Just a Happy Ending

The Sheep

Behind the second door, Sammy met the Husk of Jack Fain. Ink flowed from gaping stab wounds in his chest and leg, and drips of it trickled down his forehead and between his lips. He held a cane upright, the end of it off the floor. His hand twitched, then the cane tapped the ground.

Instead of being shown a scene from the outside, Sammy found himself passenger in the Prophet's body as it prowled through the sewers, him privy to what it felt and thought.

The Prophet held a knife in one hand, a knife Sammy recognized as the same that felled Shawn. The inkling sloshed through the ink and refuse of the sewer, humming to itself and stopping to write a message about singing.

Like anyone still sane in the Studio was ever in high enough spirits to sing.

Though... Susie sang to keep herself occupied. She'd often hum the rejected theme Sammy wrote, the one she quoted even before she knew it existed. The one Alice now hummed with Susie's voice.

Sammy wondered if Susie was still overseeing her domain somewhere above them. He wondered if she was still humming his songs.

He wondered if there was still hope for her.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Prophet humming as it meandered to where Jack had set up his little workplace.

The lyricist had a banjo nearby, plucking out notes and adding words along with them. His back was to the Prophet, but he recognized its voice and perked up. "Mister Lawrence? Is that you? Been wonderin' where you went after Joey said you had an incident with the ink."

The Prophet fell silent and still. Sammy felt its grip around the knife tighten.

Jack reached for his cane and stood, the curved stick compensating for his weak right leg. "Hello? You still there?"

"Little sheep, little sheep, come join the flock," chanted the Prophet.

"Uh, sorry? Are those lyrics or something? Hello?" Jack tried to lean around the corner, but he lacked solid ground. "Mister Lawrence, if that's you, could you come a bit closer?"

The Prophet studied the flat of its knife. In it, Sammy saw dull yellow eyes. "Yes," it said, "Those words are for you, my sheep."

Jack chuckled, "I appreciate the poetic phrasing, but ah, it's also kinda creepy. You feelin' okay? Joey made it sound like the ink did a number on you."

"I have never been better,"

"Oh! Come on over here, then, I can show you what I've got so far."

Sammy's chest ached. He and Jack were good friends, and had been for quite some time before the Studio. When Jack came back from the war with a bullet in his leg, Sammy was concerned that he'd be lamed. But Jack proved it'd take more than some German bullet to keep him off his feet, working with nothing but the cane and determination to get himself moving again. Thanks to that, he hobbled along just as quick as he used to, and worked just as hard under Sammy.

The two felt the strain of their different positions, Sammy being pulled in seemingly random, infinite directions, while Jack had one line to follow. Rather, five of them on a staff, but they were straight lines, at least.

Sammy had wondered what became of his lyricist, but he didn't think he'd find out this way. A part of him didn't want to find out. After all, Shawn had been bad enough for his head, and he barely knew the guy!

He wasn't sure if he was ready to face down a friend.

Nevertheless, the clinging strings cinched tighter as the Prophet hid the knife behind its back. "If you could make your way here, there is something that I must tell you."