Chapter Text
Things had been emptier since the trip upstairs. Quieter. More so after Norman had slipped back into the puddles. Sammy understood why he’d made that choice - he’d even walked to the deeps with him to see him off - but with Norman so… occupied and out of reach, a big chunk of his familiarity, comfort and company had just been torn out of life. It left a cooling sense of hollowness, little hard beads of anxiety rattling where he’d been. Sammy wasn’t alone - he still had Bendy - but the ink demon was missing Norman as well. When they weren’t careful, their emotions echoing across the link could start a painful feedback loop - something neither of them were keen to repeat after the first time.
For a while, the pair of them had been trying to keep themselves occupied, whether by trying to brainstorm new attempts on an exit, by trying to transcribe more memories together, or by trying to just take some time out to relax. After all, without some relaxation - or an attempt at it, anyway - it was all too likely that they’d wear themselves thin. Trying to tear through the wall next to the door hadn’t worked, nor had using desks as battering rams, nor attacking the ceiling instead. Not even after their desperation overtook their squeamishness did they make any headway, despite an attempt to supercharge Bendy’s strength with the sacrifice of three sets of Butchers.
Bendy had insisted he rest after that debacle, threatening to sit on him if he tried to move before the injuries he’d sustained in the process had healed up. It was… draining, living like this. Every time he thought they had some hope, that damnable door stole it away again. Fortunate, then, that Bendy could so easily sense it when his emotions dipped too low. He wouldn’t have wished the echoes of his stress on him, but he couldn’t deny that he’d probably be in a far worse state if the demon didn’t know just when to pull him out of his thoughts with a distraction of whatever kind.
Often, it was musical - a request for a song, or demonstration of an instrument. The band always perked up for those, which did help him to feel as though something he was doing mattered. Other times, Bendy wanted to play a game, or tell stories to the band with him - or to draw with him. It wasn’t too surprising that art would draw Bendy in, though with his hands the way they were, it was hard for him to hold a pen or to draw much that wasn’t in scribbles. He just didn’t have the hand-steadiness for it, but he continued to try anyway, and Sammy certainly wasn’t going to be the one to discourage him. If anything, it was encouraging, the way he persevered. Maybe he’d even be able to improve.
Between Bendy and the band, he wasn’t short of company - and he and Bendy were getting better at not setting off feedback loops between them, but… strange as it seemed, sometimes what Sammy felt he needed was some time to himself - some space to just be, without the attention and antics of the others to draw on his mind. This time, instead of holing up in his sanctuary or his office, he’d decided that a walk might do him some good. Better than sitting and staring at a wall all day, anyway.
He’d already found a set of keys in a trash can, something he couldn’t help feeling a puzzling sense of familiarity over. Running his fingers over the lukewarm metal, Sammy tried to recall why it was he felt he should be frustrated about this. Okay, yes, keys weren’t meant to go in the bin, but why did it feel as though it had some kind of meaning to it? Had he been looking for these keys? It wasn’t as though they were going to open the door for him, he reflected with more than a trace of bitterness. Cupboard - these were for a cupboard, weren’t they? Maybe there’d be something interesting or useful inside? It was worth trying, at the very least.
Now that he had an actually achievable goal in mind, it was easier to direct his steps, to feel less foggy as he strode for the cupboard. The keys clinked with a muted jangle as he applied them to the lock - a lock which, to his petulant relief, actually turned. At least that still worked, he supposed. There wasn’t anything particularly useful for getting out inside, but… what was that beneath the hat someone had left in there?
Lifting the oddly familiar piece of headgear, Sammy stared at the odd little piece of technology that greeted him. Had they had these before? What was it? He didn’t recognise it at all - but when he pressed one of the buttons, an all-too-familiar voice began to issue forth. If he’d had eyes, they’d have widened at the sound - that was his voice! When had that been recorded? It sounded like some kind of overly theatrical note to himself, but why? Preserving memories was important, yes, but in audio form? It was troubling, as he couldn’t recall making this at all. Not even a whisper of familiarity. There was, however, another of the same kind waiting in there, one that no amount of prodding would coax to play. Perhaps it was blank? Well, he supposed he could always find some use for it later.
He held onto the hat as he closed and locked the cupboard, still pondering its familiarity as he dropped the keys back into the bin he’d found them in - he knew where they were in there now, and nobody was about to empty the blasted thing. The hat was nice enough, he mused while aimlessly ambling, but it wasn’t really his style - whose could it be, if not his?
The infirmary was quiet as his feet carried him down, even the searcher he knew was in there not surfacing. Asleep, perhaps. The place had never really been a welcoming one, but it was really run down now… Not that it was a surprise. He was sure the staff who’d manned it would be disgusted, though - it was anything but hygienic. Lost in thought, he wandered onwards, only pausing as he realised his feet were sloshing in lukewarm ink.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he couldn’t help but be reminded of Norman’s haunts, a pang inside him at the thought. It wasn’t Norman’s stomping grounds, of course it wasn’t, but… maybe he could convince him to stay here sometimes, rather than in the dangers of the deep? There was plenty of ink for his inadvisable puddle-probing here, and no Butchers or angels anywhere in sight…
A gloop ahead shelved that thought for the moment - what was that? He pressed on, wondering whether any of the band had gotten themselves lost down here. What was this place again, anyway? Surreal and unexpected - a little office space was tucked into a wall beside the lazy ink canal. What was that doing here? He simply had to investigate. Sloshing towards it, he donned the hat to have both hands free while clambering up - conditions were pretty slippy, after all. Music? Sheet music greeted him upon his arrival, which was a pretty clear indication that it hadn’t been a maintenance worker stationed here, but who could it- wait. Was that another one of those audio things? With no reason not to, Sammy pressed play.