Chapter Text
“I am Bad, and that’s Good. I will never be Good and that’s not Bad. There’s no one I’d rather be…than me.” –Wreck-It Ralph
Part I.
The woods around the little shack of a studio are sometimes very pretty. Sometimes the wind teases the big old trees, sends leaves scattering and turning over and over on themselves in some silly game that nature plays with itself. Sometimes shafts of sunlight press through clouds, which are thick and fluffy like cotton, and they look so marvelous against a bright blue sky that Henry could cry. To be fair, he could have walked out into a tornado and saw only beauty and glory, because he hadn’t seen Nature in what felt like Forever. Sometimes shafts of sunlight catch just so, illuminating the world and softening it up. It makes everything about the autumn colored world a haze for Henry, who needs to leave the studio every so often just to breathe and listen to nature.
The studio. The house. Whatever it was turned into now.
No matter what he and his motley crew called it, it was home whether they liked it or not. Bendy wasn’t strong enough to leave the property. And judging by the way he spoke, he wouldn’t be for a while. Maybe even a few months, likely well into the next season. Henry’s old truck had died long ago—there was no way of knowing when exactly. He did recall the battery was old when he parked here to check up on Joey. And that was…weeks? Months? …years?
He knows the truck’s long gone now, and that nothing in the studio can fix it, and he knows not even Bendy can fix it, not without extending himself irreparably.
It’s a good seven mile walk to town, plus it’s not a town Henry remembers well. How can he? He lived a county over with Linda in their perfectly cozy little apartment above that perfectly cozy little restaurant, and between Then and Now Henry’s addled mind was filled and blotted with memories of the War.
Funny, there were times down in the dank, haunted studio that he prayed to be back overseas.
If there is one thing Henry learned down in the studio, it was that God answers all prayers.
Sometimes, however, the answer is ‘No.’
Henry stares at his truck now, sitting forgotten and helpless among grass that was not nearly as tall as it is now, not back when Henry visited. The yellow-green grass crowding the truck is in poor shape, and there is nothing but dirt under the truck’s rusted body. A thick layer of grime and some creeping ivy gnawed at the edges of the chrome plating, a window had cracked, perhaps from temperature changes. Henry bought the old girl in rough shape to begin with, and he never had time or money or a combination of either or even skill to fix the chevy back to its glory. It ran, and it held his art supplies, and that was all Henry needed at the time.
And while Henry had, more or less, survived being stuck in the endless loop down in the studio’s depths, his truck that had gotten stuck sitting out here for months—possibly years now—was not so lucky.
‘How long has it been Bendy?’
‘…whaddya’ mean, Henry? How long has what been?’
‘Down here, I mean. How long have you—or I—or any of them, for that matter. How long has it been down here? Trapped in the loop?’
‘…dunno, Henry. Sorry. Can’t help ya. Maybe onna’ the others know.’
Alice and Tom had no clue. Sammy understood the question less than Bendy did—which was saying something—but didn’t surprise Henry. Sammy really wasn’t all there on a good day.
The Projectionist—even if he did know—couldn’t find a way to answer. The tall creature merely shrugged and cocked its heavy head down at the animator. Henry noticed one thing—when he asked, Norm fell silent, and some of the longest strands of reel tape scrolled backwards through the projector that made up the monster’s head. It stopped, its frayed edge nearly vanishing, before Norm gave Henry the negative signal for a simple ‘don’t know.’
It frustrates him to realize, some days, that for all Henry was trapped and his life stolen away, he has made some meager attempt to make the studio their new home. A place of peace, and security and warmth. The signs of their living in the little ramshackle building are all over, when he chooses to see them. Alice has lost her initial fear after a talk with Henry, and she draws on any open space. He has caught Bendy bringing her fresh ink pots more than once, and watched her shaking hand as she took the little pilfered gifts, until one day she smiled at him and he in turn blushed until his cheeks turned grey and danced off.
And then a few days later, in return Tom took it upon himself to build Bendy a little him-size bed, after hacking apart some desks—he never once touched Henry’s old desk, which was interesting. There is a little room with a sturdy door off the kitchen that Sammy has taken for himself, seemingly content with one light bulb and no windows, denying the offer of anything bigger. Bendy had expended a great deal of his energy fixing some of the more useful appliances, so that now the studio’s little kitchen works—most of the time. Henry cried at his first gulp of fresh water, and couldn’t be bothered to feel an ounce of shame.
But there were only so many things Henry himself could get into too to keep himself occupied. And drawing, while a fun way to bond with Bendy, needed to be something he did when he could focus.
So once in a while, all Henry could do was walk outside, stare at the sun and the woods, and try to piece this all out.
He wasn’t getting very far.
But he was getting restless.
Henry closes his eyes, sighs tiredly.
The temptation to walk to civilization was getting harder to ignore. But he couldn’t leave Bendy. And Alice and Tom wouldn’t quite relax around Norm unless they knew he was hanging around Henry—thankfully that was common these days. The looming monster seemed to find Henry’s company more than sufficient, he took no little room for himself, no items he declared his. The big fella even kept his spare bulbs on Henry’s nightstand and that was it. The Projectionist rested wherever he damn well felt like it, against a wall, in a chair near Henry’s desk, or in front of the closed door to Henry’s private room, as if warding anything bad away.
And Sammy was…actually, of the four, the musician was the only one who Henry could see handling his absence alright. But if Sammy bugged Bendy too much, they would more than likely have a repeat of last night on their hands, and Henry already had to rebuild the studio’s back wall and didn’t need any more big, near impossible projects on his hands at the moment.
But they had little food. Almost zero in the way of supplies. Norm only had five light bulbs left, and he went through them at a startling pace. No way to contact anyone, to see what time of the year it was, or what month besides ‘Fall.’
His steps come slow but assured, and he is half down the old dirt road before he realizes it, too, has become over grown and clustered.
“Damn.” Henry breathes, forcing himself to listen to the birds and crickets chirping and not his muddled, tired mind.
Where the trees closing in? No. Impossible. Trees don’t move.
Of course, demons also weren’t real. Projectors didn’t get up and walk off with themselves. And animations didn’t come to life, either, thank you very much. The world was full of surprises. Many of them were not good.
Well, some of them were not good.
Henry was finally, blessedly Outside, anyway. There was no need to be frightened of the Outside, because wasn’t this what he’d fucking wanted all along? To get out of the damned studio and get a fucking gulp of fresh air!?
The dirt road is only a miserable, meek little set of two worn tire tracks now, which is odd. Joey had always kept the road to the studio well maintained, in the winter he had it ploughed twice a day if the snow was heavy.
The dead maple lying across the driveway reminds Henry that Joey had been preoccupied for a long, long time, and clearly wasn’t in the habit of hiring a landscaper to clear the path every season. And if the road wasn’t maintained even before Henry’s terrible tenure down in the studio’s pit then he should learn to stop being surprised.
By the time Henry accepts he should turn around, he realizes that this thought has come about ten minutes too late, and he is rather lost.
And then three heartbeats later, as he turns around in place with a growing bolt of unease, he hears it.
Then he sees it, because the Projectionist’s bobbing light is bright even in the afternoon sun, and also, a pitch black and somewhat yellow seven foot tall walking scarecrow with a projector for a head is not really an ordinary sight out in the woods. The birds and crickets are silent now, spooked or stricken, or perhaps simply dropped dead in fright, Henry doesn’t know. But he imagines it well. Even now he has to clench his fists, nails biting into his palm, to stop himself from bolting on instinct.
Alice—Susie—always warned him, every single goddamn time, to never get caught in the Projectionist’s light.
Would she have still told him that, if she knew how comically nearsighted the Projectionist actually was? Especially near any source of light that outmatched his own?
Despite himself, the animator grins. Once his instinct-driven fear is squashed, warmth floods his chest like sinking into a hot bath—another necessity he hasn’t had since gods knows when. The light wobbles and bobs and the monster croaks, the projector whrring and turning with a light pitch, as if to say askance and questioning. Seemingly endless strands of copper reel tape slither and snake through the air. The Projectionist is as nearsighted as a mole, which never ceases to amuse Henry for some reason. It was never not fun to watch the monster’s impossible endurance or innate ability to keep himself upright through sheer force of will, combined with the stretching and waving reel tape—the Projectionist stood a solid seven feet, but often hunched over simply by the weight of its own head. The cording and piping, once yellow was now stained as the rest of Norm was—inky black with soft sepia undertones. The speaker in his chest worked just about as well as its single, square lens did. Norm could communicate through gurgles and grunts and various other assortment of…noises. The problem was, Henry wasn’t sure if Norm was getting better at articulating or he was getting used to reading the monster’s body language. Probably a solid combination of both.
“Right over here, Norm. C’mon, this way.” Henry’s hand waves, purposefully breaking the beam of light that the large, square lens casts through the trees, causing the creature to freeze and then straighten, as if perking up. “Mind the dead tree there, pal. Don’t need you cracking your lens.”
Norm pauses thoughtfully, then grunts in apparent, good natured agreement. He hums another noise, a single beating grunt punctuated by his inner workings clacking like a keyboard. They are outside now, away from the confused glances of their small family—or Bendy’s smug smirking—so Henry doesn’t have to worry when he automatically answers Norm’s grunts as if the monster had spoken clear English.
“Sorry I vanished. I…I wanted to see what the main road looked like.”
If the Projectionist can sense his lie, which Henry is almost sure he can, the creature says nothing. His projector clicks and re-spools itself with a ponderous effort of ancient machinery. More copper reel tape gushes from the back of the monster’s eldritch head, some of the looped sections curling upwards and shrinking. Henry knows this gesture—Norman is focusing very hard, and producing new tape in the process to better sense his surroundings with sharp clarity—all the things he cannot see or focus on with no depth perception and through blinding light. But the monster is more inquisitive than distressed, more excited than agitated.
Bendy also hasn’t come flying from the shadows screaming or wailing at Henry, so Henry knows he’s in the clear. Either Bendy was sleeping again, the deep healing sleep he accessed less and less often, or the little devil was simply satisfied in Norm’s ability to track Henry down.
Considering the way the monster is poking around the brush and humming ti himself, Henry settles on the first possibility. Norm was too calm and unbothered to be on an errand for the ink demon.
…and, frankly, Norm ignored Bendy most of the time. He also ignored Alice and Tom, and only gave Sammy attention when he wanted to torment or intimidate the dodgy little sycophant—especially when he saw how frustrated Henry was getting with Sammy.
“I can’t see the path very well, Norm. Can you find our way home?”
It sounds silly, when one considers the Projectionist’s skill set is clearly attuned to dark and dank and tight spaces. But Henry has spent enough time in the creature’s rather protective company to know the limits and abilities of the second strongest creature from the depths of the old studio.
Norman turns his attention away from a thick tree he was carefully touching, and grunts acquiescence.
“We can take the long way back, if you want to explore a little more. See the world.”
Well, the woods.
The projector whirrs louder after Henry’s playful question, and the entire unit atop the monster’s strong shoulders swings up and down in a happy nod.
“Alright. Stick close though—it’s not you I’m worried about, no.” Because Henry sees the lens shutter half closed—a squint of confusion and slight insult that Henry questions Norm’s ability to protect them both, and the animator shakes his head and quickly goes on, “It’s anything else in these woods that might try to tangle with you. That’s who I’m worried about.”
Seemingly satisfied—and with a slight puff of his chest—the Projectionist grumbles a guttural grind, rather like Norm’s low soft chuckle he used to do, and nods again. Understanding, and amusement.
Henry grins, then it flickers and fades as he truly takes in himself, the situation, the stage and the Projectionist. He wonders what happened to them here.
He wonders how they both got so far from where they started.
Night creeps on the two, which isn’t a new concept entirely but it is a startling revelation for poor Henry, who has spent an absurdly long amount of time in a place with no natural light. No windows, no fresh air and absolutely no sun or moon.
When Henry finally makes it back to the clearing the old studio sits in, the glow of the moon alarms him.
Behind him, warm yellow light that he is familiar with—that is almost now a second extension of himself like Bendy is, maybe?—floods his shoulder and the ground before them. As night fell, the Projectionist went from tentative, calculating steps to brazen, almost hurried wandering.
He finally halts, swaying to stock-still and spooking poor Henry, who has been relying heavily to see by the light of his friend’s lens, which glides smoothly away from the path. Henry winces when his boot catches a root, and he shuffles clumsily. He has to stop walking when Norman does, but he supposes he doesn’t mind because so far the reasons have been absolutely heartwarming. The monster spotted a pair of squirrels, chasing each other up and down a tree across a glen. He had changed their course so very carefully around a large, gaping log, confusing Henry until the artist saw a small rabbit hop from its hiding spot in said log and scamper away. They’d even paused to study some interesting moss smothering a tree, which arguably had fascinated Henry too, for he pulled out his sketchbook and scribbled it down to go back and look at later.
The warm light rises up smoothly, and behind him Henry hears the soft rolling purr from the projector’s inner workings. The noise is rare but one Henry has mentally catalogued—it is one of awe, warmth, and appreciation.
Henry stares up at the moon a second time, and notices, belatedly, the tiny pinpricks of stars. There is no natural light besides the Projectionist—which is an ironic term to label anything as eldritch as what looms behind Henry ‘natural’—and so the stars are in full, glorified view, and this seems to delight his tag-along.
The tree tops—black and spiked and indiscernible now—do not let Henry see the horizon or even the road they had left behind.
Henry watches the Projectionist turn and bob its large, top-heavy self, listening to the small minute changes, and the subtle way the monster interacts with its environment.
“Hmm-hnnh-hmm,” rumbles the monster in sudden serious contemplation, and then all his noises—voice and inner workings and click-clicking of his tape—peter off into near silence.
Henry blinks, cranes his ears, and hears the tail end of an owl hooting in the distance. It’s soft and ghostly, but apparently his friend is enamored, because his reel cranks, lens shuttering in delight as his speakers grunts and spits out a very real, convincing sound of—
“Hhoot—hoothoot—“
Norm lapses into expectant silence as Henry’s jaw can only drop.
The beguiled bird calls back, though it’s far away still, and is unfortunately interrupted by Henry’s immediate noise of realization and shock.
“I didn’t know you could—oh, wow, okay.” The artist breathes, and though it’s hard to see behind Norm’s bright light, he thinks he sees that black chest puff out in pride at his praise.
But the Projectionist doesn’t play mimicry long, instead tilting his massive head upwards to star-gaze.
Henry wonders, certainly not for the first time, just how long Norm had been like this. How long had he been ‘The Projectionist?’ All towering stature and grotesque edges and slithering cords and reel tape? How long had his old friend been mute, nearly blind and terribly trapped in endless, sloppy and ink-smelling dark? …How long had his friend been a monster with immense power and skill to track, hunt and kill? With the strength of ten men, the horrible heart-stopping intimidation of ten lions, and the brutal instinct to chase down anything that moved across the flickering light of his single eye?
Henry remembers when he left, but he isn’t sure if the timelines between him and Norm are the same. If the changes happened very slowly, or gradually, or simply all at once. If one day Norm just woke up and everything was different and survival suddenly meant becoming the bad guy to chase off others and defend himself.
He wonders what little lie Joey told Norman Polk to get him to stay, or if there was no consent at all until it was too late and The Projectionist was complete and ready.
Henry wonders why that matters, when in truth all Henry should care about is the Now, not the Why or When or—or the How.
It doesn’t change anything—not who he is now, or how close they’ve gotten again. Maybe Alice and Tom were right to be leery; maybe Sammy was right to bristle at Norm, and maybe Bendy was right to simply act as if all Norm was good for was keeping tabs on their animator.
But how could Henry do any of that? With him, The Projectionist was gentle, and calm. He was protective but clever; he didn’t try to create problems for Henry, instead he fielded some of the worst, taking no one’s shit—not even Bendy’s, which was telling—and he woke the man from his nightmares on more than one occasion, always soothing and ducked down as if to make himself smaller, as if he were afraid to scare Henry in that moment when fear ruled the artist’s brain.
Why didn’t the Projectionist hate him?
Of all of them, he was the One That Got Away. Away from the studio’s worst events, away from the prospect of being mutilated and twisted until his very soul rotted out from under him, and his body turned to black ink and his humanity was stripped away, piece by tiny piece.
How could Norm not hate Henry for missing all of that? For not taking his share of the blame? Hell, Henry hated himself for it!
So why not him..?
“Hhenn-r-r?” says a low rumble from behind him, the Projectionist swaying in lumbering steps up behind him, his attention drawn down from the inky-blue night sky and now wholly focused on the animator standing and but not staring at him, rather staring through him.
“Huh?” Henry says, and then winces and forces a smile. “Hey—hey that was pretty good, Norm! You’re speaking a lot better these days.” He praises, forcing his sour mood and biting thoughts away, to scurry like scolded dogs.
Because his friend is not human, not anymore. He can smell and track fear, sense pain and anguish plain as the nose on Henry’s face. Henry is used to it by now, he knows how to keep his voice and hands steady so as not to worry the monster that is currently lurching toward him, the tape reels lifting in what can only be described as joy and affection when Norm hears his voice.
The Projectionist peers down at him—at least, Henry thinks he does. The monster’s lens narrows and the light sharpens, though Norm knows by now to keep his head tilted away from others’ faces so as not to accidentally blind them. This wasn’t too hard to accomplish, the dude had at least a foot or two on everyone save for Bendy’s beast form, whom he was eye level to.
“Think we’re almost home, pal.” Henry keeps his tone honeyed and gentle, and is rewarded with the Projectionist’s light warbling noise that indicates his pleasure and happiness. His tape reel skims lightly, a soft slip of silk as he lurches over the forest floor. He closes the distance with his usual predator grace, for though the projector that is his skull makes him lopsided, he is far too used to its weight to be anything but used to it. It is a part of him now. It’s what makes Norm, Norm, and though Henry feels bad, he knows Norman would tell him if he were truly unhappy or wanted out.
…wouldn’t he?
“C’mon.” Henry waves a hand and moves off, “Let’s go make sure the others haven’t killed each other, huh?”
Norman chuckles—a noise that was once human and soft but is now more machine than animal, deep as a church bell with twice the reverb. It’s likely just parts of his head rattling itself, mimicking the noise for laughter to communicate.
And then his friend halts so silently it’s like a switch has been flipped, and the waving tapes of reel bristle upwards and fan out, their very tips twitching like an agitated cat’s tail.
“…Norm?” Henry murmurs, but all that answers the artist is a low growl, wet and slick sounding. A growl not from the Projectionist looming at his side, although after a moment Norm does let loose a hiss of his own displeasure, his lens locked firmly ahead of them.
Henry’s eyes sweep into the gloom, not having to squint when the Projectionist’s lens rotates wider and casts the crowd of Searchers in dazzling, blinding gold-light.
Henry shudders and The Projectionist growls, smelling the artist’s fear and horror as they turn their eyes and lens on the growing pile of searchers. Their rotting, goopy ink bleeding across the ground and saturating it like a terrible oil spill come to life, with a mind of its own and worse.
“What are they doing out here!?” Henry demands, voice leaping in anxiety.
“Chhaassheee-dd,” Norm hisses softly, and he backs up until he is wholly between Henry and the Searchers, body braced protectively. “Esss….kay—ppeedd.”
“They were chased?” Henry startles at the comment. “Escaped? From where? Why…how!?”
But Norm doesn’t—perhaps can’t—answer such a complex question, and he doesn’t seem interested in trying to. He only turns back on the Searchers threatening them and lets a growing shriek howl from his speaker, warding several Searchers away just from the sheer volume and intimidation alone.
There was a reason Henry never saw any Searchers or nuthin’ down in the waterways, the Projectionist’s old lair and venomously protected territory. And there was a reason what few butcher gang copies he saw were only ripped open corpses.
Though, arguably, he never could buck up the courage to interrogate Norm on what the hell he needed all those hearts for. A small part of him really didn’t want to; a more sensible part of him argued it would be impossible to ask due to the creature’s inability to speak anymore.
And Henry forgets this true instinct so often, only to have his friend’s new and devastating nature coming slamming down on him with all the force of an over excited Bendy, knocking the wind from him.
“Norm, wait—“
But Norman does not wait. He doesn’t even hesitate really, just barrels at the more brazen Searchers and tears into them like they are nothing more than paper, and not the same ink-stuff he too was built from.
Although, arguably, Henry had a feeling these days Norman—and Susie and Tom and of course Bendy himself—were made of different Ink. He had no clue what to do with this knowledge, only that he felt certain he was right and that some day it might just be of use.
Only Bendy could make ink into something more with the Ink Machine.
But the Projectionist wasn’t interested in the powerful topic of Creation, only Destruction and Terror—and he was good at it.
For an instant Henry is in danger—a Searcher gets too close and swipes at his leg, and he is only saved by old instincts that make him recoil and leap lightly out of the way. By then the Projectionist has descended onto the poor bastard, shrieking unholy rage and power as he tears its inky heads from its inky shoulders and tosses the parts away.
He feels Bendy across their strange, two-way bond, all bristling and hesitant and angry. Bendy was the only one more possessive of Henry than the Projectionist, but despite this Henry stays the little darling devil, soothing both him and the little demon with practiced waves of assurance and calmness. Bendy settles, and so he does not come rushing to Henry’s aid, apparently understanding the animator was not handling whatever was going on alone.
And then it was over, just like that.
Henry shivers and shakes his fear off him, wondering if the Projectionist could still smell it, assuming he could because even with the last Searcher slaughtered, the monster is bristled and jumpy, twisting at every strange noise in the night and grinding his gears so loud it’s a wonder he doesn’t blow a gasket on himself.
“Take it easy, Norm.” Henry rests a calming hand on the monster’s shoulder and relaxes when, slowly, the Projectionist does too. Using his old name was always a sure fire way to mellow the old fellow out—but strangely only when it came from Henry’s lips—no one else’s, not even Bendy, who spoke the man’s name so infrequently it stuck out in his mind more than the others. Tom didn’t speak, after all, and Alice only called him by his second given name—The Projectionist. One of terror and fright and wicked retribution. Sammy called him ‘Polk’ but scathingly, if he bothered addressing him at all.
And though Norm shudders, and his massive, boxy head tosses back to signal his wordless unhappiness at Henry—or perhaps the situation, since Norm seemed to carry a great deal of patience for Henry—the towering eldritch being does calm. His projector stops rattling, his lens stops its absolutely furious, erratic c-c-clicking and the harsh light of his single eye fades from aggressive gold to gentler butter-yellow.
Norm grumbles again, louder and more insulted, and Henry chuckles despite himself, despite the fact he is chuckling at a monster from his nightmares.
“I know, my feathers are ruffled too, pal.” Henry admits truthfully, easily. “Let’s get inside, yeah? We’re safe in there.”
Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. Henry didn’t rightly know, but now wasn’t the time to pick apart the finer points of their haven.
Or their prison.
As if he had not just decimated a swarm of Searchers that until now only Bendy would have been able to handle, the Projectionist thrums in his good natured way and lumbers after the animator, and back into the sad little shack of a studio.
The lens gave one sad, longing glance back out at the Wide Open, at the moonlight, but he followed Henry in anyway.
No one had noticed the Searchers actually in the Studio. No one saw or smelled any rotting ink, and so no one save Bendy knew anything about what Henry and his shadow had gotten into on their little walk. Henry shrugs, files it away and heads for his room, where his blessed little cot sits behind a door with a lock and blessed, blessed peace.
Henry sleeps; for once, it is dreamless. He is more tired than he realizes, because the dawn comes, noon follows, and wanders off, and twilight sinks over the ramshackle studio and it’s little towering autumn woods.
There is a great sound of crashing and clanging so piercing it absolutely shatters the silence of the twilight, and Henry wakes roughly. He jerks upright, noticing right away that he is alone on his little cot. So he has a good idea from this realization alone what is going on.
Bendy is not Here, which means he must be Somewhere Else. Bendy is not Sleeping, because he never sleeps without Henry, so he must be Awake.
Bendy is Awake, so he must be getting into something he shouldn’t.
And Sammy is shrieking off somewhere near the tiny kitchen, and that speaks volumes as well, because Bendy’s favorite person to torment in this entire leaning shack was the poor musician.
The animator sighs, rises, and cracks his back. He rubs the itchy sleep from his aching eyes and heads toward the ruckus.
“Where is he?” Henry demands of the small building as a whole. He stops by a window, soaking in the setting sun—fresh, wonderful, life-giving sun—and studies the little workshop.
Although it is less an animation studio these days, and more a building that must wear many hats whether it likes it or not.
His back to his little room he shares with Bendy, Henry stares into space and takes a moment. The animation studio is relatively clean, smelling of paper types and wood shavings. The stench of ink has backed off, the Ink Machine slumbering behind a tight, double locked door that only Henry has the key to. Well—the key is in Bendy’s hammerspace, but that is the same thing, because now he and Bendy were One. The scent of wet ink is entirely gone, only Bendy and whatever he’s made up recently of ink before it dries would linger. Even then, it’s not harsh as it used to be. Henry isn’t sure why, but he has his suspicions.
Henry walks through the main room without seeing any of it, ignoring Allison’s work benches with her many projects, Tom’s cleaning supplies, or the large crooked Projector slumped in the corner, the chair under it completely hidden.
There’s a grunt when he passes though, the sound of a tired machine starting up, and the Projectionist rises and shakes himself. Wiring and reel tape shift and chitter softly, the square light blinking foggily until it sharpens, like a sleepy person does to clear their sight. The groggy beam of light follows Henry’s stride like usual.
“I ask for two hours of peace and quiet, and apparently that just wasn’t do-able.” Henry gripes to the monster, who lumbers into step behind him.
The Projectionist hums thoughtfully, but seems to have no other opinion on the topic.
“For once? I’m not sure who started it, Henry.” Allison’s gentle voice admits as she passes by, arms full of pilfered tools and gears and what-not. They had stripped Joey’s empty apartment nearly bare, taking whatever they wanted. Henry, to this day, feels a twisting combination of guilt and yet complete, smug justification as well. The sandwich meat and loafs of bread and mustard Bendy had brought to him could have come from only one place, but it’s not like Joey needs them anymore. Not where he ended up.
Henry mutters some dry thanks, and ignores the way Allison walks a wide, shy berth around his looming shadow. Of everyone here, Norm and Tom were about the easiest going of the lot. But Tom had his moments, which even Allison would admit. Of course, Norm did too but as long as he avoided Sammy things were usually copacetic…
Finally, Henry tracks Bendy down, finding him sitting in a pile of flour and sugar, along with what might have been at some point half a dozen eggs.
Over his shoulder, the Projectionist’s bobbing light halts and swings down, and after Norm has taken in the scene, he cackles by grinding the smaller gears inside his projector together. He sounds wholly amused at least, especially once they notice Sammy, too, is covered in the mess.
“Aw hell, Bendy.” Henry moans tiredly.
Creation glances up at Creator, surprised. His black pie eyes are about the only black thing left on him, everything else covered in various baking ingredients. His thin spaded tail curls and wags gently as he smiles up at Henry.
“Hiya Henry!” Bendy says.
“My Lord—you were not supposed to—this wasn’t—p-please...” Sammy chokes and finally trails off, leaning on the counter and taking a few moments.
Despite the mess, Henry feels amusement break his stern glare, and Bendy of course, notices this right away.
“Last of the stuff from Joey’s fridge?” Henry guesses by the way Sammy is leaning there miserably. They had been venturing over through the strange doorway in piece meal, Sammy and Tom being the common adventurers. Henry had offered to do it himself, only for everyone from Bendy to Allison to disagree with odd, intense determination.
What was so bad about Joey’s old apartment? Henry wondered then, and he wonders it now.
“Sam snatched this stuff, and remember how you told me about Linda’s cookies? I decided to make em for ya, Henry!” Bendy says, then sits and waits smugly for his praise and attention from the animator.
Henry snorts, eyeing the little mess of a devil up and down.
“I don’t remember me saying she made them by absolutely ruining the kitchen, little buddy…”
Bendy’s wide smile turns down, as if only now just considering this development. “…oh.”
“My Lord, we could have used these things…” Sammy tries to scold meekly, before giving up and wandering over to the broom closet with a miserable sound of a man who knows he’s already lost the fight.
“Sam’s right, kid.” Henry forces himself to grow serious again. The resounding grumble of agreement from Norm as the Projectionist sways around him helps back him up.
“This is a waste of good ingredients, and now we’ve got to find more.” Henry explains like the exhausted father he’s apparently become these days. “Allison and Sam have started to wean themselves off ink, and so far it was only working because we had a good balance of both.”
Bendy’s cartoonish smile bends down further, an upside down U of displeasure. He doesn’t even answer Henry, just dangles limply when the Projectionist’s wiring snakes round his little middle and lifts him from the mess, then shakes him gently over the wastebasket. Flour drifts down like a snow globe throwing up, and Henry snorts despite himself, because the sight is funny.
“Sorry, Henry…” Bendy offers, and he must mean it, because he won’t look at Henry, only the basket he’s being shaken over.
“No worries, buddy. Looks like it was an accident.” Henry rubs the back of his head. “I’ll go to Joey’s old joint, see if we can replace anything. You and Sammy clean up your mess, capice, you little devil?”
“But, but Henry!” Bendy spikes out like a startled little cat and wriggles to earn his freedom. The black cording unloops round his middle and he hits the ground running, tiny little animated dust clouds scattering in his wake. He’s up Henry’s leg and hip and onto his shoulder before the artist can register Bendy even hitting the tile.
“We been telling’ ya, it ain’t safe there! You can’t go!” and then, with such a telling, beseechingly whine, “Ya can’t leave me!”
“I can pull my weight, Bendy. And besides, aren’t you the biggest, baddest demon in the joint? Isn’t that what I keep hearing outta your little jaws?” Henry turns his head to keep Bendy in his sights, “I’ll take Norm, will that dry your ink up? Look— you’re getting it everywhere, buddy,”
Indeed, tiny little black hand prints coat the side of Henry’s shirt. Bendy only huffs sheepishly but shakes himself, and soon he is calm and thus—solid again. Henry smiles, pleased at his demon settling himself and he carefully but firmly pries the little black devil from his shoulder, setting him gently on the counter.
“There. Now, I’ll only be an hour, two at most. Me an’Norm’ll get what we can carry and be back before your bedtime.” Bendy did good with a schedule, and Henry was a strict enforcer even if Sammy was not.
When Bendy only sits and gives him a sad, miserable frown, Henry melts and rubs a hand between the demon’s curved horns in soothing sweetness.
“And if anything happens, I mean anything, even if my big bad body guard can handle it—“ at this, Norman’s protector chugged in amendable insult, playful and light— “I’ll call you.” Henry smiles and offers a very clear and pointed, “Deal?”
Bendy’s pie eyes gaze owlishly up at the man, but he nods, his tiny mouth set to merely four lines of square teeth.
“Deal.”
“Alright.” Satisfied, Henry gives one more warm, affectionate rub until Bendy’s shoulders slump in appreciation, but the artist pulls away reluctantly. It was good to reward Bendy for curbing his tantrums or meeting Henry halfway on a situation, but they had to make time. Even he had no wish to be in Joey’s apartment when night fell.
And…Henry was curious, admittedly. It was blazing in him like a fire, having started as a low flicker earlier when he was out in the woods with Norm, and now it was a spark of confusion that as he slept had only chewed up his mind and left him distracted and excited.
He really, really wanted to know where the Searchers had come from.
Because they hadn’t come from Bendy.
And he had a feeling Joey’s apartment—the entrance to the older, more decrepit part of the studio—might have the answer he was seeking. And even if it didn’t, which was wholly possible, then at the very least he could replace the supplies Bendy had destroyed.
“C’mon Norm, let’s make tracks.”
The Projectionist, who was watching Sammy uselessly sweep egg yolks and flour with a miserable broom but was not helping, grunted and lurched after him.
Several Years Ago
“Someone has to talk to him, Norm. I’m not saying I want a witch hunt, I just think Joe’s been making choices for the company that aren’t…aren’t…” Henry Stein, one half of the budding company called Joey Drew Studios, taps the tip of his pencil thoughtfully against his sketchbook.
“Smart? Proper? Good?” demands a dark-haired man with severe features, several pounds and a few inches on him.
“I didn’t say that.” Henry scoffs.
“You didn’t need to.” The heavy set man rubs at his stubble, rolls his cigar from one side of his lips to the other. He fidgets often, hands patting pants and fingers tapping on the table or cracking his knuckles. Norman Polk was a man of many soft, minor tics, and Henry thinks the man is only ever really still when he’s behind the camera, one eye pressed and smoke puffing from his nostrils as he barks orders and cranks the arm-shaft of his favorite projector. He is still as the grave then, so focused it’s a wonder the man remembers to breathe—and frankly, Henry admires him for it. Norm liked his job, loved it even. He was good in a place of control but not too much, he would tell Henry jovially. He needed a place to stand beside a boss he trusted enough to take the reins, but also liked having a boss that had a dream big enough for the whole world.
Henry agrees. At least, he used to. Now, these days…well. He’s just not so sure.
“We just can’t keep up with this type of demand, that’s all I mean by it. Sammy’s stretched thin enough as it is, and you haven’t gone home on time in weeks. Your wife…”
“Now, she’s been done with me for years, Henry. You know that. And half of it was my job, half of it was me. Making cartoons…” Norm shakes his head, but doesn’t go any farther. Henry doesn’t—or rather knows not to—press the man. Norm wasn’t a huge talker, which was partly why Henry liked the man so much.
“And so far, you’ve only been listing people that aren’t yourself, I noticed.”
“Me?” Henry blinks.
“Yes, you. Of all of us, Joey runs you the most. Runs you like a damned mongrel.” Norm punctuated his words with a slug of coffee. “Late night proofs, re-inking everything twice, color key checks. The bags under your eyes are so big I’m getting tired just lookin’ at ya!”
“Well, maybe me too. I’m more worried about everyone else, Norm—“
“You always are.” Norm exhales a slithering curl of smoke over his shoulder. “It’s why most of us stay.”
Ignoring how the tips of his ears burn, Henry pretends to sketch Boris’ arm again, as the quick drawing needed adjusting. It didn’t. But Norman wasn’t the only one with his nervous habits.
Polk lets Henry’s pencil scurry across the sketchpad, lets him save face and merely goes back to his break time coffee. The man drank so much of it, Henry often teased him about how blood must look like ink by now, sepia-brown and smelling of sugar and milk. Norman had only ever responded with a jovial laugh, or told Henry to stop sounding like his wife with a friendly wink, for he was making the projectionist homesick.
But they could not avoid the current topic forever, and Norm’s next words are careful, calculating…and soft, as if the rather brash and stern man is uneasy about something. Afraid, even. The concept is so startling Henry stops his second sketch of sweet little Alice Angel and listens to the man with full focus.
“Look, Henry…about Joey” Norm leans forward, a conversation for only them. “I know you’ve got expectations for this…meeting. And he’s been up to some things I think you ought to curb, or at least mention. But…but it ain’t wise to count yer chickens before they hatch, fella.”
“I know, Norm.” Henry agrees sullenly, because he feels he ought to. “But Joe’s a good man and he’s only looking out for the company. I don’t want him to lose his fire—“
“You mean blow his top off?” Norman snaps, shifting his girth with a sour glance at the hall that lead to the man’s big office.
“Now, he only did that once, and he apologized right after. I said he was forgiven—and I meant it.” A subtle way for Henry to say ‘and you need to forgive him as well,’ but Polk only snorts and grabs the coffee pot by his side, pouring himself another generous cup and topping Henry’s off.
“I just…don’t have much more time here, you know that.”
To this, Norman Polk nods silently, his frown more severe than ever.
“And I want to make sure the company—Bendy and everyone and our employees—will feel alright when I do…go.”
“Damn, fucken’ war.” Polk positively hisses under his breath, catching Henry so off guard at the man’s uncharacteristic growl of hate that he blinks, sits back and simply gives Norm a worried quirk of his brow.
“Don’t give me none of that malarkey about ‘duty to your country’ or some such shit.” Norman cut the man off at the pass, seeing where he was going when Henry opens his mouth. “Good men go over there, and if they come back they don’t come back good men. Or even whole men. You know that, and I know it.”
“I’ll be fine.” Henry snorts, shaking his head fondly. He and Norm didn’t often talk at such lengths, not due to lack of time. They spent many lunches and breaks and meetings together, but it was often sitting in companionable silence and eating or in Henry’s case, doodling. He’d once drawn a rather humorous little sketch of Norm barking into his favorite protector—old number 17, because his birthday was the 17th of July and he said it was good luck—and Norm had snatched it, laughed at it and pocketed the page without another word.
The next time Henry saw it, it was inside the old 17’s center console. Right on the back of the door, firmly taped to the door over the bulb replacement instructions. He and Norm had shared a secret grin and nothing more had been said about it.
But after that, Henry saw the man open more to him, and their friendship had strengthened easily as a brook flows in spring.
“Well…in any luck, I’ll be around if you need me. I’ll keep an eye on you, Henry Stein.” Norman Polk taps his cheek in good humor, eyes twinkling.
“Don’t you always?” Henry laughs as he closes his book and rises, and Polk’s glasses glint as he follows the man’s movements.
“And don’t you forget it: I’m in your corner like I’ve always been. That’s a promise.”