Optimism (A BATIM X OC Fanfic)

CHAPTER 1: That Andrew Hudson.

"That Andrew Hudson.."

A middle aged man spoke, a sigh heaving from out of his mouth as he leaned against the wall. A cigarette hung from his lips as his eyes drew to the masculine figure that was slowly emerging from out of the dark crevices of the studio. Beside him, another man with sleek dark brows, his lips curled into a neutral frown as the masculine figure began to draw closer to the two. Yet, the figure did not look in the direction of the two men.

The masculine figure in question was a man—seemingly in his mid-twenties. His wood-brown fluffy hair bounced with each step he took, and it was tied into a low ponytail—had he wore it down, his hair would have gone completely to his back. And those caramel-brown, eager sparkling eyes of his that seemed almost excited at every little detail and aspect of life. Whether it be something as simple as a vehicle passing by, a poster, or a train driving along a track—if those eyes looked upon the object in question, they'd still seem eager, as if whatever it saw was some sort of grand prize. Like a lottery ticket, or a free supply of food.

His pale, pale skin that shined luminosuly within the light of the studio—the little dark brown patches of freckles on his cheeks, and that smile on his soft pink lips that always made his eyes wrinkle. As of now, he was eagerly grinning, innocence and naivety was his aura—and eager happiness were the very emotions he seemed to feel as he strolled past. There was a light beard on his chin.

The middle aged man arched a brow, letting a sigh of relief puff out his mouth along with some dark gray smoke emitting from the cigarette. The man with wood-brown hair strolled past, either not noticing the two men—or being too happy to really acknowledge their presence. Either one of those could have been possible though. A part of the middle aged man was almost relieved that he didn't notice them as he strolled past.

Andrew was, of course, the name of the man with the wood-brown hair. He appeared to be wearing his usual clothes, considering he wore the exact same outfit everyday. And never seemed to acknowledge this himself, for he was either too caught up in his own euphoria to care, or he just didn't want to. The clothes in question he wore were a white silk button up with tight cuffs, and sleeves that tightly fit his slender and slightly muscular arms. His legs were slender too, yet they bounced as he walked, a pep seeming to be in his step. He wore brown overalls, and around his neck was a light brown tie. Andrew was tall in his height, and towered over most objects or individuals he came into contact with—though this was not the case for the middle aged man, for already, he was taller than Andrew was.

When Andrew finally walked past, and slowly turned around a wall, presumably walking to the art department—the man with the sleek dark brows glanced over to the middle aged man. Seemingly, he was silently waiting to see if the middle aged man would speak more.

"You think he'll cause more trouble today?" Asked the middle aged man, letting out a puff of smoke.

The man with sleek dark brows looked confused, but then answered with an awkward smile formed upon his lips. "He might. It's not like he really means to though.." The middle aged man let out a sigh at this, yet the man with sleek dark brows spoke again. "If you're really worried about what he might do, you can just come down to the sewers with me and wait there the whole time if you want."

"No.. I don't wanna be down there with all the ink and that damn waste. Besides, I still have to do another repair job for one of the busted pipes.." The middle aged man grumbled. "Let's just hope he doesn't decide to go down to the sewers this time. I don't wanna have to actually repair something down there.."

The sleek-browed man only chuckled awkwardly. "I hope not, Mr. Connor. You know how I am, liking the peace and quiet.."

"I know. I'm the same way." Mr. Connor replied, "But you know how he is, Jack. With him, there's never quiet."

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Andrew Hudson bounced eagerly along the wooden flooring of the studios, walking past the posters strung along the walls. 'Boris The Wolf' in 'Sheep Songs', 'Alice Angel' in 'Sent From Above'. A smile was still formed on his lips yet again, tightly clamped down as if physically, he could not bring himself to do such a thing as frowning.

He hadn't worked here for long—in fact, he had only been here for a few months. 2 months at least. Yet he found himself brimming with such eagerness anytime he stepped foot into the building of Joey Drew Studios, located in the city of Brooklyn. In Brooklyn, it was hard to get around—with vehicles taking up half the road, with so many people trying to get to wherever they need to be, pushing, shouting. It was hard to see anything through all the constant smog of the crowds. But here, there weren't too many crowds—after all, this place had only started up in 1930. And as of now, it was 1933. It's not like it would be immediately crowded with people.

But that was what Andrew liked about it. He liked the animation sequences he was designed to do, though he usually had to listen to the complaint of other animators—saying with such pessimistic passion and passive pessimism that they wished to go home and get their hours of sleep, and some even complained they hadn't seen their family in weeks. Andrew did understand their complaints, since the work load could be a lot. But he had no one to come home to except his cat—so most of the time, he saw no ounce of spite within himself.

And to Andrew, everyone here seemed nice enough! They always gave him weird glances, sure, but they were nice enough to give him papers when he needed some for his assigned sequences of animation. Though they always seemed eager to push him out of their office. He understood, since they did have a job to do and most likely wanted it done fast. And Andrew did appreciate them for always putting him back in line whenever he got distracted—they even degraded him a lot, but he knew they were just passionate about their work ethic, and were only concerned on his behalf.

"That Andrew Hudson.." He always heard that remark anytime he walked past other strangers at the studio.

"That Andrew Hudson.. what's he up to now?"

"That Andrew Hudson—dear god, he's not going to the music department this time, is he?"

"My God, that Andrew Hudson—it seems with him we can't have a moments peace around here!"

Ah, he admired their concerns—they were stern with him sure, and even raised their voices at him a lot. Yet Andrew knew they were just worried! After all, he considered everyone here a friend. And they seemed nice enough to consider him one too. He knew they were only worried on his behalf, so he didn't think too much about the remarks he heard.

As Andrew hopped over a loose floorboard, and kicked it to the side of the wall so no one would trip, he skipped excitedly toward the art department, that grin being on his face. And as he turned to the door of the art department, he took a few steps down the light stairs at the bottom of the door, and felt himself yet again being greeted with the stern glares from the pairs of eyes of the people who sat in front of their desks.

Lightly, he whispered, "Hey!"

In response, a harsh shushing.

Ah, he appreciated them—deeply so, he did.

A smile still on his face, Andrew walked into the shadows of the department, and walked toward his desk. Eagerly, he took a seat, and grabbed his pen that still remained sitting in the shiny black ink pot atop his desk. Twiddling it in his fingers, he began to trace it along the paper, forming the outline of Bendy, who as of now, he was doing an animation sequence before.

Andrew then blinked. Ah, yes—he had forgotten, despite taking a note immediately after he had kicked the floorboard out of the way of the corridor.

Speaking as softly as he could—Andrew said aloud, speaking to the other animators, "By the way, one of the floorboards fell again, so be careful where you're walki—"

In response again, a harsh shushing from the other animators.

Andrew smiled still. They really did care about him, didn't they? Shushing him so he didn't get in trouble.

Assuming they got the message, Andrew traced his pen along the paper, and began to animate his needed frames.

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