairly froth around them, already muddled by their movements. He was blind.

Norman fell into the ink, an ache blossoming somewhere along his shoulder and arm. It quickly upgraded to PAIN, and he writhed, trying to both ESCAPE and ATTACK at the same time.

The ink was no help, unable to tell him where the THREAT had gone. A warm, too hot hand grasped his shoulder, and he violently flinched away. His light latched onto the hovering face of the INTRUDER.

There were tears. Its face was twisted in some kind of agony, mouthing words at him over and over. He stilled beneath its hand. There was something… incredibly familiar about its face.

Sammy was there, suddenly, inky tears dripping down his face. Norman immediately reached out, craving closeness, safety from the terrifying death-stick and its wielder.

His MATE kneeled down, carefully pulling him up to inspect his side. The pain had dulled to a throbbing ache, but he was more distracted by the sudden warmth and contact, falling practically limp in his lap.

He looked up into his face, attempting to read the near-frantic mouth movements, repeating the same thing over and over.

‘Lucky bastard.’

Chapter Text

Norman instinctively covered his face, wincing at the blows delivered to his body. Breath wheezed out of him with a well-placed kick to his ribs. Gasping for breath, he curled into a tight ball.

Their shouts were barely gibberish in his ears at this point. Then again, he didn’t really need to hear to know the things they were likely saying.

Caught unaware, another particularly savage kick to the back of his head had him seeing stars. The taste of blood filled his mouth, metallic and warm. He’d bitten his tongue.

He swallowed hard. Ride it out. Just ride it out. They had to leave him eventually, right?

Right?

They were clamoring, egging each other on. Someone stomped on his side, causing a nauseating wave of pain. Norman writhed, listening to the laughter. He refused to make a sound. He refused to cry.

He curled tighter, subduing the whine that nearly left his throat.

There was a shout, further away, but coming closer. Not another one. He could feel himself shaking. His tormentors quieted, and he heard them speaking, loudly. Almost arguing.

“The faggot jumped us! We was just usin’ self-defense!”

“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing. You all better blow before I call the Coppers.”

“You’s a snitch?”

“Certainly. If you don’t high-tail it out of here in the next few seconds my friend over there’d be more than happy to give you some incentive.”

Norman blinked open an eye, only staring at an ink-stained leather shoe directly in front of his face. There was a strained sort of pause, and he held his breath.

“Shit, ‘e’s packin’ heat!”

There was a scramble somewhere above him, several footsteps running off, leaving him alone with the stranger.

He cautiously turned his head, getting a better look at the man. Scruffy-looking brown hair and bright, warm brown eyes.

The man offered a hand. “I thought they were gonna kill you.”

“You and me both.” Norman grasped his hand, pulling himself to his feet with some aid. He hunched over, trying to minimize the pain.

“What’s your name?”

“Norman.”

“Pleasure to meet you, I just wish it was under better circumstances. I’m Henry.”

He only grunted his acknowledgment, unable to hold the conversation. He was busy categorizing his wounds. Nothing too serious, nothing he needed a doctor for. Hopefully.

He told Henry as much when he suggested going to the hospital. He seemed reluctant, but agreed.

Henry placed a gentle hand on his arm, causing the muscles to twitch, “You live around here? My friend and I can give you a ride.” He pointed over the darkened street to a parked car, the shadow of a person in the driver’s seat waving cheerfully.

“I—” Norman hesitated.

“If you don’t want to get in the car, I can just walk with you? Or not. Whatever you prefer.”

He sighed, deciding to just come out with it. “I lost my apartment.”

Henry blinked, then pursed his lips. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The man brought a fist to his mouth, eyes narrowed in thought; after a moment, he nodded decisively to himself. “You can stay with us for a few nights.”

“What?”

“Look.” Henry scratched at his arm. “I don’t feel comfortable just leaving you out here like this. Especially with… those kinds of people around.”

Norman agreed. If he stayed around for the night, and they came back… he’d be lynched by dawn. It was not an option he wanted to consider. He repressed a violent shudder that nearly racked his body. He’d known too many that had met such a fate.

He cleared his throat, nodding toward the car. “What would your friend think?”

“Oh, Joey?” the man laughed, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t mind too much. He’s barely in the house as it is.”

“Then… a few nights would be greatly appreciated.”

The man smiled, patting his shoulder with the utmost care. “Come on then, let me introduce you.”

Joey was a very talkative, charismatic man. He was also very blunt.

“So, how’d you lose your place?”

Norman didn’t turn from looking out the window. “I lost my job. The landlord found out, then kicked me out right away.”

“Where’s your stuff, then?”

“Joey!” Henry scolded, looking sharply at him.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat. “I lost it on the subway.”

“You got anything left?

Henry growled. “Joey, if you don’t—”

“No.” Norman shrugged, not put off in the slightest. “Well, besides my skill with projectors.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly, lot of good that would do him now.

“Projectors?” Joey’s voice brightened a touch. “Well now, why didn’t you say that before? What was it you did as your previous job?”

He tilted his head at the sudden odd behavior. He glanced at Henry, who was giving Joey the most exasperated look he’d ever seen.

Norman shrugged, rubbing idly at his arms. “I worked the projectors at the Main Street movie theater.”

“It looks like today’s your lucky day, Norman!”

“How?”

Joey was silent as he parked on the street across from a small house. He twisted in his seat to look back at him, looking nearly giddy. “I believe I’ve got just the job for you.”

There were vibrations coming from above him, muffled by the lack of ink. Someone was speaking.

He roused, an unfamiliar ache in his shoulder causing him to roll it, trying to work out the kinks. A fresh wave of pain swamped him, and he shrieked, lurching up.

There were hands on his chest, pressing him back down, against some solid surface. More vibrations, almost softer somehow. Quieter.

Norman blinked, looking up. Two faces looked down at him, both looking very relieved. The memories hit like a truck. He slumped, dimming his light.

He’d almost killed—FRIEND—Henry. Granted, Henry had almost killed him. Still…

He reached out to Henry, gesturing him close. The man shuffled over, crouching down to be eye-level. He reached for his hand, careful not to allow any of his ink to melt off into the letters he traced over his palm.

S-O-R-R-Y

Henry’s nose and mouth twitched, brow lowering. He looked like he was about to cry.

He shook his head quickly. It wasn’t very difficult to read his mouth-movements, especially compared to Sammy’s. ‘No, I’m sorry.’ There were a few words he had difficulty with, then: ‘Should have—’

Sammy pressed a hand to Henry’s shoulder, brow furrowed. ‘…alright… We forgive...’

Norman relaxed, settling down, feeling a warm brightness glowing in his chest. Perhaps… they could make this work.

Chapter Text

Sammy rested his head against the wood paneling, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. He forced them open, glancing down at Norman. He was sprawled onto the bench, his height forcing his legs over the side.

Norman’s head was resting somewhat comfortably on his lap, the edges of the projector digging into his legs. He didn’t mind too much, more concerned with Norman’s comfort than his own. He wasn’t the one who got blasted by that gun. By Henry.

He frowned, brow furrowing. He understood, somewhat. Especially after being on the receiving end of the Demon’s less-than-loving attention.

But the fact it was turned on Norman that made his ink boil with rage. Norman wouldn’t hurt a damn fly! Well, now he wouldn’t. Sammy’s shoulders slumped. He really couldn’t blame Henry for his actions, hasty as they were.

He traced his fingertips gently over Norman’s lens, noting its dimness. He was well and truly out. He’d nearly collapsed as soon as they’d finished talking, his body encouraging more well-earned rest.

His fingers absently swept down the line of his throat, a soothing motion. His speaker crackled a bit, projector tilting the slightest bit in unconscious demand for more. His lips twitched, slowly rubbing his thumb along the tendons of his neck, following them down to his collarbone.

Sammy hesitated, taking in the sight of Norman’s shoulder with a grimace. The ink was… warped, brittle-looking. Like it would flake off at any given moment. It extended from the ball of his shoulder to his collar, and just a bit down his arm.

Overall, it looked better than when the wound first occurred. Gnarled, melted ink sloughing off in great globs, looking like the rest of him would fall apart as well. He shook his head, swallowing hard.

With a shaky hand, he pressed his palm to Norman’s chest. The steady beat of his ink-heart was grounding, an anchor for his swirling thoughts.

He’s alive, he’s strong, he’ll be fine.

Sammy leaned slightly over as if shielding Norman.

There was the sound of sloshing ink, and he tensed up, looking at the door. There were a couple of knocks, before: “Hey, uh, can I come in?”

He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Sure.”

The door creaked open, revealing a tired Henry and a nervous-looking Boris clone behind him. Sammy stared, eyes narrowing. Was this the one that had—

“So,” Henry murmured, stepping inside. “This is Sammy, and that’s Norman. Sammy, this is Boris.”

Boris ducked his head some to peek in, blinking at him. Sammy waved a hand in greeting, scrutinizing the cartoon intently. He didn’t seem to pay any mind, suddenly rifling through his pockets.

“Boris, buddy, what’re you—” Henry cut himself off as Boris pulled out a half-melted candle, holding it out to Sammy with perked ears.

Sammy stared at the offered object, before sputtering, “You! You were the one that kept taking my candles. Do you know how hard it is to find those down here?”

Boris only shrugged, not looking sheepish in the slightest.

Henry glanced up at the wolf, raising an eyebrow. “Why candles?”

“Not only candles,” Sammy muttered, taking the offered object. “He’d swipe my bacon soup cans too.” He frowned suddenly, glaring up at Boris. “Were you the one that downed my entire supply of bacon soup?”

Boris only looked confused, giving an emphatic shake of the head.

Henry made a choking sound. “It, uh, wasn’t the one just outside the Music Department, was it?”

“The same. Why?” Sammy squinted at the human, noting his sudden paleness.

“I may have… hmm. I uh, might’ve been the one to do that.” Henry picked at his nails, refusing to make eye contact.

He gaped. “There were over a dozen cans of bacon soup there.”

“I was hungry!” The man pouted, crossing his arms.

Sammy quickly shushed him, smoothing a hand down Norman’s chest despite the fact he hadn’t even reacted to the outburst. “A dozen cans of soup, Henry. I turned my back for maybe ten minutes.”

Boris looked intrigued, glancing between them.

He threw his hands up, grumbling, “All right! I have an unhealthy obsession with soup. Sue me. Now can we talk about something else?”

Sammy’s lips twitched despite himself. “Fine. You said you had a plan, earlier?”

“Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Alright, so, I think I know how to fix your hand and Norman’s shoulder. The bad news is that it involves the elevator.”

Sammy’s brow twitched. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Essentially, there’s some really… uh, swollen Searchers that have really thick ink. I know Alice has been using it to hold herself together, so it should work for you two. But I can’t get up there without the elevator.”

“I can…” Sammy hesitated, looking away. “I may be able to use my portals.”

“Your… what?”

“Portals. I had them at nearly every Ben—Demon alter I had access to. Made it a lot easier to get around.”

“Can a human even use them?”

“No idea. I’d probably have to come with you as a guide, but…”

“But what?”

“The Demon knows when I use them.” A shudder passed through him. “He’ll come looking.”

Henry shared a quick glance with Boris, shuffling forward to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “There’s a safe room upstairs, we could all stay there. I know Norman wouldn’t react well to being left alone here with Boris if just us went, but I also don’t want to make two trips here in case he catches onto where we’re going.”

“Where is this safe room?”

“A little way from Heavenly Toys, through the blocked area.”

Sammy looked down, a crease forming between his brows. “There’s an altar there, it shouldn’t be too far. You want us to go all at once?”

“If possible. He won’t be expecting it, and the sooner we’re all in the safe house, the better. If we leave Boris and Norman here, we’d have to come back to get them. And if the… Demon then knows you’re using the portals, he’d be watching for it, right?”

Sammy nodded, absently stroking Norman’s neck, both for Norman’s as well as his own benefit. “Alright. We’ll try it. But I give you no guarantees.”

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?”

“Not particularly,” Sammy muttered, shifting his weight.

Henry sighed, looking over the group. Norman was standing, leaning heavily on Boris’ shoulder for balance. The wolf didn’t appear bothered in the slightest, focused almost entirely on Sammy.

He felt his muscles stiffening, tense to the point of locking. The minute they were popped out onto the other side, they’d have to start running. If, the traitorous little voice in his head chimed, if you make it to the other side.

He shook his head, clenching and unclenching his fists to release some nervous tension. It didn’t help.

“Alright everyone, hold onto me. Whatever you do, do not let go. I don’t feel like fishing anyone’s body out of the inky void today.”

Henry’s lip twitched. It had been so long since he’s heard Sammy’s little side comments, often provoking those around him to the point he or Joey would have to step in. Heaven knows he’d never expected to feel relieved to hear it again.

Norman appeared to feel similarly, speaker mangling static and soft sounds as he wrapped an arm around Sammy’s side, pressing himself close. He lightly bonked his lens against the top of his head, and Henry felt his eyes go misty.

Little stolen moments; a lingering touch, hushed conversations, given tokens. So, so similar.

He sharply cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. “You won’t have to,” he grinned wide, curling his arm across Sammy’s shoulders while linking arms with Boris, connecting everyone securely together. “I think we’re ready anyti-ahhh!”

He shouted, the ground beneath his feet disappearing. His arms tightened their hold, clinging tightly to the group around him. Just before his eyes squeezed shut, he saw the inside of the void.

Endless, shapeless inky darkness pressed in. It was suffocating, pressing in on all sides, trapping, capturing everything. He swore he heard voices.

His skin prickled, the sense of eyes on his back sending panic signals to his brain. He grit his teeth, heart racing at the onslaught, ready to—

They landed hard. He fell to his knees, distantly aware of the others’ similar clumsy landings.

“We need to move,” Sammy called, already struggling to his feet.

He reached for Norman, who was still dazed on the ground. “Come on, get up!” His heartbeat was loud in his ears, all-encompassing in its volume. Wait. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, eyes scanning the immediate area. “Head for the Miracle Station.”

Boris scooped up the limp form of Norman, sprinting for the small sanctuary. Henry grabbed Sammy’s arm, pulling him along.

Dark webs began to creep along the walls, forming beneath their feet. The wood creaked warningly beneath their pounding feet, the scent of burnt ink filling his nose. That was bad, very bad, bad, bad.

The cartoon reached to station first, flinging the door open and hurtling inside, turning a fearful gaze on something behind them.

Adrenaline shot through his system, his body in full-flight mode.

“We’re not going to all fit,” Sammy huffed in his ear, keeping pace. Henry stared at the small Miracle Station, noting its cramped space. Boris and Norman were already taking up most of the room inside.

As if mocking their revelation, the dark threads of ink surrounding the floor and walls began to pulse erratically, following the sound of some unknown heartbeat.

He felt a disturbance in the air behind him, and suddenly he heard a sound of pure frustration behind him. He was close, barely a step behind.

“We have to try,” he growled back, muscles in his legs burning. The Demon was on their heels, there was no other choice, they were going to die—

Boris held the door open, one hand outstretched, reaching—

He was pushed, shoved into the wolf, and he was faintly aware of arms tugging him into the safety of the Miracle Station. “Wait,” he choked, twisting.

The wooden door slammed shut.

His breath stilled in his chest, arm still held out where he’d been holding onto Sammy, who wasn’t there.

Norman caught up to this development far quicker than Henry’s sluggish mind, already struggling to lift himself from the bench, a garbled sound of pure agony wretched from his speaker.

Ears drooping, Boris pressed a firm hand to Norman’s chest, preventing him from rising. Henry slumped, staring dumbly at the wooden grain of the door. “He didn’t, please tell me he didn’t…”

Chapter Text

This, Sammy thought, racing through the dim corridor, chest tight with dread, was a fucking stupid idea.

The Demon’s footsteps lurched behind, His eerie breathing ghosting up the back of his neck. His own legs sped up, gaze darting around. There had to be something. Henry said there was a Safe House down this way, so where was it?!

A whimper tore from his throat, seeing the blocked entryway. I’m screwed.

Sammy tore into the small room, looking wildly for something, anything to help. An open vent shaft off to the side immediately caught his attention. Without hesitation, he dove for the opening.

In a snap, a large, clawed hand wrapped around his exposed ankle.

He yelped, scrabbling at the mostly-smooth walls of the vent, savagely kicking his leg. “No, no, no this isn’t happening!”

The hand remained firmly attached, even tightening its grip. Sammy writhed, his breathing loud and labored to his own ears. Angry, helpless tears snaked down his face. He pulled back his lips, forming an animalistic sneer. Have to try.

He went limp, completely vulnerable. The hand loosened for a moment, surprised. Instantly, he ripped the limb back, his other leg delivering a sharp blow to the Demon’s leg. He crumpled, slamming to his knees with a thud.

He scrambled backwards, flipping over to all fours as he continued down the vents. The Demon wasn’t small enough to fit in, to the best of his knowledge; however, he wasn’t about to take chances.

Sammy wandered the vent system for a long while, jumping at and avoiding any sounds. He took to the better-lit vents, sliding down in a few places, climbing a couple. It took a long time before he decided to claim himself lost. Though, he wasn’t about to ask any locals for directions.

He curled up in the corner of an intersection, wanting as many options available should he come across anything, or the other way around. He managed to settle into fitful sleep, lulled by a distant rhythmic thumping.

“Sammy?”

His features tightened, a hard smile fixing itself on his face. “Last time Joey, we’re not bringing in some random Joe, he could be a grifter for all we know.”

Joey’s face dropped, before his jaw set, gaze bright and alert. “We’re giving him a chance, at the very least. Henry and I are in agreement on this.” His chin lifted the slightest bit. “He’s coming in today. You’re giving the tour.”

Sammy breathed hard through his nose, audible to his ears. This was one battle he would not lose. “Does he have any recommendations, any written experience?”

“I have all the information I need.” He leaned in, planting himself solidly. “You yourself said that we needed a Projectionist. Now we have one. He’s already been hired, and Henry and I agree that you’d be best to help acclimate him to the job. Is there any problem with that?”

He crossed his arms, toes curling in his boots, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth. Backed into a corner. “Whatever you say, bossman.” He turned sharply on his heel, storming off to his office.

Sammy holed himself inside, the door firmly shut. Most avoided his office when they saw his door closed, for good reason.

He drowned himself in composing the newest melody. It was relatively simple, meant to be background for one of Bendy’s usual mischievousness. He plucked at the strings of his banjo, testing the notes.

A very quiet, tentative knock jolted him from his playing. He straightened in his seat, gently setting the banjo down before rising to answer the door. He kept his face deceptively neutral.

Sammy swung open the door to a raised fist, readying to knock again.

“Ah, good afternoon. I’m Norman Polk, and you are Mister Lawrence, correct?”

He stared at the dark-skinned man on the other side of the doorway, all irritation suddenly gone at the sight, replaced with curiosity. “Sammy,” he muttered, before immediately tensing, eyes widening at the abrupt slip of his tongue.

The man smiled, a warm, genuine thing. “Sammy then.” He reached out to shake hands, and Sammy silently marveled at the way it encompassed his own. He frowned slightly, pulling away first.

He cleared his throat, idly shaking his head. “I assume you’re here for the tour.”

“Yessir.”

Sammy clasped his hands behind his back, pushing past the towering form of Norman Polk. “Come along then,” he called, feeling a fluttery feeling in his stomach. It felt something like anticipation.

He woke slowly, to a great warmth that hummed pleasantly along his bones. He drifted in and out of consciousness for a short time, content. Awareness began peeking through, nudging his brain to the fact the humming was not coming from him.

He blinked open his eyes, freezing when six identical pairs blinked back. Blind panic overcame him for a moment, before he looked closer, and slumped. He knew these Lost Ones.

They were humming quietly, curled around and against his form, radiating heat. He sighed, reluctantly disentangling himself. His brow furrowed. How long was I asleep?

Many hung on, hands grasping feebly at his overalls and at his skin. He patiently, calmly, directed them off. It took a minute or so for them to realize he was no longer going to cuddle with them, and they reluctantly rose as well.

A few began leading the way down on of the larger vents, and Sammy followed diligently. It took a few turned before they climbed out into the hideout. Several more Lost Ones mingled around the room, all eyes turning towards the returning party.

He stared out at the sea of faces, eyes that saw too much, knew too much. There was an ache at the back of his throat, his limbs felt like they were weighted down with stones. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, swallowing hard.

There was a tug on his pant leg. He looked to the Lost One gripping his overalls in a tight grip, its other hand holding up a half-melted candle.

He stared, uncaring of the tears immediately spilling down his cheeks. This one, he knew this one. He was the one who brought them the candle, unable to watch them sob in the dark corner any longer.

He would sit with them often, bring candles any time it looked like it was running low. Sobbed with them, occasionally.

Silent, he allowed them to gently tug him back into the dark corner. He sat cross-legged, leaning tiredly back against the wall. They leaned against his shoulder, snuffling.

The others watched quietly, some despair forgotten at the return of their friend. Many settled near, only a few sobs heard, far cry from the wailing he’d heard previously. They were calm, mostly.

Two sets of footsteps approached the lounge area. Sammy tensed, leaning forward to eye the door. The sniffling died down.

A Boris clone entered, scanning around the gathered Lost Ones. It looked… stern, especially for one of the wolves. Behind him approached…

His heartrate jumped, freezing at the sight of the Angel. But there was something off. She was… she was…

Not the Angel. She was too… together to be Alice. Too calm. He straightened when she looked straight at him, head cocked to one side.

Her voice was soft, barely-there, “What are you?”

Chapter Text

Norman stared up at the ceiling, rapidly tapping his fingers on the side of the cot. He was going to destroy that—DAMNED—clock. Every time its hands moved, he wanted to throttle it, break it, rip its HEART OUT.

It was another moment alone. It was another second of not looking for him.

He was at the mercy of the—BEAST—Demon.

Sammy—DEAREST ONE—could be dead.

Norman’s hand clenched into a fist, gripping the edge tightly as he tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. He shuddered, bowing his bowing his shoulders. A choked-off wail nearly escaped him, before he silenced himself. He pressed his hand to his chest and huddled deeper into the cot, blinking off his lens.

He turned it back on at a light touch to his shoulder, glancing up at—CREATOR—Henry. He looked… worn. Tired and aged, like an eternity had passed in the few hours.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in a heavy swallow, hands shoving themselves deep into his pockets. He avoided eye contact, but turned to face him so he be able to better read his lips. “I’m… looking. …couldn’t have gone far.”

Norman shifted himself upright, a growl of frustration escaping the speaker. He pointed firmly at Henry, then himself, then the door.

Henry winced, though nodded. “Found… might help.” He began digging through his pockets, a faint grimace pulling at his features when he pulled out a glob of thick ink. “Here…”

Norman allowed the substance to plop into his hand, tilting his head at the strange sensation. It felt like it was trying to pull together, merging with the surface ink of his hand. His speaker buzzed as he rolled it around for a moment, getting used to the sensation.

He glanced up when Henry waved a hand, motioning to his damaged shoulder. Norman whirred, nodding.

He carefully held it up, levelling it with the stump, and pressed.

Norman screamed.

Jack Fain huddled further beneath the organ, trembling. The haunting screech had come out of nowhere, sounding unlike any that he’d heard before. And he’d heard a lot!

The Demon usually traipsed around up here, and the Searchers usually made some weird sounds. He didn’t like either of them.

He preferred his quiet space, down inside the organ. No one usually bothered him. No one really knew he was there. Except Prophet-Sammy.

Prophet-Sammy had been gone for a long time. He missed Prophet-Sammy.

Prophet-Sammy would come around and preach, sometimes even bring his banjo! He really liked it when Prophet-Sammy played. Sometimes he would get snippets—words? Lyrics?—that went with it.

It was peaceful. Much better than listening to him preach. He really didn’t like the Demon. But he didn’t want to upset Prophet-Sammy, he might stop coming!

But he did. He couldn’t hear Prophet-Sammy anymore. Anywhere. There was no banjo-playing, no preaching, no hummed tunes. It was quiet. He didn’t like this kind of quiet.

Even the other creatures became bored and ventured further down. Not him, though. He knew it was dangerous. Knew they didn’t come back up.

What if that’s what happened to Prophet-Sammy? He bobbed anxiously in place, careful not to dislodge his hat. But Prophet-Sammy was smart, why would he go down? Down was bad!

But… it was quiet up here now. It was only him. He was… lonely. Maybe if he went down, he would find Prophet-Sammy. And find another pipe organ to hide in, and Prophet-Sammy could come and play his banjo again!

Prophet-Sammy was probably lonely too.

Alice heaved deep breaths, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “How dare he!”

She ripped her hands through her hair and screeched, uncaring of the pain that bloomed across her scalp. Betrayal sat bitter on her tongue, placed a fire in her ink. No matter she’d been playing him; he was supposed to be the one betrayed, not her!

She was in charge, she was in control! How dare he! How dare he! He was too trusting, too optimistic, too naïve for this twisted hellhole. And yet, he’d managed to pull the wool over her eyes!

She clenched her fists, grinding her teeth. “I’m going to kill him.”

She crossed her arms, digging her nails in. She wanted to hit something, destroy something. She quivered in place, forcing herself to take deep, controlling breaths.

She hadn’t felt anything this intense since… well. She pressed a hand to the damaged side of her face, anger abruptly simmering down. Why did she feel so… betrayed, hurt?

This was nothing more than a game of life, one she had to win. Why were these blasted feelings popping up?!

She pinched her lips tight, storming off into the torture room. Hopefully another session would help her let off some steam.

The sight of the Piper wriggling and whimpering at the sight of her was normally so satisfying, but now… She felt hollow, gutted.

She froze, staring at the plushie balanced precariously on the top edge of her control panel. She reached for it, staring down at the little Alice Angel toy. Her thumb brushed over the side of her face, unmarred and perfect.

It was soft, untainted by the ink. Her fingers tightened.

Henry had gotten it for her.

He’d stuffed it in with the gears she’d demanded he collect, giving her a warm, genuine smile and a “Hope you’re doing better.” She’d sneered and yelled at him and demanded the extra thick ink from the Swollen Searchers.

But she’d kept the plushie. It was a comfort, odd as it was to think. She frowned, scrutinizing the toy more closely.

She wasn’t the only one he’d do these kinds of things for, she knew. Saw some of it, even. A bone given to the mongrel, a pause for whatever creature he’d killed.

He was too trusting, too naïve to the ways of this world. Yet, he seemed to be faring well despite his ‘help everyone’ attitude. He’d run from the Demon, at least, so he had some semblance of a brain.

Maybe he did have a chance of making it out alive.

Chapter Text

Allison stared warily at the strange ink creature sitting not five feet away. It stared back, unnerving in its intensity. The eye-sockets it had were… gaping, expressionless voids. It was downright creepy.

Tom was a familiar, comforting shadow at her side. She could practically feel the waves of distrust and suspicion emanating off of him. She felt similarly. One didn’t last long down here without great doses of either.

“My name is Sammy Lawrence.” It spoke, voice soft, but firm in its delivery. “I’m… I was the Music Director here, before.”

Before… It was something Allison tried desperately not to think about. It hurt whenever she tried. Tom obviously felt the same, always distracting her with some nonsense or other when their thoughts turned down that path.

The creature was still regarding them with that eerily attentive gaze as if he were expecting some kind of answer. Maybe he was.

She cleared her throat. “Others call me Alice,” her tone twisted into something wry as she continued, “but I’m no Angel.” A non-answer.

He nodded once, decisively. “Count your stars. The last thing we need around here is two of you.”

“You’ve met her then?”

“In a way. I’m not high in her graces, we’ll say.” The crea—Sammy crossed his arms, sockets narrowing.

“You’re hiding here, then. With the other Lost Ones.”

“Yes?” The word was drawn out, confusion mixing with suspicion.

“You’re different,” Allison explained, glancing sidelong at her partner, “and different means dangerous. We don’t know what to make of you.”

“You aren’t exactly an open book either, doll.”

Tom took a menacing step forward, threateningly tapping the pipe in his metal palm. Surprisingly, the Lost Ones reacted first. Many stood from their crouched or sitting states, several placing themselves in front of the overall-clad creature.

“Tom,” Allison hissed, tugging at his arm. She was sure he could hear her ink-heart pounding away like one of the various machines scattered about.

He stopped, but glowered at the surrounding Lost Ones. They stared back, all sobbing and wailing cut off. The lack of sound was disturbing. Sammy glanced around at all of them, looking almost confused.

“Let’s start over.” She blew out a breath, clasping her hands together. Might as well. “Call me Allison. This is Tom. We’re just looking for a safe space to rest.”

Sammy eyed them, but deflated after a minute. “I’m just trying to find my—” he paused, brow creasing, blinking rapidly, “my friends.” Allison frowned, looking pointedly at the group surrounding them. “Ah, not them. My other friends.” He straightened, abruptly animated in his gestures. “You might have seen them! They were at Heavenly Toys, not too long ago. There’s three of them.”

She shared another glance with Tom, debating. “What would these three look like?”

“Um,” he hesitated, but apparently his desperation won out. “There’s another…” He gestured weakly at Tom, and she nods in understanding. “And, well… the Projectionist.”

Allison recoiled, and Tom tensed beside her. “The Projectionist! It’s dangerous! What is it doing up here?”

Sammy leaped to his feet, shoulders hunching, hands clenching at his sides. “He is not! He wouldn’t hurt anyone or anything if it didn’t provoke him first.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Hesitantly opened it again. “And… the other one?”

“A human.”

“A what?”

“A… human. You’ve never…” he trailed off, tilting his head. “Never mind. You said you’re looking for a safe place?”

“Well, that and—” Tom placed a hand on her shoulder, and Allison quickly clamed up.

Sammy leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, gaze guarded. “And what?”

“Nothing, we were just—well, we’d like—” she huffed. She glanced up at Tom, who was already shaking his head. “Give us a moment,” she told the creature, pulling Tom along by the arm. The Lost Ones parted, giving them space to move away. It was… slightly unnerving.

Allison pulled him to the opposite side of the room. “They might know a way out,” she hissed under her breath.

Tom soundlessly scoffed.

“If they got the Projectionist out of its eternal loop, they must have some kind of knowledge or power. They must know something. At least let me ask.”

Tom looked away, absently flexing his fingers. Eventually, he looked back, giving a small nod.

Allison walked back, noting the interested tilt of Sammy’s head. “Alright. Do you and your friends know a way out?”

He blinked. “You… You’re looking for a way out?” He let out a shrill, disbelieving laugh. “That’s insane. There’s no way…” He paused. “There might be a way.”

“Can you help us?”

He looked back up, sockets focused completely on her. “I can try, but I give no guarantees.”

“That’s all we’re asking for.”

He nodded, beginning to pace. “We’ll have to find my friends, get them on board—not that there’s any reason they wouldn’t, but—”

Allison cut him off. “You said they were by Heavenly Toys?”

“Yes?”

“Leave it to me.”

Sammy gasped, clawing at the excess ink covering his form. “We are never taking your way again.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Allison muttered. Tom wasn’t quite smiling, but she could feel his emanant satisfaction. She elbowed his side.

He grumbled at her soundlessly. She grinned.

A clearing throat got both of their attention. Sammy had gotten up, and was waiting near the Miracle Station, one eye-ridge raised.

Allison absolutely did not blush. “Alright, let’s get going.”

Sammy snorted as they all fell into step, one at either side of her. It felt… nice. The banter, someone covering her on both sides. It didn’t feel like it was her and Tom against the world.

It felt like something was finally going right.

Chapter Text

Sammy hovered in front of the wooden door, hand lifted to knock. Still, he hesitated. He’d left them, abandoned them.

Maybe they thought he was dead. That sent an uncomfortable chill through his body, his fist lowering.

“What’s he doing?” Allison whispered, obviously talking to the other Boris clone. He mentally shook himself, straightening. He knocked swiftly three times before he gave himself the chance to think about it.

There was a muffled crash inside, a storm of muted swears starting up just after. His lip twitched despite his anxiousness.

The door swung open, Boris’ overexcited face peering down at him with wide eyes and perked ears. “Hey, I’m—” he was cut off, suddenly enveloped in the clone’s arms, held up with surprising strength. “Back.” He finished, wheezing.

“Sammy!” Henry was next, apparently. The second he was let down, Henry clamped to his side like a vice, caging him in for another hug. Thankfully, he was released quickly.

“Come inside, come on,” Henry urged, gently pressing him in. “You two as well.”

Allison and Tom appeared… baffled by this whirlwind of a human, glancing at each other once before passively following them into the shelter.

Boris closed the door, engaging several locks… and was that a lever? He shook his head, looking around the room. There was a rising ache in his chest when he didn’t see the familiar figure of the Projectionist.

“Where’s Norman?”

Henry’s smile twitched, wincing. “He’s resting, down the hall. I tried that… ink. It worked, but he’s been out cold ever since.” Sammy froze. Several thoughts whizzed through his brain, too fast to comprehend. It felt like he was choking, the ache in his chest only worsening.

He swallowed hard. “Take me to him.”

Henry nodded, only glancing once back at the odd pair he’d brought with him. “They’re alright?”

Tom glowered, folding his arms. Allison put a hand on his arm, murmuring something. Boris was scrutinizing them both, angling his body in such a way that prevented them from following down the hall.

He lowered his voice. “Yeah. They helped me get here. Just… keep our eyes sharp. I haven’t known them for long.”

Henry clapped him on the shoulder. “I think Boris is covering that for us.”

He nodded, more focused on Norman now that there were no obstacles or life-or-death situations demanding priority. Was he alright? Was he sick? In a coma?

He folded his arms across his chest, hugging himself tightly. Henry didn’t comment, opting to leave his hand on his shoulder, a grounding weight he appreciated.

They stopped outside the door.

Henry squeezed his shoulder once. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” Sammy dipped his head in a shallow nod, unable to tear his eyes away from the door. He listened as Henry’s footsteps faded, heard the hushed conversation start up.

He placed a shaky hand on the knob, turning it slowly. The door creaked open, despite his attempts to remain quiet. He silently winced, stepping into the dimly-lit room, and shut the door behind him.

Norman was sleeping on the cot hung up in the corner. He crept forward, eyes drinking in the sight of Norman safely resting. The projector’s light was off, his head turned to the side. His arm, which had been gone from the shoulder down last he’d seen, was laid straight along his side.

Blowing out a soft breath, his own hand moved to hover over the newly-grown limb. He flinched back, not expecting the heat that radiated off of it. Concern growing, he scanned over Norman again, picking up barely-tangible shivers across his skin… ink?

He bit his lip, gently pressing his hand to Norman’s chest. His ink-heart was a bit fast for his liking, but the tempo was soothing in its vibrancy. It meant he was alive, and that was what mattered most.

Carefully, he skimmed his hand towards the damaged shoulder, feeling a growing warmth.

Norman shifted uncomfortably at the attention, speaker letting loose a soft whine. He stopped immediately, not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m so, so, sorry.”

Loathe to part from any sort of contact with him, he awkwardly managed to scooch the chest over to the side of the cot with his hand still resting on Norman’s collar.

He sat down with a weary sigh, resting his elbow on the fabric as he began soothingly humming, tracing vague shapes onto his skin. Norman shifted slightly, turning more towards him.

A watery smile crossed his lips. He continued to hum softly, in lieu of any words. Words had nothing to offer them at this moment. He rested his head down against his arm, still lazily stroking along Norman’s chest and collar.

He blinked, long and slow, dimly realizing he was growing tired. He yawned, settling.

“That was amazing!”

Sammy hunched his shoulders, determinedly not looking up at Norman’s undoubtedly beaming face. “It wasn’t that great.”

Norman snorted. “Sure.” His voice softened, a warm touch on his shoulder making him freeze from where he’d been plucking idly at the strings. “It was lovely.”

“I—” Sammy quieted, tilting his head. “I don’t know why I wrote it. It doesn’t fit with anything in the cartoons. Its too, too… soft? Whimsical?” He let out a frustrated noise, tightening his grip on the instrument. “I’m wasting my time. This was nonsense, why did I—” A firm, yet yielding grip was on both his shoulders, causing him to straighten automatically. “What are you doing?”

“You seem tense. Would it help to get your mind off of things for a while?”

His mouth went abruptly dry, heart beating a staccato in his chest. “What?” he absolutely-did-not-squeak. The hands abruptly began kneaded into the muscles, and damn but it felt nice.

“A massage, Sammy.” Distantly, he was aware of the undertone of amusement, but he was much more focused on the magic Norman wrought from his hands. He melted under the attention, suddenly very thankful that they had both decided to stay late.

“Thank you, Norman,” he mumbled, feeling completely blissed-out.

“Anytime,” came the soft reply.

Gentle fingers prodded his face, sweeping lines and shapes across his nose, cheeks, and forehead. Tracing features, he realized.

He blinked open his eyes, remaining still under Norman’s soft attention. He was not looking at him, his light aimed toward the ceiling, likely to keep from waking him. The warm, bubbly feeling returned to his chest. He smiled.

Norman must have felt the change; the crease of his lip, the swelling in the apple of his cheek, but he continued tracing as though he didn’t notice. Though, noticeably, his fingers were tracing downwards, following the curve of his cheek.

They gently followed the outline of his lips, making them twitch at the almost ticklish caress. His thumb found the jut of his bottom lip, making him sigh. Reluctantly, he pulled away, making Norman look down at him.

They stared at each other for a moment, and at uncommunicated consensus, Norman shifted to the opposite end of the cot, making room for Sammy to crawl in. Their forms slotted perfectly, pressed as close together as they could manage.

Sammy dozed, content in the moment to ignore everything outside of the little room, the cot, even, as Norman continued to gently explore his every available facet and feature.

Chapter Text

Norman hovered over—BELOVED—Sammy’s shoulder, thrilling in the simple nearness. They moved down the hallway, sides glued together. He revelled in the slight vibrations coming from Sammy’s throat, indicating his contented humming.

He perked up slightly at the additional vibrations throughout the wooden floor, muted and intangible, but distinctly there.

They rounded the corner, and his eyes landed on the closest figure: a woman, with dark hair and dress, a halo formed around her head.

Norman’s thought-process hiccupped, mind freezing and restarting in bursts. The—PATCHWORK—Angel, the THREAT, here. His arm threw itself in Sammy’s path, blocking. He stepped forward, shielding—LOVE—Sammy behind him, feeling a familiar defensive screech building in his chest.

Oddly, Boris threw himself in front of the—DANGER—Angel, forming a mirrored pose of his own in front of Sammy. A glint from the metal hand caught his lens, and he noted a cowering form of… another Boris behind them, sitting at the table. He hesitated.

FRIEND—Henry pushed his way between the two, holding his hands up to both. The sudden, intense pressure of the vibrations showed he was yelling, whipping his between the two, preventing him from lip-reading.

Norman growled, stepping back, keeping—BONDED—Sammy behind him. He felt his hand against his upper back, pressed between his shoulder blades. He cut his growling down, but eyed the other occupants of the room with a baleful glare.

Henry took a careful step towards them, and Norman immediately angled to better shield Sammy, lowering his head and sending another warning sound.

The—ALLY—man jerked back, hands up. More vibrations, this time stuttering and clipped.

Satisfied, Norman stopped the noise. Henry shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He brightened after a moment, turning to the others; he was using subdued gestures, and speaking quietly, according to the minimal vibrations.

Sammy leaned forward, placing his head in the crook between his projector and shoulder. He hissed a small discouragement, but didn’t act to remove him.

The—PATCHWORK—Angel was acting odd, nervously wringing her hands and sheltering behind the other Boris. It wasn’t… like Alice to seek sanctuary from one of the wolves. She was more likely to dissect them than… this. Whatever this was.

DEAREST—Sammy puffed a small breath against his throat, equally distracting and stimulating. Norman rumbled, leaning back, all while keeping a wary eye on the others.

They had gathered at the table across the room, fussing over… something. Eventually, Henry left the huddle, carrying a pail with him to the wall.

He blinked, head jerking at the strangeness. His gaze switched from the group to Henry and back a few times, trying to keep them all in his vision.

The human put the bucket down, beckoning the… Angel. The—STOIC—wolf accompanied her, and Norman fought the rising urge to eliminate both threats. Henry had protected them for a reason. Henry was to be trusted, but these two… were not.

SUPPORTER—Henry made a few more gestures, causing the Angel to nod empathetically and reach down for a… brush? An ink covered brush. He froze when she began writing on the wall, each stroke small, deliberate. Conserving the space.

‘ALLISON’ was the first word, and right below that, she wrote ‘TOM’. Dropping the brush back to the pail, she tapped her chest, then pointed to the first name. He tilted his head, scanning her up and down for any sign of deceit, disguise, something off. Finding nothing, he slowly nodded his understanding.

A relieved smile curved her lips, and she reached for the other Boris, patting his chest and pointing to the second name.

CHERISHED—Sammy carefully disentangled himself, moving to his side. Norman, hesitating, allowed it. Sammy looked him in the lens, sweeping an arm out and nodding vigorously. Henry had vouched for them, and now Sammy.

Perhaps he had been a bit hasty.

Grumbling a bit, which his speaker translated to static, he headed over to the wall. The not-Alice and her guard dog were tense, waiting. FRIEND—Henry appeared optimistic, eagerly waving him over. Giving a last glance to the pair, he swiped the brush and wrote his own message.

SORRY.

The woman glanced at it, gently inclining her head with a small smile. Forgiven, then.

The pair suddenly glanced to the center of the room, where Henry stood, and Norman realized he must have cleared his throat. He followed the lip-movements, graciously exaggerated on his behalf.

“Now, we need a plan. All of us want out of here, but we have three main things in our way. The Angel and the Demon are actively hunting for us, and we have no clear-cut way out of here. I’m open to suggestions.”

Darling—Sammy waved, walking over to his side. Once he reached him, he looped his arm through his, his weight reassuring, grounding even. He began speaking, and he readjusted his lens to better view his words.

“—the stairs back in my department? You unflooded them and there isn’t much but Searchers up there now. Should be pretty safe. But to get there, that’s the hard part.” He stopped, then pointed, redirecting his focus to the—to Allison.

“—my way? It is safer than traveling on foot, not to mention faster.” She noted his gaze, quickly pointing back towards—BELOVED—Sammy. Norman swiveled his lens, refocusing on Sammy’s mouth.

“—would drown. He’s human, not… not like us. And I can’t get us there since the Demon knows when I use the portals. He’d follow us out.”

Again, pointing back to Allison.

“—worth it. If we take the long way, which I don’t know if you know, but we’re a decent way from the upper-levels, then we’re inviting everything on the way to take a swipe at us. We should take the chance!”

ALLY—Henry threw his hands up, successfully catching Norman’s attention. “Whoa, hold on. Let’s think this through. Do we have a path to follow to reach the stairs in the Music Department? Direct passage, shortcuts, anything?”

He scanned around, searching for vibrations. Boris raised his hand, then nodded firmly, brow furrowed in a comically determined expression.

Vibrations from the center—Henry.

“How long would it take? 10 minutes, half an hour? More? Less? 15? 20? 20 minutes. Okay, that’s… not bad. How dangerous would it be? So-so? Alright. It seems like we have a better chance going the long way. There’s no certainty of danger, like there would be using the portals, and there should be fewer hostile creatures on the way up. Tom has a pipe, I can scrounge something here, and Norman…” he visibly hesitated. “I’m sure not many things that still have awareness would mess with you.”

Norman nodded.

Henry sighed. “Everyone… okay with this plan? I’m seeing ‘yes’ so far. Norman, Sammy?” He saw Sammy give a thumbs-up, which he copied. “Okay, we’ll spend the rest of the day here. Rest and prepare everyone. Whatever deity willing, we’ll be out tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Alice knew who Susie was, who she had been; and still was, in a sense. Susie’s memories collided with her own, warping both and forming an unintelligible conglomerate. Suffice to say, it was difficult to recall something on her own.

The memory would come on its own, by a familiar sight or smell, and never by her own schedule. It was infuriatingly common to become lapsed in some distant time and place she’d never been, and all she could do was let it run its course.

This time, though… she really wished otherwise.

Susie tripped in her haste to back away, numb horror filling her veins. “What are you doing?”

Joey’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, but this is the only way it’ll work.”

Susie trembled violently, breath quick and shallow as she backed into the door. “Please, you can’t, you can’t.”

“I’ve tried everything!” He roared, lifting his hands, the ink coating them like a mockery of the blood that should have been there. “This is the only way. It works!” He gestured back at the limp, ink-coated form behind him.

The overalls were a dead giveaway, and she felt the hot prickling behind her eyes that always preceded tears. Oh, Sammy.

Her lip wobbled. Sammy, her dear Sammy Lawrence. Joey was eccentric, yes, and he’d been speaking more and more about the potential of immortality, but that was some whim, fantasy every person subconsciously sought. This… was beyond all realm of probability.

She should have noticed something sooner. People were disappearing, lowly maintenance people, the odd janitor. People that wouldn’t be questioned for moving on. She’d turned a blind eye, more preoccupied with that wench taking over her booth.

Henry Stein would have stopped this in its tracks, pushed Joey back to his old self. Henry was the only one who could get through to him. Her mouth twisted. The moment Henry was drafted, Joey immediately began a downward spiral.

The immortality bullshit didn’t start until Henry went away to war, with the very real possibility of death. Maybe this was Joey’s fucked up way to show he cared. He wanted something to save Henry from such a fate, and was willing to do the unthinkable.

She lifted her chin. “Henry wouldn’t want this.”

Like she’d said the words of some spell, Joey froze, face slack in blankness. He gaped, mouth opening, then closing.

Susie’s heart was hammering, palms slick with sweat when she wiped them on her dress. It was the one thing she could think of that might turn him around. Henry was always an impulse control for him before, maybe a mention would have the same effect?

Joey brought a hand to his temple like he was staving a headache. “I—He would never understand. You don’t understand. No one understands! I can’t—I can’t live, knowing what might happen.”

Dread speared through her body, a thousand needles of ice prickling her skin. Every self-preservation instinct was kicking up the alarms, and her hand moved behind her back, twisting the doorknob. Locked.

Joey chuckled mirthlessly, making her gaze lock with his. “You think this is the first time I’ve done this?”

Her knees felt weak, barely able to hold her weight under the full weight of his blank, emotionless stare. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I’ll make it quick as I can. I’m—I am sorry, no matter what you believe.”

“Bullshit.”

His mouth firmed. He lunged, ink-covered hands reaching, her own lifting to cover her face instinctively.

Alice jolted from the intensity of the memory, shaking and crying as she laid for a moment on the hard wooden floor. Alice’s own memory of the… event was no less traumatic; forced into existence alongside a tormented, half-aware soul, one that was stuck to this plane rather than continuing on.

The dual-nature of their consciousness only merged and exacerbated the horridness of it.

She crossed her arms over her chest, fingers digging in as if she was the only thing holding herself together. She didn’t know how long she lay there, immobile and sobbing, but she ran out of tears, sitting up. She scanned her surroundings, reassuring herself with the familiarity.

Susie, ever-present, lingered just beyond her reach, a broken soul drifting, along for the ride. Alice contented herself with this, but felt… empty. She wanted something, but she didn’t know what.

She lifted her legs to her chest, folding her arms over them. She turned her head to the left, resting her head on her arms. She blinked, lifting her head. Hesitantly, she reached for the fallen toy, turning it to face her.

She squeezed the plush fabric, trailing her gaze over its perfect constitution. After a moment of consideration, she pulled it to her chest, curling herself around it, feeling oddly comforted.

It had survived this blasted place for so long, perhaps she could too.

A ripple through the ink caught her immediate attention, the rippling, frothing mass of it drawing her to open a portal.

The group was moving. She sat up, eyes flicking to each member of the unconventional collection of people and creatures. Her lip lifted in a sneer at the other Alice and her pet. Her normal contempt was replaced with curiosity at the path the others were taking. They seemed to be… heading upwards? What were they doing?

Her eyes narrowed, realization swiftly settling. The exit, they were headed for the outside! She jumped to her feet, eyes locked on the moving party as she began pacing.

They had found a way around her elevator, and while it was infuriating, she couldn’t help but acknowledge (begrudgingly) their innovativeness. Though, where would that leave her?

If they all managed to leave, she would be left with… the Demon and various low-intelligence creatures left wandering the halls. The idea of being left, abandoned, grated. She flexed her fingers around the doll, tightening her grip.

She frowned at the turmoil of… emotions coursing through her body. Did she—hell—really feel… appreciation to the human for the damn doll?

The ink rippled agitatedly around the edges of the portal, anxious about something. Tilting her head, she allowed it to change. She flinched as it immediately switched to a view of the Demon.

He was stumbling along, as he always did when there was no prey to chase, but he also seemed to have a destination, going in a straight path up the stairs. She squinted, leaning forward. That pathway looked familiar.

Her eyes widened. He was following them, tracing their path almost exactly.

A pressure began at the back of her skull, one that was easily recognizable as Susie. She seemed to be using her eye, seeing what she saw. Her brow furrowed but allowed it.

Go. Alice jolted, not expecting the soft, barely-there voice. Please go. She swallowed hard, hand tense around the plush toy.

Chapter Text

The darkness enveloping his sight was a hindrance at times. Now, though, he counted it as a necessary sacrifice. Losing his sight had given him a better connection to his other senses, even those other senses he had no name for.

It was that exact other sense that told him he was on the correct path. The others had been through this way, evident by the spatters and puddles of ink along the way radiating with excited thoughts of the Creator.

His ever-present grin twitched. The roiling, buzzing well of deep-rooted anger swelled until he felt as though he were suffocating beneath it.

This one was the Creator he’d never actually met, but Seven Hells, did he know him. Henry Stein. The man who left. The man who led Joey to ruin. The man who was responsible for all the suffering of the remaining workers, the abominations spawned by Joey’s mind and hands. The man responsible for his own suffering.

As if to support his thoughts, his bent leg twinged, sending white-hot pain to short-circuit his thoughts. He stopped, hands absently clenching as he waited for the agony to subside.

It was his fault he was made this way; it was his fault he was made at all! He was a Creator, he was meant to be there for his creations. What they got was Joey, a Liar. He said he was the Creator, that they were his masterpieces, his work. How wrong he was.

The stabbing sensation dulled, he began to walk again, cautious of his steps.

They were tricked, lured in with false promises and pinky-swears. Unbidden, a memory assaulted his mind, his first pinky-promise.

“Why can’t we go outside?”

Bendy turned, watching the wistful expression cross her face as she stared at the small window, too high for any of the toons to look out from.

He felt the same longing in his chest, but after the first time he’d asked for something Joey hadn’t liked, he’d learned to keep his mouth shut. He’d understood that lesson clearly: Wanting something for myself is selfish. I need to put others first. As in, Joey’s wishes come first. His love was… conditional.

“Joey said not to.”

“I know,” she demurred, “but we’ve done everything in the studio. And there’s so much outside.” Suddenly invigorated, she raced over, lugging along a journal that was nearly the same size as her arm. “Look, look! There are so many places out there, and so many things to do!”

She flipped through the pages, the obvious wear showing the journal was well-used and well-loved. Pictures dominated the content of the notebook, some barely recognizable, others hyper-realistic sketches. Notes were scrawled in some of the margins, ink spattered in some areas.

The familiarity of the handwriting struck him, and he hesitantly traced over some of the lettering with a shaky finger. “Where did you get this?”

Alice shrugged, distractedly staring at the beautifully drawn beach featured on the opposite page. “Henry’s workstation.”

A peculiar sensation tugged at his chest, and he rubbed at the spot with a furrowed brow.

He frowned. “Why’re you going into Henry’s stuff? He’s gone. Joey made it pretty clear he didn’t want us.”

“He does too!”

He jerked back, not expecting the loud shout (which was normally directed at Joey) aimed at him.

Shock turned to anger, then bitterness, lacing his voice like poison. “Then why didn’t he come back?”

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

Her face twisted, several unnamed emotions flashing across her features. His stomach dropped when her eyes began to well with tears. Anger, he could handle, the silent treatment, he could endure, when she cried? He was a goner.

She was already destabilizing, her form beginning to melt and soften around her edges. If Joey saw, he’d—

He leapt to his feet, hands hovering and twitching, unsure of what to do. “Wait—! I didn’t mean—!” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look her in the eye, his hands twisting around each other. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I promise I won’t say anything like that again.”

The jut of her chin was defiant. “Pinky-swear.”

“What?” He faltered, hands stilling.

“A pinky-swear. You can never-ever break it ever!”

He nodded meekly. “Okay. How do I do it?”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, rubbing off the sticky ink-tears, managing to pull her form back together. “Hold up your littlest finger, like this.” She demonstrated, creating a fist with all but the last finger curled. He mimicked it, glancing back at her.

She hooked her finger around his, not painfully, but firm enough that he held still. “Now promise.”

He gulped. “I swear I won’t say anything bad about Henry in front of you again.”

Her eyes narrowed, catching onto his little add-on, but didn’t press the issue. “Thank you.”

She released him, making him sigh in relief. “Where did you learn that?”

“Joey.” Her mouth thinned, looking very unhappy for a moment. “Do you think—?” She cut herself off, looking down at her hands.

“Do I think what?”

She was silent for a moment, obviously thinking over her words. “Do you think,” she began slowly, “that if Henry were here, things might be… better?”

“I think… that things would be very different.”

He violently shook his head, ridding himself of the parasitic memory. He shuddered, very carefully not thinking. He had a mission, an objective.

There was no room for anything else.

Chapter Text

Sammy involuntarily shivered, a sense of déjà vu crawling along his back. He stilled, making the others stop and look back at him.

“What is it?” Henry asked, hand tightening around the toilet plunger. He mutely shook his head, straining to determine where the feeling was coming from. It almost felt like—

There was a loud sound in front of them, like a balloon getting popped. They all froze as a large spherical object appeared out of nowhere, landing in front of them with a slight bounce.

Allison gasped, and Tom immediately fell into a fighting stance.

The object burst like a bubble, ink spattering with the force of it. Sammy shielded his eyes, lowering his arm when he felt Norman tugging him behind him. He froze, locking eyes with the Angel.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile, hands clasped politely in front of her. “Surprise.”

It felt like ice was being pumped through his veins, the cold numbing and freezing every part of his body. He couldn’t look away. Her smile switched to a smirk, like she knew the effect she had over him.

“Why are you here?” Henry’s voice was strong, unwavering, and gave him something to latch onto.

She finally turned her attention away, face smoothing into its familiar expressionless mask. “I want to make a deal.”

Allison stepped forward. “What kind of deal?”

Alice looked over her carefully, something flashing in her eyes. “I have information,” Her lips curled upwards. “In exchange, I want a ticket out as well.”

Henry stepped in, glancing between the two. “Why?”

“Why what? You will have to be more specific.” She giggled. “Why should you trust me? Why would I want to go with you? Really, Henry, I thought it would be obvious. We all want the same thing.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’re not attempting to manipulate me?” Again, was inferred.

She sighed, cupping her cheek in her palm. “Ah, yes, because that’s been working out so lovely for me. No, I doubt it would work out anyway.”

Henry looked her over, cheek twitching. “We don’t have much time. Walk and talk.” He started a brisk pace, intending to make up for the lost time.

She grinned. “Excellent! Well, the Demon is following your trail exactly. I don’t believe we’ll get far before he finds us.”

“What?!”

“Oh, yes. He’s quite determined to find you.”

Sammy swallowed hard. He was… following them? How could he know? What would happen if the did run into him? Norman’s hand found its place on his shoulder, reassuring and protective. He let out a long breath.

Only to suck it straight back in. The walls and floor began to darken, veins of ink writhing along the old wood.

The sound of a steady heartbeat echoed in his ears. “Oh, fuck.”

Everyone seemed to be on the same page, running quickly toward the Music Department. He knew this area, knew they were close, knew they only needed to take a few more turns to reach the stairwell leading outside.

Henry, at the front of the group, began spitting curses. “It’s flooded!”

Fuck. Me.

They were trapped.

Norman urged him to the back, closest to the flooded staircase. Sammy allowed it, shaking too badly to put up any kind of fight. Alice had the same idea, getting as close to the ink as she dared.

Her mask was cracking, her lip wobbling a bit in fear. The vindictive part of his was glad. The rest was terrified.

Boris joined them, ears pinned so tightly it looked like he’d lost them. He was shaking even more than him, covering his eyes with his gloved hands.

Norman shouldered to the front of the group, a steady growling emitting from his speaker. Henry, Allison, and Tom stood just behind him, forming a protective wall.

The Demon appeared. He towered above all but Norman, his grin stretched wide across his face. Still, he appeared… weaker than he remembered, his foot twisted at an inhuman angle, ribs showing through the layer of ink. Overall, he seemed… vulnerable.

Norman must have come to the same conclusion, launching himself at the other being with an unholy shriek.

The Demon had not seen that coming, a few moments of surprise granting him several swipes across his torso. He made little to no sound at the obvious pain, seeming almost oblivious to it.

The Demon flexed his hand, then punched Norman’s projector. A whine escaped him, quickly covered by a snarl. He lunged again, both hands plunging themselves into the Demon’s chest cavity.

The Demon flinched, backing up. Norman followed.

Swiftly, the Demon surged forward, hands moving behind the projector to grasp the sensitive cables behind.

“No!” he gasped, hand moving to cover his mouth.

Norman screeched, hands pulling fruitlessly at his arms, clawing at his chest as the Demon pulled. There was the sound of snapping, cables pulled straight from their ports, and Norman screamed. No, no, no.

A plunger hit the back of the Demon’s head. He froze, just long enough for Norman to scramble backward, out of his reach. Tom moved to the side, letting Norman in.

Some of his cables were ripped apart, his projector light dimming and blinking like it was about to go out. Sammy pulled him over to him, clinging to his side, wary of accidentally brushing over the damaged cables. Norman slumped against him, eye-light focused on the Demon.

The Demon turned, very slowly, to stare down at the human. Henry’s face was blank as a slate, holding the plunger like a sword.

Allison and Tom remained stationed in front of them, a protective line. Henry was facing the Demon alone. With a fucking toilet plunger.

The Demon trembled, hands clenching and unclenching rapidly. “Henry.”

Everyone stilled. How—?

“Bendy.” Henry murmured, and the large creature looks taken aback. “This isn’t you.”

The grin twitched downward, looking more like a snarl. “Henry Stein. Left. Abandoned.”

The plunger was lowered. “The war. I think I get it now, buddy. I didn’t— I never wanted to leave, but I was drafted, I had to go. When I got back, well, I wasn’t the same. I didn’t think I could face everyone, knowing what I’ve done. So I stayed away.” His lips twisted. “And look what good it did. I’m sorry. So very sorry, for everything that happened, for what Joey did.”

Bendy visibly flinched at the name, fingers curling.

“I want to make things right. I want to fix things. You don’t have to forgive me; hell, you don’t even have to like me. Just… I don’t know. Let me right his wrongs.”

There was a stifling, awkward silence. No one moved. No one breathed. The Demon tilted his head, smiled fixed in place, eyes narrowing. Distrustful.

Henry gave him a shaky smile. “Here, maybe if we shake on it.” He slowly raised his hand, holding it out for the Demon to take.

Sammy’s hand tightened around Norman’s arm. Don’t.

The Demon’s hand twitched faintly at his side. Seeing no move from Henry or the others gathered, he raised it so it was hovering just in front of Henry’s.

Strangely, all watched as his fingers curled inward, leaving only the pinky upright. “Swear.” They all jolted at the sound coming from the ever-present grin of the Demon’s mouth. “Pinky-swear.”

Henry’s gaze flicked between the creature’s hand and eyes, hesitating only a moment. “Alright.” He hooked his pinky around the Demon’s, twitching slightly when they made contact. Sammy shuddered on his behalf.

“Oath.” The Demon rumbled. “Can-not break. Ever.”

Sammy caught motion out of the corner of his eye, glancing just in time to see Alice covering her mouth, eyes wide. His brow furrowed. What the—

Henry finally smiled, a real, genuine smile, and Sammy felt the tight vice squeezing his insides let up. “Never dream of it, bud. Let’s get everyone out of here.”

They each retreated, Henry’s hand showing the smudge of ink where it’d been pressed to the Demon’s hand.

Bendy scrutinized him, giving a fleeting glance to the rest of them. Then, he nodded.

Sammy swayed on his feet, the intensity of his relief so great that Norman had to steady him, one hand loosely cupping his shoulder. He grasped Norman’s hand, meeting his gaze. He spelled out a word on his palm, slowly, so he could understand.

A-L-R-I-G-H-T

Norman lazily turned their hands, so he could trace letters onto Sammy’s skin.

W-I-L-L B-E

It would turn out alright. They would be alright.

He grinned, catching Norman’s hand in his own as Henry and the Demon made their way to the lever in his office, strides almost eerily in sync. Whispers passed between them, the Demon’s short and stilted, Henry’s long and soothing.

Allison and Tom remained, both tense, but with an excited air about them. She was whispering something, hands energetically gesturing along with her words, Tom nodding sharply along.

Norman was standing tall at his side, a certain looseness in his shoulder giving away his relief at the resolved situation, holding fast to his hand as they made their way down the stairs.

Sammy spared a glance behind him, where Alice and Boris waited. Alice’s arms were folded, a distant glaze over her eye, like she was thinking of something unpleasant.

Boris nudged her shoulder with his, and she snapped out of it. She frowned up at him but faltered. Her fingers dug into her arms, tensing. Boris carefully rose a hand, then patted her on the head.

Sammy coughed to smother his laugh. The sheer incredulousness on her face!

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, subduing the grin that formed there.

Yeah, they’d all be alright.

Chapter Text

The breeze was pleasant and cool, carrying the unique earthy smell of autumn. Sammy took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He felt Norman stop alongside him, well used to his sporadic pacing.

He blinked open his eyes, leisurely sweeping his gaze down the street. Children were dressed in all manner of costumes: ghosts, warriors, princesses.

A faint smile creased his cheek. It was a relatively new phenomenon, where people dress up and go out on the town for festivities. On a smaller note, it allowed them to walk outside without fear.

No one spared them a second glance, and it was heaven.

“Hey mister!”

Sammy jolted, settling when Norman laid a calming hand on his shoulder. A small group of costumed children was eyeing them with interest. One stood in front, an apparent leader.

Sammy bristled, unused to such direct scrutinization. What if they realize—? What if they tell someone? What if—? What if—?

Norman’s hand remained, loose but grounding. He took a breath, voice catching in his throat. The boy was unfazed when Norman’s light landed on him for a moment, taking in his appearance before moving on, careful not to blind him.

The kid blinked rapidly, smile getting bigger. “Whoa! Your guys’ outfits are boss! How’d you get the light-thingy to work?”

Sammy’s hand twitched. “Just a flashlight in an old projector.” That’s reasonable, right?

A girl dressed as a ghost, clad in obvious bed sheets, gasped. “Far out! I bet you’s would get all the candy!”

“I, ah, well—” He paused. A sudden, wicked idea planted in his mind. “You know what? Yeah. And do you know the best place for candy around here?”

The children mutely shook their heads in tandem, staring with round, sparkling eyes.

He smirked. “Old Man Stein’s.”

There was a mingled reaction of fear and excitement.

“Really?!”

“Stein’s? I thought he’s the one who made a person out of dead people.”

“No, that’s Frankenstein, you idiot!”

“I thought that the place was haunted!”

Sammy leaned back. “Haunted, you say?” There was an uneasy chill spreading down his back. If people suspected— If they were found out, they’d be—

Norman leaned slightly into him, tightening his grip on his shoulder. Obviously, he’d felt him tense and was trying to help, even if he couldn’t quite read everyone’s lips to understand what was happening. Sammy smiled softly, allowing it to help settle him for a moment.

He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself into a more relaxed position.

“Well, duh!” The kid in front huffed, rolling his eyes. “There’s always weird noises and lights.”

A small toddler from the back raised his hands. “Saw’d people!”

“Poltergeists.” The girl deadpanned.

Norman let out a sputtering buzz that sounded almost like smothered laughter.

Sammy nudged his shoulder, keeping a straight face. “Sure. Well, all I can tell you is that he’s been giving out full-sized candy bars. But he will insist he doesn’t have any. I’ll tell you a secret: he only gives them away to the most persistent. Keep at it and I’m sure he’ll give you some.”

The toddler waved a pudgy arm. “Whus purs-is-tint?”

“Just keep ringing the doorbell until he gives you some candy.”

The children seemed thrilled, whispering excitedly to one another. He felt the warmth of Norman’s light on his cheek, knew he’d read his lips, and felt the weight of his silent judgment.

He could practically hear his snarky: ‘You know that we live there too, you know.’

Yes, but we will not be home anytime soon. Just you, me, and the world tonight.

He grinned. “All right kids, now that I’ve given you all that little tid-bit of information, we’re off.”

The kid-leader paused, looking him up and down. “Hey wait a minute. Where do you guys live? I don’t recognize either of you.

“We live just around the corner, don’t worry. You’ll see glimpses of us from time to time.”

The kid shrugged, apparently satisfied. They meandered off as a group, slowly approaching Henry’s inherited estate.

He continued walking, Norman keeping easy pace with him. After a short while, Norman poked him hard in the arm.

Sammy flinched. “What?”

Norman lifted his hands, holding one to his lips, then bringing it down below the other, clenching with the motion.

“What do you mean, ‘mean’? I’m doing him a favor here. He’s sitting all by his lonesome while we’re all out. What’s some friendly neighborhood annoyance?”

Sammy got the impression Norman would be rolling his eyes, if he had them. As it was, he merely shook his head.

Sammy hooked their arms together, dragging him forward. “Come on, lighten up. Oh, hush, that was funny. Look, we’ve got the whole night to ourselves, what do you want to do?”

Norman slowed to a stop, gently disentangling himself to sign. He curled his hands into fists, placing his right on top of his left, then twisting them.

After, he took his right hand, holding up his index and middle fingers with a slight hook. He pressed them next to his light, then moved his hand back to the side of his head.

Sammy stared. He cleared his throat to dislodge the lump that had formed there. “Yeah, that’s… Yeah. We’ll create some memories.”

Norman nodded, happily tugging him forward.