Chapter Text
“I don't know about you guys, but we are the weirdest herd I've ever seen.” -Ice Age
Part I: Reliving the Past Does Not Change It
Allison considers the table before her, covered in so many bits and odds and ends, it’s mostly just a pile of Stuff with four sad wooden legs valiantly trying to hold it all up. There’s paper, cogs, ink pots, several mouse-and-moth-eaten plushies and of course chunks of wood and candles. A few dented but solid cans of closed bacon soup, and some Bendy posters too. Even a few toolboxes, holding secrets and hopefully goodies inside. She can always use more tools. In truth, she’s a bit baffled by the assortment of items, but she and Tom can’t argue there aren’t likely good things in here to find. It’s worth a look-see anyway. She gets to work on pawing and sorting, and discarding what won’t be necessary for future projects to keep room in the Studio.
She decides this was a good idea by the time she finds a little Boris plush in fine shape, and thinking of Bendy, sets it aside. She uncovers new screwdriver, large and long-nosed with a balanced feel, even as Sammy arrives with another box in his arms from the back room.
“That must be the last of it,” She half says, half asks. They’d been making trips for almost half an hour by now, the room packed full.
“One would hope.” The musician replies with a griping air about him, though it’s not aimed at her. “The Studio’s finally stopped..shifting around so much. I think it’s done rearranging by now, or at least it better. This is starting to get strange.”
“Stranger than the Ink Demon turning Good and helping us, or living up here on the first floor while a manic below on the bottom levels plots to kill us?” Allison says what Tom’s expression beside her is clearly showing.
Sammy snorts and dumps the box’s contents onto the last section of space.
“I’d rather have things like this than go back to the old way, wouldn’t you?” The Musician quips with a glance at them both.
Sammy has his pride. Most days it’s all he has to his name, but he damn well has it.
But for even him to admit their current situation was better, says a lot to Allison.
She’s quiet by way of answer, changing angles around the table to try and dig free a piece of rusty pipe that can be tossed. She finds more junk under it, and Tom nudges a barrel they were using as a garbage can closer to her.
“Do you think Henry regrets it?” She wonders down to the pile of junk they’d pulled from the storage closets, which had gone from empty to just filled literally over night. The result had been a trigger of what she can sort of recall as ‘Spring Cleaning’ and the desire to raid the closets for anything useful or nice bit the trio of them.
That, and they have all been searching for something to do. Anything to keep themselves busy, and ignore the dark cloud looming over the Studio. The way the corners seemed foreboding or the dark tint on the windows. They assumed the Ink Demon’s mood was causing it, and they all knew why too.
From the corner where he’s perched on a stool, the Projectionist rumbles his immediate disagreement. But his light is dim, arms folded. He’s just been watching the proceedings after he finished helping Tom move the bigger pieces of useless furniture outside. They’ll bust it apart and reclaim fabric and fire wood later, when the sun’s up.
It’s strange, to not see the tall fellow shadowing his favorite person, but Henry hasn’t come out of his room in several days now. Norm only goes in to sit with him, try to get him to eat and live–even he is having a poor go of it. He’d started helping them without prompt, which was nice, Allison thought. Maybe Doing Something made the Projectionist feel better too, who knew?
No one brings it up, not even Sammy, who is wise enough not to kick the Projectionist when he’s down.
Bendy is lurking…somewhere. No one dares go looking for him. Nice or not, you didn’t push the Ink Demon. Not unless you were Henry, and not unless he was out to prove a point.
It feels like there’s very little left to prove lately.
It’s night now, and the darkness that settles over them is heavier than usual.
No one wants to be the one to talk about what happened down in the Lower Levels, especially not Sammy Lawrence, who is sane and stable again and so very angry and ashamed at himself. He’s not exactly buddy-buddy with any of them, but Allison he seems to allow to get away with most, she can broach uncomfortable subjects and actually set of get an answer from him.
“That’s a broad question, my dear.” Sammy says as his good eye watches Tom gingerly recover several light bulbs. “Regrets have a way of sneaking up on people. Have any of your memories returned? The ones before all this, when you were…human…?”
Allison blinks at such a question, but puzzles over it regardless. She hadn’t given it much thought until now…mostly because it made it hurt too much.
“Some. I remember…how I got here. What my job was, before. I remember Joey, and some of our other coworkers. I…remember Susie Campbell.” Allison doesn’t go into detail, and Sammy seems grateful she doesn’t. She remembers how the two of them looked at each other. How close they were, the way Henry and the Projectionist were now.
“But I can’t remember my family, or the life I must have had. If I left anyone behind.”
Sammy is silent, and that silence seems more than a little sympathetic. He goes on after a beat, tone lower than before.
“Well, as someone who does remember everything–don’t be too envious of me. Polk will likely agree, but recovering everything you lose isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Ignorance really does seem to be bliss.” Sammy laments, and when Allison glances, she’s a little surprised to see Norm does actually nod his projector head at her softly, small and slight. That must be the first thing she’s seen these two hard-heads agree on since…well, ever.
It’s a sobering thought. Even Tom knits his muzzle into a concerned frown, watching her.
“...but what does that have to do with…?” She trails off with a meaningful prompt, clever eyes searching Sammy’s half exposed face.
“Henry remembers . All of it. And he made his choice. Choosing to stay here, with us, when he’s the most human. He could pass, return to the world out there with little trouble considering what I or your wolf would deal with. Don’t even get me started on that walking horror show–” He jerks a thumb at Norm, (who rumbles as if to say ‘Same to you’) “But Henry, oh. Now, he could return and…Join the living, so to say.”
Allison and Tom share a look. They’ve discussed this before, the strange realization that the Artist had stuck by them all. Either out of loyalty, guilt or both. Or perhaps a third thing. It was hard to tell with Henry.
Allison relays as much to Sammy, who chuckles tiredly.
“Well, he was always like that. Some of it’s loyalty, but that’s not the main reason. So much has changed, but not Henry Stein. His concepts of friendship and family have always been… infuriatingly broad. Not everyone likes him, he’s quiet and can be awkward and of course, that look he gets in his eyes when he’s studying you offsets people. Just how artists are, I figure. All that’s partly why Joey latched onto him all those years ago…among others.” Sam’s good eye gave a slanted glance at the listening Projectionist, who warbled lightly and flicked a string of cording at him in reply.
“Course, part of Bendy’s deal was that Henry had to stay trapped here with us. With him. So it was a Choice, but it wasn’t. A new set of chains, only instead of Joey leading Henry through the Cycle endlessly, now it’s the Ink Demon holding the manacles.” Sammy collected a few tall candles in his arms, clearly intending them for himself. There were plenty more, so Allison didn’t seem to mind and Tom ignored him.
“Here’s the part you’ll find interesting, is that Henry holds Bendy’s chain right back.”
Sammy’s right. Allison stops what she’s doing and straightens to stare at him. She can’t stop her bewildered glance to the Projectionist, who she has trusted for longer than the Pariah–yet he too, thrums his noise for Agreement and nods.
“Even if our dear old Artist understands what he agreed to, it’s become very apparent he has no idea what to do with handling the Ink Demon’s powers and might. He could rule this Studio with an iron fist, just as easily as Joey Drew did. Even better, considering Henry’s making attachments and those attachments leads to fondness and fondness leads to loyalty…”
The silence hangs around them. Meaningful. A little worried.
Allison swallows, forcing the quiver of her hands to keep steady. She’s relieved when it works but she knows Tom can see right through her. The Boris model whines under his breath and folds his ears at her.
“As to finally answer your question, Miss Allison…it depends what things there are left for Henry Stein to regret.” The ex-Pariah walks toward the hall that leads to his little room, tucked alongside the kitchen.
“And if he begins to regret too much, then we’ll all be doomed. Or at the very least, end up right back where we started.” His warning is clear.
And Allison has to agree. Tom and Norm shift uneasily as well, signaling the same sentiment shared among the group.
Being stuck back in the Loop would be a fate worse than death, for all of them.
They didn't have much up here, but what little they had, they desperately wanted to keep.
The Artist of the conversation being had is only a few rooms away. He is still in bed, despite it being well into the evening. He knows eventually he has to get up, or Norman will come in and simply force him up. And he’ll need to eat…something, although he has no appetite for anything and is just as content lying there staring at the lines of the wood grain on the wall.
That isn’t to say he’s been totally inanimate for the last half week. He’s still Henry Stien of course.
There is a sketchbook by his hip, the pencil forgotten in the folds of the blanket. The book has several pages filled. There is no room left on the walls by now, their glowing ink hidden from sight.
Besides, paper is easier to sketch on.
The thing is, the only drawings are of a giant cartoon Hand, rising from a black lake covered in graphite to mimic the darkness of the inky pool it lived in. All angles, and gesture studies. Thoughtful and lonesome strokes, an art borne of grief and depression. Then there’s sketches of pipe openings, a deep exploration and attempt to map the system the Hand in the Sewer lives–used to live–in and lurk. The lake bed with it’s tiny islands of sand. Some of the things the Hand in the Sewer had stuck in it’s ink mass that he helped pull free, and then detailed drawings of the mass itself. Too many eyes, lopsided teeth. The black clawed hand that gripped stone to keep itself anchored while the cartoon hand wandered, stretched, waved to him. A monster. A friend.
The Hand has been renamed mentally and on paper, and the sketches of The Many are lonesome as they are depressing. Sheets of paper dedicated to a Lost One that is exactly–Lost and Gone and all because of Henry.
There is no one in the room to ask him his thoughts on his regrets, though he currently has a handful of them.
And he’s in no mood to count them either, so it is better that he is left alone for now.
Henry closes his eyes, the ache behind them a tired prickle of white static that just leaves him more exhausted than when he went to sleep. His mind is buzzing, and this too is exhausting. He doesn’t want to be running and fighting for his life, but he also doesn’t want this either. But he can’t help himself. Old coping mechanisms from war time, where frantic terror was book-ended by long bout of boring waiting around for bombs to drop.
He’s just moved into another War, that’s all.
And there, on the very edges of Himself was…the Ink Demon.
Bendy has kept his distance since their incident on the Lower Levels. He hasn’t spoken a word. Hasn’t appeared much, though sometimes Henry thinks he hears skuttling under his bed, too big to be mice.
It’s Anger that’s doing it. And Hurt. Henry can feel that much, since the Ink Demon was so good at displaying his darker, more dangerous emotions to the world. Those things kept Bendy safe and so he mastered them quickly.
The Anger and the Fury and of course, the Hate.
Now, admittedly, no matter how Henry presses, that final emotion isn’t quite aimed at him. Bendy withdrew, prickling and snippy before he unloaded on his Creator with all his salt and vigor. As insulted and frightened and hurt as Bendy was over this whole incident, Henry can tell Bendy refuses to lash out with Hate at him.
Which is a small relief, even if a mean part of Henry tells him he deserves the little ink blot’s Hate. He did this, didn’t he/
The Artist turns over on his small bed, and in doing so turns his mind from the Ink Demon he was bonded to and into a new subject with the same level of concern.
Joey Drew. His former best pal.
The man behind the monster, the legends and the horror and the Dreams. Joey was young, trapped in time and surviving off the Ink Machine’s terrible curse, it’s own Existence tethered to Joey’s and vice versa.
That was the sad part, for Henry. How they’d come so far from where they’d started.
It was an easy concept to get lost on. To drown one’s self in the sorrow of Loss and all the terrible things his friend and partner had done in the name of fame and fortune. The hunger to stay relevant, the desire to be loved the world over.
In the end, Joey hadn’t gotten what he wanted.
No surprise there, really. The man alienated his partner, used his employees for unspeakable sin, squandered his wealth on the Ink Machine’s near-impossible production, and then made himself a God and tried Creating something that never wanted to be born in the first place. He gave Life to a Demon and wondered why his empire was cursed from the start. He looked everywhere but a mirror for fault, and ended up luring Henry back to punish him for what Joey blamed him for. It was a desperate, foolish set of choices that led to events spiraling out of both their controls.
Reliving the past does not change it, after all.
If the Cycle had taught Henry anything, it was that. It wasn’t until he turned his pity onto the Ink Demon and helped him that the Cycle was shattered.
And so now, here they were.
And for all Henry’s hard work and defiance, what does he have to show for it? What has he accomplished?
He’d only made a new Reel. A new Loop, one with no end in sight but one that continually poured dangers down on them from all angles. The Studio is old, withered and just as tired as he is. The Ink Machine slumbers in the basement, taken over by Joey who lurks in the Darkness. The lower levels aren’t even sort of safe. Those he tried saving ended up dying, or if they did make it out they were irreparably scarred, mentally or physically.
(He’d saved Sammy of course, but right now Henry was not in the healthiest of mind sets to see the silver linings. He was Depressed, and his mind was his enemy.)
And if Henry rotted on this cot and never got up again, well, then so be it.
Norm would be upset, but Norm was one of the ones he couldn’t really save either. Norm deserved better than him too. The sooner the old Projectionist saw that, the quicker he could drop Henry and move on, right?
Tom and Allison are smart, so much smarter than he. They could survive anywhere, in any capacity. They don’t need him.
And Bendy…
Well, Bendy would want to be Free, of course. It was clear from the start that was all he wanted. No more shackles or chains or Vaults. No more being called an Abomination. Freedom and being his own man. Erh, Ink Demon.
Henry traces the line of his night stand and the door of his room, with unseeing eyes. He unravels a thread of thought and follows it back to it’s source.
If the Reel was what caused this, and what Joey wanted to get Bendy back…then getting rid of the Reel would remove that temptation, right? If Joey couldn’t control Bendy, then didn’t that render the Ink Machine useless?
Wouldn’t Bendy be freed if that could be managed? Henry wonders, idly, what it would take. What he would be willing give for it to be so.
Gosh, but he’s tired of all this…
Henry lies in bed, body bruised and spirit battered, but his mind does snip that thought from the others and laminate it for safe keeping.
Couldn’t play anything with a broken reel. Everyone in moving pictures knew that.
Before the concept of how to pull off such a maneuver could being to fully percolate, there was a knock at his ‘bedroom’ door.
Henry blinks, taking a second to pull himself into the land of the living and process the sound.
Bendy and Norm didn’t knock, especially not when he was like this.
Tom had never approached his door, so that left one of two people.
He pauses, hesitant.
“...come in.” Henry finally speaks, his voice a rasp to his ears and startling even him. When had he last talked? What day was it? The Artist heaves himself up tiredly, watching the door open and blinking when it’s Sammy. Huh. His money had been on Allison.
“You need to come see something, Stein.” The musician orders, tone tight as a violin string and just as prone to snap.
“Sam…” Henry’s tone is already implying ‘it can wait,’ or ‘what do you need me for?’ but the Musician will have none of it.
“Put your pity party on hold, this is important.” Sammy snaps, then turns and walks quickly.
Henry grumbles, shoving his feet into his boots and not bothering to lace them as he rises and stumbles after Sam.
He isn’t sure what to expect. Some mess Bendy made to get back at him, one of Allison’s projects gone awry, or even one of the appliances in the kitchen acting up and causing a problem.
It is none of these things, because Henry’s luck has never been that good. And it clearly saw no reason to turn over a new leaf now.
To see Susie–well, Alice Angel–standing at wrench and sword point, her back pressed into the door that lead to the lower levels of the Studio, is more than a little shocking. Norman has her pinned with his light, body braced forward and hands fists at his side, but he relaxes when Henry sidles up to his side and touches his shoulder, a silent order to ease up.
Alice, helpless as she looks and even despite the position that she’s in, smiles thinly when she spies him tucked beside his best friend. She doesn’t lower her arms, but her look is chilly.
“There is my little errand boy. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me down there. Or…was I just not worth saving?”
Henry wilts, shoulders drooping, even as the Projectionist snarls in warning at her, and in defense of his Artist.
Henry really, truly, honestly could have gone a few more days, without having to deal with any nasty surprises like Alice Angel showing up at their doorstep.