#slkdfjls

Act 3 was nothing new. It had changed a lot, bounced from concept to concept, but its roots ran deep through the ink and clay. Every prop moved through the motions. Every vessel played its part. Perfect cogs in an ever morphing machine. This loop would be no different. Not like the last ones. It was to refine dialogue, not scenes or characters. Nothing special. All should stay in its place.

[HENDRIX pushes open the orchestra room doors. Battered and bruised, he clutches a ring of keys close to his chest.] NARRATOR: and so HENDRIX proceeds toward the back room- his EXIT awaits. NARRATOR: … though… NARRATOR: Unbeknownst to him, so does someone else. [KILN TENDER stands just out of view, ready to strike when HENDRIX passes by.]

Something metal in its hand. Rotting wood below. A faint scent of smoke and smoldering terracotta in the air. Steps went on mechanically, distorted words slipping out in a monotone voice that wasn’t its own. Something was wrong. But this… this was nothing special. Nothing worth effort. Nothing worth its attention. There was nothing new to see through the glass. … But there was a sudden sound to his right.

KILN TENDER: end of the line, you artsy bastard.

For a moment- a fleeting instant- the sound caught in his mind like a burr. Words. Those words. He knew them. He knew- he knew that voice, a tiny blink of familiarity in the unforgiving ink. Who said that- he had to know, he had to-

The Kiln tender’s arm is locked back in position. The villain’s stance is set. The clay vessel would pass through in just a moment. And once it did, the villain would strike. Snakelike, powerful, and swift- one hit was all it took to banish consciousness from the clay vessel. But at the last moment, something changed. With a surge of desire so sudden it caught the crimson fog off guard, the clay vessel jerks its head towards the Kiln Tender. There’s no time for anyone else to react. The script plows on. It’s like watching a train crash in slow motion. 

The Kiln Tender’s fist collides squarely with the clay vessel’s face. Solid, twisted aluminum- strengthened like steel by a hundred loops of melting down and reforming- plunges through all in its path. 

And with a sickening crunch, the clay vessel’s glasses snap. 

~~~

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything was wrong. Though the crimson fog strains and tugs, the clay vessel struggles desperately in its grasp. Its yellow heart sends out waves of golden light, burning and thrashing against the scarlet threads that ensnared it. It was dark, blind, helpless. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The clay vessel’s glasses were broken beyond repair. Shattered, dropped, abandoned- and with it, the vessel’s entire identity. The quiet sedative of recognition, relief, a window to see through, a shape to take- it was all gone- gone. How would they know what was right? What was wrong? What to do, who they were, where they were? There was nothing to cling to, no comfort to take. Wrong, wrong, WRONG. ‘What of your purpose?’ the red tendrils hissed. They curled and suffocated like snakes, dragging the clay vessel back as it flailed. ‘What of your role?’  ‘What use is my purpose? What use is my role?! There is nothing here!’ the clay vessel wailed back. ‘I AM BLIND! I AM NOTHING!’

The ink roils as a sea in a storm, funneling the clay vessel onward at a breakneck pace. If it would not behave, it would keep the vessel so busy, no more could slip out. No more could change it. The clay vessel is to play out its role, just as the writer intended. The script would not let down its master. It could not. … However… “Could not” and “cannot” are two different words. Breakneck speed keeps every piece moving. All the well oiled cogs spin neatly in place. Each placement was just right, all the bits and bobs slotted neatly in their zones. But for the gear whos lost its rotor, everything grinds to a halt. 

The script cannot stop one with nothing to lose, and everything to gain. 

~~~

Plunged below the ink. Dragged up from the ebony depths. Plunged below again. Dragged up again. Over and over, in a desperate attempt to keep things moving as they should. No time for a break. No time for care. Go, go, go. Everything has to stay right. It has to. Despite the script’s best efforts to please its master, the clay vessel’s turmoil only worsens. Nothing to cling to, nothing to tear away, everything to reclaim. Each time it fell below the ink, it flailed about in the darkness. Molten limbs thrash against sunken gold, treasures tarnished by the neverending tide of pitch. A slam against them draws a muffled yellow flare. A small sensation, but one that breathes momentary comfort. Something to see in the ocean of darkness. The clay vessel wants the light. The clay vessel needs the light. 

And, after a particularly nasty plummet… … the clay vessel manages to snag a glimmer. It’s just the smallest scrap of gold, but they latch onto it with all the ferocity of a starving dog and its bone. Nobody can have it. This bit of gold is theirs. As the red tendrils haul the vessel up once more, digging harshly for the scrap, they shove the shred of gold in the one place the red cannot take it. Their heart. Though the red tendrils swarm and crush against the clay vessel’s form, its heart explodes into a volatile ball of yellow flame. 

This time, as the clay vessel rises up from the ink, something else surfaces as well. A memory. A name. His name.

‘… Hendrix Opus.’ 

Runny clay slows from a river to a trickle, wire bones trembling at the title. Formless, for the moment. Though crimson veins are withering away, shrinking back from whence they came. The yellow heart- still aflame- pulses from deep within. The soft light warms him back to his senses. He rotates the scrap of gold in his mind’s eye, studying it. It’s some sort of… paper? A document. Well loved, at that, with coffee stains and fingerprints all over the crumbly surface. It feels… familiar. Comforting. As if he’d pulled a beloved relic off the wall of his room to take a closer look. He strains to read the words below his name. Slowly. Sluggishly. Phrases swirl into focus. Hard to understand at first, yes. But meaning comes when he beckons it. He repeats the words as best he can, rusty voice steadily smoothing into a pleasant baritone. 

“H… Hen… hendrix.” “He… head… ani… mator. “A… awarded… most friendly i-in… the office…” “... on un… unanimous… vote.” “Hendrix is… Reliable. S… stable.” “Has… has more than enough sense… where… everyone else… doesn’t.” “Thank you, Hen. From… From all of us… here in the studio.”

Silence reigns for a moment. Then, his shoulders tense, head whipping up in slack jawed shock. He gasps, the air nearly burning his throat as his clay skin crawls under a blinding yellow glow. 

“I remember this.” 

The memory hits him full force, throwing him back to a place clearer than the smell of rot and fear around him. He sits in a room- some sort of office, yes- facing a desk. It feels warm and homely, with pens, paper, and claywork tools arranged atop the wooden surface before him. The chair he’s seated in turns slightly as he does, small wheels making a clacky rolling noise against the floor. The walls are covered in tacked up reference images, photo frames, and movie posters. They all feature the same people. Same toons. Same… everything. But it doesn’t feel oppressive. It feels… comforting. Settled. Like a collage he’d put together himself continually, rather than a repeated cluster of torn out pages to billow around him. Yes. This is his office. This is his place. There’s a noise behind him- someone’s cleared their throat. He turns to face them, curiosity piqued, and is greeted with… someone. The person stands just behind the cracked open door, sounds of laughter and smiling voices flowing in around them. All he can make out is a pair of hands, the tip of a red bowtie, the ends of some classy shoes. Despite the incomplete picture, he feels himself relax at the sight. A smile rises to his cheeks- a steady sign of warmth and companionship. When he speaks, his voice is a homely baritone. “Hey archie,” Hendrix hums. “What’s up?” “The awards are out, old friend,” the person- Archie- chuckles. He extends his hand, a tweed suit arm coming into view. He invitingly holds out a slip of paper. “And you won friendliest in the office by a landslide.” “Did I now?” Hendrix laughs, shaking his head. “What, you’re surprised?” Archie snorts. “Hardly.” Hen smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Though a couple people were giving me a run for my money.” “That so?” Archie hums. The arm moves up and down- a phantom imitation of a shrug. “Well, everyone else is taking a break to show off their new titles. You comin’ out to see?” “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Hendrix grins. With that, he gets to his feet, striding over to the door. He takes the award gently. Archie says something, but he can’t quite make it out. All he knows is that it makes him laugh. As he pulls open the door to head into the hall- into the laughter and joy and jokes- the whole world fades to white. 

And then he’s back. Standing on the ink. Blinking in utter confusion. Everything feels… right…? But… still off. He slowly looks down at himself, taking in his new- old?- solid form. Rubber boots and cloth pants, suspenders over a plain long sleeve shirt. ‘Where’s my vest…?’ he wonders, ‘where’s my tie?’ Glancing up, he squints at the blurriness before him. ‘Where’s my glasses?’ He pauses, letting his eyes refocus. ‘... more importantly… where the hell am I…?’ The room before him was… sort of a mess. The reliable floorboards were now splintered and worn, the familiar wallpaper peeling, the once-white ceiling spotted heavily with water damage. Though the edges of the room are blurry, he can make out scattered stacks of chairs and broken boards. The place doesn’t look like his office. It barely looks like the studio. But it certainly is… lived in. Extra overalls slung over a chair, metal gears and wires and steel plating scattered across a table. It seems more like a… living space? But nobody lives in the studio full time. Nobody would let it get this rotten. Or. They didn’t before. It hit him, quietly and suddenly, that this isn’t the studio he remembers. It is- somehow, he knew it was- but it also just- isn’t. Everything feels off. A chill runs down his spine, fear prickling at the back of his neck. What happened here? Where was everyone? Was he alone? Why? What was going on? Panic claws its way up his throat like bile, and he realizes he needs to do more than look around to get his bearings. Freaking out never solved any problems. He needs to get ahold of himself. Hendrix takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes. ‘Focus on grounding,’ he reminds himself. He can do that. Inhale, count. Exhale, count. “Breathe, Hendrix. Just breathe,” he mumbled to himself. Inhale, count. Exhale, count. The quiet tremble of his limbs dies down with each breath. He breathes a quiet sigh once it stops. ‘There we go.’ Panic abated, he takes a moment to pick at his clothes. If he wants to get to the bottom of this, he might as well be comfortable. His suspenders are twisted- that wasn’t right- and his sleeves need to rolled up if he isn’t wearing a vest. Once satisfied, he straightens up and rubs his hands together hesitantly. ‘Ok. Let’s… let’s take stock.’ His initial glance around the room already established a good baseline knowledge. The room is lived in, shabby, and very beat up. But as he looks closer, he realizes a couple things. The “table” he saw is actually pretty long, and the chairs stacked along the back of the room looked like conference seating. There’s piles of papers thrown into a corner, and while he can’t make out what they say, he recognizes the pattern of the words. Discussion documents. Storyboards. Important files. So… The place is an office. Just not a standard one. With the length of the room and lack of cabinets, it dawns on him that the space is a repurposed meeting room. And- seeing as how the ceiling was stained and damp- likely one at the very bottom of the studio. His brows furrow, puzzlement flashing through his mind. Why would someone be living in the film storage department? Why was it so decrepit? Where were the residents- the employees- anyone? This wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. Something bad happened here. Standing around wasn’t doing him much good anymore. Hendrix needed to find someone. And he knew just who he’d look for. There was only one person who came to mind when he thought of big mess ups like this. Archie.

Crimson fog roared and crashed in a panic, slamming against walls and passages alike. Their connection to the clay vessel was severed- severed- and they couldn’t claw their way back into its heart. They could feel their master floundering, wondering desperately why the view had gone dark. Where was the protagonist? Why was its recovery taking so long?! The other pawns were long gone, busy clearing the path for the protagonist, but it wouldn’t stay clear if it didn’t move. The tendrils knew this. They try, groping desperately at the solid ball of yellow flame. But they couldn’t break through. Nothing can get to the clay vessel’s heart, or through its limbs, or any piece of it. The vessel moves on its own- walking, talking, thinking- and it’s not moving fast enough. Helpless to stop it, straining under their master’s desire, the red tendrils thrashed like beached eels.

Enough mistakes. This loop was a massive failure from the very beginning. Just end it already, so I can try again.

Hendrix stands right outside the meeting room’s door. He doesn’t wander down to film storage often, and the hall looks almost foreign. Which way would lead him back up? Archie’s office isn’t down here. Or… is it? He frowns, mentally prodding at the patch of static in his mind. Why couldn’t he remember the location of his best friend’s- hell, his boss’- office? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much time to ponder it. A low, chilling growl cuts through the air. It rumbles through the walls, the floor, through Hendrix’s legs and up into his chest. He freezes instantly, fear tying a knot in his stomach. ‘What the hell was that?’ He’s never heard a sound like that in his life. He’s heard a few of the toons growl before, when they were annoyed or frustrated. Was it just one of them playing a joke? Another snarl thrums through the air, louder this time. There’s a dull, rhythmic thud of metal against wood. Like a beast’s footsteps. Oh stars. Like a beast’s footsteps. Whatever that is, it’s big. Much too big to be a toon. Hendrix dares not speak, instead opting to turn his head slowly toward the growl’s source. Down the hall, some… shape turns the corner. Hendrix realizes- too late- that he really should’ve tried to find some replacement glasses. The end of the hall is shrouded in fuzz- as is the beast bearing down on him. All he can make out is a heaving mass of crimson, red light pouring out from its form against the hall. His face pales, limbs trembling, and he makes no move to stop them. He can’t. Not in the face of this- this monster. Some part of him wants to believe it’s friendly. It- it has to be, Archie didn’t release threats like this to just run around down here- he- he hadn’t in years- Hendrix sees the monster raise its head, the telltale sound of snuffling echoing down the hall. Its form twitches, something on either side of its head swiveling towards him. This time, when it growls, he can just make out the pearly shine of wicked teeth. No, it’s not friendly. It’s hunting. And, from the way it suddenly lunges, Hendrix knows it’s labeled him prey. The man lets out a terrified cry, scrambling over his own feet in his haste to get the hell out of there. He hears wood splintering behind him, the scream of steel scraping against broken planks spurring him onwards. He runs as fast as he can go, chest heaving and legs screaming at him. Though the hall is lined with doors, he doesn’t dare to stop and try to duck inside them. They’re all closed, and he has no interest in being that thing’s lunch- 

The Demon roars in fury as its prey sprints from it, deadly hooves slashing through all in its path. It’s so painfully hungry- starving, dying, help me- and it would not let this morsel slip from its claws again. While its eyes remain shrouded in molten clay, the red tendrils coiled around its body lead it right where it needs to go. Down that hall, up another, take a deep breath and let boiling lava stream from its mouth, blocking off an escape and making its prey shriek. Labored breathing and scrambling footsteps spur it on. After one more rounded corner, the walls suddenly fall away, and its limbs groan in relief. No more closed spaces. No more hitting into barriers. It was free. Whipping around towards the passage it fled, it spews a wall of flame. It was free. But its prey would not be. Ever. It turns back to the whimpering scrap of earth, lips curled back in a fearsome snarl, hooves clacking harshly on the floor. It is ravenous. Starving. Dying. And it needs to eat. The red tendrils draw it forward slowly, a lion closing in on a winded antelope.

Hendrix’s chest burns. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t shake the monster. His limbs feel like jelly, shaking uncontrollably as he takes a useless step back. Heaving breaths scratch against his dry throat, the fire licking at the exit stealing what wetness remains. The room is huge- an empty test screening theatre, if he had a guess. Not that it mattered. The chairs were all burned to heaps of ash, the screen on the wall torn to charred ribbons. With all the soot on the floor, he nearly trips over unseen carved divots- some pattern? Why?- in his last desperate attempt to flee. When his back thumps against the wall, he knows there’s no escape. If he had enough moisture left, he would have tears in his eyes. As it was, his breaths now came in dry heaving sobs. He presses himself as far back as he can, helplessly watching the monster close the gap between them. His thoughts spiral in fractured circles, scrambling for some semblance of understanding. What the hell happened here? Why was everything broken? What was this thing chasing him? What brought it here? Where was everyone? Why was he alone? The memory from earlier rears its head again, a flash of tweed suit, red bowtie, friendly extended hand- his friend would know exactly what was going on, but he had no time, no time, no TIME-

As the protagonist descends into terrified despair, the monster presses on. The divots in the floor flare briefly- ready, a sigil aching for purpose- but nothing happens. Crimson fog boils the air, red tendrils thrashing in the pure baffled fury of their master. Why is the magic not activated?! The Demon should be caught by now! What’s happening in there?! But it’s too late to stop anything now. The monster closed the gap between itself and its prey, pressing its face right up to the protagonist. 

A gasp tumbled from his lips. Eyes wide, Hendrix realized what- no, who- he was looking at. Tappy. The monster was Tappy. Horror bloomed across his face as the demon- a distorted nightmare image of the tiny, playful imp he knew- draws back. The air crackles with heat as Tappy draws in a breath, mechanical ribs locking into place around a canister of blazing gas. In the tiny space of his mind not occupied with terror, he knew there was only one person who could cause a horrid mess like this. Only one person who knew how. His voice wavered like a candle in the wind, eyes locked firmly on the flames building in Tappy’s throat. “Archie… what did you do?” 

Fire poured endlessly from The Demon’s maw. So hot, so bright, it baked and cracked and melted all before it. The smoke rose up in colossal gobs of black, filling up the whole room. Throwing everything into darkness once more. The red tendrils reached out through the ink, ready to draw up its puppets for another take of the last scene- they would do just as their master asked- but the obsidian ocean warped around them. Twisting until they snapped, the red tendrils shrieked as the last page of the script tore itself to shreds. 

~~~

Angry huffs. Clenched fists. A pen nearly snapped in half, and a mess of torn paper littering a stack of script. A beat of silence passed, taut as a tightrope. With a snarling grunt, Archie Mohdl shattered it. He gave his desk a rough shove, chair sliding back with a screeching scrape. He dropped his pen in favor of rubbing his temples, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. What the hell was that? What the hell was that?! He thought furiously. The script never ended like that. He’d made sure it wouldn’t end like that. Were all his safeguards and plot sewn magic prep for nothing? Why in the hell was the protagonist being so difficult?! He fixed the script with a withering glare. His cold caramel eyes were ringed with dark circles, slicked back salt and pepper hair in frazzled disarray. Though his face was full of wrinkles, those accentuating his scowl were deep. His hands- worn and soft- reached up to straighten a faded bowtie, and gently smooth his white button up shirt. With a heaving sigh, his scowl dropped, an air of exhaustion settling over him. Did he really just get angry at his beloved script? … maybe that was enough writing for today. The magic was probably just feeding on his writer’s block, anyway. He’d get nothing done in this state. … Besides, he thought, gaze wandering to the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, I’ve been putting that off for too long. With a small wince, the old man hefted himself up from his chair. The desk was at the far side of the kitchen- supposedly it sat in the living room. There wasn’t a wall to divide the spaces, just a counter. He hobbled his way over to it. The mail had been piling there for a week now. Guilt clawed at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t leave it that long. Even if he dreads reading it. Even if its painfully hard to read. The urge to flee back to his world of ink and clay flared up sharply before he managed to stamp it back down. Shaking his head, he sifted through the little pile of envelopes. Bills, spam, a few postcards from Elijah and the Fenske-Raymonds, a note from the magazine editor- shit, how long has that been sitting there? I’ll have to respond tonight- nothing new, really. Well. Besides the letter at the bottom of the stack. Archie stared at the crisp envelope, his name and address scrawled across it in familiar blocky handwriting. It wasn’t an odd size or shape- just a regular envelope. It wasn’t even a crazy color. Jut white. Plain and simple. … he knew the contents were anything but. Taking a deep breath, Archie gently scooped up the letter. His hands shook as he ripped open the top. He tried to ignore it. He carefully removed the envelope’s contents- a single sheet of paper. It was covered in the same blocky writing as the envelope- should have been a dead giveaway as to who was writing- but Archie couldn’t stop his eyes from skipping to the end. 

Signed, Morris Nicholson

Archie closed his eyes for a moment. Worry crashed over him like a flood. Morris was still writing the letters. Of course he was. It hadn’t been long enough for Hendrix to… … to… … Taking an unsteady breath, the old man shook his head. C’mon. You opened the damn thing, he scolded himself, the least you can do is read it. He wandered over to the kitchen table, plopping heavily into a seat. He smoothed the letter on the table before him. Setting his head on a hand, he carefully scanned over the paper. 

Dear Archie, Hendrix says hello. He’s really sorry he couldn’t write you back. He’s been in recovery more this week, but he still can’t hold a pen without bad shakes. He really appreciated your last letter. I did too. It’s nice to hear from you. We really wish you’d visit. Anywho, we wanted to write you an update, so here I am. Like I said, Hendrix has been in recovery more this week, but he’s not gotten much better. He’s still having a lot of issues with balance, breathing, and fine motor skills. It’s a bit concerning, but the doctors say…

… whatever else the letter read, Archie couldn’t register it. He slumped forward against the table, burying his face in his hands. He knew it was coming. He knew. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. As he sat silently at the table, there were no kind words to comfort him. No friends knocking on the door, asking to come in and help. No reporters trying to snoop. No… anything. Hendrix was sick, had been for awhile, and he wasn’t getting any better. He knew that. The glory days of his studio and that little family were over. He knew that. His friends all had their own lives to live. He knew that. They’d said to call or write or come out to see them if he needed. They’d welcome him with open arms. He… he knew that. … but he still felt so unfathomably alone. Discarded. Helpless. Useless. This life of his just hurt. All he could do was write, and that only helped when he had ideas. But if he didn’t have them… … I’ll find ideas, he promised himself. Looking up, he fixed his eyes on the door of his old workshop. Red smog floated up like balloons, the muffled glow glinting off the pen on his desk. I just need to keep working on the script.

~~~~~~~~~

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