Chapter Text
Cycle 15
Tommy was so sick and tired of the fucking ink.
Ever since he had woken up inside the old studio, his world was consumed by it. Between the threat of broken floorboards and the danger of wooden beams falling at any time, the place was a nightmare formed from the dreams of so many. He had been at a loss for words when he first laid eyes on the place he had once loved. The cozy familiarity that had at one time wrapped him in a blanket of security was now reduced to chaos and disaster. This used to be a second home but now it was barely habitable for humans. A perfect working studio, built tailored to accommodate each and every worker, was now abandoned and discarded. Unloved, Tommy’s first thought. This building was lost because it was missing love. When he had first arrived, calm before the storm, he looked at the rooms that had once been so full of that bright life, care, and love. The sketch room, which used to almost always have stacks of neat paper, pens kept away in neat draws, and even ink bottles that used to be stacked in a cabinet, was ransacked. The place was in absolute shambles with broken objects everywhere.
And the ink.
God, the ink.
The hallways of the studio were more of the black substance than it was drywall or literally any other material. The long, never ending, narrow pathways through the infinite floors were all the same. That god awful faded yellow wallpaper that had aged horrible over the last several years, the doors that still gave a shrill squeal when opened too quickly, and the same clutter that lined the halls. But instead of it being random pages someone had dropped, coffee stains from someone’s recent bout of clumsiness, or instruments left behind to test their sound in a different environment, it was the watery black substance that was so dark it could be blood in the moonlight. Though Tommy thought that might be off—he had not seen the moon, the sun, or even the sky in a very long time. Maybe years, decades, or centuries. His only constant this stupid goddamn ink. It leaked from the walls, mimicking blood stains of whatever had grazed surfaces to leave a trail. It trickled down the ceilings, oozing in from the rooms above. Even at times the floor itself was covered with the shit to the point that Tommy’s pants had a permanent stained line of darkness about kneecap height from where he had to constantly wade through the flooded areas. He despised the dark abyss pools that were nothing more than an inconvenience to him.
Like right now.
Listen—all Tommy wanted to do was investigate some of the ink valves. This was only maybe his fifteenth loop though the studio, most of them not making it even half way, and so he was still exploring this new territory. He had just recently found the pump switch that could drain some of this stuff off the floors and from the steps. It was not a solution to the illusive machine that spewed ink like an oil rig that had an unchecked pressure leak, but it was another step in the plan. He had been so incredibly meticulous and careful in his ventures between the levels. He was trying to avoid triggering any of the others that had yet to be aware of his location. On near silent feet, he had travelled the length of the floor above him, sneaking around random clusters of searchers and even managed to avoid the entire Butcher Army, who had decided to linger near the door for literally no reason except for the fact that those three were assholes.
It had gone so incredibly well that Tommy just knew there would be a mistake somewhere. Nothing ever went as planned down here in the fourth layer of hell and it especially did not go well for Tommy. He’d never made it so close to the cogs before by himself and let alone without interruption. All it took was a single fucking ink pool to ruin his entire day because apparently they were sensitive near the machine. The system was a hive mind and despite his knowledge of this detail, he was not conscious of just how important it was to not touch the ink . Tommy had stepped into it, just a graze of his foot, and like a bloodhound catching a scent, the Dreamon was on his tail. He had barrly enough time to attenmpt committing the room to memory before getting the fuck out of there.
Escape had been futile. It was already on his trail and it was pissed. Now here they were in a fun chase of cat and mouse. By fun, Tommy meant life threatening. By cat and mouse, he meant demon and human. By here, he meant fucking hell.
Slamming down hallway after hallway, they sprinted through the maze. The thing was making some type of weird noises that sounded like a combination of growling noises and words. But the words were an absolute mess and did not, in any way, make a full word together. It was like a bunch of syllables put through a meat grinder in the middle of a stadium. It just made no sense and if Tommy stepped in a puddle of ink one more time and soaked his socks, he was going to commit mass homicide.
“WHO THE FUCK DECIDED TO PUT ALL THIS INK HERE?” Tommy screamed at the top of his lungs because he could and he was semi-certain he had lost a bit of his sanity.
The Dreamon let loose a scream so bloodcurdling that the entire studio seemed to shake and go quiet.
Not Tommy.
“YEAH FUCK YOU TOO, YOU LAZY EXCUSE FOR A REJECTED RORSCHACH TEST!” He dodged another puddle of ink as he sprinted down the halls, passing a door he swore he had passed five minutes again. “YOU’RE UGLY AND YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT.”
Despite another roar of anger, this was factual. At least to Tommy, the thing was ugly as sin. The Dreamon was a mass of black ink substance that loomed so tall it had to hunch over when it stood at full height. Tendons of fluid ink curled around broad shoulders and muscles that were formed in a way that made no real logical sense. Somehow, the thing was a solid mass of ink that could easily rip him to shreds yet could also sink into nothing. As if that wasn’t horrifying enough to know that everything his chemistry teacher told him about solids and liquids was a lie, clawed tipped hands left black gorges in the walls as it chased him at inhumane speeds. Spindly hands with different numbers of fingers, a disformed work of art. A rough draft that had come to life before the final cuts. A creature who was out for blood, who had a score to settle, and a debt to be paid. So not only was it a scientific phenomenon, but it was dangerous.
That monster had been his pride and joy.
Tommy did not fully understand the scope of what the demon was. When they had their first encounter together, it had been from a distance and he had quickly realized that this studio was not what it seemed anymore and that something horrific had happened to everyone missing. The monster had been a cartoon character from this company, from Tommy’s own hands. A childhood coping mechanism that he used to sketch with his brother. A dream—or so, that’s the name his younger self had bestowed upon the once happy, bouncy, and cartoon masked hero. Now? Now it was a nightmare. He had looked for days, desperate for any signs of life besides monsters, and had found nothing. The slow realization that if nobody left… What were the monsters? He started seeing the familiar patterns in them, matching personalities, and even partial resemblance. But no matter what, the Dreamon had no connection to the mortal world. Tommy was starting to wonder if maybe someone had made a deal with something they shouldn’t have.
Beneath the layer of grimey ink, hidden where a face should be, was an old cartoon smile mask. The haunting grin-painted face was the only feature peeking out from beneath the ink, both eyes swallowed, but somehow that joyful smile was one of the most horrifying parts of the monster as a whole. It just gave a deadened stare all the time, the outsides of the mask that were visibly stained with handprints of so many.
A mask that showed striking resemblance to a character that used to parade around on screen, sketched in graphite, and traced in ink.
Maybe if it stopped attempting to paint the walls with his blood, he would ask it about what the fuck had happened in the five years he was gone.
Another scream, much closer than what Tommy would have preferred, echoed after him. He’s not really sure how the thing screams when it doesn’t have a mouth but he was a sketch drawer, not a scientist. He was also the biggest man ever but he was not afraid to admit that his energy was flagging and fast. He had yet to really get to study the monster chasing him and so this game was even more dangerous than it seemed at face value. Did it get tired? Would it chase him forever? Was there a boundary line?
Did this demon respect boundaries?
“HEY, DICKHEAD!” Tommy yelled again, taking a sharp right and almost slamming into the left wall. “CHASING ME GOES AGAINST MY BOUNDARIES.”
The flash of black behind him showed no sign of stopping.
Okay, so the answer to all those questions was no . He desperately needed to get the beast off his tail and quickly. The further he ran in circles or down these halls that were starting to blur, the more dangerous it was getting. Before, he had known the hallways and could navigate them quickly. He had known his side of the maze and was following a simple algorithm that applied to where he had been. The right hand rule states that if you walk with your right hand on the wall, you’ll always be following the maze and finding the exit. But the thing about this maze is that sometimes it was connected and sometimes it was disjointed. If he got himself into an area that he was unaware of, he could be looking at cornering himself and ultimately losing. He had no weapon on him currently to fight his way out and nothing that could entice the demon away. Glancing down at his wrist of inky black hearts painted on his skin, he was not looking to lose one already. His best chance, right now, was disappearing and disappearing quickly.
Come on, Tommy. Think!
Okay, okay. So. How did he get in this position in the first place? Originally he had been running on the floor above before the ground gave out. Apparently despite the fact that their maintenance man was here, turning into an ink monster meant that he could just abandon his job. The demon had followed him through the hole in the floor.
Wait.
Wait a minute.
“Ha!” Tommy huffed out loud, turning another sharp corner as he narrowly avoided a sharp claw. He did, however, feel the back of his shirt rip on the razor edges. His heart leapt into his throat with that giddy anticipation of a chase, of the hunt, and of the familiar touch of death. “Ink! You wonderful ink!”
Of course! The ink may be a hindrance to him, but to the creatures that lurked down here it was a trap. Small amounts? Manageable. But a hallway flooded with it like the one Tommy had passed a couple cycles ago? A block in the road. For some reason, like the ink knew that it had created something inhumane and ungodly, it tried to suck in any of its creatures when they touched too much. Tommy had once witnessed a whole Quackity clone get swallowed whole by a puddle. The small animated duck creature was no match for the call of the machine and neither was the Dreamon.
Blood is thick when it coagulates, sure, but ink is always blotchy.
That hallway would be his saving grace.
Except he completely forgot where it was.
“Hey Dreamon?” He turned his head to look over his right shoulder at the mass that wanted to skin him alive. “Do you have a map?”
A sound like a fax machine getting defenestrated out a five story window violently echoed from the monster and Tommy nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Thanks for the no help, again.”
This was fine.
Those sharp claws caught on one of his pant legs as they once again turned a sharp corner, a vain attempt at tripping him up. While Tommy stayed steady on his feet, he hissed loudly as his leg felt like it was run through a meat shredder. The feeling was nonexistent, as if nothing had happened, and then it stung like a thousand paper cuts. His adrenaline was keeping most of the pain away as he glanced down at his leg that had, in fact, been reduced to a blood mess of ribbons. Blood mixed with ink on his clothes as it ran down his skin, a violent contrast to the constant state of black and this horrible sepia purgatory. Bile rose in his throat at the sight, the only thing keeping him going was the idea that around any corner there would be that ink puddle that would give clearance and by Tommy some time.
This was not fine.
Tommy hoped he was up to date on his shots. Did ink demons carry tetanus or rabies by any chance?
Fuck, his leg really hurt like a bitch.
He could just… stop. Let the demon get to him and restart the cycle all over again. He had respawned before halfway through an attempt in the studio and been fine. The ink claims his body and then he either starts the loops again or, if he was not too damaged, reappears in front of the Dream statues on those creepy shapes on the ground.
But that felt different.
His eyes glanced down at his wrist as he ran, the three cartoon death x’s staring back at him. They’d appeared since he showed up in the studio and he had a nagging fear that they represented his deaths. Something told him that if he gave in to the Dreamon, there would be two instead of three the next time he started the loop.
Yeah, no thanks.
Suddenly, as if this goddamn studio finally decided to throw him a bone, he made one final right and found himself facing down a hallway that was extra flooded. The entire floor disappeared beneath an abyss of liquid night. Without a second thought, Tommy rallied the last of his strength and vaulted over it, barely landing in the arch of the perpendicular running hallway. Never in his life was he so happy that gym class had required a long jump test every year as a benchmark.The monster roared behind him before coming to a stop, prowling like a lion waiting for its food.
Tommy flashed the demon a crude gesture as he leaned against the wall, panting and sucking in as much air as possible. He squeezed his knee cap tightly, trying to cut off the blood flow to his wound. A sharp cough rose in his throat, the air like shards of glass in his lungs, and hacked some ink from his airway. He grimaced at it, painting the back of his hand black, and rubbed it on his already ruined pants.
“We done for today?” Tommy asked the demon as it attempted to find a way over. “Same time next week?”
Tommy slumped to the floor, injured leg splayed out in front of him as he tucked the other one up. For a moment, the back of his head lightly thumped into the wood of the doorway as he just focused on breathing. The breathing of the demon was a constant reminder of death just a step away. He cracked open one of his eyes and turned his head, staring at the demon and refusing to baulk at the horror in front of him. Those hidden eyes staring holes back into his blue ones, an ocean away from each other and yet still too close for comfort. Despite its usual quick departure, it sat down across from him to watch. A buzz in the air raised the skin of his arms, a voice whispering in his head that he had done this.
But he hadn’t… right?
“What happened to you?” His voice carried softly, a hint of bone deep exhaustion from his situation. “What did they do to you?”
No response, just a tilt of an ink head. It sniffed the air, searching for prey and inhaling the sweet irony tang of blood. His blood. It was always him, wasn’t it? The monster did not attack anyone else down here and had lived in relative peace prior. Rather, that’s what Tommy assumed. The underworld of ink and lost souls made his brain feel scrambled and confused.
How could this have happened?
“What did I do?” His was near silent now, a hidden wobble to it. “Why do you hate me?”
The Dreamon moved, as if it had something to say. The growls that had been steady like a cat's purr became a dull, two tone voice behind the struggling words out of the nonexistent mouth.
“ Cr… te… arrrr…”
His heart sank as he stared at this abomination of something he had once loved. In his childhood, Dream was the only comfort. When money ran dry, when stomachs ached with emptiness, when the stress of the coming day was too much, there were always pencils and endless space to draw the bouncy little creation. He had grown with Tommy from messy scribbles to beautiful sketch work, a motion of movement, a flurry on a page. There was a life inside him and that smile that had once been so infectious. Tommy had only ever wanted to make people smile with that very simple character grin.
A grin that stared him down now, ink droplets running like tears through the white of the lines. Scratched marred the surface from other rounds in the studio, of running and hiding. A clawed hand wiping away some of the falling ink, a hand that had once been round and whole.
What had become of his beautiful dream?
“I’m going to fix this,” Tommy swore softly as he watched his creature sway back and forth as it stalked its prey. “I’m going to fix you.”
No matter how much it takes.
One last glance before the monster turned tail and disappeared down the hall, taking the haze of fear with it. The studio seemed to settle the further it got away, as if its presence alone affected the rooms and walls. Tommy huffed out a breath, waiting until the lumbering footfall had completely disappeared and then waiting another five minutes after that. His leg was a swarm of heat, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own.
Fuck.
He grit his teeth for a minute, counting down from ten three different times. Finally, he bit into the junction between his thumb and pushed off the ground, muffling the sound of his pain. The last thing he needed was for his demon to come back. The walls of this new hallway, despite being absolutely the same as the others, was unfamiliar. This was a part of the studio that he had not yet wandered to and struggled to pull up the mental image of from his youth.
A few stumbles down the hall meant that he was not getting far. His mind was a blur of adrenaline hangover and hurt, buzzing and stabbing painfully beneath his eyes. His focus was off and in a place like this, that was practically a death sentence. He just needed to sit and collect himself safely. There were no hiding spots on this floor that he could get to, so uncharted rooms would have to do. He stumbled another step before leaning a bloody palm against the wall. The light made the color look even weirder, too bright in this dark place. The first door to his left had a plaque against the wall. As pure usual, the words were hidden beneath layers of ink. Tommy leaned against the wall, still clutching his injured leg, and used his elbow to try and smudge it off enough. Only the first word cleaned up enough to resemble something ever remotely legible.
Archives.
Well, he’d never died in a library before.
At least not yet.
He shoved open the door with his shoulder, hissing as it applied too much pressure on his injured leg. The knob turned without a stall, open and possibly deadly. He did not care at this point, shutting it behind him with a loud huff of hot air pushing his own hair off his forehead. Most of it had been slicked with the black grime. He turned his back to the door, sliding down it slowly as the pain finally took over. The throbbing burn was a second heartbeat and stole all his attention as he bit down hard on the fabric of his suspenders to keep from screaming. All he tasted was ink and blood, both mixing horrible enough to make him want to dry heave. It’s not like he had any food in his stomach anyways.
A noise echoed behind one of the stacks but his vision started to fail him. He could swear a shadow was moving towards him, but his head lolled uselessly to his right as darkness crept in from the corners of his eyes. Exhaustion, a bone deep ache that filled him. One he was not uncommon with but had not experienced so severely in years. His limbs felt like lead and his head made of cotton. He wondered if maybe he was dying for real when he felt hands on his neck, checking his pulse. Wishful thinking to think it was a human when he felt cartoon gloves tilt his head up.
He certainly did not care anymore which beast ripped out his throat, as long as it did it quickly and spared him the pain he was currently in.
“Hello,” he smiled at his new captor before he promptly passed out.