Chapter Text
A panicky noise left Henry’s throat as he was gently lowered to the floor. He scrabbled at Joey’s wrist, uncoordinated. His whole body was wracked with shivers.
“Shhh,” Joey crooned, “shhh, that’s it, you’re okay. Henry? Are you still with me?”
He tried to squeeze Joey’s arm, but he couldn’t quite convince his hand to cooperate. A wave of exhaustion swept over him—or, a heaviness, perhaps, would be more accurate. His arm flopped limply to the floor. His eyes started to roll back in his head.
Joey firmly patted his cheek. “Not yet, my friend. Eyes open now.” He was a blurry mess above Henry, standing with his feet planted on either side of Henry’s hips, mouth pressed into a dissatisfied moue. He tsked, then wandered off.
The studio was as familiar to Henry as his own home, but he’d never quite looked at the ceiling from this perspective before. He tried to turn his head to follow Joey, and failing that, he listened for movement over the sound of his own pounding heart, loud in his ears. He kicked weakly with his right leg, feeling increasingly detached from his own body.
The shivers worsened. There was a pressure in his abdomen. It should hurt, he thought muzzily. It should hurt quite a lot.
His hand crept toward his stomach.
The vibrations of Joey’s footsteps approaching trembled all through his skull. He changed course and tried to reach for his face.
“None of that, Henry,” Joey said, pressing his shiny shoe lightly but firmly over Henry’s wrist. “I need to concentrate.”
A shuddery groan-sob punched out of Henry’s lungs. He was afraid. He was so, so afraid. It roared over him anew, like he’d managed to forget or calm down since he’d realized there was something wrong with the drink Joey’d given him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears traced warm trails down the sides of his face, dripping into his ears.
Joey muttered to himself, consulting a piece of paper. “Aha,” he said. “Thank goodness I double-checked, hm?” He crouched at Henry’s side and scuffed something off the floorboards with his sleeve. He produced a piece of black chalk from his pocket. Henry heard it scratch over the wood in confident strokes.
A false calm was settling over him. He found himself strangely focused on the bite of the gag in his mouth. He tried to reach for it again, heavy eyelids fluttering.
Joey sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much now.” He didn’t try to stop him.
Henry couldn’t get a good grasp on the fabric. Too slippery. He blinked, dazed, at his slick, red-coated fingers. His hand flopped back down with a wet smack. Oh. That was why his back felt damp.
“Are you ready, Henry?” Joey asked gently. He reached out. “No point in delaying now.”
A ragged scream ripped out of Henry as Joey eased the knife from his stomach. There were two punctures now, both left to bleed freely.
“You should feel honored. I built a world for you.” He laughed. “There are many ways in. You should have seen the state of Sammy when I… well. But this way—I didn’t design the world with an exit, but you, ohhh, you. If anyone would be able to, to figure it out. To ruin my work—it’d be you, wouldn’t it?”
Henry’s eyes drifted shut. Joey’s voice sounded echoey, almost, as though coming from an increasingly great distance.
“That’s why this mess is necessary. A final safeguard. All your life, bled out of you here, in this world. Should you find a way out, it won’t matter now. There is nothing for you to come back to.”
He was so cold.
“Every aspect has been designed with you in mind. To keep you leashed and shackled and in agony. Every loophole I could imagine you approaching, I solved with more rules. Every thread of hope, I cut short. Every ally, a tragedy, and every villain, able to outplay you. I wrote this script and put myself in your shoes until I had weeded out every avenue I knew you would approach. If I have done my job with the thoroughness I believe I have, then this is the perfect prison for you.”
For a moment, just a moment, Henry felt it, this world Joey spoke of. Every twisting corridor, every spark of life, every drop of ink, every safe haven, every dead end. He felt the Ink Machine, and it felt him in return.
“I suppose we shall see how well I know you, my friend.”
Henry breathed his last, and the world took its first breath.