Chapter Text
The whispers were growing distant.
Inky puddles all around the studio were more silent then they ever had been before, despite the ink continuing to churn from the machine. Through the pipes it flowed, to slide freely down walls and drip from the ceiling.
The extended times of silence.
The lack of the voices that normally spoke within his mind, poisoning him with their sinister whispers…
Surely this was a sign.
Of what, the prophet couldn’t be certain. But he could say that there was something approaching the studio.
Something…new.
Why he knew this…again, he was not certain. He just…felt it, from the connection to the ink.
The prophet…
Sammy…
He was somewhat aware of the loops that had been ongoing, though with only enough recollection that there was the ability to know that there was currently an anomaly.
Someone had gone off script, and it wasn’t the prophet this time around.
No, it wasn’t.
He always followed what felt right, so that his lord and savior might notice him and set him, and others, free of this place.
The shrines, candles and music, a stage to be set. The many Bendy cutouts strategically placed around. Gathering believers, that they may all be set free when the time came.
And sacrifices.
Those sacrifices, made to appease the Ink Demon, and bring all of them within this studio closer to that long-sought freedom from this hellish place.
Was it not enough?
Must they all be put through this hell time and again?
What was missing?
Why had none of them yet been set free?
…No matter.
It was merely a question that had no sure answer as of yet.
For now, all the prophet could do was spread word to all the believers, and hope that one day soon, they would be released from this ink-stained prison. At present, he had gone off in search of the little lost sheep he ordinarily would have already come across by now.
Roaming the music department while humming a merry little tune did not bring forth the one he remembered as the creator. The sacrificial sheep that he had to herd to the proper place in order to offer as a proper sacrifice.
No one was there.
This was not usual.
He…felt this was all wrong.
Sammy felt that this was not right.
The humming trailed off into silence, the dripping of the ink taking over with its never ending drop by splattering drop to the floor.
The music director stood in front of the sign that held his name. He’d been standing there for a time, absently tracing his teeth own name. Reminding himself without audible words of who he was.
Who he used to be.
These lucid moments were few and far between and yet…
And yet, Sammy’s memory appeared to be stable at this point in time. There were a few lapses here and there, yes there were, but all this waiting had given him some time to think. To question what exactly he was doing and why.
The prophet wasn’t concerned with such trivial matters but Sammy certainly was, standing there in an inky studio wearing a pair of overalls and boots.
His inky dark abyss of a body, however, was not dwelt upon, if at all.
Sammy was aware that this was not an ideal situation to be in, though this wasn’t exactly a comfort without a solution to be able to change it.
To escape.
The absurdity of walking around wearing a Bendy mask over his face and being able to see despite it being in the way of his vision was the kind of ridiculousness Sammy had just come to accept. Not that he currently had any eyes to speak of, which Sammy did his best to also ignore.
But with temporary clarity came no purpose.
Without the creator around to try to capture, there didn’t seem to be a point to waiting in the music department if no one was going to show.
Perhaps…it would be a good time to check on other areas of the studio he did not frequent as often?
Sammy wandered down into the sewers briefly but Jack was nowhere to be seen. He must be elsewhere, then, since there was no hat to be seen floating in the ink. Backtracking through the music department, Sammy made his way to Heavenly Toys, if only to see whether or not that twisted angel was still around. If nothing else, walking further off script might give the music director some insight into whether he was the only one that had noticed something amiss.
The prophet found something else of interest instead, even if Sammy wasn’t yet aware of this.
Moving to hide within the shadows at the sound of nearby footsteps, Sammy absently gripped his axe, which he had brought along.
One could never be too careful around the crazed angel.
After a single fist fight in some long since forgotten loop, Sammy had had it ingrained in him to avoid being raked by nails and have his mask ripped off.
An axe was much better to ward off any close range grappling.
The footsteps were joined by voices.
Ah.
Some lost ones.
Now the question was…did Sammy know who they were?
The voices grew louder as the two other inky beings drew ever closer.
Sammy leaned further into the nearest wall, curiously listening in. The longer the two lost ones spoke, though, the tighter Sammy’s hand tightened around the axe.
“The Ink Demon is gone?”
”I dont know.”
”What did you see?”
”Some stranger. He appeared deep in the studio. The spot where the Gent folks went? Claimed he would save us from the Ink Demon.”
”No one can save us from him.”
”This stranger said to stay away and he would find a way.”
”He’s probably just trying to keep more supplies and safe places to hide for himself.”
”But what if he is able to get rid of the demon?”
”The Ink Demon will kill him soon enough.”
The prophet had heard enough.
One of the lost ones, the doubter, the nonbeliever, stumbled back as Sammy appeared from out of the shadows and cornered him against a nearby wall, axe unwavering beneath an inky chin.
”You do not believe that our savior can handle Himself?” The prophet questioned curiously, prodding the blade closer. “You do not actually believe some no name, foolish man thinks that he is worthy enough to meet our lord?”
”Mr. Lawrence!” The other lost one exclaimed, clearly relieved to not be on the receiving end of an axe. “Aren’t you usually in the music department? The Lost Harbor?”
”Something is not quite right, my sheep.” The prophet said absently, mask currently facing the lost one he was menacing. “Gather Jack and the others. Have them meet up in the harbor. I will be there soon. There appears to be much to discuss with this troubling news.”
The lost one was quick to leave the area, only lingering long enough to give their fellow inky being a pitying look, as if well aware of their soon to be demise.
“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep.” The prophet murmured softly, tightening his grip on the axe haft. “Though there won’t be any rest in bed for those without a head,”
The lost one gargled a scream the axe blade was forced through their neck, sending them back to the well in a splash of ink that puddled to the floorboards.
Sammy’s grip briefly loosened before he sighed, strapping the axe over one shoulder.
It wouldn’t do for him to be late to the harbor, so he would have to take a few stops through inky walls to reach it.
Sammy paused near one of those inky walls, hands suddenly trembling before he curled them into fists.
Why had he done that?
Sammy just killed that man without hesitation, for nothing more than doubting the Ink Demon’s ability to deal with a newcomer to the studio.
A slow, shaky exhale.
He…he needed to get out of this place.
The ink had set in so far that Sammy could no longer fully keep a grasp on right from wrong, until it was far too late. While the whispers were milder than before, insults to the very being he thought would save them all apparently drew on the last grip the ink still had over him.
Just as Sammy was about to continue on, the twisted Alice Angel showed up from her lair. The axe remained strapped to his back as the music director turned to face her as she spoke.
“Skulking about? You won’t find the demon here. He hasn’t shown his face for days. Perhaps he has abandoned his so called prophet?”
It was ever so satisfying to punch that horrid angel in the ruined left side of her face, even if that set a fistfight into motion that Sammy had intended to avoid.
“How dare you touch me, filthy demon worshipper!” The twisted angel shrieked. “Those fools think the demon may be dealt with, but we both know that creature won’t die so easily!”
”How dare you insult our savior!”
“You don’t think I came unprepared outside of my domain, did you?” Alice asked sweetly, reaching for something strapped to her back.
Sammy cursed and swerved away behind a pillar, lucky to have an inky wall closest to flee through before the Tommy gun made an appearance. Some battles were better left unfinished so that one could live another day in the terrible place, without being sent back to the well of voices.
But damn had that felt good.
It pleased the prophet to have been able to defend his lord and savior from that twisted angel’s usual flagrant disrespect of Him.
The Ink Demon’s presence in this realm of inky shadows and widespread despair was ever present.
Eternal.
None would dare to challenge such a power.
As Sammy emerged from the inky wall elsewhere in the studio, his boot caught on one of the stair-steps, causing him to pitch forward as he slipped. Sammy tumbled down the stairs with a curse, coming to a rolling stop at the base.
A few concerned searchers appeared around him to prod carefully.
Sammy waved them off gently as he stared up at the ink covered ceiling overhead.
…through the mask still over his face.
A few lost ones appeared, fussing over the music director as two of them helped him to his feet.
Falling down a set of stairs was not the best way to start a morning, but Sammy would take it over being sent back to the well by that twisted angel.
Sammy nodded to the lost ones as they stepped away, and followed along after them to the harbor, rubbing absently at his now sore arm. It was good to see that his request had been filled, with the gathering of the faithful to just outside the homes that were there. Straightening, Sammy strode forward confidently, the prophet prepared to address them all.
A shame, really, that an excited searcher sent him reeling and falling into ink with a splash.
Wonderful morning.
Just perfect.
How Sammy just loved being submerged in the very substance that made him lose his mind in the first place. There was a silver lining from the unintentional ink bath, after he had been fished out of the ink and cleared off as much of it from his overalls as possible.
Sammy was reunited with his banjo.