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Tom’s grip on his axe tightened as he trudged down the stairs on Level 14, his arm twitching. The two weren’t friends. He only went down to The Projectionist when he had to. This was one of those days. His metal arm had been broken by the Ink Demon. It was just barely attached to his shoulder still. He couldn’t fix it himself. Trying to fix a metal arm with only one hand wasn’t possible for him. He had two arms for most of his life, he wasn’t trained in fixing anything with only one.
He made it to the bottom of the staircase, the ink covering the floor of The Projectionist’s lair staining the lower part of his overalls. Tom had offered to help drain the ink down here in an attempt to repay him. The Projectionist refused though, so for now he had to deal with his overalls being stained with ink every time he took a step into the Inky Abyss.
It didn’t take long for him to find The Projectionist. It was hard to miss him. Even with how big his lair was. He covered his eyes when The Projectionist looked him in the face, not wanting to go blind from its projector’s light. The Projectionist stopped looking directly at Tom’s face and instead looked down at his arm, noticing how messed up it was. Its projector whirred for a moment when it first noticed Tom's arm.
The Projectionist walked over to a nearby wall and wrote in ink, 'Need a hand?' Tom barked at The Projectionist, trying to tell The Projectionist off for the horrible joke. It didn't work. His projector whirred louder and he clutched his stomach. Tom barked and shook his head. The Projectionist eventually stopped whirring so loudly and stood up straight, pointing to Tom's arm.
It was hard to communicate with The Projectionist when the two of them were incapable of speaking. All Boris’s were incapable of speech and The Projectionist didn’t have a mouth to speak with. The Projectionist knew sign language, how he did was beyond him, but Tom didn’t know it. That meant the two had to rely on writing on the walls or gestures. Tom couldn’t write well with his left hand, so without his metal one, he could only hope The Projectionist got his gestures while he was down here or had a lot of good guesses.
And, luckily for him, he did. The Projectionist was right about the issue. It was hard not to notice how messed up Tom's arm was. The Projectionist walked over to Tom and unattached his metal arm before leaving, beckoning Tom to follow. He did. He followed The Projectionist, carefully wading through the ink. He was led over to a box. Half of it was covered in ink. He pointed to himself and then the box, The Projectionist nodding in response. He got what The Projectionist was trying to say.
He did what The Projectionist told him to do and sat down. The only reason he listened to The Projectionist was that The Projectionist was one of the only reasons he wasn’t dead. He was perfectly capable of defending himself. He knew more about most of the creatures here than anybody! There had been more than a few times where he barely got out of a situation alive because of The Projectionist though. If that didn’t earn the projector-head his trust, he didn’t know what could.
Tom watched as The Projectionist tinkered with his metal arm. Allison knew how to fix it, but wouldn’t. Saying it was his fault and that if he had as much hope as she did, these things wouldn’t have happened. That’s how he and The Projectionist started this arrangement. The Projectionist would fix his metal arm when needed and help him when Allison was going mad if Tom got him some more ink hearts for his collection every once in a while. It was a silent deal the two ink-creatures made, but it was still a deal nonetheless. It had been working well for them both.
Eventually, The Projectionist walked over to the wall and wrote something down. ‘I’ll need a night to work on it,’ it read. Tom glared daggers at The Projectionist. If he noticed, and he always did, he didn’t mention it in his writing. The Projectionist only shrugged and wrote, ‘unless you want it to break the next time you’re hacking at boards.’ He was right-handed. He could use his left, but it would be inconvenient if he has to fight. And it was a constant fight for your life in the studio.
He got up off the box he had been sitting on and reluctantly started his trek back through the ink and up the stairs, barking goodbye to The Projectionist. The Projectionist likely had no clue what he had even barked, but he didn’t care. If Allison assigned him any more errands for the night, he’d have to write her a letter saying no and that his arm was currently being fixed. If he could write anything legible with his left hand, anyway.
After a full twenty-four hours, Tom was standing in the elevator, heading down to Level 14. His overalls were cleaned up and ready to be dirtied by ink yet again. The Projectionist might not be aware that it had been a day later, but he knew. He had a clock where he was staying. You could tell the time in the studio if you can read clocks. The year or the day was a whole other story.
He hadn’t remembered how to read clocks from when he was alive. He overheard Sammy teaching some of the Lost Ones. If it weren’t for that prophet, he wouldn’t know how to tell twelve AM from two PM. That was the only good thing Bendy’s Prophet had done. The Ink Demon had Sammy right under his thumb. He would have pitied the Prophet if he didn’t hate them so much. The Prophet was strong, but he wasn’t the smartest or more cautious. How they were still alive, Tom didn’t know.
The elevator doors opened with a screech. He needed to fix those doors sometime. He left the elevator and headed towards the stairs, starting the trek down and into the ink. He could see The Projectionist’s light in the distance. He made it down the stairs, his overalls instantly getting ink on them the moment he took the last step. It was a good thing Buddy had a washer he could use to clean them off.
He went over to The Projectionist, waving his arm in front of The Projectionist’s projector so he’d be sure to notice him. The Projectionist screeched, nearly blowing out Tom’s eardrums, and pointed to a box. The box Tom had been sitting on last time he was down here. He went over to said box, almost grinning a bit when he saw his metal arm repaired.
He picked it up and reattached it to his shoulder. It felt odd not having it. It was good to have it back. He moved his wrist and then each finger to see if they still worked. Worked just as well as it had two days ago. He looked back at The Projectionist, giving him a thumbs up with his robotic arm. Showing The Projectionist it did a good job and that it worked. The Projectionist screeched and gave him a thumbs-up back.
Tom waded back through the ink and made it up the stairs, walking back up them and two the elevator. This arrangement worked out well for the two of them. Now, he had to fulfil his end of it. It was time for him to pay The Projectionist back and get him some more ink hearts.