Chapter Text
Dawn faded on a cool Saturday morning, painting the sky pink, and clouds dotted the heavens as you headed to your internship.
You volunteered at Joey Drew Studios, gaining experience for future job applications, and the work wasn't so bad: you assisted the animation staff, cleaned ink spills, and babysat some of your "co-workers."
Easy enough, right?
Too bad one of your "co-workers" was a menace.
Swallowing a sigh, you trudged along the sidewalk, and the studio loomed closer — a grimy, old-fashioned building made of half-rotten wooden boards and crumbling brick. A sign reading Joey Drew Studios hung over the entrance, and Joey Drew himself greeted you with a pleasant smile.
"Hello, (Y/N)," said Joey Drew, glancing at you, fumbling with his keys. "Have a nice night?"
"Yes, sir," you said. "How about yours? Didn't sleep at the studio, I see."
Joey's smile soured and melted off his face, a strand of his close-cropped hair drooping on his forehead as he bowed his head and sighed, "No, I needed a night away. I didn't want to deal with... well, you know."
"Babysitting the little demon really does take it out of you," you sneered.
"Ah, don't be like that with him, (Y/N)," he admonished. "He does like you. Everyone has to give him a chance. Now, ladies first," he said once he found the correct key and unlocked the door, holding it open for you.
You dipped your head, stepping inside. "I still don't understand how you made him with a machine."
Joey shrugged, flicking on the lights, and a dingy yellow glow bathed the silent studio. You breathed the dust deep into your lungs, where it settled with the heavy smell of ink and paper and age.
Joey waved you away. "You can draw or animate if you want, but make sure to keep an eye out for—"
"I know, I know," you said, "Bendy."
The ink demon was likely stealing your pens, shredding your paper, or, his favorite, spilling ink everywhere. Bendy loved annoying the staff, especially you, but at least Alice Angel and Boris the Wolf weren't nearly as troublesome. Neither had been your favorite in the cartoons, though – Bendy was, and what's worse was that you still loved his cartoon, ashamed of your lingering affection toward his animated counterpart.
Bet the little devil's in my office, you snarled to yourself and slunk down the hall, rounding the corner to find…
Nothing. Well, Bendy was there, sulking underneath your desk, but he hadn't demolished anything or spawned Satan.
You dropped your bag with a deliberate thud, leaned against the wall, and crossed your arms, clearing your throat. Bendy twisted toward the noise, and his cartoonish black eyes glittered with wicked delight upon seeing you, sending a shiver down your spine — his gaze was almost predatory.
"Heya, (Y/N)," he said, flashing his pearly fangs. "Didn't know ya came in this early. Did'ja miss me?"
"Get out of my office," you snapped.
"You call this an office?" he asked. His fanged grin widened. "Besides, is that any way to greet me?"
"Out," you ordered, pointing at the exit. You refused to play an ink demon's game first thing in the morning.
Bendy scoffed, crawled out from under the desk, and crossed his arms, grimacing at you as if you were the scum of the earth.
"Got any ink?" he asked. "It'll make me taller, and I really don't feel like being three feet today."
"No," you said. "Get out."
Still glaring at you, Bendy stalked down the hall, and you sighed when he disappeared, rubbing your aching temples and stretching your shoulders with a satisfying pop. Your lamp and the light table cast a warm, golden glow on blank papers scattered across your desk, and you searched for a pen, your brow furrowing the longer you hunted — had it rolled off the desk? You ducked under the table and scrambled on the dusty, creaking floor, your frustration growing until the ache in your head intensified to a steady, angry drum. Then you realized — your pen had been stolen. And you knew exactly who took it.
"BENDY!" you hollered, jumping up so quickly you struck the back of your head on the desk's edge and swore when you saw stars. "Ugh, when I get my hands on you—!"
A distant laugh answered, and cold fury consumed you, but you decided against pursuing the ink demon, instead rubbing the back of your throbbing head and marching to the supply closet. Groaning pipes pierced the silence as ink rushed above your head, pulsing in tune with your heartbeat, like the studio itself lived and breathed. You wondered if the building would eventually collapse under the strain, but the thought sharpened the ache in your head and heart — you'd be more alone than before.
Closing in on the supply closet, you bumped into something small and…
Inky? you thought, shuddering.
Alice Angel stood before you. Her halo bobbed, clinking against her horns, and her thick, jet-black hair gleamed, sitting in delicate waves and shimmering as she angled her pale white face toward you.
"Hi, (Y/N)," she sighed dreamily. "Bendy took your pens again."
"So I've noticed."
Oblivious, Alice nodded. "Mhm. He's by the staircases around the Music Department, if you're looking for him. I think he's trying to flood them again. When I asked, he told me to 'fu—'"
"Don't repeat that," you interrupted, cursing Bendy for his lack of social skills (like you could blame him, pot, kettle, black).
"Oh," said Alice, disconcerted. "Goodbye, (Y/N)."
She dissipated around a corner, as ethereal as her namesake. You shook your head and took a few pens from the supply closet, ready to return to your desk, but Alice had mentioned Bendy flooding a staircase…
You weighed your options: if you ended Bendy's destruction now, you wouldn't have to help clean up later, and although the ink demon may find another creative way to ruin your day, it couldn't be worse than flooding an entire hallway, right?
Your mind made, you set off to find the source of your headache, wishing you had stayed home.
You found Bendy cursing, hissing, and dumping ink bottles down the stairs to the Recording Room.
You smiled to yourself, asking him, "Having fun there?"
"Great time," he spat over his shoulder. "Now, do me a favor and fuck off."
Smile twisting, you retorted, "After you. Quit trying to make me miserable. I thought you wanted the ink to make yourself taller, anyway?"
"I did, but this is more fun," he said matter-of-factly.
"Hm, you should probably stop."
"How 'bout no." Bendy hurled an inkwell at a pipe. The bottle exploded on impact.
You winced. Glass rained, glittering cruelly, and you swept your hands over your shirt, brushing off stray shards. "Do you want Joey to lock you in his office and babysit you all day?"
Bendy stiffened. "No," he said, the dusty gears in his head whirring.
Must be difficult thinking with that small brain of yours, with how little it’s used, you thought but held your tongue and snapped, "Then stop acting like a child and do something productive for once."
Bendy snorted but straightened and dropped the ink bottles, shattering them as well, marching away with his tail stiff.
"Do something pro-duc-tive," he mocked in a sing-song voice.
You sighed and squatted, picking up some glass fragments and dumping them in the nearest trash can. Small shards still dusted the floor, but Wally could sweep, later, once he arrived, and mop, too, before the ink oozing down the stairs could stain anything. Sometimes you wondered why you even bothered coming in early, anyway. All you did was chase Bendy around and tell him off for ruining your mornings.
You slunk back to your office and hunched over your light table to animate Bendy setting the studio on fire.
You prayed he didn't see it and get any ideas.
Your pen met the paper, creating a devilish grin, a match, and flame, heat radiating off the paper. Your eyes watered the longer you stared, and you swiped away the tears. The entryway squealed as employees filed into the studio. You ignored Bendy's occasional cackle and an employee screeching, chasing him away. Only the pen scratching against the paper and the tang of ink bleeding onto the page existed as you brought your dreams to life.
Bendy snuck into your office at the end of your shift.
You were too absorbed in your creation to notice. Bendy snickered. His fingers twitched. He could dump an ink bottle on you and laugh as it soaked your hair and ruined your art. Or he could clap in your ear to make you jerk and stab through your paper. So many options!
But your bag caught his attention. It sat against the wall, open, unattended, and oh-so inviting. An evil grin adorning his pale, rounded face, Bendy looked inside and began plotting.
Oblivious, you sighed and rubbed your eyes, grimacing at your ink-stained hand, paper rustling beneath your other palm. Your animation was incomplete, but it could make a halfway decent start for a short, and besides, you had to show Joey Drew so he could make the final production decisions.
Bendy watched you collect your creation, darted off to hide in the shadows as you left to find Joey Drew, and then scurried toward your bag, putting his genius plan into action.
He melted into a puddle on the wooden floor.
Meanwhile, you navigated the hallways, finding Joey's office empty, and he wasn't in the Music Department, either, so there was one other place where he could be: the Ink Machine. A shiver ran down your spine. The Ink Machine terrified you. The room, the sound, and the pit it hung over was... unnatural. On your way to the nightmarish room, you glanced at a grinning cardboard cutout of Bendy. Cute.
The Ink Machine peeked around the corner, so you took a deep breath, ignoring Boris in a room down the hallway scrutinizing a metal table, and entered.
Silence. Then — clank! You jumped, stumbling to the floor. Gasping, you scrambled back to your feet and thanked whatever god existed that Bendy hadn't witnessed your humiliation.
"(Y/N), dear, is that you?" Joey Drew stepped out from behind the machine, blinking at you, his eyes glittering strangely in the gloom, and he clambered up a ladder to the overhang, asking, "What can I do for you?"
"Uh, I have an animation I made for the day, sir," you said, offering your papers to him in trembling hands.
Joey smiled, accepted, and flipped through, slowly nodding his head, his thick brows furrowing as he pored over your work.
"This is very good, (Y/N)," he said without looking up, "at this rate, I may offer you a full job here."
"Oh, it's really nothing, sir, I'm happy with the position I have now," you said. "It's getting a bit late, so..."
"Right, you must want to get going — at least let me pay you for your help before you leave."
"Mr. Drew, you really don't have to keep doing this," you protested. You knew that he knew he wasn't supposed to pay you, and as much as you appreciated the extra cash to make ends meet between paychecks, you couldn't help but squirm every time he paid you.
Joey Drew waved you off, pulling out his wallet with an exaggerated flourish, waggling his fingers. "Nonsense, (Y/N), you don't even work here full-time — yet — and you're more helpful than some of my staff, cleaning messes, watching Bendy, animating at the same time..." He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. "You're a great help, and I don't know where I'd be without you. You deserve this." He pressed the bill into your hands, closing your fingers around it and shaking your closed fist. "Have a nice night!"
"Y-You too, sir," you said. "See you tomorrow!"
You hurried away from the Ink Machine, breaking into a run once you rounded the corner, the old wood floors squeaking. That was your best pay yet!
You hurried into your office and tidied your desk, nearly knocking over the lamp with shaking hands in your rush to shut it off, then scooped up your bag — and stumbled. Its weight strained your arm, and you steadied yourself against the wall, hauling it over your shoulder and huffing. The fabric strap dug into your skin.
It wasn't this awkward to carry this morning, was it? You readjusted the bag. Bendy probably dumped garbage in it. You wouldn't put it past him.
Rolling your shoulders, you left your desk, unaware you'd be taking work home.
A chorus of goodbyes rang out in the fresh spring air as you hurried down the front steps of the studio. Other employees were leaving, too, but you didn't stop to socialize. The sun set over the horizon, and the sky faded from pastel pink to dark orange to deep blue. You inhaled, relishing the smell of cherry blossoms on the breeze and the cool, crisp air, but as you walked along, your bag sat heavier and heavier on your shoulder.
Soon, home came into view, and you jogged toward it, holding your bag as it thumped against your back.
You lived in a small neighborhood where everyone knew each other — except, of course, you, local shut-in. An elderly couple lived to your left, and to your right, a group of boys who attended one of the local universities, although you doubted they ever showed up to class.
The elderly couple sat on their front porch, openly staring as you approached, tilting their heads, then leaning toward each other and conversing in hushed whispers. You glanced at them, then grimaced and looked away, watching the sidewalk instead. You'd heard the things they'd said about you plenty of times before, and you didn't want to hear anymore about how lonely you must be, living alone, unmarried, no kids, and what were those black stains on you, anyway?
You trudged up your front porch. As if you cared how you looked after a long shift. But...
Lonely.
You were alone.
Your heart twinged, and you unlocked the front door. The smell of home washed over you, and you tried to take comfort in its familiarity, dumping your suspiciously heavy bag on the floor and kicking the door shut. No annoying neighbors, exhausting animations, or cartoons — just you. Only you, but the silence was deafening.
Longing hollowed your chest from the inside-out, a yawning emptiness, but you choked down its bitter taste, asking yourself, Why would I need anyone?
You have yourself and twenty dollars. That's enough.
You dragged your bag to the dining room, heaved it onto the table, and flicked on the light switch; unzipping it, you revealed…
Nothing new. You huffed and emptied it, carefully picking out your twenty-dollar bill and tucking it into your wallet, then dove back in to find more junk. A clink greeted you as you reached the bottom.
Oh! you remembered. I brought some ink bottles to work today.
You pulled the bottles out. Jet-black ink swirled inside. Your face fell. You could have sworn they were all empty this morning. You stared at the glass bottles, turning one around in your palm, checking that its weight was real, then set it back down, frowning at your open bag.
Maybe... Maybe you'd refilled them sometime earlier and forgot? That explained the extra weight, but it still didn't sound right, and you couldn't remember filling them for the life of you...
"I need a vacation," you sighed to yourself, bracing your weight on your hands splayed across the table, leaning forward. Maybe having two jobs was getting to your head, so you shrugged it off, pushing yourself away from the table — bottles can't fill themselves.
You turned off the light and told yourself you'd return to put the ink away after you relaxed.
You kicked off your shoes, threw them at the door, and headed to the living room. You reached for the remote on the side table and turned on the TV, sinking into the couch. Channels swam before your vision, and you closed your eyes, content to fall asleep to the soft hum filling your otherwise silent life, but then—
Crack!
Your eyes flew open. Your breath caught in your throat. You scrambled for the remote with a panicked gasp, muting the TV. The volume vanished with a faint pop. Sweat slicked your palms, and your heart pounded. You held your breath, hands curling into fists as you strained to listen for anything else, and when you thought your lungs might burst, another crash rang out.
You stood, slowly pacing forward on your tiptoes — it came from the dining room. Blood roared in your ears, but you gathered your courage, slinking toward the noise with your remote in hand, rounding the corner, ready to strike, and…
"Bendy?!"