Just a Happy Ending

It's Time To Believe

Buddy was playing a single-person game of cards when Henry walked in, roughly planted his hands on the table, and stared Buddy down. "Why don't you hate us?"

It took a few moments for Buddy to realize what he'd asked. It took a few more to respond with a question of his own. [Why on earth would I?]

Henry straightened up, gesturing with his words, "I created Bendy. Sammy gave you to the Machine. By extension, both of us were responsible for killing you. Yet you've only ever seen me like an inspiration, and you're willing to trust the one who only ever disrespected you. How? W-why?"

Something about the man's expression gave Buddy pause. Were these really the questions plaguing him? Keeping him up at night?

Was Henry still mad at himself? After their talk over his book, Buddy thought for sure Henry had accepted the fact that what happened wasn't on him.

Then again, knowing the truth and believing the truth were two different mindsets.

Buddy wrote his answer carefully. [Maybe it's because you're trying to forgive yourself for something you're not at fault for.]

Henry physically staggered. He laughed almost hysterically, stammering and threading his hand through his hair, "I- I- I... haha-how can I not be? I c-created Bendy, I-"

Buddy loudly thumped the table with his fist and bared his teeth. His response came fast and scrawled, [You created Bendy. The Dancing Demon. The little Devil Darling. Joey made him the Ink Demon. Not you. It's never been your fault. It's never been anyone's fault except Joey's. Joey and his awful ink.]

The toon watched with narrowed eyes as Henry read his response. The man let the paper fall and wrung his hands, some kind of internal conflict raging inside his bowed head.

He aimlessly slunk backward until he found a wall. He slid down until he sat, curled up, against it.

Buddy stood to try and comfort him, but the man stopped him with a sharply raised hand. "Don't. I..." his arms wrapped around his head, "I need to think."

He ended up thinking long enough for Buddy to sit beside him and start quietly sketching to pass the time. The wolf was inspecting a doodle of Alice Angel, unsure why it looked a bit off; he wasn't expecting Henry to give a response.

"Her top half is too sharp."

Buddy started slightly and looked at the man.

"Alice's form is all rounded," he pointed at the jagged edge that had managed to sneak in, "no points."

Buddy eagerly corrected the lines, happy that the resulting angel looked properly... well, angelic. While he did so, Henry relaxed and uncurled himself, breathing a long, despondent sigh. "Buddy?"

The toon's attention turned to him.

"You've... been here longer than I have, and are, right now, the only person I can ask about this."

Oh boy. Buddy's tail instinctively curled closer to his body.

"What is the... the state of the other souls here? Can you tell me anything about them? Or... about you?"

Not exactly the dreaded thing Buddy had braced for, but not an easy question to answer, either. The ink was awful. Period. It messed with... everything. Senses. Body. Mind. Soul.

Regardless of his hesitations, Buddy answered honestly. [They are scared, in pain, and desperate. Many have succumbed to hopelessness. I'd wager most of them died not knowing what the ink had in store. Then the only thing they had to look up to was the demon, despite it not being able to help them. It was as much a victim of the ink as they are.