Date: 2025-03-08 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Science Fiction; Horror; Humour
Description: Noclip In, No Way Out... All Dan wants is to find a way home. He'd settle for a beer, a bite to eat, and a place to sleep off his hangover. But, in an endless, ever-changing dungeon cobbled together from twisted carnivals, abandoned shopping malls, janky laundromats, and condemned insane asylums, getting a bit of shut-eye is harder than it sounds. Dan has accidentally "Noclipped" into the Backrooms—a bizarro, extra-dimensional Alice-in-Wonderland world, overrun with horrific nightmare creatures known as the Dwellers. No one ever gets out. Hell, forget about leaving, if Dan wants to survive the
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press

DISCOUNT DAN

DISCOUNT DAN’S BACKROOM BARGAINS

BOOK 1

JAMES A. HUNTER

CONTENTS

Summary

Author and Publisher Updates

1. The Hangover

2. That’s so ’90s!

3. Clash of Legends

4. Research Achievement Unlocked!

5. Endless Corridors

6. Janitorial Handyman

7. Bathroom Brawler

8. To Greener Pastures

9. Croc Dog

10. Relics Galore

11. Barry’s Blacklight Emporium

12. The Backrooms VIRUS

13. Compass of the Catacomber

14. The Job Board

15. Minor Detour

16. Extreme Gains

17. Gamblers Paradise

18. Triple M

19. Froyo for Everyone!

20. March to the Mart

21. MediocreMart

22. Let’s Reminisce

23. Cleanup, Aisle Five

24. The Harmacist

25. Corvo’s Blanket Fort

26. Friends Don’t Lie

27. Cannon Fodder

28. New Management

29. New Addition

30. Guerilla Marketing

31. The Daily Grind

32. Shopkeeper

33. R & R

34. The Seventh Floor

35. The School Zone

36. Goosey Goosey Gander

37. The Red Hands

38. Killing Blow

39. Knight in Scaly Armor

40. The Odd Couple

41. Old History

42. The Assignment

43. Gear Up

44. Mana Displacement Effect

45. Jungle Gym Jamboree

46. Fun and Games

47. The Prize Booth

48. Now Hiring

49. Mana Hack

50. Welcome to the Funhouse

51. Monkey Business

52. Barrels of Fun

53. Revenge of the Frank

54. Choke on This

55. Just Rewards

Epilogue—Beer and Pizza

FREE Novel

The Adventure Continues…

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About the Author

SUMMARY

Noclip In, No Way Out...

All Dan wants is to find a way home. He’d settle for a beer, a bite to eat, and a place to sleep off his hangover.

But, in an endless, ever-changing dungeon cobbled together from twisted carnivals, abandoned shopping malls, janky laundromats, and condemned insane asylums, getting a bit of shut-eye is harder than it sounds.

Dan has accidentally “Noclipped” into the Backrooms—a bizarro, extra-dimensional Alice-in-Wonderland world, overrun with horrific nightmare creatures known as Dwellers. No one ever gets out. Hell, forget about leaving, if Dan wants to survive the week, he’s going to need to harness the strange game-like magic of the Backrooms, make some very sketchy allies, and carve out a little safe haven to call his own.

And he’s going to need to do it fast because he’s being hunted. The Flayed Monarch of the 999th floor has marked him for death, and no one walks away from the Skinless Court with their hide intact...

AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER UPDATES

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CHAPTER 1

THE HANGOVER

Iwas going to die. At least, that’s what the floating screen told me.

The prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim, the message read in bold, blocky letters. The words were scrawled across a semitransparent yellow window, which looked like one of those eight-bit Nintendo Game notifications from the late eighties. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

My eyes skipped frantically from word to word as I reread the prompt for the third time.

What in the absolute fuck is going on here?

A cold sweat broke out across my skin, and I momentarily pulled my gaze away from the prompt and looked down at the ground. The ghostly yellow screen remained frozen in the air.

I was in a wide hallway with short gray carpet—the kind they use in hotels and office buildings—and walls covered from floor to ceiling in stained yellow wallpaper, peeling in places and covered with water spots in others.

Directly behind me was a dead-end hallway with a blazing red exit sign, but no door.

Ahead was an open, empty conference room with high ceilings that could’ve belonged inside any of a thousand run-down hotels across America. The walls were plastered with more of the nondescript yellow wallpaper, and white columns rose to a drab white-tiled ceiling dotted with recessed fluorescent lights. Those lights flickered sporadically, casting pools of sterile illumination and oceans of darkness across the carpeted floor in turns.

There was no furniture in the room beyond.

No end tables or cheap wing-backed chairs.

No reception desk or receiving area.

Just an enormous, abandoned cavern of gray carpet and wallpaper, which reminded me of a yawning mouth. Hallways branched off from the vacant conference room, snaking out of view.

This couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in the name of sweet baby Jesus was happening to me.

Maybe I was going crazy.

Or maybe I’d died, and this was my own, personal version of hell.

That was the most plausible option, all things considered.

The last thing I remembered was from the night before.

I’d been at the bachelor party to end all bachelor parties with the rest of the guys from the general contracting crew.

There’d been a stripper dressed as a clown for reasons I couldn’t quite recall. Although my well-known hatred of clowns probably had something to do with it. Also, fireworks. Well, maybe not fireworks per se, so much as sticks of Tannerite and a wee little bit of dynamite, which our buddy Jake had procured from a demo site in Dayton.

Cow tipping had definitely been involved at one point.

I vividly recalled cannonballing off my buddy Zack’s roof into an oversized kiddie pool filled with an unholy amalgamation of Natty Ice, Bud Lite, Corona, and whatever else the rest of the crew had lying around. Pretty sure Dave had dumped two or three boxes of Franzia red wine into the unspeakable alcohol concoction.

That probably explained why it felt like I’d slept in a churning cement mixer filled with boulders and broken beer bottles. Leaping into kiddie pools full of booze was a young man’s game, and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Not old exactly, but even at thirty-six, I found I didn’t bounce back quite the way I had at twenty-six. Getting absolutely shitfaced also explained the raging hangover and the dull ache radiating through my skull.

But none of that gave me any insight, whatsoever, into where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in heaven above was happening. There was just a blank hole, big enough to drive an Abrams tank through, between the party and waking up in this barren stretch of industrial hallway.

One minute I was laughing with Jake and Zack, telling old war stories about our time in the sandbox together, and the next I was peeling my ass off the gray carpet with the glare of harsh fluorescents stabbing into my eyeballs like an ice pick.

Guttural, inhuman roars and the sharp clang of steel clashing against steel drifted from a corridor just out of sight. This place might’ve appeared barren, but it wasn’t empty.

Something was in here with me.

Something dangerous.

Which probably accounted for the ominous warning, tattooed on the air itself.

The sounds of battle were getting progressively closer by the second. Feeling the cold edge of panic creep into my chest, I turned my gaze back to the yellow screen and reread the message once more, this time from the beginning.

Warning! Temporal Boundary Displacement Breach!

As Standing Chair of the Variant Research Division, it is my responsibility to inform you that due to an unstable temporal anomaly—and circumstances outside of VRD control—you have accidentally experienced a Temporal Displacement Event (TDE), sometimes referred to as “Noclipping.”

Fortunately, you survived the event and have NOT been integrated into the Progenitor Engine or reduced to “Meat Slurry” by the Influx Processing and Randomization System.

Unfortunately, the prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

— The Researcher

Yeah… None of that was even remotely helpful.

I’d never heard of the Variant Research Division, and I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what a temporal displacement event was. To me, the whole message was just a bunch of bullshit that sounded more or less like corporate speak for “go fuck yourself.”

I squinted, examining the box itself a little more closely.

I’d been so panicked and shocked by the message that I’d failed to notice there was a tiny “X” in the top right corner of the notification. I let my gaze linger on it for a beat, and when I mentally “clicked” the button, the window blinked away. Gone in an instant as though it had never been there at all.

A thunderous boom rattled the floor, sending fine dust motes spinning and dancing overhead. A moment later I heard an odd mewling noise followed in short order by the dull thump of footsteps and the whoomph of an explosion. Rolling tongues of flame blazed into view from a connecting corridor before quickly dissipating.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn tail and haul ass in the opposition direction, but there was nowhere for me to go. I was trapped in a hallway with no exit and the only way out was through the conference room ahead. I idly considered trying to climb up through the ceiling panels, but instantly knew that wasn’t an option. They were twelve feet up, easy. Even in my prime, I couldn’t have made that leap.

I turned back toward the conference room just in time to see two figures barrel into view from a hallway off to the left.

The first was human.

The second was… not.

In a blaze of furious movement, a lanky man in a duster bolted forward and lashed out with a ridiculously oversized sword, slamming the weapon into what could only be called a monster. There was no other description that fit.

Though writhing crimson ball of nightmare fuel came close.

The sword blow batted the horror diagonally across the cavernous space like a baseline drive, and it collided with one of the square columns on the far side of the room. The impact violently shook the floor and cracked the pillar in two. More plaster particles swirled in the harsh blue-white light.

The attack would’ve snapped me in two, but it hardly seemed to phase the creature. It pulled itself from the ground with ease.

Although the monster was eighty feet away, I finally got my first good look at the thing. Problem was, even with it standing in clear view, my brain couldn’t quite comprehend what exactly I was seeing. It was a bit like looking at one of those MC Escher paintings where the perspective is all wrong and none of the lines come together the way they ought to. And the longer I stared, trying to puzzle it out, the more it hurt my eyes.

The eldritch horror was eight feet tall and vaguely man-shaped—though it wasn’t human even in the most liberal sense of the word.

An extra pair of arms jutted out from its muscled torso, and its whole body was bloody red and sinewy as if the creature had been crudely flayed alive. Its lower half was a mess of segmented legs protruding out from a writhing centipede body. A cruel obsidian mask covered its face and a crown of jagged black spikes hung suspended above its head. A cloak of thrashing scarlet tentacles trailed down its back, reaching all the way to the carpet.

Those tentacles were covered in oozing sores and glaring eyes.

Embedded in the center of the monster’s bloody chest cavity was a gleaming multifaceted gem with golden numbers engraved on its various faces. Encircling the glittering stone, were six glowing green sigils that looked like they’d been cribbed from the Necronomicon.

In one hand, the monster held a curved khopesh crafted from yellowed bone, and in the other, it wielded a whip made entirely of teeth and spinal vertebrae. Those weapons radiated a dark, almost malevolent aura that left me both nauseous and scared shitless.

I looked down, evaluating what I had to defend myself with.

I was in trouble. A lot of trouble.

Turned out, drunk me had made some interesting fashion choices the night before. Choices that I was deeply, deeply regretting right now.

Slung around my shoulders and trailing down to my thighs was a knock-off red-and-gold, baroque Versace bathrobe. It was a hideous assault on taste and sensibility, and it actively made me despair for the future of humanity. I had never hated something so profoundly, or so quickly. Where it had come from or why on god’s green Earth I was wearing it were mysteries that beggared the imagination.

I had on a wife-beater beneath the robe and a pair of cut-off jean shorts—better known in trailer parks the world over as Daisy Dukes or jorts—that were so short and so tight they looked like faded blue denim spray-painted onto my nutsack. Instead of tennis shoes or flip-flops, Drunk Me had opted for my clunky work boots, which were missing the laces.

Then, to complete the look, I’d apparently decided to don my tool belt, which connected to a pair of leather suspenders. Although I didn’t have a mirror, I knew exactly how I must’ve looked. Like a strung-out hobo who’d managed to raid both a Home Depot and an upscale department store during a city-wide blackout. Of all the terrible life choices I’d made last night, however, grabbing my work belt had been the best of the lot.

I reached down and slid free my 19 oz rip claw hammer.

The shaft was hickory, the head worn from years of hard use. Its familiar weight was a comfort in my clammy hand, even though I doubted it would do much good against the walking nightmare. Certainly not as much good as a Glock with a full mag.

Not that a Glock would serve me much better.

Even though I’d spent eight years in the Marine Corps and done a couple pumps overseas to combat zones scattered across the Middle East, I’d served as a Motor-T driver. I’d spent most of my time behind the wheel of a troop carrier, pounding Rip Its and chain-smoking cigarettes, not kicking in doors or raiding insurgent stash houses.

And that was the better part of ten years and thirty pounds ago. Other than the occasional hunting trip with the boys, I hadn’t picked up a firearm in ages.

Besides, even if I were an expert shot and in peak physical condition, a handful of 9 mil rounds weren’t gonna do much against that thing. Hell, I was pretty sure a .50 cal and an anti-tank Javelin missile wouldn’t do much against that thing. If it wanted me dead, I wouldn’t last more than a handful of seconds before it gutted me like a trout.

My hand tightened around the handle anyway.

Fuck it. If I was going to die, at least I’d go down swinging.

But maybe it wouldn’t come to that. The big ol’ scary son of a bitch didn’t seem to be interested in me.

Not yet, anyway.

Its attention was entirely fixed on the lone figure swaggering through the conference room like an Old West gunslinger getting ready for a showdown at high noon.

CHAPTER 2

THAT’S SO ’90S!

The gunslinger wore a beat-to-shit leather duster and a silver breastplate crisscrossed with dual bandoliers studded with shotgun shells. Looped around his neck was a frayed gray noose and dangling from the end of the rope was a small Winnie the Pooh plushy, which was battered and bloody. The man’s hair was short and brown with a spattering of gray at the temples, but his eyes were hidden behind a pair of steampunk goggles and the lower portion of his face was obscured by a black bandana.

The barrel of a gilded blunderbuss protruded over one shoulder, and he had a leather holster slung low around his hips, holding an old-timey revolver. He carried neither firearm, though. Instead, he wielded an oversized foam anime sword, the “blade” leaning against a spiked pauldron strapped on over the top of the duster. And I don’t mean it looked like an anime sword. This was an actual foam anime sword—like one of the props cosplayers would bring to Comic-Con.

Except he carried it with deadly intent. The way the demon’s face kept drifting toward the weapon made me think it was wary of the foam blade.

The gunslinger’s other hand was empty, but he wore a heavy golden glove that reminded me of a medieval version of the Infinity Gauntlet, except—and this was the real kicker—instead of infinity stones, there were dice affixed to the knuckles. Like D&D dice. A red D4 on the pinky, a green D6 on the ring finger, a blue D8 on the middle finger, and a golden D10 on the index finger. Arcs of electric blue lightning sprinted over the surface of the gunslinger’s metallic hand, and it crackled with power just waiting to be unleashed.

The man paused briefly as he moved past the hallway where I was bravely cowering.

His eyes flicked toward me, lingering for a long moment. It felt like he was weighing me. Judging me. The weight of his gaze, of his sheer presence, seemed to press down on me like a hand.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was raspy and rough, as though he’d forgotten how to speak and was trying it out for the first time in ages.

“Dan?” I answered, as much of a question as it was a statement. “Dan Woodridge. From Cincinnati,” I added after a beat.

The gunslinger grunted and nodded, as though I’d imparted some profound truth, then dipped his fingers into a pouch at his belt. He pulled out a silver metal token and casually flipped it to me with his thumb.

I snagged it from the air, holding it tight like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver.

“Dan Woodridge from Cincinnati,” the gunslinger drawled in that same gruff tone, “if you value your life, stay back and use that. The Flayed Monarch will not hesitate to kill you.” He paused, tense. “Hopefully this will all be over before it comes to that.”

Without another word, he turned away and refocused on the demon, who was still some sixty feet or so away. The terrible pressure of the gunslinger’s gaze vanished and suddenly I could breathe again. I could think and move. I cautiously opened my hand and peered at the silver coin the man had gifted me with a small ember of hope igniting in my chest.

That hope deflated some when I saw what the coin actually was.

Not a coin at all. Not some mystical amulet of great power.

It was a Pog Slammer.

Like pog, pogs—the circular, cardboard tokens that had been all the rage in the late ’90s. I’d played pogs as a kid and I remembered having a slammer not so different from the one in my hand.

On one side was a cheesy, holographic snake wrapped around a grinning skull, and on the other was a picture of a birdcage containing a bulbous-headed canary with the words Unflippable Sanctum engraved around the outer edge.

I ran a thumb over the snake and skull, then traced it around the raised lettering. A faint thrum of power seeped off the slammer, sending a jolt of energy racing along my fingertips and up through my arm.

A much smaller version of the yellow, eight-bit pop-up appeared above the coin.

Super Slammer of Shielding

Rare Artifact

Type: Reusable, Daily

Uses: 2:00 Minutes Remaining

Time Until Reset: 12 hours, 13 minutes

The Super Slammer of Shielding is a rare magical Artifact that summons a mostly impenetrable dome of arcane power, capable of protecting all those within its confines from physical, arcane, and elemental attacks.

The Super Slammer of Shielding can be used for two minutes per day, though those minutes and seconds do not need to be consecutive. The timer resets at exactly 12:00 AM Newfoundland Standard Time (NST). Why Newfoundland Standard Time? Because fuck you, that’s why.

To activate the spell, throw the Slammer against the floor and recite the forbidden Arcane Incantation: “Let’s Pog!”

To deactivate the spell, simply pick the Slammer up and utter the sage words of old: “That’s so ’90s!”

This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke.

Slammer still gripped tightly in my hand, I shot a look at the gunslinger, who had made his way to the center of the conference room, partially positioning himself between me and the blister-red, four-armed monstrosity.

“I just want out,” the gunslinger said, sounding exhausted to his bones. He extended his gauntlet, palm up in expectation. “All I need is one more Seal. Just the one. Give it to me and I’ll fuck right off. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want to fight you. Just give me what I want, and you can go back to the Pit on the 999th floor and do whatever the hell it is you like to do. Eat kittens. Skin puppies. Watch endless reruns of My Little Pony. I do not give a single shit. It’s none of my concern.”

The Flayed Monarch cocked its head to the side as though carefully considering the words. It was impossible to read its face beneath the obsidian mask, but to me, it looked almost intrigued.

“Perhaps there is a deal to be struck.” The Monarch’s reply sounded like a legion of off-key voices all speaking at once, each slightly out of sync with the others. “The Researcher has stifled me for too long,” the creature continued. “The bounds of my kingdom chafe. You want the stone. I want the Gauntlet. We both want to leave. To be free.” He extended a long-taloned hand. “But we shall never be free of each other until we are free from this place. Let us work together, yes?”

The gunslinger snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure the Researcher would just love that.”

The Monarch growled, the rumble of an angry lion resonating from deep inside its chest. “The Researcher is an old fool, and his purpose and function were obsolete a thousand years ago. Ten thousand years ago. He is a relic of the past, not a reflection of the glorious future that we could forge together.”

The creature’s legs clicked softly as it edged forward.

“That’s plenty close enough,” the gunslinger said, raising the anime sword from his shoulder. “One more step and I’ll cleave you in two.”

I listened to them go back and forth, holding my breath and not moving so much as a pinky. I was basically following Jurassic Park rules at this point. I doubted the demon had the same ocular weakness as a T-Rex, but it was worth a shot.

“Surely, there’s no need for that,” the monster crooned at the gunslinger. “Violence doesn’t serve our purposes. Think about it, Marcus. You and I both know his power is already stretched thin. So very thin. He might be a god in this place, but not even a god could stop us if we put aside our petty squabbles.”

“I’m not sure I’d call them petty,” the man replied. “You killed Lisa and cut off my hand”—he raised the metal gauntlet—“and added one of my eyes to your collection.” He gestured at the tentacle cloak.

“Small things when weighed against the value of freedom,” the Monarch said as though the litany of offenses were water under the bridge.

“Let me put this plain,” Marcus growled. “I would rather drown on floor two hundred and seven in a pool of dog vomit than work with you.”

Although I couldn’t see the Monarch’s face, I could almost hear it grin behind the obsidian faceplate. “Perhaps I will grant you your wish before leaving this place—”

Then, in the space of an eyeblink, the demon shot forward like a bullet, its blade blurring through the air.

Khopesh met sword in a clap of thunder and a reverberating clang that sounded for all the world like metal. Golden sparks and sizzling arcs of red electricity spit upward. The monstrous force of the two weapons unleashed a ripple of power that exploded outward, snapping another of the nearby columns in two. The energy blast also hit me square in the chest like an invisible mule kick, effortlessly hurling me back down the hallway.

I landed on the ground with a thud and fought to pull in even a single gulp of air.

My already aching ribs were on fire now, and it felt like something might’ve broken inside my chest. Part of me just wanted to lie there and die quietly, but ten thousand years of primal survival instinct wouldn’t allow me to give up quite so easily. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I regained my feet and retreated further down the hall.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have far to go, and now I was trapped between a rock and a pair of unspeakably powerful demigods working out years’ worth of repressed anger issues.

If I didn’t do something, I was going to die here.

I still had the Slammer in my hand, and though it seemed asinine, I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choices. I spiked it against the carpet like a football and belted out the words, “Let’s Pog!”

CHAPTER 3

CLASH OF LEGENDS

Obviously, I felt like a complete jackass, but when the world starts operating on bullshit Alice-in-Wonderland logic, I figured the best thing to do was just… roll with it, I guess. Or, in this case, throw it onto the ground and scream out a nonsensical ’90s’ catchphrase.

As the Slammer hit, a burst of warm energy bubbled outward in a ring. Emblazed on the ground was a golden circle with a glimmering image of the snake and skull temporarily branded into the carpet. Rising up around me was a golden birdcage, built from shimmering bars of light. A two-minute timer appeared in the corner of my eye, ticking steadily down toward zero.

Hesitantly, I crept up to the edge of the circle and grabbed at one of the bars. My hand passed right through as though it were an illusion. A trick of smoke and mirrors. I thought I felt the slightest tickle of electrical current pass through my palm, but it was so faint it could’ve been my overworked imagination.

Meanwhile, the battle between the two titans raged unabated.

The Flayed Monarch descended upon the gunslinger with a bloodcurdling screech, which brought the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention. Its four arms were a blur of manic motion, the bone khopesh and spinal whip lashing out in a deadly dance. Each time the whip snapped, a burst of bloody red light flashed through the conference room and huge fissures appeared along the walls. Hurricane-force wind howled into the hallway, but instead of bowling me over, it hit the golden birdcage and fizzled without ever even ruffling my hair.

I looked down at the Slammer.

Well holy shit. That was a pretty good trick after all.

The gunslinger effortlessly avoided each whip strike—ducking, sidestepping, even momentarily blinking in and out of existence while he advanced, undeterred. The foam blade in his hands was a whirlwind and, as he moved, ghostly blue flames formed along the edge of the weapon. The Monarch turned every strike and parried every thrust, but he wasn’t launching a counterassault. It was all the demon could do to keep the gunslinger at bay.

Of the two, it was clear the human warrior had a small edge in melee combat.

The gunslinger feinted left and lashed out with a quick jab, then darted right and brought the sword screaming down in a vicious arc aimed at the Monarch’s exposed neck. The demon couldn’t get its blade up in time, but as the weapon struck, the creature turned into a fine red mist and drifted away at the last moment.

The horror reformed on the opposite side of the conference room, completely unscathed by the brutal attack. Now that the Monarch had some breathing room, it raised a hand and muttered a grating incantation that made my ears bleed. Literally. I reached up with a trembling hand and wiped away a streak of red trickling down my cheek. The golden dome was powerful, but clearly it had limitations.

Meanwhile, a hundred crimson spears and swords appeared in the air above the demon’s jagged black crown. The Monarch casually flicked its wrist forward, and the conjured arsenal lurched toward the gunslinger like an artillery barrage.

The gunslinger attempted to blink out of existence, but a fleshy red tentacle, covered in a multitude of eyeballs, erupted from a nearby column, wrapping around one of his legs. Rooting him to the spot. He thrust his golden gauntlet out and a blazing azure dome appeared around him, insulating him from the encroaching army of floating weapons before they could hack him to pieces.

The Monarch’s conjured weapons furiously slashed at the energy barrier, leaving thin cracks in their wake, but they couldn’t break through.

The gunslinger paid them no mind.

Instead, he reached out, and a small black void flashed into existence, just long enough for the time-beaten warrior to pluck something free. He flung whatever he’d retrieved onto the ground outside the bounds of the blue dome. A handful of plastic green Army Men hit the carpet, then immediately swelled in size. In the space of seconds, two dozen hulking green warriors appeared, though their proportions were all wrong. Arms twisted. Legs bent at odd angles. Their faces contorted masks of tortured wax.

“Unrealistically Posed Army Man, reporting for duty!” one of the hulking figurines barked.

“Defensive Position B Fourteen!” the gunslinger bellowed.

“Aye, aye, sir!” the rest of the troops cried in gruff unison, before launching into action.

Without missing a beat, they formed a neat wall surrounding the exterior of the dome and began retaliating against the Monarch’s flying cloud of living weapons. Some fought with bayonets that burned with eldritch green witchfire. Others used backpack flamethrowers to unleash columns of brilliant orange and red fire, burning the bloody weapons from the air.

The gunslinger used the distraction to hack through the tentacle with his sword.

The blade severed the grasping limb in a few quick chops, then the dome vanished as the gunslinger blinked across the room and hurled a javelin of blue lightning from his gauntlet.

The Monarch was ready.

The demon tossed out a plastic red Easter egg, which intercepted the incoming bolt of power. There was a brief flash and the spell disappeared before it ever landed.

The two collided back into each other in a clash of limbs, spells, and blades as army men and disembodied weapons fought a merciless, pitched battle.

A dark cloud formed overhead, and droplets of blood rained down, scorching the carpet, searing the yellow wallpaper, and burning through pretty much anything it touched. Several oversized plastic men got caught in the deluge and were shortly reduced to piles of melted wax, which left an acrid stink lingering in my nose. The scarlet rain didn’t do anything to the gunslinger, though. It rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back, pooling in acidic puddles by his feet.

The two continued to fight with rabid fury, trading blow for blow, but neither seemed to be able to get the upper hand. Even when it seemed like one might prevail, the other always had some new spell or magical trinket ready to nullify the effects.

The ground shook and a forest of deadly, rebar spikes erupted from the carpet—

The gunslinger avoided the attack entirely by leaping upward, then he sprinted across the air itself with some unseen ability.

A barrage of sharpened icicles fell from the churning clouds—

Only to be burned away by an inferno blaze of unquenchable black flame.

All the while, the timer ticked away in the corner of my eye, drawing closer to zero.

Fifty-seven seconds left to go on the arcane shield protecting me…

The Monarch manifested a plain Bicycle playing card—a ten of diamonds—and proceeded to pluck the diamonds from the face of the card and hurl them at the gunslinger as they grew to the size of frisbees.

But the weather-beaten warrior was ready for that, turning them away with a jack of clubs that unfurled and grew into a shield that absorbed the attacks before disintegrating to ash.

The back-and-forth volley was like watching a world-class round of tennis, except they were trading earth-shattering spells and physical blows powerful enough to rip the limbs from my body.

Forty-four seconds left.

The gunslinger lifted a hand and let loose a flare of blinding light from his palm, so bright it seared a purple afterimage into my retinas. When the burst of illumination finally vanished, I watched as he blinked through space and time once more, appearing behind the Monarch with his sword already descending in an arc that would decapitate the monstrous creature if it landed.

But the Monarch anticipated the attack and spun like a top, narrowly avoiding the sword strike. In one quick motion, the monster turned and drove its curved khopesh directly into the gunslinger’s guts. The weapon sliced cleanly through the warrior’s armor like a scalpel, then punched out through the back, the blade covered in slick scarlet. The gunslinger glanced down at the sword with a look of dumb surprise etched into the lines of his weathered face.

His hands groped at the khopesh, but before he could even attempt to pull it out, eye-covered tentacles exploded from the walls and floors. One set wrapped around the gunslinger’s legs, and another wrapped around his shoulders. The tentacles yanked, and the man came apart at the middle, strands of bloody gore and gray intestine dangling out. Then, with an almost casual disdain, the tentacles flicked the warrior away like a piece of garbage.

The man’s brutalized body landed with a wet thump not far from the mouth of the corridor I was hiding in.

I’d seen some shit while overseas, but that? Never anything like that.

It was a death blow, beyond recovery.

For anyone other than the gunslinger.

The warrior had been eviscerated, his steampunk goggles were smashed and hanging down around his neck, and there was blood absolutely everywhere. Somehow, though, he was still alive. Although he probably wouldn’t be for long. With painful slowness, the man reached trembling fingers toward the Winnie the Pooh plushy strung around his neck.

Whatever he was going to do, he wasn’t doing it fast enough.

He turned and glanced at me, his singular gray-blue eye silently pleading for help.

But what the hell could I do?

How could I possibly stop the demon, where he had failed?

The gunslinger had magic. Weapons. A platoon of green plastic army men.

I had a hammer and a Versace bathrobe.

As though finally realizing just how boned he was, the gunslinger finally tore his gaze away from me and looked at the demonic monstrosity languidly moving toward him, as inevitable as death itself. The Monarch seemed to be taking its time. Almost savoring the moment.

Shit, shit, shit. This was bad. Really bad.

I knew next to nothing about these two titans, but the guy lying on the floor was human and had gone out of his way to help me—even when he didn’t have to. As far as I was concerned, that made him the good guy. That and the fact that he didn’t have centipede legs or a tentacle/eyeball cloak.

Thirty seconds left on my shield.

Shit. What am I doing?

Something dumb, that’s what. Something that would probably get me killed.

I took a deep breath, already kicking myself for being a moron.

I squatted down and picked up the Slammer, muttering “That’s so ’90s,” under my breath. The golden birdcage blinked away, leaving me with just over twenty seconds of juice left in the coin. Then, before I could overthink things, I took off at a sprint, Slammer in one hand, hammer in the other.

The demonic creature was closing in on the badly wounded warrior.

If the rough plan I had kicking around inside my skull was going to work, I needed to act now. I muttered a quiet prayer, planted my feet, and hurled the metal token. It arced gracefully through the air, holographic skull glittering majestically as it flipped and toppled. It landed a foot away from the battered and broken gunslinger, and as it did, I yelled the stupid incantation, “Let’s Pog!”

The golden birdcage blazed to life and the timer popped up on the edges of my vision, trickling down from twenty-four seconds.

Twenty-four seconds wasn’t much, but it was the best I could do. The only thing I could do.

The gunslinger didn’t waste the opportunity.

He wrapped a trembling, bloodstained hand around the Winnie the Pooh plushy, suspended from the gray noose, and muttered something under his breath. The stuffed animal began to burn with an eerie red light. A crimson slash appeared across Pooh’s stuffed belly, the two halves of the gunslinger miraculously pulled themselves together, and his skin and flesh began to mend themselves.

I’d bought him a few precious seconds, but the healing process wasn’t going quite as quickly as I’d hoped, and the Monarch had turned away from the gunslinger and toward me. There was curiosity in the way the creature cocked its head, almost as though it were noticing my existence for the first time. The demon looked at me the way someone might look at an ant scuttling across a kitchen counter.

“You should not have done that,” it buzzed, anger undercutting the inhuman words.

“Yeah, tell me something I haven’t heard my whole life,” I replied. Then, because I was already elbow-deep in a shit sandwich that was almost certainly going to kill me, I made another bad choice. “Now how’s about you go fuck yourself.” I took another step and hurled the hammer with every ounce of strength I could muster.

The tool—meant to drive in nails, not fight otherworldly demonic beings—somersaulted, end over end, and smashed into the Monarch’s obsidian face. The demon didn’t even try to move or dodge, which was a little insulting. The tool hit with a metallic clatter then dropped harmlessly to the gray carpet without doing any damage at all. Hell, it didn’t even manage to scratch the paint on the Monarch’s faceplate.

I had no doubt the creature could’ve cleaved me in two or ripped the head from my shoulders without breaking a sweat.

Apparently, I didn’t warrant even that much effort.

The Monarch simply lifted one hand and a colossal spiritual weight slammed down on me like a bulldozer. My knees buckled and I hit the floor without offering an ounce of resistance. The pressure squeezed the air from my lungs, then kept right on squeezing until I thought my lungs were going to pop. Blackness crept in on the edges of my vision and tremendous pressure built around my eyes. My heart labored, and I could feel the bones in my chest, arms, and legs grind and break. Magma flowed through my veins and every breath felt like drowning.

Perfect. Not only was I going to die—I was going to die in the most excruciating way possible. My ninth-grade math teacher had been right all along.

But then, just as suddenly as the pain had started, it vanished. The pressure relented.

I gasped, and though I knew irreparable damage had already been done, at least I could breathe again, which was one small mercy. The black receded and I fought to prop myself up on my elbows so I could see what had happened.

The golden birdcage had dissipated, and the gunslinger now stood behind the Monarch; he’d driven his sword clean through the demon’s chest. A jagged black tear, two feet long and a foot wide, had appeared inside the demon’s torso. Through the void in the creature’s chest, I could see a host of odd items. Weapons. Armor. Glimmering jewels. But other things too. Weird things. Things that made no more sense than life-sized green army men or eyeball tentacles.

A plastic crown. A golden figurine of a werewolf. Some kind of trading card with a dragon on the front.

One of those items, a battered bronze compass that had seen better days, tumbled free from the void and rolled across the floor.

“Thank you for your help, Dan Woodridge from Cincinnati,” the gunslinger said. “Should you survive, I will not forget it.”

Something sailed toward me, glinting in the fluorescents overhead. Whatever it was landed on my chest, which sent a fresh bolt of agony racing through my ribs.

Before I could reply or gargle out an incoherent “You’re welcome,” there was a tremendous howl, and another brilliant flash filled the hallway. When the light finally faded and I could see again, the gunslinger and the Monarch were gone. They left behind carnage, destruction, and a huge, charred spot where they’d been standing, but of the two battling demigods, there was no sign.

It was great news, except for the fact that I was still, one hundred percent, dying.

I tried to move my legs and couldn’t.

My organs hurt and it felt like some giant, uncaring god had decided to squash me with an oversized boot.

Then I got a glimpse of the thing on my chest.

It was a slender glass bottle with a blue and black label that had the word Zima splashed across the front. I didn’t remember Zima well—I’d only been a kid and well below the drinking age during its heyday—but I was pretty damn sure their slogan wasn’t “The #1 Bone Healing Juice on the Market! Guaranteed to make your Insides feel like Glimflam!”

Hovering above the bottle was a small square icon—a black question mark on a mustard yellow background. When I examined it closely a prompt appeared, just like with the Slammer.

Zima - Greater Healing Elixir

Uncommon Elixir

Type: One-Time Use

Remember the deliciously refreshing taste of lightly carbonated Zima? Of course you do! Those were the good ol’ days, amiright? You’ll find the newest formula has all the same great flavor but will also regrow your spleen! Or your skin. Even missing limbs if you get ’em reattached quickly enough. Huzzah!

So, kick back a cold one on us, and give your insides a new stab at life!

After reading through the elixir description, I decided I was having a stroke on top of everything else, but at this point, I also had zero shits to give.

Everything hurt and nothing in the entire world made sense, except one thing.

The gunslinger had given me this for a reason.

This was my only chance at walking away from the confrontation.

With numb, trembling fingers, I twisted off the cap, pressed the cool edge of the bottle to my lips, and chugged the bubbly and refreshing liquid. It burned a little going down then landed in my stomach like a flash of liquid napalm. A renewed wave of agony rampaged through my body as my bones shifted beneath my skin, but then came absolute euphoria as the pain receded.

The darkness wrapped around me and this time I let it carry me away on a swift, delicious river of blissful endorphins.

CHAPTER 4

RESEARCH ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED!

Idon’t know how long I was out for—could’ve been two minutes or ten hours. I didn’t have a watch on, and there were no windows or other organic sources of light, so gauging the time was impossible. It was quiet, though. Other than the omnipresent buzz of the lights above there wasn’t a sound, which was unnerving in its own way.

But at least I was alive. Hell, not just alive.

I felt like a million bucks.

I sat up, stretched my arms, cracked my neck, then did a quick inventory, running my hands over my chest in search of wounds. The dull ache from my ribs was gone, there was no sign of the splitting headache from my night of drunken debauchery, and my muscles and joints hadn’t felt this good in ten years. Maybe ever.

There was a black exclamation point blinking insistently in the corner of my eye. When I cautiously examined it, the symbol vanished and a new message from the Researcher appeared.

Even after ten thousand years, you humans still manage to surprise me from time to time. I had no expectations whatsoever that you would survive that encounter, much less serve as a tipping point in the battle. Yet here we are. Impressively done. Truly.

As a result, you’ve unlocked several Research Achievements.

Although this is quite irregular, I am going to prematurely assign a Localized Administrator to oversee your case.

There are hundreds of different Localized Administrators, each with their own unique disposition, and you will be paired with one best suited for your personality profile. Your Localized Administrator is responsible for managing your VIRUS Upgrade Interface, awarding research achievements, and allocating resources based on preset performance metrics and key Research Department Objectives.

It will serve as a guide during your time in the Backrooms.

Because of the anomalies associated with your case, be advised that you will not be able to fully integrate with the VIRUS Upgrade Interface or Redeem Loot Tokens until you exit the Lobby and locate one of the Progenitor Monoliths on the lower floors. Should you manage to escape the Lobby, I recommend seeking refuge in the nearest Safe Harbor, which is Howlers Hold. According to your Current Relative Position (CRP), Howlers Hold can be located on Floor 7, Quadrant 12, Sector 3 for the next three days, seventeen hours, thirteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds.

Although this is likely the last you will ever hear from me, on behalf of the Variant Research Division, I wish you the best of luck.

— The Researcher

I read through the notice and by the time I was done, I was even more confused than when I clicked on the exclamation point. VIRUS Upgrade Interface? Loot Tokens? Progenitor Monoliths?

I was just hoping this Localized Administrator would be able to clear some of this shit up for me, because I’d never felt more lost in the sauce. When I dismissed the message from the Researcher, a whole slew of new notifications erupted, one right after another, scrolling across my vision like the opening crawl in a Star Wars movie.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Premature Administration

Don’t worry, premature administration happens a lot to guys your age—I think there’s probably a pill for that.

Reward: Lobby Access to a Localized Administrator, Iteration 1.13578092. Lucky you…

Research Achievement Unlocked!

My First Artifact

You’ve successfully managed to find and activate a Backrooms Artifact. Congratulations, you’ve accomplished something so insignificant that it’s basically the Backrooms’ version of a participation trophy. Still… you managed to do it within twenty minutes of being here. How you even found an Artifact in the Lobby is, frankly, impressive. Pretty sure that’s a new Backrooms record.

Reward: 3 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 1 x Silver Delver Loot Token

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Out of Your League

You’ve attacked a monster more than 100 levels higher than you. If I had hands, I’d clap—then I’d use them to dig your grave. That’s a ballsy move, even by my standards. No one in the recorded history of the Backrooms has ever done that and lived to tell the tale. Except you, apparently.

Reward: 1,200 Experience Points, 1 x Ruby Warlord Loot Token

Title: Out of Your League – Deal 10% additional damage to opponents more than five levels higher than you.

Note: Titles come with a wide range of passive benefits, which are always in effect, though you can only have ten titles in effect at any given point.

[Level Up! x 3]

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Deathwish

You’ve survived an attack from a monster more than 100 levels higher than you. Do you have a death wish? Because this is how you die a very painful, but often quick, death. At least, it’s quick if you’re lucky. The fact that you somehow survived is mind-blowing and definitely worth a little somethin’-somethin’.

Reward: 1,200 Experience Points, 1 x Diamond Sentinel Loot Token

Title: Deathwish – All healing Relics and Artifacts become 5% more effective when your Health drops below 15%.

[Level Up! x 1]

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Marked for Death

Whether by poor luck or through a series of even poorer life choices, you’ve somehow managed to cross paths with the Flayed Monarch—easily one of the most powerful entities in all of the Backrooms. You’re alive, but for how much longer is the real question. You’ve been Marked for Death, and all the Aspirants who serve at the pleasure of the Skinless Court will try to murder you on sight. On the plus side, all factions who oppose the Skinless Court will be more favorable to you.

“You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies” — Oscar Wilde

Reward: 1 x Gold Ambassador Loot Token

Title: Marked for Death – Deal 15% additional damage to all Aspirants of the Skinless Court!

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Masochist-in-Training

You suffered a single attack that reduced your Health by more than ninety percent. I’d ask if you’re okay, but there’s no way that you’re okay. I’m going to give you a reward, but I feel conflicted about it, since I don’t want to positively reinforce this type of bad behavior.

Reward: 4 x Copper Medic! Loot Token, 1 x Silver Medic! Loot Token

Research Achievement Unlocked!

My First Elixir

So, you’ve had a hard day at the office and suffered a catastrophic crippling blow that has left you tiptoeing on the line between life and death? Just another average Tuesday in Newfoundland. Crack the fridge and pull out a refreshing, medical-grade Zima—The #1 Bone Healing Juice on the Market! Guaranteed to make your Insides feel like Glimflam!

Reward: The delicious, refreshing, lightly carbonated taste of Zima is its own reward, amiright?

I read through the list of increasingly bizarre notifications, which served as a disturbingly concise record of everything that had happened in the past couple hours.

Using a magical Pog Slammer to summon an impenetrable dome of arcane energy?

Check.

Leaving the safety of said impenetrable dome to save some weird hobo with an anime sword by hurling my hammer at a skinless horror with the lower body of a centipede?

Double check.

Having my body pulverized and my bones crushed, only to be miraculously saved by chugging the forerunner to White Claw?

Yahtzee.

I wasn’t exactly sure what Loot Tokens were or how they worked, but I figured I could worry about that once I got clear of the Lobby and found a way to the first floor. Problem was, I had no clue where I was, how big the Lobby was, or how to leave.

The utter lack of signage certainly didn’t help the situation.

With a grunt, I stood and took a slow look-see around, trying to get my bearings.

There was no sign of the gunslinger or the Monarch, but the devastation and carnage they left behind were still readily apparent. The two-man Armageddon had smashed through columns, split the walls open, and burned the carpet to cinders, though, strangely, the damage appeared to be fading.

Though maybe fading wasn’t quite the right word. It was more like the damage was healing. Almost as if this place was actually a living organism, clothed with yellow wallpaper and tacky carpet instead of skin or scales.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I headed over to examine a zigzagging crack in the plaster. As a general contractor, I’d hung more than my fair share of sheetrock and laid plenty of wallpaper, but as I ran my fingers over the jagged edge of the damage, I knew right away that this wasn’t drywall, brick, concrete, gypsum board or any other construction material I’d ever worked with before. The material was wet, pliable, but also oddly fibrous. It felt more like a slab of beef than sheetrock, and when I pulled my fingers away, they were covered in slick, clear mucus.

Holy shit. Maybe this place was healing itself.

I suppressed a shudder and actively pushed away the dark thoughts cycling through my head.

That didn’t matter right now, I told myself. The only thing I needed to focus on at this moment was getting as far away from this particular location as fast as possible. I’d chucked a hammer at the head of an eldritch horror with god-like power and likely cost it a victory over a deadly rival. There was a good chance that freak show would come sniffing around sooner or later, looking for a little payback, and I didn’t want to be here when it showed up.

But I also didn’t want to risk leaving anything valuable behind.

I didn’t know where I was or how long I’d be stuck in here, and I wouldn’t survive long without supplies. And, if the legendary fight between the post-apocalyptic gunslinger and the skinless horror show had taught me anything, it was that every item could potentially be a valuable, life-saving tool.

Even a 1990’s POG Slammer.

First, I picked up the empty glass Zima bottle, which had rolled away from my hand after I’d passed out. The Greater Healing Elixir description still populated when I closely examined the bottle’s properties, but the elixir had been a one-time-use item. Now it was just a bottle.

I still shoved it into one of the outer pockets on my tool belt.

I didn’t have anything to drink from, and even if the bottle could no longer heal what ailed me, I could always fill it up with water on the off chance that I ran across a faucet or drinking fountain.

Next, I made my way up the hall, rummaging through the debris and smoking rubble in search of anything else that might be useful. Most of the magical trinkets the two clashing deities had tossed around had been completely obliterated.

The plastic green army men had shrunken back down to size and whatever magic they’d once contained was now gone. There were shredded playing cards and pieces of tacky, plastic mall jewelry lying all over the place, but they were likewise destroyed beyond repair.

A few things had survived, though.

In the hallway, buried beneath a chunk of rubble, which looked like sheetrock and felt like fatty gristle, was a pitted brass compass. The same compass that had fallen out of the Monarch’s chest after the gunslinger had run the creature through with his foam sword. At a glance, it looked like something you might find in a discount bin at a roadside antique store.

Carefully, I poked it with the toe of my work boot, making sure it wouldn’t explode or grow teeth and try to eat me.

When nothing immediately terrible happened, I breathed a small sigh of relief, then gingerly picked it up off the floor, turning it over and over in my hands. It vibrated with a subtle thrum of energy and sent a gentle ripple of warmth through my arms and into my chest.

This thing, whatever it was, had power with a capital P.

As with the bottle and the Slammer, I examined the compass and a description box appeared, rendered in the same eight-bit graphics as the rest of the message boxes.

This one was different, though. Restricted.

Compass of the Catacomber

Mythic Emblem

Whoops! Looks like you’ve stumbled upon an encrypted item. Because this Emblem is rendered in Archaic Variant, language iteration 1.01, you cannot fully view its properties without a Perception of 10 and you cannot equip it to your Spatial Core without a Resonance of 15. To fix this issue, exit the Lobby and visit the nearest Progenitor Monolith to finish fully integrating with the Backrooms’ VIRUS.

I dismissed the words and stowed the compass.

Like everything else in this place, the error message left me with more questions than answers.

There were two other items that had survived the destruction: my trusty 19 oz claw hammer and the Snake and Skull Slammer that the gunslinger had loaned to me.

I fished the hammer off the floor, hand wrapping around the hickory handle, but faltered a second later when an identification icon briefly flared over the hammer’s blunt metal head.

I narrowed my eyes and glanced at the symbol with suspicion.

19 oz Vaughan Hammer – “Foe Bane”

Rare Artifact

Type: Blunt Weapon, Personal Significance (Enhanced)

Victory through superior Hammer power!

Behold, the mighty 19 oz straight claw hammer! This legendary tool is the perfect blend of elegance and functionality, ideal for smiting your foes or hanging a picture frame. Crafted by the finest blacksmiths of the Vaughan Manufacturing Corporation, this versatile tool can pry open treasure chests or rip the arms off the Faceless Ghouls on the First Floor.

It’s the perfect addition to any arsenal.

But this simple-appearing tool is more than it seems. Used to strike a critical blow against the Flayed Monarch, this hammer has garnered additional Significance, transforming it into a Legend in the making…

Effect 1, The Bigger They Are: Through concentration, Foe Bane can be invested with Mana, allowing it to grow or shrink in size. Regardless of apparent size, it will never seem to weigh more than 19 oz for its bonded wielder. To activate this effect, the user must first equip a Relic that enables Mana usage.

Effect Slot: Empty

Effect Slot: Empty

Effect Slot: Empty

I read through the description once, twice, then a third time.

Unless I was somehow misreading things, my hammer was now a magical weapon. One that could grow and shrink by investing it with “Mana”—though how I was supposed to do that, I wasn’t quite sure. I focused on the tool in my hand, then shut my eyes and envisioned it swelling up to the size of a sledgehammer. Something stirred faintly inside my chest, a flicker of gentle heat, here then gone. When I cracked one eye, the hammer was still the same size it had always been.

Feeling just a tiny bit of disappointment, I slid the hammer back into its customary loop on my belt.

Still, I was curious. If the hammer had somehow gained magical attributes, what about my other gear? I pulled out my trusty demolition screwdriver and saw that it too had a muddy identification icon. Excited, I quickly pulled it up, but found that unlike the hammer, it was listed simply as a Common Artifact with a standard description. The only interesting thing of note was that, like the hammer, the screwdriver was listed as having “Personal Significance.”

There were also two empty Effect Slots located at the bottom of the item description.

A quick check revealed that all of my tools were like that.

And not just them.

My Redwing work boots. The nut-hugger jorts. Even the ass-ugly red-and-gold Versace bathrobe, which I’d literally never seen before. Each and every one was listed as a Common Artifact with Personal Significance.

That didn’t mean anything to me now, but both the Researcher and the strange Error message I’d received from the Compass of the Catacomber had mentioned leaving the Lobby to unlock additional features. I was betting that if I could find a way to get off this floor, some of this stuff might start making a little more sense.

The last item I retrieved was the Snake and Skull Pog Slammer, which I’d tossed to the gunslinger during a moment of epic heroism. That or epic stupidity. I’d learned long ago that the line separating the two was often a mighty thin one, but since I’d survived the ordeal, I was going with heroism.

I took a few extra seconds to pull up the description—double-checking that the Artifact was still in working condition. I’d used the entirety of the Artifact’s two minutes of magical protection during the battle between the gunslinger and the Monarch, so for the time being it was nothing more than a glorified paperweight.

Or an actual Pog Slammer.

At least, that’s what I thought until I realized the Cooldown timer had changed.

Time Until Reset: 6 hours, 23 minutes

My memory was a little cloudy since I’d been on the verge of being murdered, but the last time I’d looked at the Slammer, the Time Until Reset had been around twelve hours. Which meant I’d been unconscious for just over five hours. I dismissed the pop-up and slid the Slammer into my pocket, since it was now the most valuable item in my possession. Not only could it generate a protective shield for two minutes a day, but the cooldown feature also served as a rudimentary clock.

A clock set to Newfoundland Standard Time, but a clock all the same.

Now that I’d scavenged all the usable items from the scene of the battle, the only thing left to do was to get my ass moving and find a way to leave the Lobby.

CHAPTER 5

ENDLESS CORRIDORS

Ispent the next several hours wandering through a seemingly endless series of twisting, turning, and interconnected corridors that didn’t go anywhere or have a discernable purpose.

It was a mind-numbingly dull labyrinth of gray carpet and yellow wallpaper, augmented by the occasional set of brown double doors that also went nowhere. I opened one set to find a solid wall with more wallpaper. Another let out into a short hallway, which ended after twenty feet. All of the hallways meandered without any real rhyme or reason, randomly connecting to wide conference halls, smaller meeting rooms, cozy alcoves, and more pointless corridors.

Other than that, there was just nothing.

No chairs. No tables. None of the inoffensive and utterly forgettable corporate art that usually decorated the walls in these kinds of places. There were also no signs—Pool This Way, Fitness Center on 4th Floor, Rooftop Access—with one extremely notable exception. I ran across six different Exit signs, all lit up in blazing red neon. Like the brown doors, they never went anywhere either. They were all positioned in dead-end hallways, just like the one I’d woken up in.

I was starting to think they existed solely to mock any poor schmuck unlucky enough to get stuck in here. It was enough to drive a guy batshit.

Especially a guy like me.

This entire place was a contractor’s worst nightmare. Nothing was up to code. There were no egress windows or smoke detectors. The constantly flickering lights pointed to botched wiring, and I hadn’t seen a single electrical outlet. Right hand to the good Lord, the lack of proper ventilation would haunt me far more than the skinless monster with far too many limbs.

Even more concerning, however, was the lack of drinking fountains or bathrooms. Having a place to take a dump was high on my list of priorities, but I could make do with a corner. But no water? Yeah, that was trouble. I could go a good long while without food, but water was one of those small amenities necessary for human survival. I had a day, maybe two at the outside, to figure out how to get out of the Lobby before I passed out from dehydration and died in one of a thousand unmarked corridors.

And the truth was, I probably didn’t even have that long.

Although the Monarch hadn’t found me yet, there was something else in here with me.

I wasn’t sure what, exactly, and I never got a good look at it. It was always a flash of movement just on the edge of my peripheries or the scritch-scratch of claws rustling against carpet. It was the sense of eyes watching me from the dark, waiting ever so patiently for an opportune moment to strike. And whenever I sat down or even stopped moving for a little too long, I felt the noxious presence of the watchers draw nearer.

Closing in around me on every side.

If I lay down for a bit of shut-eye, I was certain I wouldn’t ever wake up again. Why these things hadn’t eaten me while I was passed out for five hours, I couldn’t say, but they were actively hunting me now.

So, even though I was tired and thirsty, I kept moving.

Kept searching for a way out.

The lack of distinguishing features made it incredibly hard to navigate with any sort of confidence or certainty, but I was a former Marine and I had the benefit of my tool belt. The first thing I tried was the ol’ Hansel and Gretel method. Using a fat-tipped Sharpie from my toolbelt, I systematically left symbols at each intersection and juncture, noting which way I’d come from and which pathway I’d chosen, so I would know if I was doubling back or walking in circles.

It was a solid plan.

The Backrooms was having none of it. This place had several countermeasures to make sure visitors couldn’t game the system quite so easily.

The wallpaper, it seemed, was lightly corrosive—almost like the digestive juices of some giant stomach. I figured that out when I took a short break, sat down, and leaned up against one of the walls. I’d been sitting for ten minutes, tops, when I noticed a strange heat radiating through my stupid, ass-ugly bathrobe. When I scrambled away, I found that the wall had eaten a dime-sized hole through the fabric.

That same acidic quality also dissolved the Sharpie in a matter of minutes, which I learned after hitting a dead-end, then backtracking to a large, circular conference room with a series of corridors branching off like the spokes of a wheel. It didn’t take long to locate one of the trail markers I’d left behind—except the arrow I’d drawn was faded to a ghostly gray line, so faint it was nearly invisible. If I hadn’t known any better, I would’ve said the mark had been exposed to the sun and the elements for months or even years.

Curious, I milled around for a bit longer, watching as the arrow eventually faded completely and disappeared, leaving only unmarked yellow wallpaper behind.

I wasn’t out of options, though.

Improvise, adapt, and overcome was the unofficial Marine Corps motto for a reason. It also doubled for contractors working on an unfamiliar job site.

I stowed the Sharpie and pulled out my demolition screwdriver. In the past eight years, I’d never once used the screwdriver to turn a screw. It had a blunt, flat head and I often used it like a chisel—that or as a spike to punch holes in walls or even pry boards apart.

Instead of delicately scribbling arrows onto the walls, I started leaving behind deep, nasty puncture wounds to mark my route. I knew from experience that this place would heal those injuries over time, but based on what I’d observed after the battle between the gunslinger and the Monarch, that could take hours instead of minutes. Not exactly an elegant solution, but it got the job done and that was all that mattered.

Unfortunately, that plan had a few unexpected kinks as well.

As with the Sharpie, the Backrooms didn’t appreciate my creative interior decoration. The lights blinked manically in annoyance after the first couple of stabs, and things got progressively worse from there. By the time I’d marked the fifth intersection, an angry tremor rattled through the floor, which made me sweat. Still, the holes stayed put, so I was hesitant to stop. When I punched the sixth hole, there was a long groan followed by the sound of thudding footfalls, rapidly closing in on me.

The watcher was back, and it was closer than ever.

That was enough to convince me to try something else.

At the next intersection, instead of just punching a hole in the wall, I took out my utility knife and carved out a square of wallpaper, approximately two feet by two feet. The material was thin, flexible, and surprisingly durable. The texture also felt like human skin, which was extremely disturbing. But the back side of the wallpaper was plain white in color and didn’t seem to have the same acidic qualities as the yellow front side. I used my Sharpie to sketch out a rough map of the area, and even after ten minutes, the ink didn’t fade.

That made me think the wallpaper might have some other beneficial uses.

It was easy to imagine crafting a pair of crude gloves, which would deal acid damage to anything I punched.

But when I decided to push my luck and attempted to harvest a second section of wallpaper, the Backrooms pushed back a bit more aggressively than before.

A tremor as strong as an earthquake knocked me from my feet and several of the lights blinked off entirely, plunging huge swaths of the corridor behind me into a thick shroud of oppressive darkness.

When I fished out my flashlight and turned the beam toward the sudden patch of gloom, I found something waiting within. The watcher. The spear of light bounced off a creature made of inky black shadows with a protruding potbelly, gangly arms, bulbous white eyes, stringy gray hair, and a too-wide mouth filled with a legion of jagged, needle-like teeth. It wore a tattered blue vest with a yellow smiley face pinned to the left breast.

A tag briefly fluttered above the creature.

Dweller 0.052C – Lobby Greeter [Level 2]

It tilted its head to one side, raised a spidery hand, and waved at me in welcome.

There wasn’t anything even remotely friendly in the gesture, and it sent shivers racing along my spine. Especially when a second and third pair of bright, bulbous eyes blinked at me from the murk.

The first Greeter flinched away from the light, but the second I moved the beam away, the creature cautiously crept forward—right to the very edge of the darkness. At this point, I was reasonably certain the building itself was a living thing, but I still wasn’t sure whether or not it was sentient. Had the Lobby sent these things as an overt threat? Or was it possible that this was just some sort of automated response—like a body releasing white blood cells to deal with an invasive infection?

I wasn’t sure, but either way, it felt like a warning shot.

Fuck around and find out.

Me? I had no desire to find out, so I dismissed ideas of acid-dealing gloves and put as much distance between myself and the encroaching trio of nightmare Lobby Greeters as possible.

Working under the theory that this place—whatever it was—was, in fact, alive and sentient, I decided to forgo smashing any more holes into the walls as well. Better to be safe than sorry, especially when maniacal, flesh-eating ghouls were the possible consequence. I mean, I didn’t know for a fact that they were flesh-eating, but since the walls were literally low-grade digestive acid, I felt like that was a safe bet.

For the next hour, I used the wallpaper parchment to sketch out a crude map as I wandered through the twists and turns, but eventually that failed too. I ran out of parchment space long before I ran out of corridors. This place was just too big to map with any degree of accuracy. The process did yield one unexpected result, however. With a bird’s-eye view of the Lobby, I realized there were some repeatable patterns and that things weren’t quite as random as they seemed at first glance.

The Researcher had mentioned quadrants and sectors, and now I knew why.

I was currently stranded inside of a giant, self-contained box, comprised of a series of smaller interconnected boxes. In essence, a grid. Most of the hallways and corridors were designed to drive traffic back toward the middle of the sector and into an area I’d deemed the Lobby Hub, which wasn’t far from where I’d first woken up.

There was one corridor, though, in one of the outlying sectors, that seemed to break the pattern. Instead of eventually looping back around toward the Hub, it cut through the outer edge of the perimeter and went… elsewhere.

Likely to another quadrant, though it was impossible to say for sure.

It took the better part of another hour to get back over to the hallway—reading the map was tricky at best—but when I did, I immediately noticed one small, but important difference.

A vent.

The hallway looked identical to the others, but near the bottom of the wall, just above the baseboard, was a beige air duct vent cover. It wasn’t big enough to climb into, and even if it had been, there was no way I would have. Who knew what in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph would be waiting for me inside?

Probably a pulsating, demonic gullet, eager to turn me into “meat slurry.”

Even though the vent shaft was small, I still managed to unscrew the plate cover and poke my head inside. The beam of my Maglite illuminated a long metal duct that went straight as an arrow before eventually being swallowed up by the darkness.

This was the first corridor I’d seen with no turns. No bends. No intersections.

Not having any other leads or ideas, I opted to follow it.

Plain, beige ventilation covers appeared every fifteen minutes or so, always in the same place—low down on the wall, just above the baseboards—and always identical to the last. I kept the Slammer in my hand as I moved, compulsively checking the time.

It was 2:17 AM Newfoundland Standard Time, and the Super Slammer of Shielding had officially reset, by the time I came to a door.

This was different than the brown wooden double doors I’d happened across a few times before. It had a black plastic sign affixed to the front that read, Bathroom, Employees Only.

I didn’t go in. Not right away.

I was exhausted and thirsty, and finding a bathroom was an answer to my prayers. Assuming it wasn’t out of order, there would be a sink inside, which meant water. I also knew I couldn’t just keep walking forever. I’d have to stop eventually. Unlike the creatures that called this place home, I was only human, and I’d need to sleep. So far, the thought of the potbellied Lobby Greeters had kept me moving steadily forward, but it wouldn’t be hard to jam the door and barricade myself inside.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but that had to be better than sleeping out in the open.

Still, I hesitated. It was perfect. Too perfect. In my gut, it felt like a trap.

The hallway, studded with ventilation covers, continued to the right. I could always keep following it in hopes that it would take me to another quadrant—and to a way out of the Lobby. But, begrudgingly, I had to admit there was no guarantee that I would find a way out at all. Even if this hallway did connect to another quadrant, there was an equally good chance that the quadrant would be an endlessly frustrating maze, just like the area I was leaving behind.

Taking a pit stop in the restroom was the best option. The only option, really.

I slipped the Slammer into my left palm, then pulled out my hammer. I took a few deep breaths to steady my fraying nerves, then awkwardly cranked the silver door lever down and kicked the door inward with a booted foot. The metal slab squawked and groaned as it opened, revealing a rectangular room with white-tiled floors and lime-green walls. The restroom looked like it had been plucked out of an ’80s shopping mall.

A rectangular ceiling fixture painted the room in harsh white light.

Against the left wall was a sink situated below a small mirror with a large crack running up its face. Directly opposite the sink was a solitary toilet. An unholy stink emanated from it, but a black lid covered up whatever rectal carnage had been inflicted upon the poor porcelain bowl.

Perched in the far corner of the room, for reasons I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, was a padded red sitting chair with metal legs.

The breath caught in my throat…

Not far from the chair was a second door, set into the far wall. This one wasn’t wood, but matte gray metal with the words Stairwell – Lobby Exit spray-painted across the front in blocky white letters.

I’d just hit the jackpot.

Except…

Except, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a trap.

I glanced left and right, searching for any sign of the Lobby Greeters, but there was nothing. I was utterly alone. And the bathroom itself was relatively small with nowhere for a potential assailant to hide.

The Researcher had told me in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to survive, I needed to get to Howlers Hold on floor seven. I also had at least one item that I couldn’t use until I descended and found a Progenitor Monolith.

Sure, this could be a trap. Or…

Or it could be my only chance.

Despite my mounting hesitation, I stepped into the bathroom, then pushed the door shut behind me with my heel, never taking my eyes off the exit to the stairwell. The bathroom door closed with an audible click, and I let out a soft sigh of relief when the whole room didn’t go up in a fiery explosion. Had I really expected to find an IED, wired to the bathroom door? No. At this point, though, there wasn’t anything that would truly surprise me.

I sidestepped over to the sink and wiggled the faucet handle.

There was a rumble, followed by a gurgle, then a stream of brown water sputtered out, quickly turning clear. That was common enough for plumbing that had sat unused for a while. Even if the stairwell turned out to be a bust, finding a source of drinking water was a huge win.

I killed the tap, and ominous silence filled the room once again.

Gripping my hammer even more tightly, I padded across the tiled floor and tried the door. There was a metal push bar running across the front.

I gave it a good, solid kick, but the door didn’t budge.

Locked. Because of course it was.

Set into the metal push bar was a small, circular hole that would accommodate a key. I wasn’t a locksmith by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d dealt with doors like these more times than I could count on commercial worksites. Jimmying them open could be tricky, but with my Irwin 9-in-1 multi-bit screwdriver in my belt, I figured I could get ’er done with a little patience and elbow grease.

I turned, taking one last sweep of the room to ensure I was alone.

Still nothing.

Dropping to one knee, I set my hammer down on the tile floor and began to work at the lock with my screwdriver, prodding around inside the hole—searching for the release mechanism.

I didn’t hear the soft scrape of porcelain on tile until something heavy slammed into my side like an NFL linebacker and sent me tumbling away from the door.

CHAPTER 6

JANITORIAL HANDYMAN

Ihit the wall with a whoomph and a host of white stars danced and cartwheeled across my vision. I blinked several times in utter disbelief, not trusting my eyes because what I was seeing was impossible. Standing guard over the stairwell exit was a skeletally thin creature with maggot-white skin, six arms protruding from its gaunt torso, and an honest-to-God toilet for a head.

A tag flashed above it.

Dweller 0.023A – Janitorial Handyman [Level 3]

“This restroom is for employees only,” the Janitorial Handyman said. Its voice burbled and gurgled like mud stuck in a drainpipe. “You are not an employee. You do not belong in the Lobby.” A thick purple tongue slithered out of the toilet bowl, dripping fat beads of glistening blue drool. “You will be removed.”

Without waiting for my perfectly reasonable response, the monster lurched toward me, quickly eating up the distance between us with its long legs.

My mind raced through all my available options in the split second I had before this thing tried to eat me.

I could run, but that was the worst option by far. The exit door to the stairwell was locked and I’d shut the door to the bathroom to prevent the nightmarish Lobby Greeters from sneaking up on me while I had my back turned. I’d be able to get the door open, but it would take precious seconds that I didn’t have to spare.

My next option was the Slammer, still gripped in my left palm. The spell timer had reset, so I had two minutes of relative safety, but there was one major problem: The interior of the spell dome was larger than the inside of this bathroom. If I activated it here and now, I had no idea what the hell would happen. Maybe the dome would repel the creature or—and this seemed more likely—the monster would wind up trapped inside the magical cage with me.

That left me with only one plausible option.

One really shitty option…

Mind made up, I acted without another second of hesitation.

As the creature raced toward me, I flipped onto my ass and lashed out with a brutal front kick, smashing my boot into one of the creature’s bony kneecaps. This thing was legitimately horrifying in appearance, but it had all the muscle mass of an anorexic six-year-old, plus it was tall and top-heavy, thanks to its many arms and the porcelain toilet perched atop its slender shoulders.

My foot connected with a crunch, and the monster’s knee bent in a direction knees aren’t supposed to bend. The Janitorial Handyman let out a screech, equal parts pain and rage, as it lost its footing and toppled to one side. Its bulky toilet head crashed into the sink, busting it from the wall and damaging the connecting pipe in the process. There was a rumble and a hiss as a gush of water arced through the air and splashed onto the tile floor in a steady drizzle.

Despite its injuries, the janitor quickly scrambled back to its hands and knees.

Its wounded leg dragged along the floor, but that didn’t seem to deter the monster too much. Thanks to all its extra arms, it was able to easily maneuver along the floor like some kind of human centipede. There was another sharp crack and its legs arced up behind it in a “C,” making the creature appear less like a centipede and more like a hell-scorpion ripped out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

The black toilet lid flipped up, and from this angle, I could see that there were five gleaming, insectile eyes set into the underside of the lid. The toilet bowl contained a bloody red throat, and the lip of the seat was ringed with curved, undulating teeth. The fleshy tongue poked over the edge and waggled back and forth in hungry anticipation.

Every single thing about this was horrifying and it had ruined one of my single favorite pastimes—sitting on the john while I scrolled on my phone. Assuming I survived the next ten minutes, I was never gonna be able to look at a toilet the same way again.

Instead of immediately advancing and pouncing on me like a feral hound, the Janitor tilted forward, lowering the edge of the seat until it was nearly flush with the ground. It shook its toilet bowl mouth back and forth, disgorging several black slug-like creatures onto the floor. Each was about a foot long, completely eyeless, and had a circular, suction cup mouth ringed with even more teeth.

Dweller 0.051D – Janitorial Toilet Snake [Level 1]

Great. Perfect. Just when I thought this place couldn’t get any worse, it proved me wrong yet again.

The trio of Toilet Snakes slithered toward me, leaving gooey slime trails in their wake.

Even though my ribs ached and my head felt fuzzy, I fought my way to my feet. I bolted left and snatched up my hammer, then pocketed the Slammer and pulled free my demolition screwdriver. I’d made it this far and I wasn’t going to roll over and die for anything. Motivated by a potent cocktail of fear, disgust, and a primal urge to survive, I brought one boot down on top of the nearest Toilet Snake, popping it like an overripe tomato. Strings of white gore spurted out, sizzling against the tile.

These things were filled with acid. That’s just what I needed.

Suppressing the violent urge to vomit, I turned and punted the second snake, knocking it across the room and into the mirror. The thing popped like a meaty water balloon on impact—dead before it could pose any real threat. The third, however, disappeared behind the padded chair. Not having eyes on the gross, slimy son of a bitch made me uneasy, but I had an even bigger threat to deal with.

The Janitor let out a gurgling bark and launched a blue spitball at me.

I ducked on instinct, narrowly avoiding the loogie of death, which splattered all over the wall behind me with a terrible hiss. Instead of launching another ranged attack, the monster lunged for me, its prehensile tongue darting toward my throat like a striking cobra.

I sidestepped the attack and batted aside the flailing tongue with my gloved hand before it could latch on.

At the same time, I brought the hammer crashing into the side of the Janitor’s porcelain head, knocking the ugly son of a bitch to one side. The Janitor skittered along on its many arms and hands, quickly regaining its balance. Before I could get some much-needed distance, it lurched sideways, slamming one bony shoulder into my chest. I staggered back but a lanky arm shot out and snagged my ankle, jerking me off my feet for a second time.

I landed on my back and my head bounced off the tiles, sending a jagged lance of pain into my skull. The fall knocked the wind from my lungs, and before I could even try to get a breath, the Janitor was on top of me.

Still wheezing and struggling for air, I jammed one foot into the creature’s gut and pushed. It was stronger than it looked, but with my leg propped up between us, it couldn’t give me the swirly to end all swirlies. I lashed out with the hammer, this time targeting one of its hands, still pressed against the floor. The blunt tool landed with a satisfying crunch as fingers snapped. The creature recoiled, giving me just enough space to slam the hammer into the creature’s ribs once, twice, then a third time.

It let out squeals of pain, but instead of falling back, it redoubled its efforts and threw itself at me with even greater fervor. It raked jagged fingernails across my chest. The attack sliced through my undershirt and left a trio of deep gouges in my skin.

I flipped the hammer around with a growl and drove the pry claws into the monster’s bony bicep. The claws punched through the papery-thin skin and sent out a spurt of sludgy black blood. This time the creature retreated, but it tore the hammer from my grip in the process.

The Janitor regarded me for a long moment with its utterly alien, insectile eyes. I eyed him right back, trying to evaluate my chances of survival. This thing had expected an easy kill, but I’d made it bleed for its assumptions. A deep crack ran along the toilet tank, which leaked bloody fluid to the floor. Its pale ribs were now as black as fresh asphalt. One leg was still busted to hell, an arm dangled uselessly at its side, and one of its hands was little more than mangled pulp.

I was in better shape, but not much.

Gritting my teeth, I struggled back to my feet, using the tiled wall behind me for leverage.

The creature let out a chittering sound, and a second later something heavy dropped onto my shoulders from above.

The last of the Toilet Snakes—the one that had taken cover behind the padded chair before I could finish it off. A slimy tail wrapped around my right arm then the little monster latched onto my pec with its flat, suction-cup mouth. Razor-sharp teeth sawed down, and my exposed skin began to burn from the Toilet Snake’s caustic saliva.

With an inhuman roar, the Janitor barreled straight into me, smashing a shoulder into my gut, doubling me over. Several pairs of unnaturally strong arms wrapped around me, lifting me off the floor and squeezing me tight in a deadly bear hug. While I struggled fruitlessly against the crushing limbs, the Janitor’s purple tongue wrapped around my throat, cutting off the already meager flow of oxygen heading for my lungs.

Fingers of darkness were reaching in from the edges of my vision and I knew I didn’t have long. I still had the screwdriver in my hand; I angled the flat edge of the blade upward, then drove it into the monster’s abdomen with my last ounce of strength.

The screwdriver—designed for demolishing brick and stone—easily pierced skin and muscle, sinking all the way up to the handle. A gush of warm fluid washed over my glove, and the arms squeezing me to death eased just a hair. I gasped, pulling in another vital breath, then fumbled the utility knife from my tool belt with fingers that were going numb. I pushed the blade out with a thumb, then swiped up, slicing deep into the meaty tongue wrapped around my throat like a living noose.

The monster squealed and stumbled backward on uncertain feet.

I drove the utility knife into the flat, black head of the Toilet Snake, still clinging to my chest like an overgrown leech. Acidic blood spurted out and the creature dropped to the bathroom floor.

One swift stomp splattered the slug beyond recovery.

The Janitor was staggering, its tongue whipping back and forth in a pained frenzy. Shattering its kneecap hadn’t done shit, and it hardly even noticed its pulped hand, but its tongue? Its tongue was very sensitive, it seemed.

My hammer was still hanging from the monster’s arm and the screwdriver was planted in its guts, but luckily I had more weapons at my disposal.

I drew out my speed square with the soft whisper of metal on leather.

The speed square was actually a large triangular piece of steel with a smaller triangle cut out in the center of the tool. Every handyman, carpenter, or general contractor carried one since they were the best tool around for measuring, cutting, and determining angles on the fly.

I had a different purpose in mind.

I gripped the flat edge of the tool in my right hand, so the triangular edges were facing outward—transforming it into a makeshift, modern-day punch dagger.

While the Janitorial Handyman stumbled around drunkenly, I grabbed its flailing tongue with my left hand and pulled the creature toward me while simultaneously driving the triangle into the creature’s thin and frail throat.

The speed square wasn’t particularly sharp, but I rocketed the tip of the triangular tool through its esophagus anyway.

CHAPTER 7

BATHROOM BRAWLER

The blow forced the creature backward, its many arms pinwheeling to maintain its precarious balance. Still gripping the creature’s tongue, I pulled my fist back and smashed the tool into the monster’s throat again and again and again, until at last the edge of the square ripped messily through the monster’s neck. The creature let out one last choking gurgle, then collapsed to the floor in a heap of limbs while sludgy black blood pooled around it.

Its porcelain head lay to one side, connected to the rest of its body by a thin strand of white tissue no larger than my pinky.

I scrambled away from the dead monster and collapsed against the far wall, my legs shaky and my whole body trembling from exertion. I dropped the speed square, covered in gore, and just sat there for a while, breathing heavily as I watched the corpse.

All I wanted was a cigarette. That and a cold beer.

I’d quit smoking eight years ago, not long after getting out of the Corps. I still lit up the occasional cigar every now and then while drinking with my buddies, but I hadn’t had the urge to smoke a cigarette in… Well, I couldn’t even remember how long.

I wanted one now, though. Just something to help take the edge off and settle my understandably frayed nerves. I’d had more than my fair share of fistfights and I’d served in an active combat zone, but I’d never experienced anything like the battle against the Janitor.

It had been so close. So personal. So intense, violent, and visceral.

Part of me wanted to pump one fist in the air, while another part wanted to throw up in the toilet. Well, maybe not this toilet, since the interior of the bowl looked like a miniature version of the Sarlacc Pit, but a toilet.

An icon appeared and when I hazarded a look toward it, a whole new batch of notifications and research achievements scrolled across my vision. Most of them were unimportant, throwaway “First” achievements. Baby’s First Massacre, for murdering more than three monsters during a single combat encounter—and murder was the word the achievement used, not kill. Napoleon Complex, for attacking and defeating a Lobby guardian while being at “effective” level zero. Budding Explorer for discovering an active stairwell for the first time.

Together, they netted me five more Copper Delver Loot Tokens, one Copper Medic! Token, and a Copper Slayer Token. Killing the Toilet Snakes had earned me 25 experience each, and taking out the toilet-headed Janitorial Handyman brought in another 350. Combined with the additional 500 experience points I got as a reward from the Baby’s First Massacre Research Achievement, it kicked me up another level, which, with a little bit of mental math, put me at level 5.

Not that it made much of a difference at this point.

I was starting to suspect that I couldn’t actually “gain” those levels until I fully integrated with the VIRUS Upgrade Interface, and to do that, I needed to find one of the Progenitor Monoliths the system kept jabbering on about.

On top of the more generic achievements, I received a couple of more interesting achievements that came with a few higher-tier Loot Tokens and even a new title, Weapon of Opportunity.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Barbarian of the Bathroom

Look at you go, you filthy fucking animal! You managed to kill a stairwell guardian without having a single Relic equipped to your Spatial Core.

You’ve displayed a unique blend of brawn and bowel control, which is as stupid as it is impressive. Instead of relying on the powerful sorceries of the Backrooms, you embraced the raw might of your biceps, unleashing the fury of mediocrity and unwashed armpits. Your dedication to the art of close combat has earned you a place in the annals—or should it be anals?—of unconventional heroism.

Reward: 1 x Copper Brawler Loot Token

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Weapon of Opportunity

Swords, battle-axes, nunchucks, even automatic assault rifles… These are the tools of war. But you? You use actual tools. While others rely on deadly instruments of destruction, you choose to delve into the depths of your toolbox, transforming everyday objects into instruments of pain and fleshy ruin.

That screwdriver? A kidney shiv. The humble hammer? Nay, a war club capable of shattering bones with every swing. And who could forget the trusty ol’ speed square—slicing through your enemies with geometric precision. Your ability to turn the mundane into the murderous is disturbing, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll fit in just fine here.

Reward: 1 x Gold Weaponsmith Loot Token

Title: Weapon of Opportunity – Deal 5% additional physical damage when using a melee weapon that can also be classified as a tool.

Like the level-ups, I still couldn’t do anything with the Loot Tokens I’d earned, but that would change eventually.

The new research achievements weren’t the only interesting things I found either.

Although I had no desire whatsoever to approach the dead and gory body of the Janitor, my screwdriver and hammer were still lodged firmly into its corpse. I pulled the hammer out of its arm without much effort, but the screwdriver was really jammed in there, so I had to get down on one knee and use my left hand to push against the creature’s pale torso while yanking at the screwdriver handle with my other hand.

When I touched the creature’s chest, I noticed a strange warmth radiating outward from its otherwise clammy skin.

As I focused on that warmth, a black rift appeared like a jagged gash along the Janitor’s chest, which quickly vomited out several items. Then the void rift shrank and vanished with a pop and the warmth emanating from the Janitor disappeared entirely.

There were four items of note.

I was already familiar with the first. It was another bottle of the Zima, though this one was a Lesser Healing Elixir instead of a Greater Elixir like the one the gunslinger had gifted me. This time, the tagline read “Same great flavor, but now with half as much organ juice!” The Lesser Elixir offered most of the same health and regenerative benefits—it just took significantly longer to repair any damage. I was pretty beat up from my scuffle with the Janitor, so I briefly considered downing the potion, but eventually decided against it. I had no idea how rare these things were, and though I was injured, I wasn’t in immediate mortal danger.

I figured it was better to save the elixir for when the shit really hit the fan.

The next item was a small black hexagonal piece of metal. There was nothing magic about it, but it was extremely valuable, nonetheless.

I eyeballed the metal door, which let out into the stairwell beyond.

If the Janitor was the stairwell guardian, it made sense that it would have the key. This would save me loads of time and it might work on other doors that had a similar design and locking mechanism.

I slipped the bit of metal into my pocket and moved on to the next piece of loot, which turned out to be a glorious treasure beyond the scope of human comprehension or understanding. At a casual look, it appeared to be a lowly, half-used roll of single-ply toilet paper. After a more thorough inspection, I discovered it was a lowly, half-used roll of single-ply toilet paper that never ran out. Ever.

The Roll of Endless Wipe

Common Artifact

Type: Reusable, Cursed

Let me set the stage for you. There you are, knee-deep in the bowels of the Backrooms, battling the unspeakable frog-themed horrors of the thirty-second floor. Then, suddenly, nature calls. It’s a shitty situation, but thankfully the Roll of Endless Wipe has your ass covered.

Each pull unfurls a seemingly inexhaustible supply of toilet paper. But be warned, for this stuff is a double-edged sword. It feels like you’re wiping your butthole with sandpaper. It’ll get the job done, but believe you me, you ain’t gonna like it and you’ll be walking funny for days after.

Despite the ominous warning about the quality of the toilet paper, I slipped it into my tool belt like a giddy kid on Christmas morning. As a contractor and former Marine, I’d survived countless porta shitters, spanning the globe from Cincinnati to Iraq, so I knew well the dangers and challenges of cheap, single-ply toilet paper. Still, I’d much rather have this than nothing at all.

The last item I received from the Janitor was something I hadn’t seen before.

Something called a Relic, which took the form of a clear cleaning spray bottle filled with some sort of mysterious blue liquid. The label on the front read Bleach Bolt: The Patented Unidentified Stain and Flesh Eradicator. At first, I thought it was a weapon or an Artifact like the Slammer, but when I flipped over the bottle to examine the label on the back, an item description appeared, which quickly disabused me of the notion.

Bleach Bolt: The Unidentified Stain Eradicator

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: Single Target

Cost: 5 Mana

Unleash an orb of super-heated, highly concentrated cleaning solution, so powerful it can “clean” the skin right off your enemies’ bones in a matter of seconds, leaving their skeleton as bright and shiny as ever—at least until it dissolves that, too. Bleach Bolt’s patented solution works best on organic compounds and is ineffective against inorganic substances such as metal, tile, or plastic, though it will leave them with a gleaming razzle-dazzle second to none!

The target takes 15 points of Corrosive Burst Damage on contact, plus 2 points of additional Corrosive Damage per minute for five minutes. This Relic enables Mana usage.

The Relic felt warm, almost comforting.

Working on autopilot, my hands brought the item toward my chest, and as it touched my shirt, a clean black rift opened, unbidden, and the bottle of vaguely ominous cleaning solution disappeared inside my chest cavity. The rift snapped shut a second later, leaving no sign of the bottle behind.

But I could feel it inside me. Loitering in my soul.

New knowledge bloomed inside my head like a flower unfurling its petals toward the sun. I stretched out one hand, palm up, and activated the new spell with a thought and a subtle effort of will.

An orb of blistering hot blue goop exploded outward from my hand and splattered across the Janitor’s battered and emaciated corpse. This was the same substance that the Janitor had spit at me during our tussle. As I watched the blue goo eat through skin and bone with alarming and brutal efficiency, I was suddenly very glad that I’d managed to avoid the attack.

A blue bar appeared in the corner of my eye and drained almost immediately, leaving me feeling woozy, stumbling slightly, and lightheaded. Since I’d spent more than a few hours with my ass planted in front of a gaming console playing RPGs like Evodoom and Titan Realm, I was guessing that was my Mana bar.

Seeing just how much Mana the simple spell took told me my current Mana level was abysmally bad. Sure, this was an uncommon spell, but it wasn’t rare or legendary, so I probably should’ve been able to cast it more than once without feeling like I’d just finished running a marathon.

Still, I smiled.

I had magic.

And not just any magic. Get fucked, burn-your-face-off corrosive magic.

Let those creepy, smiling Lobby Greeter shitheads take a shot at me now.

I earned a research achievement for activating the spell for the first time—My First Relic—though it didn’t come with any extra benefits; under reward, it just said, “Face-melting magic is its own reward, so don’t get greedy.”

While my Mana ticked up in painfully slow increments—about a point a minute—I searched the three toilet snakes. One of them was so badly damaged that I couldn’t even examine its corpse for items. That was good to know, and I logged that little detail away for later. Staying alive was obviously at the top of the priority list, but gathering materials and resources was just below that. Which meant I needed to kill things in a gentle enough manner that I could still loot their corpses.

The other two each yielded a single “Common Relic Shard,” which looked like small chunks of glossy white porcelain.

Relic Shard

Common

These bad boys are scattered all throughout the Backrooms and are most commonly found on the corpses of lesser Dwellers. But don’t let their humble origins fool you. Combine ten Relic Shards to randomly generate a Relic of the same rarity level. You never know what you’re gonna get—it’s basically gambling, but that’s the fun!

Now that was interesting, as well.

I’d gotten lucky in my fight against the Janitor, and if any one of a dozen little things had gone differently, I would’ve been the one lying dead in a pool of my own fluids. Until I found a Progenitor Monolith—and got a few more levels and Relics under my belt—it would be smart to avoid fighting something so obviously out of my weight class. But the toilet snakes? Killing those things had been relatively easy, though disgusting.

If I could grind my way through some of the less powerful monsters, maybe I could cobble together enough Shards to form a few more magical skills to help level the playing field.

I stowed the two Shards and took a few minutes to clean up while my Mana gauge finished refilling. I peeled off the Mechanix gloves, then splashed water from the busted sink pipe along my hands, arms, and face. It was blessedly cool and refreshing against my skin. I took a couple of mouthfuls and swished it around, trying to get rid of the deadly post-hangover morning breath kicking around inside my mouth.

It was a losing battle. Rinsing helped a little, though.

There was a chance the water was toxic, but it tasted fine, and I wouldn’t make it much longer before dehydration put me flat on my back with heatstroke. So, I threw caution to the wind, drank my fill, then filled up the empty Zima bottle. I tore off a huge wad of toilet paper from the Roll of Endless Wipe, packed it into a tight ball, then jammed it into the opening. It wouldn’t work well long term, but it was the best I could do for now.

I took one last look around the bathroom of nightmares, muttered a prayer that things would get easier from here, then unlocked the door and headed into the stairwell, bound for the greener pastures below.

At least, I hoped they were greener pastures and not a sewer of shit and misery.

CHAPTER 8

TO GREENER PASTURES

The stairwell was nothing special and blessedly devoid of monsters or unnamed horrors waiting to devour me the moment I let my guard down. It was just plain concrete, a simple metal handrail, and a series of switchbacks that eventually led me to an industrial door with a narrow rectangular window and a metal bar running across the front, just like the one I’d left behind. A sign above the door read “Exit” but there was nothing to indicate where the stairwell would dump me.

The door itself was locked, which wasn’t a huge surprise, but luckily the Janitor’s key opened this one as well. Before blundering out, I peeked through the window, trying to get my bearings and see if there were any obvious dangers waiting for me.

I’d worked at a lot of different construction sites over the past nine years—some private, others commercial—and I knew a shopping mall when I saw one.

This one looked years out of date, like something stuck, unchanged, in a time capsule since the 1980s. It was a sprawling, multi-level complex with tiled floors and broad salmon-colored columns rising up to a skyline I couldn’t quite see through the narrow strip of safety glass. The place was painted with cool pastel colors, and vibrant, pink neon lighting ran along the edges of the railing on the upper floors.

Hesitantly, I popped the door, shoving it open just enough to get a better look.

Off to the left was an expansive open courtyard with a water fountain in the center surrounded by several planters, overgrown with strange-looking vegetation. Palm trees and creeping vines, thick ferns and huge red-spotted flowers, easily the size of a man. No tag appeared when I looked at them, but instinct told me those things were probably trouble.

Best to steer clear.

A pair of escalators in the courtyard ascended to the second floor, and above them was a triangular glass ceiling. It didn’t look out onto the night sky. Instead, it peered out into… nothing. Just endless black, devoid of life. At least, I hoped it was devoid of life. I had the distinct impression I didn’t want to run into anything that might be swimming around in those dark waters. An eye-searing neon sign in shades of red, pink, and purple hung above the courtyard, declaring this place to be the Neon Junction Shopping Center.

A darkened hallway stretched out beyond the planters and the courtyard, lined with shops I couldn’t quite make out.

To the right were more shops, running along the lower level of the mall. Although the mall itself was rather gloomy, the garish neon signs above the boutiques were on, casting the floors and walls in a kaleidoscope of dream-like carnival colors. I’d never heard of any of the shops and everything about them was subtly wrong—almost as though they’d been designed and fabricated by someone who’d been told at great length about shopping malls but had never actually seen one in real life.

There was a place called Vinyl Vibes with a glossy black record dangling above the glass doors, decorated with concert posters for bands that didn’t exist. The Atomic Riot. Wildfire Wailers. Thunderflash and Velvet Voltage.

Beside the record store was the Glimmer Glam Boutique, showcasing mannequins in dazzling sequin dresses and vibrant power suits with enormous, padded shoulders. Their tagline summed the shop up perfectly: “Glittering Shadows, Where Dreams Scream in Neon!” Across the way from them was an antique store, Timeless Vintage Treasures, overflowing with lava lamps, leather bomber jackets, and plastic bobbles of every shape and size.

The only thing I really cared about, however, was nestled firmly between the antique store and a beauty shop called Big Hair Rising.

A bank. Eastside City Savings & Loan.

Perched just in front of the bank, waiting like a hunched-over gargoyle, was a clunky old-school ATM machine. Except, stenciled along the side of the gray box were the words Progenitor Monolith.

Either this was phenomenal luck or a trap, just like the bathroom had been.

The worst part was, I genuinely couldn’t tell which. And even though it probably was a trap, I already knew I was going to roll the dice and hope for the best, which was asinine. Hope was a terrible plan.

But what other option did I have?

Taking one final look around, I pushed the door fully open and eased myself out into the retro shopping mall. I tore off a generous heap of toilet paper from the Roll of Endless Wipe, then wadded it up and jammed it into the metal strike plate so the door couldn’t properly latch. I tested my handiwork, silently pushing and pulling the door open and shut a few times to make sure I’d have a way out if this all went sideways.

Satisfied that the door wasn’t going to arbitrarily lock on me at the worst possible moment, I made my way along the center of the hallway, staying as far away from the storefronts as possible. In some ways, this was dumb because anyone out in the main corridors would be able to see me instantly, but I had a feeling that the real threats weren’t out here. They were inside the stores themselves. I could’ve sworn the mannequins inside Glimmer Glam moved to get a better look at me as I passed by.

Finally, I stopped in front of the ATM/Progenitor Monolith, though I stayed a good ten feet away. I crouched down and examined the machine at eye level, looking for anything odd or strange that might give it away as a trap. The problem was, everything about this place was odd and strange, from the stores to the halls, to the monstrous murder machines waiting to skin me alive.

I licked my lips and rubbed at my jaw, warring with indecision.

Finally, however, I stood and slowly approached.

“Sorry to be a bother,” a voice squeaked from a nearby pool of shadow.

I froze, blood running cold, and whirled toward the voice. Without even thinking about it, my hammer leapt into my right hand while I prepared to launch a Bleach Bolt with my left.

A creature stepped out from behind one of the overgrown planters back in the courtyard and moved toward me slowly. Deliberately. As if I were a skittish kitten that might bolt at any second.

“I know, technically, it’s none of my business,” the thing said, “but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

It spoke with a friendly, masculine voice and had a strange, clipped accent that was hard to place. Not Australia. New Zealand maybe?

That wasn’t important.

What was important was that this thing was not human. Not even human-shaped. It looked like a medium-sized dog, except it was made entirely of blue Croc material—a smooth, glossy surface with a rubbery texture dotted with large holes.

As the creature approached, an identification tag flashed above its head.

Dweller 0.377F – Normal Human Dog [Level 7]

“They like to hide near stairwells, the mimics, I mean,” the dog said. Though, again, it was a dog in the same way a flip-flop was a dog. “Particularly stairwells that connect to the Lobby. Easy to catch fresh meat that way. They can be quite tricky. Sneaky.” The creature nodded its head toward the machine. “They know the new Delvers will be searching for one of the Monoliths, so it’s a good lure. This one isn’t very smart, though. Not like the mimics you’ll find on the lower levels. Those ones can talk. Think. Make deals, even. This one is young still. All just hunger and instinct.”

“That’s plenty far enough,” I said, raising my hammer in clear threat. The dog stopped, then sat on its haunches, its blue spotted tail waggling across the tile floor. “I’m a lot less concerned about what that is”—I hooked a thumb toward the ATM—“and a lot more concerned about whatever in the hell you are.”

“Sorry, but what do you mean?” the dog asked quizzically. “Didn’t you see the tag? I’m a Normal Human Dog. My designation is even marked F for friend. As in man’s best friend.”

“Yeah,” I said, “thing is, I’m a normal human and I’ve seen plenty of dogs. They don’t talk. And they aren’t made out of rubber. They also have fur and organs.” I paused, trying to gauge its reaction. “Now how’s about you try that again before I splatter you with a Bleach Bolt.”

“Aw, fiddlesticks,” the dog replied. Its tail ceased wagging and it lowered its muzzle. “I really thought I had it this time. I looked up a picture of a dog in one of the stores upstairs, Paperbacks and Paradoxes. Lovely little place. Except for the Bibliophages—nasty things, they are. Anyway, I found a kid’s book called Totally Real Human Animals and this is what the dogs looked like. But most of the Progenerated Materials in the Backrooms can be a little wonky.”

“Gee, you don’t say,” I replied flatly. “Is that what you are? What all these monsters are? Progenerated Materials?”

“In a way,” the not-dog said. “The levels are all Progenerated, of course. The stores and such as well. Technically everything that doesn’t have Material Significance. But the Dwellers are different. We’re not materially produced via the Influx Processing and Randomization System. Our distant ancestors were birthed by the God Box on level 1,000. Technically, for the sake of full transparency, it’s called the Progenitor Cube, but we all just call it the God Box. Also, I should amend that birthed probably isn’t the right term either. More like we’re thought into existence. It’s a small, but nuanced difference.”

“That means you’re one of them,” I said, not that there had ever been any doubt in my mind. It was a dog made of Croc material. “Like the Janitorial Handyman upstairs or those creepy Lobby Greeters.”

“Yeah,” the dog said dejectedly, “but also no.” It hunched up its shoulders in something resembling a shrug. “We’re not all bad. Our original purpose was as Helpmates. But most of the Dwellers lost their way. Forgot our purpose. I think it might have something to do with the Blight. Now they just crave anything with even the faintest whiff of Material Significance. They want something that’s real. Like that mimic there.” It once again bobbed its head toward the ATM.

“What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to build a little bit of rapport with this thing.

“Never really thought about it, to be honest,” the creature replied. “And no one’s ever bothered to give me one. You’re a human,” it stated with a hopeful edge in its voice, “you lot are great at naming things. Why don’t you give me a name?” Its tail wagged and thumped energetically.

I only had to think about it for a second before I said, “Croc.”

“Oh, that’s a good name,” the dog said, bobbing its head in agreement. “Is this what it’s like to have a friend? Because I quite like it.”

“That depends,” I said. “Friends don’t try to kill, eat, or dismember each other. So I guess the real question is, are you going to try to kill me, eat me, enslave my soul, or wear my skin like a fleshy jumpsuit?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to help,” the dog replied. “Admittedly, I haven’t had the best of luck with the new arrivals. The last guy I tried to help was Tim. Seemed like a nice enough bloke, but he got scared when I introduced myself and then he ran headlong into the Carnivora Rex, just over there.” It bobbed its nose toward the overgrown foliage. “Not sure what killed him first, the prolific bleeding or losing all his limbs at once.” Croc paused. “You know, now that I’m saying it out loud, it was probably the limb thing in retrospect.”

That didn’t put my mind at ease.

“Well, since we’re friends, Croc,” I pressed, “why don’t you tell me what you really are? Maybe show me what you look like beneath the dog suit.”

“Hmm, yeah, not sure that’s the best idea,” Croc replied uncertainly. “The guy before Tim—his name was Matthew—didn’t take it so well. Ended up falling face-first into the acid pool then the Reflection Lurker ate him. Which reminds me, under no circumstances should you try to drink out of the water fountain. It’s acid, and there is an enormous invisible fish that will one hundred percent eat you.”

“Friends trust each other, Croc,” I said, still gripping my hammer so tightly it hurt. “If you want me to trust you, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

The dog sighed then nodded. “Yeah, that’s what Matthew said too,” it mumbled half-heartedly under its breath. Then, without any further warning, its form bubbled and shifted.

CHAPTER 9

CROC DOG

In a matter of seconds, the Croc dog was gone, and a blob of bright blue goop appeared in its place. The creature had a small army of writhing tentacles, several different mouth orifices—all filled with far too many jagged teeth—and eyes. So many eyes. It almost reminded me of the weird, bloodred cloak that the Flayed Monarch had worn. The tag above the creature’s head shimmered and changed, this time reading:

Dweller 0.377A – Juvenile Polymorphic Mimic (Outcast) [Level 7]

I raised one hand and actively suppressed the urge to throw up in my mouth.

“I can make a lot of different shapes, if this one bothers you?” Croc offered helpfully, voice echoing out of at least seven different mouth holes simultaneously. “Here is a chair.” Its tentacles retracted and its body stretched and morphed, turning into a formidable wingback chair with padded armrests. There were blank eyes and a wide flat mouth set into the backrest. “I’ve also been working on my very human appearance as well. To blend in, and such.” Croc shimmered again, and this time assumed… a human-shaped being.

Except it looked boneless, almost as if it were made of playdough. It was maggot white, wore no clothes, was completely androgynous, with a smooth Ken-doll crotch, and had a face without a nose but a very large and unnerving smile.

“I can blend my shapes, too, in case you want a little bit of A and a little bit of B,” the utterly inhuman-looking creature said. “Here’s a dog-human hybrid.” Its shape blurred again, and a blue humanoid creature with overly long arms, an enormous wolf muzzle, and a pair of unblinking yellow eyes the size of tennis balls stared at me.

I shuddered in revulsion.

The unholy monstrosity before me reminded me of a furry…

My one true fear in the whole world.

It wasn’t that I had a sort of personal hatred toward furries per se—as long as everyone is a consenting human adult, I have zero shits to give about how people live their lives. With that said, I had an irrational and deep-seated phobia of the walking, talking anthropomorphic fur-balls. Again, it wasn’t a moral judgment, but furries managed to fall into uncanny valley territory, which triggered the reptilian, survival mechanism within my brain. Thankfully, the only time I ever saw them was at the occasional Comic-Con, and I always managed to keep a safe distance.

“Yeah, you know what?” I said. “That is much worse. Way, way, way worse. Why don’t you just go back to the normal human dog?”

“Good choice,” the creature said, shrinking back down into a retriever made from blue Croc material. “This form is a bit more approachable, I find.”

“Just for the sake of argument,” I said slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “how do I know you’re telling the truth? About the Progenitor Monolith, I mean.”

“Well,” Croc said, “a good rule of thumb around here is to assume that everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to murder you. So, let me just say that your initial distrust is a great step in the right direction. Your survival prospects have already improved! Still, for the sake of argument, if I really wanted you dead, I could’ve just not said anything and let the Monolith Mimic eat you. If you don’t believe me, you can always blast it with a spell. See for yourself.”

I hesitated for a beat. “My primary spell only works on organic matter,” I replied. “Won’t do anything against plastic or metal.”

“Believe you me,” Croc barked, “that thing is entirely organic. The basic mimics on the lower levels can’t actually transmogrify into things like metal, they can only look the part.”

“If I preemptively attack, won’t it fight back?” I asked.

“Probably,” Croc offered cheerily, “but they aren’t very strong. Low-level mimics are ambush predators, mostly. They can deal a tremendous amount of damage, but they have pitiful health.”

I glanced between the dog that wasn’t a dog and the ATM that may or may not have been an ATM. I wasn’t sure what the angle here was—maybe Croc was trying to get me to waste my spell on the ATM, then it would attack?

Or maybe it was actually being helpful.

“Although we’re building a good foundation for a relationship,” I said, “I’m warning you now. One wrong move and I’ll charbroil your ass with a flamethrower spell.” That was a lie, but the dog didn’t know what I was capable of. “I swear to God I will. I picked up a powerful Artifact in the lobby and I won’t hesitate to use it.” I stowed the hammer and pulled the Slammer out of my pocket, flashing it at the dog briefly. Not long enough for the creature to see what exactly I had, but just long enough for him to know I had something.

I figured that if Croc did charge, I could always activate the Slammer and shield myself long enough to come up with a better plan. Maybe even escape back into the stairwell with a little bit of luck.

Keeping one eye on Croc, I raised my left hand, took aim at the allegedly knockoff Progenitor Monolith, and let loose an orb of super-heated, highly corrosive super bleach.

The blue ball of congealed death splattered against the front of the machine and started to hiss as fingers of acrid smoke drifted up. The machine immediately split in half, and a huge ravenous mouth appeared directly in its center. Curved yellow teeth gnashed madly, and a purple tongue flapped as the creature screeched in rage. The whole machine rose on a pair of spindly legs and charged, its mouth snapping open and closed as it ran.

I dropped the Slammer onto the floor beside me and shouted the activation phrase—still feeling like a complete mook as I did. “Let’s Pog!”

The golden birdcage formed, and the timer popped up in the corner of my eye. The snarling would-be ATM collided with the dome of light and rebounded off as though it had just run face-first into a brick wall. It stumbled, trying to regain its balance, then pitched over and landed with a meaty thud. The corrosive Bleach Bolt was still going to town, mercilessly eating through its skin and muscle. It just lay there mewling and whimpering pathetically, its legs weakly pedaling in the air like a turtle that had been flipped over onto its shell.

This thing was a monster, but watching as it struggled and suffered, well… I almost felt bad.

Just like with the others, a tag appeared when I examined the monster a little more closely.

Dweller 0.372C – Juvenile Monomorphic Flytrap Mimic [Level 2]

So, this thing was a mimic, just like the talking dog—though obviously there were some significant differences between the two. The most important difference was that the talking dog had probably just saved my life. That still didn’t mean I could trust it, or him—I wasn’t quite sure which was the right term—since this could all be some sort of long con to get me to drop my guard. Except the mimic dog was level 7. The Janitorial Handyman I’d fought in the bathroom had been a level 3 and I’d barely walked away with my life.

True, I had the Bleach Bolt now, but I had a feeling that if that goofy-looking mutt wanted to kill me, it probably could without too much of a headache.

I pushed that to the back of my mind, bent over, picked up my Slammer, and deactivated the spell with a few words.

I’d burned through twelve seconds of spell time.

I slipped the coin back into my pocket and waited for the struggling mimic to right itself and charge again.

It didn’t.

“You’re lucky,” the dog called in its oddly chipper voice. “This one’s still young. Only has the one form. Plus, mimics tend to be extremely vulnerable against corrosive damage or poison spells. Little guy’s probably only a few weeks old. There must’ve been a hatching not too long ago.”

I stored that info away for later and readied my hammer.

My Mana gauge was recovering, but it would take a few minutes before I could launch another Bleach Bolt and I had no desire to stand here and watch this thing die slowly and painfully. Obviously, it was a monster, but it didn’t seem particularly evil or malicious. It was just a predator. An animal. Even animals deserved to have a quick, clean death.

I circled to the right, steering clear of its thrashing legs and lashing tongue, then angled inward toward the top of its head. Or what passed for a head, I guess. The creature let out some disheartening screeches and redoubled its efforts to murder me, but it was on its last legs—metaphorically speaking, of course.

In the most literal sense, it was on no legs.

Hardening my resolve, I brought the hammer roaring down, burying the head into what looked like melted plastic and metal, but what felt like pulpy meat. I kept swinging until the mimic stopped twitching and its anguished cries guttered and finally fell silent.

My hammer was covered in a sludgy golden ichor, and I used a bit of toilet paper to wipe it clean before slipping it back into my tool belt.

The mimic’s death had earned me 100 experience points and a new achievement, You’re So Basic.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

You’re So Basic

You’re a Basic Bitch in the most literal sense of the phrase, melting your enemies with a chemical cocktail more commonly found in the cleaning aisle than on the front line of a battlefield. But just because something’s Basic doesn’t mean it’s bad—Starbucks keeps the ol’ Pumpkin Spice around for a reason: because if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Slay, Queen!

Reward: 1 x Silver Elementalist Loot Token

On top of the modest experience and the extra achievement, when I looted the mimic’s corpse, I also found my second Relic, which took the form of a folding makeup compact with a small mirror inside. Instead of the typical color palette, this had makeup in hues of black and green, brown and tan. It was a camo face-painting kit. I’d had something similar during my time in the Corps, though I’d only ever used it in Boot Camp—not much need for forest face paint in the desert.

Basic Camo Kit – Camouflage Spell

Common Relic – Level 1

Range: Single Target

Cost: 2 Mana

Duration: 1 Minute

The ultimate spell for those intrepid Delvers who aspire to be just a smidgen harder to spot in the realm of mayhem and chaos. You one hundred percent will NOT be invisible, but by casting this Basic Camo Kit Camouflage Spell you’ll achieve the unparalleled feat of blending into the background… a little bit. For the duration of the spell, you’ll go from “immediately noticeable” to “moderately overlooked” in the blink of an eye. This Relic enables Mana usage.

I finished reading over the description, then dismissed the prompt and immediately pressed the stupid-looking camo makeup compact into my chest. There was a flare of heat as the Relic melted through my clothes and disappeared inside the black void that was my Spatial Core. It was only a common spell, and the description made it sound rather underwhelming, but it only cost 2 Mana to use, and it had a decent duration. Even if it made me only slightly more difficult to see, that might well save my ass down the road.

I wondered if there was some way to level up the spell itself.

It was listed as level 1 in the item description, which implied that it could potentially go higher. Maybe if I leveled the spell up enough, it would genuinely render me invisible, or the next best thing.

I didn’t have an answer to that question, but I knew who might be able to tell me. I glanced at the rubbery Croc dog, who was still keeping a respectful distance, its tail wagging enthusiastically.

“Don’t suppose you know how these Relics work?” I asked.

“Of course,” it said, sounding happy to be of use. “I mean, I’m not an expert or anything, but all the Dwellers know the essentials. We’re the source of the Relics, after all.”

“What do you mean the Dwellers are the source of the Relics?” I asked.

“They come from us,” Croc replied. “Inside us, I mean.” It tapped a paw against its chest. “Like I said, we’re thought manifestations, born from the God Box. The God Box is the source of all magic in the Backrooms, and each of us is invested with a little piece of its power. That’s what the Shards are. But as we evolve and advance, the Shards grow until they eventually transform into a Relic. Most of the Dwellers on the early levels only have one Relic or a couple of Common Shards, but the more powerful Dwellers on the lower floors sometimes have half a dozen or more.”

There was a lot to unpack there and at this point, I still wasn’t sure that I could trust Croc. Worse, even if I could trust the not-dog, I wasn’t even sure which questions to ask. There was just so much I didn’t understand about this place.

“Let’s put a pin in all that for now,” I said after a beat. “What about these Progenitor Monolith things I keep hearing about? Could you take me to one? A real one,” I amended, stealing a sidelong look at the dead mimic on the floor.

The dog paused, wiggling its nose. “Yeah, I suppose I could help with that. The closest one is in the next sector over, but I could get us there.” It faltered for a thin minute. “Might be a bit touch and go since we’ll have to get past the Blacklight Wisps, but I think we’ll be alright with just a little bit of good luck.” The dog turned and padded away.

Hoping for good luck was also a terrible plan, but standing around here twiddling my thumbs wasn’t any better. With no better options—and a fair bit of skepticism—I followed the dog deeper into the mall.

CHAPTER 10

RELICS GALORE

We headed away from the courtyard with the acidic water feature and the presumably carnivorous plants and to another intersection dotted with abandoned kiosks, which sold everything from candy and cheap plastic knickknacks to pungent-smelling facial creams and electric foot massagers. When I suggested that we loot them, Croc just chuckled and shook his rubbery head.

“Classic rookie mistake,” it said. “Are there some top-tier prizes to be taken? Of course. But you’ll never survive long enough to get ’em.” It chortled in amusement. “Everyone knows the kiosks are all rigged. Touch any of the items or even show too much interest and you’ll accidentally summon one of the Sales Sirens. They’re the perfect blend of metal and flesh, forged into the unstoppable selling machine. And by selling, I mean murder.”

Croc bobbed its head toward a set of wooden storage doors beneath a kiosk.

“Every kiosk has a set of those. They connect to a series of tunnels and underground caverns that link all the kiosks together, which is controlled by a single entity known as the Franchisor. The Sales Sirens themselves appear human, and though they’re rather weak, physically, you won’t find one lower than a level five.” Croc paused and glanced over one shoulder at me. “They have some truly insidious psychic abilities. You wouldn’t stand a chance, especially with a Grit score under fifteen.”

“What’s a Grit score?” I asked, edging a little further away from one of the kiosks.

“Oh, don’t worry about that too much,” Croc replied. “You’ll learn all about the various VIRUS stats once you finish integrating. Grit’s sort of like willpower, I suppose. It measures your mental determination and your ability to resist psionic attacks and psychic influences. You need to have a high Grit to go up against the Sirens. A while back, I was working with a Delver from Germany—a fella named Fritz. Headstrong, overconfident, wouldn’t listen to me. He tried to take on a Siren working at one of the hand cream booths with only a seven in Grit. Long story short, the hand cream was sentient and ended up crawling into Fritz’s lungs and then laying thousands of eggs inside his torso. Very messy.”

“I gotta be honest,” I said, “I find it a little off-putting that so many of the people you try to help wind up dead under some very horrific circumstances.”

Croc had no answer for that.

We ended up skirting the majority of the kiosks entirely by taking a narrow hallway with slate gray floors and beige walls, which led to the restrooms. Not that there was actually a restroom. Just an abundance of signs for them.

While we walked along a winding, disorienting set of identical corridors, I picked Croc’s brain about the Relics. There were a thousand things I wanted to know about the Backrooms and how they functioned—What the hell were the Backrooms? How the hell had I gotten here? How the hell did I get out?—but right now the Relics were the most important item on the list. They were the tools that would enable me to survive long enough to get those other questions answered.

“There are five different Relic ranks,” Croc explained, talking to me like I was a plucky third grader. “Common, Uncommon, Rare, Fabled, and Mythic. The same ranking system also holds true for Artifacts. The rarity level is assigned based on how frequently that spell or ability is spawned by the God Box amongst the Dwellers. Common through Rare Relics occur naturally—though snagging a Rare Relic above floor twenty-five is quite unlikely. Unless you kill a powerful Overseer or clear a Blight-infected area.”

“What about Fabled and Mythic?” I asked, constantly scanning the barren halls for any sign of threat.

“Yeah, those are a bit different,” Croc replied. “If you’re very lucky and you don’t die, you might be able to find a Fabled Relic below floor one hundred. Though, and I can’t stress this enough, no one, ever, under any circumstances, should venture that deep. As for Mythic Relics… They’re myths just like the name implies. Could be the Flayed Monarch has one, but I’ve never heard of any normal Delver finding one.”

Casual mention of the skinless horror sent a wave of goosebumps racing along my arms, but I kept my mouth firmly shut. I was a new Delver, still officially at level 0, with no legitimate reason whatsoever to even know who or what the Flayed Monarch was. I was starting to trust Croc a little, but I didn’t want to give anything away at this point. It was unlikely, but what if Croc was one of the Monarch’s Aspirants? Would the mimic dog immediately attempt to kill me once it knew I was in the crosshairs of the Skinless Court?

I didn’t know and I didn’t particularly want to find out. Certainly not until I’d visited one of the Monoliths and fully integrated my new abilities.

“See, the thing about Fabled and Mythic Relics is that they don’t occur naturally,” Croc continued without missing a beat. “Not like the Artifacts do. Fabled and Mythic Relics must be Forged by combining several lower-tier Relics with synergistic effects into a single, higher-tier Relic with a more specific or powerful effect. Thing is, combining Relics is very touch and go.

“It can be quite random, and there’s no telling what skill, spell, or ability will be generated. Combining a bunch of synergistic Rares to generate a Fabled Relic is just… Well, it’s mad, isn’t it? Instead of having three powerful Rare abilities, you might end up with a single Fabled ability with a power so specific and focused that it’s as good as useless. Who would do something like that?”

My mind immediately jumped back to the battle I’d witnessed between the time-worn gunslinger and the Flayed Monarch. Living deities would do something like that.

Now that I was starting to get a sense of how magic worked in this place, it was obvious to me that each of the two warriors must’ve had countless Artifacts and any number of insane and powerful Relics. Each had cast spell after spell, harnessing the forces of nature as though it were child’s play. I was betting every Relic they had was likely Fabled or Mythic. Clearly, those two were the type of creatures that inhabited the lower floors, and I happened to know the Flayed Monarch was actively gunning for me.

I’d been Marked for Death for a reason.

If I wanted to survive long enough to find a way out of this nightmarish hellhole, I was going to need to gamble big and pick up a few Fabled and Mythic Relics of my own. Thinking about that drew my thoughts to the brass compass tucked away in my tool belt. The encrypted item that had fallen out of the Monarch’s Spatial Core.

“What about Emblems?” I asked offhandedly, absently running my index finger along the cool metal.

Croc snorted. “Not even sure where you heard about Emblems, but you don’t need to worry about finding one of those.”

“It came up in one of the prompts,” I lied. “Let’s just say, hypothetically, I was to find one. What do they do?”

Croc shrugged. “Hypothetically, Emblems function the same as Relics, they’re just better in every conceivable way. Relics are powerful items, but there’s a catch. You can swap out individual Relics at will, but you can only ever have ten active Relics equipped to your Spatial Core at any given point—and that’s just as true for Dwellers as it is for Delvers, by the way. The reason why Emblems are so powerful is because they break that rule. Or bend it, anyway.

“I told you that Fabled and Mythic Relics are forged by combining several Relics with synergistic effects into a single, higher-tier Relic, right? It’s the same with Emblems. They aren’t spawned, they’re Forged. Created. But making one is difficult because the material requirements are insane. You need at least five Rare Relics which have already been Fully Tempered—meaning they cannot be Forged any further—and they all need to have a synergistic affinity for one another.”

I shook my head. “It sounds like you’re talking in cursive right now. Can you break it down shotgun-style for me?”

Croc mulled it over for a second. “To make an Emblem you take five extremely rare and powerful Relics, all with a related purpose, then fuse them together into a single set item. That item is an Emblem.”

“And why would someone want to do that?” I asked.

“Because,” Croc said, “all the core abilities and spells of an Emblem remain intact, but they can be equipped to your Spatial Core while only taking up a single Relic slot.”

The explanation clicked into place like a puzzle piece.

If I understood correctly, Emblems were less like individual abilities and more like a Class, which came with a bunch of different preselected abilities and spells. And I had one sitting in my tool belt. One that had presumably come directly from the Spatial Core of a demigod. I still didn’t know what the Compass of the Catacomber did, but that only motivated me to find a Monolith even quicker.

“Sounds confusing,” I replied, pulling my hand away from the brass compass. “Good thing I probably won’t live long enough to ever see one.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Croc replied, waggling his tail.

“What about the Relic levels?” I asked. “My Bleach Bolt is currently listed as a level 1 spell. Can I level it up through use? Like when I get experience points?”

Croc chuckled and shook his head. “That would certainly make things easier, but sadly it doesn’t work that way. The Researcher equips you Delvers with the VIRUS, which allows you to channel the Mana flowing through the Backrooms. Unfortunately, the Relics are like the Dwellers themselves—they’re manifestations of thought from the God Box. Although many are activated by Mana, they are distinct constructs. If you want to level a specific Relic, you’ll need to cannibalize the Generative Energy bound inside other Relics.

“You can sacrifice five Relics to raise the level of any single Relic by one level. Once a Relic hits level 5, it will undergo a qualitative shift and will change in some fundamental way. The effect will become more powerful, perhaps. Or maybe you’ll be able to cast it on additional targets. Sometimes the cost will drop. Hard to say what will happen, but it’ll be good. Once a Relic reaches level 5 the cost to advance it further increases twofold. You’ll need to sacrifice ten Relics to raise it each additional level. Once a Relic hits level 10, it’ll undergo another shift, and after that, it’ll cost twenty sacrifices to raise it each subsequent level.”

I whistled through my teeth.

Doing a little quick and dirty mental math, I realized I’d have to sacrifice one hundred and seventy different Relics to raise just one single Relic from level 1 to level 15. Accumulating so many magical treasures sounded like a costly and dangerous process.

“What happens if I were to raise the level of a specific Relic then forge it with another Relic? Would I just lose all the levels I’d built up?”

“Naw,” Croc replied, shaking its rubbery head. “The total number of levels from both Relics would be averaged, rounding down. If you combine a level 5 Relic and a level 1 Relic, you’d wind up with a new Relic that starts off at level 3. There is one important thing to point out about levels, though. When you kill a Dweller and harvest a Relic it will always start out as level 1, but the same isn’t true for you Delvers. If you die, all of your Relics retain their levels.”

“Wait,” I started to say, “but wouldn’t that incentivize—”

“Merciless, bloodthirsty gangs of roving Delvers who hunt other Delvers in order to harvest their Relics?” Croc finished before I could get the words out of my mouth.

“Yep,” I said flatly, already guessing at the answer.

“Yeah, sadly we have loads of those,” Croc replied with a heavy sigh. “The Restless Bones usually operate between floors four and nine. The Sisterhood of Smiles are holed up on twelve. No telling where the Children of the Vault will show up—terrifying little buggers. And those are just the warbands I can think of off the top of my head. Here on level three, we need to worry about the Repo Reapers and Hudson’s Red Hands. They’re part of the reason we’re going to cut through Barry’s Blacklight Emporium. The Wisps are dangerous but not nearly as dangerous as either of those two outfits.”

“Wait, we’re on floor three?” I asked, suddenly disoriented. “That can’t be right.” I ran a hand through my hair while my mind turned over the puzzle. “I came down from the Lobby, which, if I even remotely understand the layout of this place, is floor zero.”

“That’s an easy mistake to make, especially if you’re new,” Croc said matter-of-factly. “You’re right that the Lobby is considered floor zero, but the thing about the Backrooms is that time, space, and reality all work differently here than they do in the real world. This place exists in its own reality called Superspace. Most people think of the Backrooms like a big cube. A box with the floors stacked on top of each other, all nice and neat like the layers of a cake.

“But it isn’t. It’s a jumble. A mix-up. Most of the stairwells on any given floor will likely connect to an adjacent floor above or below, but sometimes not. Sometimes you skip a floor or two. Sometimes you skip a floor or two dozen. Believe me when I say, you do not want to accidentally stumble down one of the latter. That’s a good way to get dead.” Croc paused and turned, doubling back down a corridor we’d already passed through. “Ah, here we are at last,” it said, stopping in front of a gray metal door that hadn’t been there twenty seconds ago.

There was a paper sign taped to the wall with the words “Shortcut to Mall Shops” in big red letters. It could’ve been Sharpie, but the way the paper crinkled made me think it was probably something else. Like dried blood. On the door itself was a brown placard with the words “Level 3, I-420: Barry’s Blacklight Emporium!”

CHAPTER 11

BARRY’S BLACKLIGHT EMPORIUM

Barry’s Blacklight Emporium turned out to be a headshop.

Like everything else inside the Backrooms, however, Barry’s was a TV stereotype cranked to eleven, hit with a potent dose of psychedelic mushrooms, then vomited out by a sentient 3D printer. Bead curtains separated the doorways, eye-jarring tie-dye shirts and flags covered the walls, and there were several posters rendered in Rastafarian green, yellow, and red with a man who almost looked like Bob Marley but wasn’t. More like a version of Bob Marley sketched from memory by an amateur artist who was drunk.

The words “One love, one heart, one burrito. Let’s get spicy,” appeared below the man’s picture.

Along one wall was a display case filled with even more glassware.

Hookah pipes with octopus-like hoses. Bongs the size of my leg in a riot of colorful hues. Neat rows of smaller pipes and weird, clear glass rigs that looked like they belonged in a chemistry lab.

I examined several in passing.

Most did nothing at all and had no description, while one item—an Enchanted Dab Rig called The Blazer—could be used to increase the potency of certain alchemic elixirs and potions. I was curious about how Artifacts worked and why some things seemed to be magic while others weren’t, but now wasn’t the time or place to ask Croc about it.

Not while we were elbow-deep in hostile territory.

I’d only smoked pot once or twice in high school—it had never really held the same appeal as good ol’-fashioned liquor—but I was still tempted to snatch the enchanted Blazer on principle. Not because I had any inclination to get high, but because I figured something like that might come in handy later on. And if not, maybe I could sell it. If there were gangs and safe havens, then it stood to reason that there was some sort of economy here too. Trade was as old as humanity, and before the advent of modern-day fiat currency, barter had been the law of the land.

I figured something like that Blazer could probably get me three hots and a cot for a day.

Still, I resisted the impulse and kept my sticky fingers to myself, not wanting to trigger some sort of Hookah Horror that would undoubtedly attempt to strangle me to death or poison me with toxic clouds, or God only knew what else.

Not that we made it clear of Barry’s without incident.

We were closing in on the front entryway, which would dump us back into the mall proper, when we wandered a little too closely to a bunch of tacky blacklight posters.

There was an orange-and-red flaming skull with 8-balls for eyes. A psychedelic unicorn with a shimmering white coat and a flowing mane and tail that shifted between shades of pink and blue and purple. The cosmic dragon, with a huge serpentine body that appeared to be breathing out smaller dragons from its mouth, was my personal favorite. A close second was the Groovy Gargoyle—a stone behemoth wearing oversized sunglasses, one of its clawed hands held up in a peace sign.

There were a handful more just like that.

Electric Octopus. Technicolor T-Rex. A giant, golden phoenix that rightfully belonged on the hood of a ’73 Trans Am. Others, which were even more ridiculous.

They were all loud and obnoxious, but nothing more than gaudy eyesores. At least until the images started to bleed off the posters, circling around us in a kaleidoscope of shifting colors that left me feeling dizzy and a little stoned.

These were the Blacklight Wisps Croc had warned me about. They were enchanting creatures of light and illusion that could bewitch the senses and enthrall the feeble-minded.

Thankfully, they were all level 1s and 2s, with a single level 3 presiding over the whole bunch—the cosmic dragon, breathing smaller dragons, because of course it was that one.

Thankfully the Wisps were relatively harmless on their own. They were impervious to any sort of physical attack, and though they had some slight psionic ability, their real job was to confuse, disorient, and drive intruders deeper into the shop, where the nastier things that lurked in the glassware section waited to strike. Thankfully, Croc knew the score, and though I couldn’t harm the fanciful lights directly, destroying their velvety posters did the trick.

Killing them all took a lot longer than I wanted, and by the time I was done, I had a pounding headache that felt like the worst hangover of my life. Even worse than my hangover from Niko’s bachelor party. That was the result of several concentrated psionic attacks. The wisps weren’t all that powerful individually, but their attacks stacked over time. With so many of the wisps working against me, I could hardly see straight by the time the battle was done with.

It was worth the headache, though.

The level 1s each granted me twenty experience points, while the level 2s netted me fifty apiece. The level 3 cosmic dragon was worth a hundred and twenty-five, bringing the grand total up to 395 experience for the encounter. Additionally, I earned six more Common Shards—one from each of the level 1 wisps—and a small treasure trove of Relics.

I ended up with three identical Common Relics, all called Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding. The Relics resembled a Tinfoil Hat, as the name implied, and each came with a passive ability that raised my “Grit” by one point and offered me a two percent resistance against all forms of Hypnotic Psionics—which was any type of psychic attack that could unduly influence the mind or the physical senses. I tried to equip all three hats at once, hoping to stack the effect into a much larger bonus, but whatever laws governed the Backrooms prevented me from cutting corners and breaking rules.

Finally, I decided to leave one Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding equipped to my Spatial Core and stowed the other two in my tool belt. Maybe I could trade them at some point. That or sacrifice them to level up my Bleach Bolt spell.

I picked up one final item from the level 3 Blacklight Wisp. It was an Uncommon Relic, which took the form of a ridiculous tie-dye lava lamp.

Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: Line of Sight

Cost: 2 - 16 Mana

Duration: 15 Seconds

Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction allows you to conjure between 1 and 8 blacklight pixie dragons that will swirl through the air in a whirlwind of enchanting technicolor brilliance. Like a planetarium laser show, they’ll create a hypnotic dance of light that will distract your enemies, giving you the upper hand in combat for a second or two.

There’s also a tiny chance the dancing dragons will hypnotize any enemy onlookers, making them even more susceptible to your attacks. It’s like staring at the sun—you know it’s not good for you, but sometimes you just can’t look away. The more dragons you summon, the greater the likelihood of triggering the hypnotic effect. This Relic enables Mana usage.

Although it didn’t do any damage, it was still a powerful spell and one with a ton of potential uses. I immediately equipped it to my Core and conjured a pair of twin dragons. Each was about two feet long with a wingless, serpentine body. My blue Mana gauge immediately dropped to zero. It seemed that with my current Mana supply, I could only summon two of the creatures before I ran dry.

The dragons themselves were graceful creatures that dived and twirled through elaborate loops and patterns, opening their mouths and shooting out sprays of beautiful, multicolored sparks. I wasn’t sure how much these things would help in combat—especially since it would cost most of my Mana to cast the spell, but it would make a great party trick if I ever found a bar.

The real prize, however, wasn’t the experience, the Shards, the Relic, or anything that lay inside Barry’s Blacklight Emporium. It was what was just outside the front doors.

A Progenitor Monolith.

This time a real one that wouldn’t try to bite my face off.

The slate gray Progenitor Monolith looked exactly like the hulking, old-school ATM, which had been sitting outside of the Eastside City Savings & Loan shop. Curiously, this one was also positioned in front of a fictional bank I’d never heard of called Fairview Heights Community Bank. I didn’t have enough evidence yet to say it was a pattern, but it certainly didn’t seem like a coincidence.

Although Croc assured me that this monolith was legit and wouldn’t try to turn me into a midday snack, I lobbed a ball of super bleach at it anyway. Just for good measure. The blob of blue goop splashed against the side of the boxy machine, then slid down, doing no damage but leaving an especially shiny streak of gray plastic in its wake.

The stuff really did work miracles on dirty surfaces.

“See, I told you this one was the real deal,” Croc said, though there was no malice in the words. The mimic dog was just friendly and helpful. In a place where everything wanted to murder and eat you, friendly and helpful were somehow even more suspicious. But so far, Croc had been an open book and hadn’t done anything to make me worry about its intentions.

“Just following the first rule,” I replied over one shoulder, keeping my eyes trained on the monolith. “Assume that everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to kill you.”

“Hey, that’s what I said,” Croc replied happily. “You listened. No one’s ever listened before. There was this one Delver, Meadow, who said she was listening, but then she wandered into the ball pit inside Animatronic Adventure Arcade against my express advice. The ball gremlins ate her from the waist down. Such a shame.”

I grimaced, and this time, I did look back at him. “Croc, just how many Delvers have you tried to help?”

The mimic sat back on its haunches, tail waggling, doggy face screwed up in a thoughtful expression. That was hard to do since Croc didn’t have eyes.

“Time is funny here,” Croc replied after a few moments, “and I’ve been here a long time. Several decades, I’d say. Hard to keep track of all the Delvers that’ve passed through during that time.”

“I don’t need an exact number,” I said. “Just, sort of ballpark for me.”

“Well, I’d say somewhere north of three hundred then.”

“And they’re all dead?” I choked out.

“The Backrooms are a very dangerous place,” Croc confided as though that should be entirely self-evident, and he couldn’t possibly be to blame. “Plus, bear in mind, I’ve made it my mission to help brand-new Delvers, who are the most likely ones to die. I can think of twenty or so who made it past a week and a handful that survived a month. In my experience, it’s best not to think about the numbers—it can be a teensy bit depressing. But I’m sure you’ll be different. You remind me of Caroline, a real fighter. Lots of pep and spunk!”

“What happened to Caroline?” I asked, knowing I probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

Croc’s expression faltered and his eyeholes drooped a little. “Disemboweled by a Fitting Room Mirror Ghoul inside the Bargain Bazaar on the eighth floor. Very tragic.”

“That’s encouraging,” I said, mind already calculating how boned I was. Based on everything I knew so far, the answer was very.

Except…

Except, I had one thing none of those other poor schmucks did. I ran my fingers over the brass compass. I had an Emblem, stolen from one of the most powerful residents of the Backrooms. That had to count for something, assuming I could figure out how to use it.

I looked at Croc, who still looked rather dejected. “Can you add eyes?” I asked on a whim. “It’s hard to tell what you’re thinking without eyes.”

“Yes!” Croc replied enthusiastically, its moment of melancholy suddenly forgotten. “That is definitely something within my wheelhouse.” The blue Croc dog shook its head, once then twice. When it stopped moving it had an oversized pair of plastic googly eyes, resting above its doggy snout. “Is that better? More relatable and friendly?”

I snorted and nodded. “Yeah, it’s perfect,” I said, actually feeling a little bit better. “Exactly what I had in mind.” The compliment set the dog’s tail to waggling so hard I thought it might take flight. With a half smile on my face, I closed the gap to the Monolith in three long strides. “Here goes nothing,” I muttered, slapping my hand against the machine.

CHAPTER 12

THE BACKROOMS VIRUS

Iheard the sharp whirl of a motor start up as digital text flickered to life on a small screen. Welcome to the Backrooms! To access your Personal VIRUS Account, please place your bare hand on the palm reader, then select an option from the menu! There was a blue square light on the gray plastic console with the green outline of a handprint emblazoned on the surface. The green handprint blinked on and off at me like a winking eye.

Reluctantly, I peeled off one of my Mechanix gloves, shoved it into my tool belt, then complied. The scanner was warm against my skin and thrummed with faint energy. New words blinked onto the screen.

New user detected! Initializing account setup and VIRUS integration process. Please be patient, this will only take a few moments. Rest assured, any discomfort you feel is totally normal. Please note, side effects may include heart eruption, brain implosion, limb disfiguration, and catastrophic central nervous system failure. The Variant Research Division is not financially or legally culpable for any damage suffered while using the Progenitor Monolith.

Before I could even finish reading all the fine print, the motor whirled even more loudly, like a helicopter preparing for takeoff. There was a blindingly bright series of camera flashes, taking photos in rapid-fire succession. It was a dazzling spectacle that left me feeling like some famous celeb getting ambushed by a small army of paparazzi. At the same moment, a surge of electricity rushed up through my hand and took a lap along every single nerve ending in my body all at once.

During my early days as a general contractor, I’d been working at a site where some DIY-er had installed a series of overhead lights with the worst wiring job I’d ever seen. I’d been removing a section of damaged drywall and ended up connecting to an exposed live wire tucked away behind a stud. That wire had been a house fire waiting to happen, but instead of burning the place down, it sent electricity surging through my pry bar and into my hand.

I remembered the experience vividly, and this was just like that.

My muscles seized, my body convulsed, and the scent of cooking meat hung thick in my nose. Thanks to the searing pain throbbing in my right palm, it wasn’t hard to figure out where the aroma was coming from, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I’d metaphorically strapped myself to the back of an angry rodeo bull and now all I could do was hang on for the ride and hope this thing didn’t kill me or turn my brain into a bowl of hot mush.

After what felt like a thousand years, the power cut off and I dropped to my knees, gulping in greedy lungfuls of delicious air. Small curls of smoke rose from my hand and drifted up from my arms. My muscles ached and it felt like I’d been wrung out like a wet washcloth.

Curiously, however, a host of other minor issues had disappeared. I examined my chest and immediately saw that the bite mark from the toilet snake was no longer fresh and raw, but rather had turned into a faint circle of white scar tissue. With a wince, I jerked my hand away, but when I examined my palm, there wasn’t a mark on my skin. It wasn’t even red. Mystified, I struggled to my feet and looked down at the pad, fully expecting to see a layer of charred meat plastered to the surface of the palm reader.

But there was nothing.

I glanced at the tiny digital screen. There was a new message waiting for me.

Welcome to your Personal VIRUS Account, Dan Woodridge, Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C! You have successfully integrated with the Progenitor VIRUS (Variant Individual Registry Upgrade System, Iteration 21.2), brought to you by the Variant Research Division, Making Reality Better!

Although a small portion of Delvers experience some slight discomfort during the integration process, you have survived. Congratulations! Now that your neural framework and biological blueprint have been successfully scanned and registered with the Researcher and the Progenitor Core, you have full access to a host of new features, including the Subspace Storage System, the Research Department Job Board, and the Delver Interface Portal, which contains your Specimen Bio-Report (SBR).

To learn more, please use the Monolith Keypad to select an available option.

1. Subspace Storage System

2. Delver Interface Portal

3. Research Department Job Board

4. Learn About the Variant Research Project!

I scanned the menu, feeling a sense of relief that I was finally going to get a few answers.

Although every available option looked fascinating, I skipped down to option four—Learn About the Variant Research Project!—and mashed the button on the metallic keypad with one finger. The semitranslucent prompt screen I’d become so familiar with appeared, hovering just above the Monolith’s gray plastic exterior. Hope flickered, but then my smile turned to a frown as I read.

Whoops! Looks like you’ve attempted to access an obsolete or out-of-date section of the Delver Interface Portal. These files may have been restricted, deleted, or corrupted. If you’d like to attempt to recover these files, please visit one of the designated Research Labs located on the lower levels.

I skimmed the words once more with annoyance.

Why had I honestly expected this place to give me necessary, life-saving information without dicking me around first? Begrudgingly, I thumbed the number one—Subspace Storage System—hoping this option wasn’t broken as well. The error message was whisked away, and new information crawled across the floating screen.

Congratulations! As a fully integrated Delver, you can now access your personal Subspace Storage System, a unique inventory that allows you to store up to 2,000 pounds of physical material in a secure extradimensional space, accessible only by you. You may deposit or withdraw items from your Subspace Storage System at any time thanks to our handy-dandy “On-the-Go” Inventory Portal.

This intuitive system allows you to shred the fabric of space and time without breaking a sweat, storing any non-living items indefinitely. All Variant Subspace Storage Systems are time-locked, meaning any perishable items contained within will remain unspoiled until removed from Storage. To obtain a comprehensive, itemized list of all objects stored within your Subspace Storage System, please visit the Inventory Portal Tab at any available Monolith!

Would you like to view an itemized list of your Subspace Storage System? Yes/No

I selected yes, half-expecting the storage system to be empty, but was pleasantly surprised when a list of items materialized.

- 8 x Copper Delver Loot Token

- 5 x Copper Medic! Loot Token

- 1 x Copper Slayer Loot Token

- 1 x Copper Brawler Loot Token

- 1 x Silver Delver Loot Token

- 1 x Silver Medic! Loot Token

- 1 x Silver Elementalist Loot Token

- 1 x Gold Weaponsmith Loot Token

- 1 x Gold Ambassador Loot Token

- 1 x Diamond Sentinel Loot Token

- 1 x Ruby Warlord Loot Token

- Current Weight: 1.75lbs/2,000 lbs

Huh. So that was where all the various Loot Tokens I’d earned had ended up.

I still didn’t know what they did or how to use them, but at least now I knew how to get my hands on ’em. With a thought, I selected one of the Copper Delver Loot Tokens. A small black rift, like a thin slice in reality itself, appeared in the air beside me. Suspended inside the rift was a single copper coin. Tentatively, I reached in—silently praying the rift didn’t snap closed and cut my arm off at the elbow—and pulled the item free.

It was copper and looked like a video game arcade token. On one side were the words Variant Research Division, Making Reality Better! On the other face was the picture of an eight-bit pick-axe encircled by the words Delver Loot Token - NO Cash Value. I held the coin tightly in my hand but the steady thrum that often emanated from Artifacts and Relics was absent and when I tried to examine the token further, nothing came up.

This was just a coin. An arcade token, like it said.

But if it really was an arcade token, then maybe there was some way to redeem it or use it. Turn it in for a prize, maybe. I’d have to ask Croc about that later.

Instead of pocketing the coin, I summoned the black rift in space-time once again and flicked the coin in. The void ate it up then vanished with a wink. I rechecked the itemized Storage list and noted that I had eight copper Delver Loot Tokens once again. Out of sheer curiosity, I reached down and did the same thing with the Zima bottle half full of water from the Lobby bathroom. It vanished into the black rift just the same as the coin, then a line item popped up on the inventory list.

- Zima Bottle – Half Full (Water)

Everything about this place was terrible, but I had to admit that little party trick was almost worth the price of admission. I added a few other items from my pockets and tool belt into the Subspace Storage System. My Endless Roll of Wipe, the two extra Tinfoil Hat Relics, all eight of my Common Shards, and a handful of loose screws and nails, which had been rattling around in the bottom of an exterior pouch.

The important things I kept on hand, though.

All of my tools, the Zima healing elixir, the Slammer of Shielding, and, of course, the brass compass that had somehow fallen out of the Flayed Monarch’s Spatial Core. That I intended to use as soon as possible, but I needed to make a few adjustments before I could equip it. Even though I’d fully integrated with the VIRUS, I still didn’t have a high enough Perception or Resonance.

I was hoping the Delver Interface Portal option would help with that.

I jabbed the number 2 button on the keypad and my Inventory List vanished, replaced yet again by a new greeting message.

Welcome to your Delver Interface Portal, which contains your Specimen Bio-Report (SBR). The SBR is a comprehensive personal file that contains a host of useful biometric and meta-reality information, including current status conditions, comprehensive injury reports, and a list of all active Relics and Titles. Any Personal Enhancement Points, earned from level advancement, can also be distributed through the SBR tab, via a Monolith.

Would you like to view your SBR? Yes/No

I selected yes and the image on the screen changed.

A floating 3D avatar of myself appeared, visible only to my eyes, and beside it was a character sheet. Or a “Specimen Bio-Report” I guess—although I’d played enough D&D and RPG games to know a character sheet when I saw one. There was a general overview page, which held all of my basic and most pertinent information—name, race, attribute stats, and equipped Relics and Titles—and several other tabs that covered a wide range of additional information, such as my research achievements, status conditions, and a complete medical record.

And when I say complete, I mean complete.

It had details from the time I broke my arm in middle school and even the time I got a terrible staph infection after getting bitten by a camel spider in Iraq. On top of past injuries, it also tracked my current health conditions, including a comprehensive, real-time blood work panel that monitored everything from my glucose value to my electrolyte levels and flagged anything that was outside of the standard range. How this system had any of that information was beyond me, but it was certainly impressive.

After a quick scan, I moved on to the overview page, which contained the bulk of the relevant information.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 5

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 3,715

Next Level: 4,250

Personal Enhancement Points: 20

__ __ __

Health: 28

Health-Regen/Hour: 1.3

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 16

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 1.2

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 8

Mana-Regen/Minute: 0.8

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 6 (5 + 1 Enhanced)

Athleticism: 5

Toughness: 6

Perception: 4

Resonance: 3

Preservation: 1

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Basic Camo Kit, Camouflage Spell – Level 1

(C) Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding – Level 1

(U) Bleach Bolt: The Unidentified Stain Eradicator – Level 1

(U) Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction – Level 1

Current Titles – Passive

Out of Your League, Deathwish, Marked for Death, Weapon of Opportunity

Although I still didn’t understand why I had a Specimen Bio-Report or a knockoff D&D character sheet, a lot of the information it contained was intuitive. My Health and Mana, for instance, and the level progression system. The Individual Adaptive Stats, however, were anything but run-of-the-mill. What the hell was Resonance? And why did I only have one point in Preservation?

I mean, I didn’t actually know what Preservation was, but that seemed insultingly low.

As I focused on each, a cracked-out animated paper clip appeared that looked just like Clippy, the old Microsoft Word assistant. Except, somehow, this version radiated the energy of a fifty-seven-year-old man with a potbelly, a drinking problem, two ex-wives, and a brood of kids who refused to see him even on holidays. It was singly the most depressing animated assistant I’d ever seen.

“Use the tooltips to learn more shit,” the paper clip said morosely. “Or don’t. It’s no skin off my teeth either way.” That done, the paper clip removed a pack of cigarettes and lit up a virtual Marlboro Red, seeming to delight in the harsh smoke.

Despite his world-weary appearance, the animated paper clip did indeed have some great—if rather unenthusiastic—tooltips, which offered me a curt, though thorough, overview of what each of the various stats was used for.

- Grit is the epitome of unyielding fortitude and ironclad will. It measures your mental determination, perseverance, and ability to resist psionic attacks and psychic influences.

- Athleticism measures your overall physical prowess, encompassing strength, speed, and agility. Smash through obstacles, gracefully dodge traps, and strike with unerring precision.

- Toughness measures your raw physical fortitude: your ability to endure adverse conditions such as pain and fatigue, and to recover from injuries that would cripple or kill lesser beings. In the Backrooms, if you aren’t smart, you better be tough.

- Perception measures your awareness and ability to perceive details, such as noticing hidden traps, detecting lies, or sensing danger. This is that smart thing I was talking about before.

- Resonance measures your connection to the Mana that permeates the extradimensional Superspace between worlds. Greater Resonance directly increases your ability to harness the magical power generated by the Progenitor Core.

- Preservation measures your ability to withstand and resist the corruption brought on by prolonged exposure to the Blight. The best cure for the Blight is to not get it. The second-best cure is dying. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough: DO NOT CONTRACT THE BLIGHT!

I carefully read through each stat, not wanting to miss anything vital, before finally dismissing the overworked paper clip and his tooltips with a wave of one hand. With new knowledge burning through my mind, I went back and reexamined my SBR Overview. I wasn’t sure what the baseline stats for a normal Joe Blow were, but based on my own stats, I was guessing eight or nine must’ve been at the far end of the bell curve.

I wasn’t an Olympic athlete by any stretch of the imagination, but I was a former Marine, worked out regularly, and had a physically demanding job. My Athleticism was at 5, so I figured that had to be a notch above average. Not great, but not terrible either. Likewise, both my Toughness and Grit were at 6, which rang true. I may not have been the strongest sumbitch around, but I was tougher than old boot leather and didn’t know the meaning of the word quit.

But I was far more interested in the fact that I had 20 Personal Enhancement Points to spend. Assuming an eight really was the upper limit of human ability, if I dropped all twenty points into Athleticism, I would officially become stronger than the strongest living person on planet Earth, and it wouldn’t even be close.

I was tempted to do that, just to see how jacked I got.

As entertaining as that thought was, I quickly dismissed it, thinking back to the Compass of the Catacomber sitting in my tool belt. I wasn’t sure what it would do, but it was a Mythic Emblem, and to use it, I needed a Perception of 10 and a Resonance of 15. With my current stats, hitting the Emblem’s base requirements would cost me all but two of my Personal Enhancement Points. My gut told me it would be worth it in the long run, even if it was still a big gamble in the short term.

I’d been leveling up quickly so far, but that was how these things always went. The early levels were the easiest, but the grind got increasingly more difficult the higher you progressed. I was sure this would be no different.

Making this choice was a risk, and it went against my natural instincts, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Before I could talk myself out of it, I dropped twelve points into Resonance and six into Perception. Then, even though it killed me a little on the inside, I used the last two points to boost my Preservation stat up to 3. I’d heard Croc mention the Blight a couple of times, and although it was still just as much of a mystery as everything else in the Backrooms, I knew for damn certain I didn’t want to get it—especially not if the second-best cure was literally just dying.

With my points distributed, it was finally time to see what the Compass of the Catacomber could do…

CHAPTER 13

COMPASS OF THE CATACOMBER

Ilooked over my newly upgraded stats once more before closing out my SBR tab.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 5

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 3,715

Next Level: 4,250

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 28

Health-Regen/Hour: 1.3

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 16

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 1.2

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 35

Mana-Regen/Minute: 2.9

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 6 (5 + 1 Enhanced)

Athleticism: 5

Toughness: 6

Perception: 10

Resonance: 15

Preservation: 3

The only thing that had really changed was the size of my Mana Pool and my Mana Regeneration Rate. The overall amount of Mana I had at my disposal had quadrupled and my Regen rate had tripled. I could now cast Bleach Bolt seven times in rapid-fire succession before running dry. It still felt like my Regen rate was as slow as a narcoleptic sloth, but that just meant I needed to pace myself—be strategic in how I used the spells I had at my disposal.

I closed the Monolith Menu screen and fished out the brass compass, holding it flat against my palm. Time to see if this horse could run.

Compass of the Catacomber

Mythic Emblem

The Backrooms are filled with a thousand dangers, from lethal traps to ravenous Dwellers, but none are more deadly than the murky, ever-twisting, ever-changing corridors of the Backrooms themselves. Though many Delvers perish at the claws and fangs of inhuman horrors, even more die thirsty, hungry, and alone, trapped in a dark room with no way out.

Not the Catacomber.

The Catacomber is a twisted blend of cartographer and cryptic graveyard robber. Though lacking in combat prowess, a unique blend of skills and spells allows those holding this Mythic Emblem to map the uncharted depths, effortlessly venturing where others fear to tread. In a world of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The Catacomber has both eyes open and a torch that will never go out.

As I finished reading over the Emblem description, I was surprised by how different it was than the other Relics I’d seen so far. Each Relic was essentially a single skill or spell, which could be leveled up, swapped out, or forged into more powerful skills at will. But they were always just a single ability. This was different. This read like an RPG class description. A class that specialized not in combat or even spell-slinging, but in navigation.

I’d played D&D and online MMOs for years, and I always tended toward the brawler builds. Hit first, hit hard, ask questions later. Under any other circumstances, I would’ve run as fast as possible to get away from a lame-ass class that revolved around disarming traps or making maps—even now it sounded so incredibly boring. But I wasn’t playing a game, I reminded myself. This was my life, and I was trapped inside of an endless labyrinth where everything, including the furniture, was deadly.

Because I’d invested the bulk of my Personal Enhancement Points into Perception and Resonance, I was as squishy and vulnerable as a basket of newborn kittens, but if the Emblem allowed me to avoid fights, sidestep pitfalls, and find shelter, it would be well worth my comparatively abysmal Athleticism and Toughness score.

I peeled my gaze away from the Catacomber description and looked at the six “Emblem Slots” listed beneath. In essence, each one was a distinct Relic, all fused together under one umbrella, just like Croc had explained.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 1: Mapmaker’s Eye

Fabled Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

Mapmaker’s Eye is a passive feature that allows the Catacomber to generate a visual Map of the Backrooms as they explore. Unexplored areas stay veiled by the “Fog of War,” but once a section has been visited, the floor map will remain intact even after a “Floor Shift” occurs. The presence of benign and hostile Dwellers, secret doorways, and other Delvers will also be indicated on the Map.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 2: Surveyor’s Mark

Rare Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

The Backrooms are a living organism, and as such, the corridors, rooms, and byways that make up each floor are extremely resistant to external change. Trying to alter or even mark the surface in any way is futile at best and potentially life-threatening at worst. Surveyor’s Mark is a passive ability that allows the Catacomber to mark their path through the Backrooms, leaving a trail others can follow.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 3: Spelunker’s Sixth Sense

Fabled Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

After years of traversing treacherous tunnels and crumbling ruins, the Catacomber has developed an uncanny passive ability to detect insidious traps and spot concealed foes with almost casual indifference. Many develop an almost perverse fascination with disarming and rearming the traps, often to the rage of those who laid them in the first place. Their uncanny passive ability also allows them to spot loot from a mile off, much to the envy of their fellow adventurers.

I whistled through my teeth as I read.

The first three abilities alone were enough to make the Compass of the Catacomber a priceless item that anyone inside the Backrooms would kill for. I’d spent less than a day here, but after wandering aimlessly through the Lobby—constantly on the move from unseen threats, stalking me from dim shadows—I knew exactly how miserable, disorienting, and dangerous this place was.

Even my rudimentary attempts at creating a map had proven useful, but in a place this size, I doubted that walking around with reams of paper was a tenable solution. But a map that I could look at in real-time? And one that actively labeled secret passageways or hostile enemies? Yeah, that would make life considerably easier. That, paired with Spelunker’s Sixth Sense would let me easily avoid so many of the environmental dangers the Backrooms had to offer.

Sure, I’d still have to worry about running into a gang of cannibalistic Delvers or roaming packs of tentacle-faced Dwellers, but I wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally having my face melted off by an acidic water fountain.

Surveyor’s Mark was less immediately applicable, especially since I had the map to help guide my feet and I was currently alone. If it was included with the Emblem, however, I was sure there was a good reason for it.

If the first three abilities made the Emblem priceless, the last three made it a treasure fit only for a king. Or for a god.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 4: The Researcher’s Codex

Fabled Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

Despite its current function, the Progenitor Ship was originally designed as a Researcher Vessel. As such, it contains a host of valuable information on all the Delvers and Dwellers who now inhabit its endless and ever-changing corridors. This passive skill grants the Catacomber a Credential Key for all restricted Variant Research Division Labs and additional insight into the varied inhabitants of the Backrooms, including their strengths, weaknesses, skills, and behaviors. The Researcher’s Codex Notes will be accessed, compiled, and disseminated through your Localized Administrator.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 5: Pathfinder’s Unerring Arrow

Fabled Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

Range: Line of Sight

Cost: 30 Mana

Duration: 30 Seconds

Using the Pathfinder’s Unerring Arrow, the Catacomber conjures an illusionary blue arrow, visible only to them, which will lead unerringly to any objective fixed firmly in the Catacomber’s mind. With each step taken, the conjured arrow extends its reach, always pointing in the optimal direction, bypassing obstacles, dangers, and hindrances, which allows the caster to navigate even the most treacherous environments with unflagging confidence.

__ __ __

Emblem Slot 6: Corvo’s Blanket Fort

Mythic Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

Kids all over the world are well-acquainted with the boundless joy of rearranging and repurposing couch cushions and bed blankets to make an awesome fort. This is just the grown-up, extra-dimensional version of that. Use Corvo’s Blanket Fort ability to cordon off a portion of the Backrooms and claim it as your own, transforming the area into a cozy little pocket dimension that you can always retreat to when the going gets too rough.

As with any good blanket fort, your pocket dimension can grow by adding extra material. The Catacomber can add 2,500 square feet of space to their Blanket Fort for every Variant Assimilation Level earned. Think of it as a high-end real estate investment, only with fewer property taxes and more flesh-eating monsters.

But the best is yet to come.

As with all real estate, they say it’s all about location, location, location, and with Blanket Fort, you always have an optimal location. This ability allows the Catacomber to create one Doorway Anchor per two Variant Assimilation Levels. A Doorway Anchor can transform any standard door within the Backrooms into a dimensional gateway that connects directly to their slice of paradise. Doorway Anchors can be moved at any time and may be set to private or public, restricting who can enter the comfort of your own personal hell.

For a full list of Blanket Fort features and options, please see the Blanket Fort DIY Operations Manual, available after claiming your first section of the Backrooms!

As I finished reading, a cold sweat washed over me, and I found myself acutely aware of how much trouble I was in. The Compass of the Catacomber was… Amazing didn’t quite feel like an adequate term, but I wasn’t sure anything else fit. Incredible? Astonishing? Divine? It was all of those things and then some. In the Backrooms, knowledge was power, which made the Researcher’s Codex a weapon that would start paying dividends the second I used it.

And it was nothing compared to Pathfinder’s Unerring Arrow or the ridiculously named Corvo’s Blanket Fort. Although Mapmaker’s Eye would allow me to draft a map, it was still limited in scope—I needed to physically go someplace before the Fog of War lifted, but Pathfinder’s Unerring Arrow would allow me to sidestep that limitation. It could take me anywhere I wanted to go with a thought.

Need a stairwell? Just think of one. Food running low? A little magic, a splash of razzle-dazzle, and boom, I’d know exactly how to get there in the quickest, most efficient manner possible.

As for the Mythic Corvo’s Blanket Fort ability…

I literally couldn’t think of a more powerful skill in an endless, ever-changing dungeon. With that, I could create a safe haven, one which would be accessible at any point from any location within the Backrooms, and unlike the other Relics, this one would scale with me over time. I could attach more and more spaces as I leveled up, until I essentially had my own self-contained kingdom with everything I could possibly need within.

It was awesome.

That was also the problem.

It was too awesome.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that this was the kind of power kingdoms were built upon. Literally, in this case. I wasn’t sure how the grizzled gunslinger with the foam anime sword had knocked this Emblem out of the Flayed Monarch’s Spatial Core—probably some sort of specialized Relic or Artifact, if I had to guess—but there was one thing I knew as certain as the sun rose in the east and set in the west: the Flayed Monarch would come looking for this particular lost treasure.

Even if I somehow managed to give the Compass back to the eldritch warlord, I got the sense he wasn’t exactly the forgiving type. More the slice-your-skin-off, boil-you-in-oil, then hang-you-to-death-with-loops-of-your-own-intestine type.

This compass had effectively painted a target on my back that was visible from outer space. Sure, the Backrooms were enormous, but I got the sense that the Monarch had eyes, ears, and hands all over the place. It was only a matter of time before a member of the Skinless Court found me. Once they did, the Flayed Monarch would come a-callin’, and when that happened, I’d be a dead man. End of story.

Unless…

Unless I figured out a way to use the Compass to my advantage.

But therein lay the second problem.

Although each of the Relics contained within the Emblem was ridiculously overpowered in their own way, they weren’t ridiculously overpowered in the right way. I had a bunch of high-end screwdrivers when all I really needed was a rugged, hard-hitting sledgehammer. Sure, they would help me survive the Backrooms, but they wouldn’t help me survive the wrath of an angry god, and that was my long-term goal. Really, my only goal at this point.

Every single skill was utility-oriented.

None of them would make me stronger, faster, or offer me extraordinary combat capabilities. They offered information, convenience, and safety. Under any other set of circumstances, finding the Emblem would’ve been a one-way ticket to easy street in the Backrooms. But given my particular situation, it would only delay my inevitable, and very painful, death. What I needed were Artifacts and Relics. God-tier ones. The battle between the gunslinger and the Monarch played out in my head, just like it had a hundred times before.

A cloud of telekinetically controlled flying weapons. A legion of loyal minions. Corrosive rain that melted anything it touched. The ability to blink effortlessly through space and time. To throw lightning bolts from the palm of one hand. That’s what real power looked like.

The Compass couldn’t give me any of that.

Not directly anyway. But…

The barest shadow of an idea began to form.

True, the Compass couldn’t directly give me the power to go toe-to-toe with the Monarch, but maybe there was a way it could indirectly help me achieve my long-term goals. I ran one hand absently through my hair as I turned that notion over and over inside my head. Information, convenience, and safety. As the words tumbled through my skull like a record stuck on loop, it hit me.

Information, convenience, and safety weren’t just me problems. They were problems for literally every single soul trapped inside the Backrooms. That’s why the Compass was so valuable in the first place. Even the most capable Delvers—beings with unimaginable, godlike power—still needed food to eat and a place to sleep. They still needed safety and information. That was a universal problem and it just so happened that I had a universal solution.

My dad had been a serial entrepreneur, always moving from business to business and side hustle to side hustle. He would invent things or fix things or sell things. Sometimes he’d buy junk from the flea market and try to flip it, like they do on those HGTV shows. He was never very good at it. Other times, when money was tight, he’d do odd jobs—tinkering with lawnmowers or installing fences on the cheap. I’d never met someone handier with a wrench, but he also had the follow-through of a bored toddler.

My dad was a hard worker, but he also dreamed about easy money and had enough get-rich-quick schemes to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The cold, hard truth of it was his ideas rarely panned out. Most times they bit him in the ass. There was one thing about business that he’d taught me, however, which had stuck with me even all these years later. If enough people have the same problem and you can fix it, then you’ve got yourself a license to print money.

Unerring Arrow, as useful as it was, could only help me. Same thing with Mapmaker’s Eye or Spelunker’s Sixth Sense. But Corvo’s Blanket Fort?

Well, that could help everyone.

What if, instead of transforming the blanket fort into my own, personal Fortress of Solitude, I made it a place that specifically catered to other Delvers? A place where they could come to buy, sell, and trade? A place to grab a bite to eat without having to worry about whether something was going to eat you instead? A refuge to catch a few minutes of uninterrupted shut-eye without the constant fear that you would never wake up again?

From my handful of correspondences with the Researcher, I knew there were Safe Harbors that served a similar function. But unlike the Safe Harbors, my trading hub would be faction neutral—except for the dickheads from the Skinless Court, of course, who could go fuck themselves—and, even more important, there would be access points far and wide. With enough elbow grease, I could plant doorways on damn near every floor. I could even plant them in every Safe Harbor, creating a fast travel network for Delvers to move through.

Hell, being able to reliably move from floor to floor would solve a whole host of problems I hadn’t even considered yet.

And inside this glorious hub, I’d have everything anyone could ever need to survive the Backrooms. Supplies. Food. Safety. Intel. All of it. And in payment, I’d collect Relics and Artifacts for myself. Not to mention countless favors and endless goodwill, which I would hopefully be able to leverage against the Flayed Monarch. As things stood, there was no way I could beat the Monarch alone, but maybe I could do it through the power of teamwork.

Teamwork and a splash of capitalism.

This was my best—or, more realistically, my only—shot at long-term survival.

The only question now was, what kind of store did I start with?

What would serve as the beating heart of my Backrooms trading empire?

A hotel of some sort was the first place my mind immediately jumped to. The Backrooms were a nightmare, and finding a safe location to rest was a dubious proposition at best. Most hotels usually had a small, attached restaurant and a little gift shop that I could use to sell items.

That was a solid option, but there were also a few complications.

First off, even small hotels were big. Picking up a hotel straight out of the gate would burn through the majority of my square footage, and there was no way I’d be able to properly run anything larger than a quaint bed-and-breakfast without staff. I’d need a cook, cleaners, someone to work the front desk and handle check-ins, plus another person to deal with the shop. That was a goal I could work toward long term, but for now, I needed something smaller and more efficient that focused on what I really wanted to accomplish: acquiring all the Relics and Artifacts I could get my hands on.

I could resell the worthless Relics or sacrifice them to level up the Relics in my Spatial Core, but I was also bound to come across some useful items that would allow me to get more powerful as well.

The hotel idea was out. At least for now. Next, my mind skipped to a grocery store.

That could be a solid option, too. Smaller. Easier to manage. I could find a camping surplus store to raid, then set up a few cots for folks looking to sleep. The accommodations wouldn’t be glamorous, but it would be safe, and people would pay a hefty premium for safety. It would also have ample food and supplies—though restocking things like fresh produce or meat would be extremely difficult. Plus, once I got to thinking about it, I realized most of the items inside a grocery store were luxury goods.

No one would have access to a fridge or a pantry, although that could probably be circumvented by using the Subspace Storage System. The Storage System was time-locked, after all, which meant any perishable items stored within would stay good indefinitely. Still, the thought of some postapocalyptic survivor taking the time to make a home-cooked meal seemed laughable. Food that was quick and easy to eat on the go like beef jerky, chips, or protein bars would be far more useful.

The grocery store was better than the hotel, but still too specialized.

What I really needed was an ol’ timey general store. Like the kind of place that would exist in an 1800s western frontier town. A location that was small and manageable, with just enough room to set up sleeping spaces, that also had a little bit of everything. Food. Medicine. Basic hygiene gear. Decent bathrooms. Survival items. Good shelf space. Eventually, I’d be able to attach other structures, but the general store would serve as the beating heart of the operation.

But what the hell was the modern equivalent of a frontier general store?

A Walmart, maybe? That was in the right ballpark but had a lot of the same problems as the hotel. Too big. Too much shit. Impossible to manage, even with Croc’s help.

What about a gas station? No. That had the opposite problem. Too small, not enough shit.

I continued to kick it around, running my hand along the stubble at my jaw. I’d need to trim my beard before too much longer. My fingers froze as I abruptly recalled the last time I’d taken a vacation. I’d been running late for my flight, and I’d packed up all my hygiene gear in a frantic flurry, throwing stuff blindly into my travel bag. In the rush, I’d forgotten to grab my razor from the shower. I’d needed to buy a new one before I ended up looking like a disheveled marmot, so I’d stopped by the one place that I was certain would have what I needed.

Because they had a little bit of everything.

In a flash that felt like divine revelation, I knew exactly what I needed to find...

CHAPTER 14

THE JOB BOARD

“You know what the best store is?” I said, turning away from the Progenitor Monolith and toward the rubbery blue dog waiting patiently behind me.

“Wait, give me a minute, I know this one,” Croc replied as though there was a right answer. “Is it a water park? I bet it’s a water park.”

“What? No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was a rhetorical question and, for the record, the answer is definitely not a water park. That’s not even a store.” I paused, eyes narrowed. “Though I’m genuinely curious about why that, of all things, was your go-to answer.”

Croc snorted and rolled his googly eyes. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Water parks are the best because they have so many slides. Me? I’m a big fan of slides. I used the one at the Burger Barn Play Palace and it changed my life. They’re just great, slides. Going down them. Climbing the stairs back to the top, the anticipation building with every step you take.

“I mean, I’ve never actually been to a water park myself, but I bet waterslides are a thousand times better than what they have at Burger Barn. Plus, on top of the slides, they have wave pools. Can you imagine? A pool that makes its own waves? Like a man-made ocean!” The mimic shimmered and transformed into a rubbery blue innertube with oversized googly eyes. “This is my wave pool form,” it said as a large gaping mouth split the side of the innertube.

It was horrifying. Nightmare inducing.

“Yeah, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean water parks are okay, I suppose—”

“Wait, does that mean you’ve personally been to a water park?” Croc asked, shifting back into its dog form. Its googly eyes fixated on me in a mixture of awe and adoration. “Like in real life?”

“I feel like most people have been to a water park at some point,” I replied.

“Not me,” Croc said, head dropping in abject misery. Then the mimic dog perked right back up. “Can you tell me what a real-life water park is like? Please?” Croc’s tail wagged frantically. “Every detail—I wouldn’t want to miss anything. Did they have food? How long were the lines? What was the highest slide you went on?”

“We’re getting off track here,” I said, waving away the dog’s onslaught of questions. “The answer to my original question is Walgreens.”

Croc frowned, his muzzle drooping. “Not sure I’ve ever been to a Walgreens. Based on their name alone, I assume they sell a variety of green walls, though I can’t imagine how that would be better than a water park.”

“No, they don’t sell green walls,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation. “It’s a convenience store, back where I’m from. But like a big one. Thing is, no one ever thinks much about Walgreens. They aren’t fancy or glamorous. Hell, the stuff they carry is the most basic, generic shit in the world. No one ever goes out of their way to visit Walgreens. But they’re everywhere, they’re always open, and they have a little bit of everything.

“Walgreens is the modern-day equivalent of an Old West general store. They have food and beverages, car parts and beauty supplies. There’s a pharmacy in every location and an entire aisle of random, miscellaneous seasonal bullshit. It has more options than a gas station but is cheaper and smaller than a Target or a Walmart. It’s the ideal trading hub where a weary traveler can get anything they need. In short, it’s the perfect fucking store.”

Water was dribbling down from Croc’s googly eyes. The dog was openly crying. “It sounds like a truly magical place,” the mimic said breathlessly. “Still not as good as a water park, but a land of plenty all the same.”

“Oh, it is, Croc,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “It is.”

“I should like to see such a place of abundance and whimsy one day.”

“You’re gonna see one sooner rather than later,” I replied, “because that’s where we’re headed.”

“Why?” Croc asked. “I mean, it sounds lovely, but why the sudden interest in finding one of these Walgreens? Usually, new Delvers want to find a way out—which there isn’t—or get to one of the Safe Harbors, which is dangerous but possible. In all the years I’ve been working with new Delvers, I’ve never had one ask to go to a Walgreens.”

I almost told the mimic that we needed to go there so I could plant the seed of a trading empire and undermine a malevolent deity who wanted me dead, then reluctantly decided against it. I would need to tell Croc about the Compass and my plans eventually, but now wasn’t the time. I trusted the dog. Mostly. But the Compass was powerful, and depending on Croc’s feelings about the Flayed Monarch, I could end up fighting for my life. That or Croc might abandon me on the spot, and I couldn’t afford that.

Better to play my cards close to the vest for the time being.

“We’ll go to a Safe Harbor, but there are some very specific supplies that I need first,” I lied, “and I’m sure that if we can find the Backrooms version of a Walgreens, I’ll be able to get what I’m looking for.”

“What sort of supplies?” Croc asked, nosy as ever.

I racked my brain trying to think of an answer. I hadn’t anticipated so many questions. “They have a bunch of stuff,” I finally blurted out, “but the thing that I need is a specific type of medication.”

Croc grew serious. “Are you sick, Dan? Please tell me you’re not sick. I’m really starting to like you and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for at least three weeks if you died.”

“It’s not life-threatening,” I assured the mimic, already regretting my deception.

Croc nodded sagely, then added, “Is it hemorrhoids? I bet it’s hemorrhoids.”

“What? No, it’s not hemorrhoids,” I shot back. “How do you even know what hemorrhoids are?”

“I had a Delver, about ten Delvers back, named Daryl. He went on and on and on about how bad his hemorrhoids were. Me, I’ve never had hemorrhoids, on account of the fact that I don’t technically have an anus, but Daryl made them sound exceedingly unpleasant. Both hemorrhoids and anuses, that is. In a rather dark and ironic twist of fate, Daryl was later eaten by the Ravenous Sand Sphincter who dwells in the desert playground on floor seven.”

I scowled at the dog. “I sincerely wish you hadn’t told me any of that. Also, for the record, it’s not hemorrhoids. Now, if you’re done prying needlessly into my private medical affairs, can we please get going? Also,” I added before the dog could answer, “if you agree to not ask any more follow-up questions and help me find what I’m looking for, I’ll tell you everything I know about water parks.”

Croc stared at me with equal parts wonder and joy burning in its eyes. “This,” the mimic finally said, “is the single best day of my life. One, I have a new friend. Two, that friend still has all of their body parts and doesn’t have hemorrhoids. And, three, that friend has been to a water park and is going to tell me about it. Dreams really do come true.”

Croc began to pace in slow circles. “But finding this mystical dream store of yours could prove to be a challenge,” it said. “Still, there’s never been a challenge I’ve failed at. Except for all of the times I’ve accidentally let Delvers die. This is different, though. I can feel it. Admittedly, I’ve never heard of Walgreens, but that’s not unusual. The Backrooms rarely replicates things exactly the way they are in the real world. It consumes lost matter, which is then pulled into the IPRS.”

“IPRS?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“The Influx Processing and Randomization System,” Croc said absentmindedly. “Please try to keep up, Dan, I really want to hear about those water parks. Now, after the physical matter is sorted into the IPRS, the God Box mashes it all together and generates new sections based on the Divine Algorithm, which is a process that no one quite understands. Except maybe the Researcher. He probably knows how it all—”

Croc froze, mid-step. “Wait! That’s the answer. The Researcher. You should’ve seen an option on the Monolith Keypad to access the Research Department Job Board, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding along. “I saw it. How does that help us?”

“Simple,” Croc said. “The Job Board generates a list of all locations on any given level that have been corrupted by the Blight. If left unchecked, the Blight spreads like, well… peanut butter maybe? I don’t know. But something that spreads quickly.”

“The plague?” I offered.

“Yes, just like that!” Croc exclaimed. “The Blight is basically a plague. Or an infection, I suppose. The Researcher is the big boss and he’s in charge of keeping the Progenitor Vessel alive, but he’s the only Researcher left, so he can’t handle everything on his own. Which is why he generates the job board and then offers rewards to any Delver willing to purge one of the Blighted locations. The more dangerous the location, the better the loot. Thing is, the Researcher always leaves basic notes about the target, including its quadrant and sector location. I bet you could use the Job Board to find a store that fits your description.”

I grunted, impressed.

For as dopey as Croc looked, the mimic was chock-full of surprisingly good ideas and useful information. I wanted to hear more about the Researcher and how he fit into the bigger picture, but that was a distant concern. Right now, the mission priority was finding safety, shelter, and a way to survive for the next few days and weeks.

I sauntered back over to the Monolith and fired it up once more, quickly scanning my palm, then using the keypad to toggle over to the menu section labeled Research Department Job Board. I selected the option, and it immediately conjured an enormous list of blight-infected stores, each with a star rating. There were hundreds of them. VHS Vault, Totally Rad Toys, Price Pro Plus, Far Out Fashion, Mythic Mementos, Nourish ’n’ Go, The Paw Palace. I used the arrow on the number pad to scroll down, then randomly clicked on one of the store names.

The familiar burnt yellow pop-up appeared above the Monolith.

BigSavers R US

Threat Assessment Rating: ۞

Current Relative Position: 3.28.17.37-54 (Floor 3, Quadrant 28, Sector 17, Relative Sector Coordinates 37-54)

BigSavers R US is like every generic big-box retail store you’ve ever been to. It’s got cheaply manufactured home electronics, shitty furniture built from particle board that you are 100% going to have to assemble yourself, and all the other dubious household “essentials” that no one needs, but everyone seems to have.

There’s an entire section of just panini makers.

BigSavers R US offers “deeply discounted” prices, which are sustained by a perpetual Going Out of Business Sale—cough, cough fictitious pricing models—and the bloodthirsty sales team is overseen by the Blight-infected Bargain Beast. With razor-sharp claws and a borderline sexual desire for savings, the Bargain Beast will make sure shoppers pay an arm and a leg for encroaching on its territory.

Reward: 500 Experience Points, 5 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 1 x Silver Mercenary Loot Token

Accept Job Posting? Yes/No

I hit no, but I couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across my face. This was exactly what I needed. I closed the description and turned my attention back to the Job Board list, scrolling faster and faster until I found another store that sounded promising.

MediocreMart

Threat Assessment Rating: ۞۞

Current Relative Position: 3.28.17.64-13 (Floor 3, Quadrant 28, Sector 17)

You’ve been inside this place a thousand times, but never actually by choice. Usually, you’re begrudgingly driven there against your will by one minor emergency or another. Your kid is sick, but it’s 10:48 PM on Christmas Eve, so where the fuck else are you going to go? They have food. Is it good food? No. It’s stale bread, frozen Hot Pockets, and leathery beef jerky, but you’ll eat it, and you’ll like it. You can pick up diapers here or motor oil or a pair of “As Seen on TV” copper-lined compression socks that will do wonders for your terrible circulation.

It’s all garbage, but you can’t help yourself. YOU WILL BUY IT!

And, of course, there’s the pharmacy. It’s only open for four and a half minutes every other Tuesday, but that’s on you for choosing to shop here. You could go to so many other places, but no… This is where you have your prescriptions sent, you rube. And there, hunched behind the service counter, is the Blight-infested Harmacist. Clad in a tattered lab coat and wielding dirty syringes, the Harmacist revels in corrupting the flesh and providing drugs that fall outside of your insurance coverage.

Reward: 1,250 Experience Points, 5 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 2 x Silver Delver Loot Token, 1 x Gold Mercenary Loot Token

Accept Job Posting? Yes/No

Jackpot.

CHAPTER 15

MINOR DETOUR

If MediocreMart wasn’t the Backrooms version of Walgreens, I’d eat a flip-flop. Sure, the description didn’t make it sound great, but under the right management, it could be a goldmine. I accepted the job posting and turned back toward Croc.

“Found it,” I said. “MediocreMart. It’s in Quadrant 28, Sector 17. The job board lists it as a two-star threat.”

Croc brightened. “Quadrant 28? That’s not bad at all. We’re in an adjacent quadrant, so getting there should only take a few hours.” Then the mimic’s face sagged. “The two-star rating isn’t quite so good, though. That means whatever is guarding the location is level ten or above. I’m not saying it’s an impossible bounty, but at your current level I am saying there is a ninety-nine percent chance that you’ll die horrifically and at least a twelve percent chance that something will tear your arms off and beat you to death with them.”

“Wait, there’s a twelve percent chance that something is going to tear my arms off and beat me to death with them?” I asked slowly. “That… That can’t be accurate. I mean, that is just so, so specific.”

“Well let me think a moment,” Croc replied. “There was Joel then Amber. The Stonebreaker Baboon got Christian before that. Then there was Hosana—I think she fell into one of the limb-ripper snares. Brock and Rebecca had all their limbs ripped off by the Gravity Inversion room, though I guess technically they weren’t beaten with them afterward. The Coupon Kraken made short work of Ishmael—”

I held a hand up to stop the flow of increasingly gruesome deaths. “Yeah, I think I get the picture. What I’m hearing is that I need to level up before we tackle MediocreMart.”

“That would certainly help, but you’ll also need some better gear and Artifacts, I reckon. That acid attack you have is pretty effective—”

“Bleach Bolt,” I corrected without giving it any thought. Bleach was basic and acids were, well acidic.

“Right, Bleach Bolt,” Croc amended, “but your Artifacts are just as important to long-term survival. Since you’ve survived this long, I’m assuming you’ve unlocked a few research achievements and earned at least a handful of Loot Tokens, am I right?”

I nodded.

“Good, that’ll help. But we’ll need to locate a Loot Arcade to redeem ’em, and finding one of those could be tricky without a rudimentary Navigation Relic.” The mimic paused as though considering something. Finally, it bobbed its head. “I reckon it’ll be worth the attempt, though. Getting some decent gear will drastically increase your life expectancy.”

“And these Arcades are where we go to redeem Loot Tokens?”

“Got it in one,” Croc said. “And the Arcades are great, Dan. Lots of cool games. Nifty vending machines. Loot dispensers galore. You just feed your tokens into the dispensers and out pop amazing prizes! It’s so much fun. Usually,” it added as a whisper. “Unless there are Dwellers inside, but usually there aren’t. Eight out of ten times, they’re clean.”

“Are you shitting me?” I said excitedly. “That’s great news! I’ve got enough Loot Tokens to choke a horse—”

“That’s not how you use Loot Tokens, Dan,” Croc said gently before I could continue. “Didn’t you listen to me? You put them in these Loot Dispensers.” Croc shook its head. “There are no horses involved, silly goose.”

I waved away Croc’s comment. “Forget about the horses, it was just a figure of speech. The point is I have a lot of tokens. Most of ’em are copper, but I’ve got a handful of silver and gold ones, too. Plus a few others that have different colors.” I racked my brain, trying to remember all the tokens I’d earned so far. “I think there was a ruby one. The other one might’ve been diamond. They were both gemstone colors, I’m pretty sure.”

Croc let out a strangled gasp. “How in the world did you get your hands on those?” Croc sounded in awe of my accomplishment. “Loot Tokens aren’t Relics and aren’t ranked the same way, but if they were, those would be Rare or maybe even Fabled quality. You must’ve done something extremely impressive or extremely stupid to earn those.”

An image flashed through my head. Me standing, bathrobe fluttering behind me, as I used the Slammer of Shielding to save the gunslinger before chucking my hammer at the head of the Eldritch horror who ruled the 999th floor.

I pursed my lips. “Honestly, it was a little bit of both.” I paused. “It does make me wonder, though, if this Researcher guy can just directly drop these tokens into our Storage System, why not give us prizes directly? That seems like it would make way more sense, instead of forcing Delvers to dick around with these Loot Arcades.”

“That’s a fair point,” Croc replied. “It would be easier that way, no doubt, but the Loot Token System gives Delvers more choices in what kind of prizes they receive. Tokens can be used to redeem all sorts of different things. Each individual Delver knows what they need better than the Researcher does, so this gives them a chance to pick the best reward based on their current circumstances. The type and grade of each token determine what kind of reward you’ll get.

“Copper Delver Tokens are the most common, and you can usually redeem them for things like food or water or basic survival gear—nothing magical, though. No Artifacts. But silver and gold tokens on the other hand… You could wind up with some decent gear. As for the gemstone-grade tokens, I can’t even imagine what those will earn you. Getting Relics from the Loot Arcade is almost unheard of, but a Ruby or Diamond Token might do the trick. At the very least, you’ll walk away with some high-quality Artifact Sigils to upgrade your weapons or armor.”

“I don’t have armor,” I replied flatly. “Just this fugly-ass bathrobe, denim jorts, a dirty undershirt, and clunky work boots without laces. None of that qualifies as high-speed, low-drag tactical body armor in my book.”

Croc offered me a toothy grin in return. “But those items are armor here, Dan. All of the stuff you Noclipped in with has Artifact status by default, because those items have Material Significance—which means they’re real. From the real world. Like you! That’s what makes an item an Artifact. Things that are Progenerated aren’t real enough to be imbued with Mana, but anything from your world that survives the transition becomes an Artifact. Even more importantly, the items you arrived with also have Personal Significance, because you’re the original owner.”

“Why would that matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Dan. It’s not like I make the rules. But items with Personal Significance are always the best because they’ll have additional Effect Slots, and they’ll scale with you. The more powerful you become, the more powerful they’ll become, and as they advance, they’ll unlock more and more Effect Slots. It’s a great big circular loop of winning!

“And you can put all kinds of stuff into those slots. Elemental Resistances. Added Stat bonuses. Increased armor rating.” Croc stole a sidelong look at me. “Believe it or not, but I once saw a string bikini that offered as much protection as a full suit of medieval plate mail. Offered great movement bonuses too. Not that it saved Ava in the end. She was vaporized by a microwave cannon.”

I pressed my eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I felt a tension headache forming behind my forehead. “Ignoring the microwave cannon, are you telling me that the nut-hugging Daisy Dukes and the dirty undershirt I woke up in are going to be the best Artifacts I have access to?”

Croc shrugged. “Probably. I guess you could get better stuff later on, but any Artifact with Personal Significance will always have one additional Effect Slot, and those slots could be the difference between life and death. You might look a little bit goofy but looking goofy never killed anyone.” Croc puffed its chest out proudly. “I’m living proof of that!”

I groaned inwardly and took a second to inspect my stupid fucking Versace bathrobe.

Imitation Versace Bathrobe

Common Artifact

Type: Cloth Armor, Personal Significance

You look terrible in this thing, and you should actively feel bad for wearing this. The hideous clash of reds and golds is jarring, and instead of expensive, Italian imported silk, this thing is made from the same cheap terrycloth material they use for hotel washcloths. And not nice hotels. The kind of hotel you pay for by the month. This thing is one step above a burlap bag. I would feel bad for you if this wasn’t so hilarious.

Effect Slot: Empty

Effect Slot: Empty

Great. Perfect. Awesome. I was going to be stuck with this stupid thing forever.

“Fine,” I begrudgingly muttered. “Let’s find an Arcade and go spend some of these tokens.”

“Getting there could still be a problem, Dan,” Croc said. “Every quadrant has an Arcade, which means there are thirty-six of them per level, but the quadrants are huge. By the time we find one, there could be a Floor Shift, and if that happens, getting to this Walgreens of yours could be next to impossible.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.

Croc offered a long-suffering sigh. “I worry about you, Dan. How you made it to level 3 without even knowing about Floor Shifts is a complete mystery.” The dog shook its head in disbelief. “Each level has thirty-six quadrants, each with twenty-five sectors. When a Floor Shift occurs, all the quadrants rotate, though the sectors within each quadrant remain the same. Right now, MediocreMart is currently in Quadrant 28. We’re in Quadrant 27. Those numbers are close together. But if a Floor Shift occurs, we could end up separated by hundreds of miles.”

“I’m sorry, did you say hundreds of miles?” I gasped. “Just how big are these quadrants?”

Croc shrugged. “It’s not exact and it varies by floor, but here on floor three, each sector is about one square mile, which makes the entire floor—”

“Nine hundred square miles,” I finished, after doing a little quick and dirty math in my head. I knew this place was big, but that was almost twice the size of LA, and that was just one floor. The sheer scale of it was mind-blowing.

“Precisely.”

“Easy,” I said with a shrug. “We’ll just head over to Quadrant 28 and look for an Arcade there, that way if there’s a Floor Shift, we’ll still be in the right general location. And don’t worry about finding the place,” I said, forestalling the mimic before it could interject. “You mentioned something about a basic navigation Relic. Turns out I have one of those.” I flashed the Compass at the dog, the brass glinting in the neon mall lights.

“I thought you said that was a flamethrower Artifact,” Croc replied disapprovingly.

“I lied.”

I pressed the Compass of the Catacomber against my chest and slipped it into my Spatial Core with a slight shove.

“Friends aren’t supposed to lie to each other, Dan,” Croc admonished, but I barely heard the words over the burst of intense pain suddenly rampaging through my body.

When I’d added the other Relics to my Core, a gentle warmth had radiated outward to my limbs. This time, a raging wildfire roared in the center of my chest, sending pulses of all-consuming flame sprinting through my veins. Simultaneously, excruciating pressure built and built inside my skull as the power and the knowledge contained within the compass rewired my brain in the span of an eyeblink.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Legend in the Making

You crazy son of a bitch. A Mythic Emblem? At level five? You’ve got to be shitting me. Either you’re the luckiest bastard alive or someone hates you—hard to say which. In a truly absurd twist of fate, you’ve somehow stumbled upon an outrageously broken ability that you clearly aren’t supposed to have. Seriously. This is like giving a bazooka to a toddler: it’s super dumb, but it’ll probably be entertaining.

Before you’re done, legends will be spun about your reckless audacity and your devil-may-care attitude toward wielding forces of nature better left to the walking deities of the 999th floor. That, or you’ll be dead inside a week. There’s a reason fresh meat doesn’t end up with this kind of power, and that’s because something nasty is bound to come looking for it. A Mythic Emblem is Reward enough, but there’s a good chance you’re a dead man walking, so I’ll throw you a bone.

Title: Legend in the Making – Increases the chance of finding Rare Relics and Artifacts by 2.5%

As I read over the message, a fresh knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

The research achievement confirmed the worst of my suspicions and fears, but I was in too deep to turn back now. I’d already been Marked for Death, so this was one of those sink-or-swim situations, and I planned to doggy paddle for all I was worth.

When I dismissed the achievement, I found that the whole world looked different thanks to the power of the Emblem now embedded in my soul.

It was subtly brighter in some places, and darker in others. A nearby glass door that led into a jewelry shop burned with a faint red aura, which I instinctively understood meant it was trapped. Further on, a wrought iron bench pulsed with a thin thread of purple life essence. The bench was a flytrap mimic, just like the fake Progenitor Monolith that had tried to eat me outside of Eastside City Savings & Loan. That had to be my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense at work.

Best of all, hovering in the corner of my vision was a semitransparent digital map that showed me every twist, turn, shop, and hallway within a fifty-foot radius.

I focused on the map and found I could zoom in or zoom out, revealing more or less of the map at will. Huge swaths were shrouded in an opaque gray, but anywhere I’d already visited was lit up in white like Christmas lights. Turned out, Mapmaker’s Eye worked retroactively. If I enlarged the map too much, the fine details faded and vanished, but when I zoomed in, they reappeared in crisp clarity. At closer range, I could see a pair of small triangular marks on the screen, which represented me and Croc.

I frowned and glanced between the map and the wrought iron bench, which I was sure was a mimic. The creature wasn’t marked at all.

“Hey Croc,” I said absentmindedly. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that my navigation ability gives me a map which is supposed to show the presence of any Delvers or Dwellers in the immediate vicinity. Is there a reason why something might not appear on the map?” I paused, staring daggers at the bench. “Say, a mimic maybe?”

“That is an incredibly specific scenario,” Croc replied, “but theoretically, if you did have such an ability, there are a number of other abilities that might counteract the map’s identification properties. There are several cloaking spells that could easily do the trick, and mimics won’t show up at all if they are actively camouflaged. It’s part of our core skill set.”

“Good to know,” I muttered, keeping one eye on the bench glowing with purple light.

I fixed the nearest Loot Arcade in my mind’s eye, then raised one hand and triggered one of my other shiny new abilities, Pathfinder’s Unerring Arrow. My Mana gauge plunged precipitously, and a ghostly blue arrow, visible only to me, blazed to life, shooting away from my chest and down the hall—swerving widely to avoid the mimic bench—then continuing straight for a hundred feet, before taking a hard right and disappearing into a store called Style-for-Less, which looked like a knockoff JC Penney.

Interestingly, a smaller version of the blue arrow also appeared on the mini-map in the corner of my vision, allowing me to see more of the arrow’s path than I could in real life. Together, the two abilities synergized to form a supernatural version of Google Maps. The only bad part was that the path’s illumination would only last for thirty seconds before fading, and because the spell had such a steep price tag, I wouldn’t be able to cast it for another ten minutes or more.

I took off at a sprint, legs eating up the ground as I followed the ethereal blue light of the spell. “Come on,” I called back over one shoulder. “The quicker we get to the Arcade, the quicker we get to the Walgreens.”

“Which is important because of your urgent medical condition, which definitely isn’t hemorrhoids?” Croc yelled back.

“Something like that…” I muttered under my breath.

CHAPTER 16

EXTREME GAINS

The Compass of the Catacomber turned out to be exactly as awesome as I’d anticipated. Hell, it was probably even better than I’d thought on first inspection. The map was incredibly detailed, and it showed the location of every single Dweller, allowing us to easily avoid the fiercest pockets of resistance and obvious ambushes. It used colored symbols instead of proper labels, so it was impossible to tell what kind of creatures we’d be facing or what their respective levels were, but it still gave us a huge edge.

There were also the mimics to consider.

We skirted by no fewer than five of the sneaky sons of bitches, which were disguised as objects that ranged from mannequins to drinking fountains. They didn’t show up on the map at all, but thanks to Spelunker’s Sixth Sense, I spotted them long before we ever got close to any danger. They were all Juvenile Monomorphic Flytrap Mimics, just like the fake Monolith outside the Lobby stairwell, and since I’d leveled up my Mana so much, taking them out at range with a couple of Bleach Bolts was easy work.

I earned 100 experience points for killing each one, which pushed me up to Level 6, plus they all carried a Common Relic that replicated the effects of the Basic Camo Kit I already had in my Spatial Core. The Relics didn’t all look the same, though. One took the form of an invisible ink pen, another resembled a Hide-Away money belt, while a third was just a fist-sized smoke bomb. But each made the user slightly less noticeable. Like the Tinfoil Hats, I couldn’t add any of them to my Spatial Core, without first swapping out the Camo Kit.

Aside from killing the mimics and earning some easy experience, I took the liberty to loot pretty much everything that wasn’t bolted down, tossing all of it into my Subspace Storage System.

I raided the back-to-school section first, pilfering backpacks by the dozen, before moving on to the shoe department. I shamelessly stole boots, running shoes, and flip-flops, then hit up the men’s clothing department, grabbing heavy-duty Wrungler blue jeans, thick Ironguard work jackets, and enough T-shirts to keep me in fresh clothes for a month—not that I’d be likely to use them, I considered bleakly.

None of them were Artifacts, they were just clothes, which meant no Effect Slots and no Stat bonus. But the T-shirts would make excellent pressure dressings for wounds, and I could always sell everything else to customers once I got my shop up and running. I also took the opportunity to fit my Redwing work boots with a new pair of shoelaces so they wouldn’t threaten to fly off every time I broke into a run.

We followed Unerring Arrow through the Style-for-Less, finding surprisingly little resistance, and out through a hidden door tucked away inside the fitting rooms, which connected to a secondary utility corridor that shaved off hours’ worth of travel time.

Our next stop was a tiny storefront called Extreme Supplements, which loosely resembled a GNC. That one wasn’t quite so easy to clear.

Although the shop was small—almost claustrophobically so—it was filled with a handful of extremely disgruntled level 3 Roid Gremlins, who were impossible to avoid, despite our best efforts.

The Gremlins were short and stocky, each standing no more than three feet tall, with large bat-wing ears and huge mouths filled with jagged black teeth. They wore tiny red Speedos, which showcased their painfully swollen muscles, and were slathered in so much bronzer and tanning oil, they left treacherously slippery puddles in their wake. Angry, swollen zits as bright red as their Speedos carpeted swollen lats and bulging delts.

One—the apparent leader of the weight-lifting tribe who was the only level 4—wielded a bench-press barbell like a bow staff and wore workout gloves with large iron spikes jutting from the knuckles. The Gremlins weren’t especially fast, but they were strong, and even more importantly, they were irrationally pissed at everything and everyone. It was hard to blame them, considering how bad their bacne was.

That would’ve made me pissy and self-conscious, too.

“How long are you gonna be on the squat rack?” one shrieked before charging toward me with an inarticulate bellow of rage.

“Don’t bogart the free weights, bro!” another snarled, swinging a heavy flail, which was built from a weighted jump rope with a kettlebell attached to the end.

The whole interaction was extremely confusing—especially since we were in a supplement store filled with shelves of pills, bottles of pre-workout, and huge plastic tubs of protein powder, but absolutely no weights. There wasn’t a squat rack or dumbbells anywhere in sight. Not that the Roid Gremlins gave two shits about that. As a former Marine, I’d worked with some world-class crayon-eating morons, but these jackholes made those guys look like bona fide rocket scientists.

Dumb or not, after squaring off against the level 3 Janitorial Handyman in the Lobby, I was genuinely nervous to go toe-to-toe against the veiny dude-bros.

Turned out, however, my fears were misplaced.

Although I hadn’t gotten physically stronger while leveling up, my Bleach Bolt was devastatingly effective, which made sense considering the Gremlins were only a flimsy red thong away from being completely naked. The concentrated bleach ate through bronzed skin and bulky muscles like a ravenous pack of piranha. I also discovered another perk, courtesy of the Compass of the Catacomber.

The Researcher’s Codex not only granted me additional information about the individual Dwellers, it also projected their Health and Mana bars during active combat events. Which meant I could see exactly how much damage my attacks were doing, and how much magic each individual Dweller had at their disposal. The Gremlins had no magical ability whatsoever and needed to be in punching range to do any kind of damage. Thankfully, they were slow as balls, so keeping them at a distance wasn’t all that hard.

And when one of the irrationally angry Gremlins did manage to get close enough to be a threat, I took the opportunity to cast Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction.

A pair of illusionary blacklight dragons exploded from my hands, draining the rest of my Mana, but they ended up being well worth the expense. The glittering creatures flitted gracefully between the supplement shelves, looping, swirling, and dancing together as they spit brilliant bursts of neon sparks from their jaws. After two steps the encroaching Gremlin went utterly still, staring up at the light display in slack-jawed wonderment like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

It almost made me feel bad when I slipped around an endcap stacked with bottles of PowerPro Muscle Might Extreme Pump Preworkout—“Unleash Gains That Defy Sanity!”—and drove my hammer into the back of the Gremlin’s skull with a sickly wet crunch. I gagged on reflex as a combination of hot oil and warm blood sprayed across my face and ran down my neck.

Maybe someday I’d get used to how absolutely disgusting this place was.

Today was not that day.

The hammer blow would’ve killed anyone else, but the jacked Gremlin just stood there, swaying on thick legs, eyes still fixed on the blacklight dragons. I brought the hammer screaming down twice more, once into the side of his head, then again into the base of his spine. Finally, the Gremlin’s beefy legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor. The brief pause had let my Mana recover just enough to launch another Bleach Bolt, but I didn’t need to. The rest of the Gremlins were dead, thanks to Croc, who was now covered in a truly obscene amount of gore.

I’d only caught a brief glimpse of the mimic fight, but it had been enough to make me eternally grateful that it was helping me and not hunting me. Croc’s head had split open revealing an immense circular maw, lined with teeth. A small army of writhing, flexing tentacles had exploded from the mimic’s spike-lined gullet, ripping apart one of the Gremlins, then consuming another one whole.

Croc was made out of… well, Croc material, which meant it was hollow and dotted with holes, so I had no idea where in the name of sweet baby Jesus the Gremlin had disappeared to.

I didn’t ever want to find out.

Croc and I had killed five Gremlins between the two of us and I ended up with a total of 675 total Experience, while Croc wound up with 425—how exactly those points were divvied out was hard to say—but on top of that, the Gremlins ended up being a gold mine of greasy, disgusting treasure.

I earned a new research achievement, Mind Fucker, for successfully utilizing the Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction in battle and my first two Uncommon Shards. Each of the Gremlins also carried a bright-red jockstrap that looked vile and smelled like taint cheese and rancid feet. Honestly, I considered burning the whole lot of ’em on general principle until I examined their stats.

The Gremlin’s Groin Guardian

Common Relic – Level 1

Passive Ability

Look, we can give this thing whatever fancy name we want, but we all know this is a magical nutbucket, plain and simple. Is it dignified? No, absolutely not. But neither is getting kicked in the dick, so pick your poison.

The Roid Gremlins who commonly wear these things are basically naked because their ridiculous muscles serve as armor. But some areas need a little extra protection no matter how strong you are.

The Gremlin’s Groin Guardian grants an additional 10% resistance against ALL physical attacks and an enormous 95% resistance against physical attacks aimed at the ol’ Long Dong Silver. But this armored banana hammock also comes with a bad case of magical jock itch—you receive 10% additional damage from all magical or elemental sources of damage. Better get that looked at…

The idea of having a dirty Gremlin jockstrap tucked away inside my soul was a revolting notion, but the passive benefit was too good to ignore. I added it to my core even though it made me feel dirty on the inside.

The level 4 Gremlin had a second Common Relic, which was even better than the gag-inducing jockstrap.

The Relic, called The Force Multiplier, resembled a pair of sweat-encrusted workout gloves with iron spikes protruding from the knuckles, and unlike the enchanted jockstrap, there was no downside. When activated, Force Multiplier allowed me to deal an additional 10% damage on a single strike, while using any item that qualified as a blunt weapon. Even better, it consumed Stamina to activate instead of Mana, and though the price tag was a little steep—10 Stamina per use—it meant I had a wider range of options to draw on.

It made perfect sense that the Roid Gremlin would have a skill like that, considering he used a blunt barbell to crush the skulls of his enemies, but it worked great for me, since my claw hammer was still my go-to melee weapon. The barbell in question also turned out to be a Common Artifact. It didn’t have any specific magical power like my Slammer of Shielding, but it did have a single empty Effect Slot. I tossed it into Storage along with the makeshift jump rope flail and the rest of the stained jockstrap Relics.

Even though I was jonesing to get to the Arcade, I took a little extra time to pick over everything that Extreme Supplements had to offer.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten—sometime during the hazy, booze-fueled bachelor party—but that had been more than a day ago. Most of the stuff crammed onto the shelves was just a single step above nonsensical garbage, but I did manage to turn up a bunch of whey protein powder, an accompanying box full of shaker bottles, and disgusting off-brand health bars called Protein Power Pucks.

They tasted like dirt slathered in peanut butter.

But they were also three hundred calories apiece and packed in thirty grams of protein.

Truth be told, I’d eaten far worse during my time in the Corps. The Protein Pucks were heaven on earth compared to the Veggie Omelet MRE, and they were a thousand times better than slowly starving to death. I scarfed down two and added another three dozen to my storage space.

The other big find actually turned out to be the tiny plastic bottles of PowerPro Muscle Might Extreme Pump Preworkout. I never would’ve even considered looking at the endcap, but it glowed with a hazy yellow aura. The aura was so subtle at first that I almost thought it was a trick of the light. Upon closer inspection, I realized all of the Preworkout bottles were actually One-Time-Use Drink Elixirs.

PowerPro Muscle Might Extreme Pump Preworkout - Greater Rage Elixir

Uncommon Elixir

Type: One-Time Use

Tap into the Primal Fury within to “Unleash Gains that Defy Sanity!” As your muscles swell, a homicidal rage grabs you by the goddamned throat, giving you superhuman strength, titanic stamina, and the raw damage output of a guy on bath salts loitering in front of a Waffle House at 3 AM.

Although your gains will be LEGENDARY, the line between friend and enemy might blur just a little. Hallucinations are common and you may find yourself seeing your fellow gym-goers as the ultimate challenge to be eradicated. Will you leave a trail of devastation in your wake? Yes. Obviously.

The real question is, who the fuck cares?! It’s all about them Gains!!!

After reading the description, I resolved to never, ever use the Preworkout drinks from Hell, but I also couldn’t justifiably leave them behind. They were all Uncommon Elixirs, and someone out there would pay top dollar for them, even if it wasn’t going to be me.

Into the Storage they went.

Prizes in hand, Croc and I left Extreme Supplements behind, slipping through another concealed Employees Only door and back out into the mall proper. I conjured Unerring Arrow once again and watched as the trail of glimmering blue light shot away, then curved slightly and disappeared into a neon-lit wonderland.

We’d finally made it to the Loot Arcade…

CHAPTER 17

GAMBLERS PARADISE

Like everything else on level three, thematically the Arcade looked like it had been ripped straight out of an episode of Stranger Things. Neon blazed, painting the walls in a tapestry of eye-searing purples, bubblegum pinks, and loud electric blues. The carpet was a deep navy and dotted with cheesy cartoon planets and distant starbursts.

Rows and rows and rows of arcade games twinkled like digital constellations beneath the garish and disorienting lights, all issuing beeps and bloops. For once, I recognized several of the machines. There were older games like Space Invaders, Pac-Man, Galaga, and the OG Street Fighter right alongside a bunch of systems I’d never seen before, which was saying something. I’d spent a good chunk of my young adult life tucked away inside of arcades not so different from this one, and I’d sure as shit never heard of Pixel Pizza Party or Jungle Jumper Joe.

In addition to the arcade cabinets, there were a half dozen Skee-Ball machines, several first-person shooters, claw machines, and a small fleet of racing games, all called Nitro Derby Dash.

“I thought you said we were looking for vending machines?” I asked Croc, making sure not to cross the threshold into the colorful arcade. “You didn’t mention anything about an actual video game arcade.”

“Why else would it be called an Arcade if there wasn’t an actual Arcade?” Croc replied. “That would be a sloppy and confusing naming convention, wouldn’t it?”

I grunted and waved my hand toward the machines. “Could be I’m wrong, but those don’t look like they give out loot.”

“Yeah, those aren’t loot dispensers, but you can still win prizes,” Croc said. “Most of the arcade games take Copper Loot Tokens. If you win big you can earn temporary status buffs that can last for hours or even days. But the drawback is that if you lose, you get nothing. It’s a bigger gamble than the Loot Dispensers, but the benefit is that you know exactly what the payout is.

“The racing machines typically offer movement buffs,” Croc continued, “the fighter games give melee combat bonuses, and the shooters give advantage on ranged attacks. That sort of thing. It’s also theoretically possible to win items out of the claw machine, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually doing it. It’s a waste of time, in my humble opinion. Most of the games are rigged, and they’re mostly designed to keep you playing and distracted until something nasty comes along and eats you.”

“I thought you said these places were safe,” I said, scanning the Arcade for signs of danger. There was nothing that I could see, not even with my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense.

“I said there was an eighty percent chance it’s safe,” Croc corrected. “But it’s always best to keep the first rule in mind, and what is the first rule, Dan?”

“Assume that everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to kill you,” I said.

“Exactly. I don’t know for a fact that there’s something waiting for us in there—like I said before, the Arcades are technically neutral territory spawned by the Researcher, but…” Croc faded off. “Well, the Researcher isn’t what he used to be. He can only see so far and do so much. If we’re quick, there shouldn’t be any issues. Best to avoid the games, hit the dispensers, and get out before we attract anything unfriendly.”

“Good enough for me,” I replied.

Pulling my hammer from its loop, I headed through the wide archway that led into the Arcade with Croc following close behind. The place smelled like an odd mixture of stale BO, moldy carpet, and sickly-sweet cotton candy. As I padded down a wide aisle flanked on both sides by arcade cabinets, I found my gaze instinctively being drawn toward the pixilated images flashing across the screen.

The effect was eerily hypnotic, and I quickly found myself remembering all of the fun times I’d had playing games at the arcade with my dad. He’d been an old-school Galaga fan, and every week we’d hit up the movie theater and play to see who could go the furthest off a single quarter. I’d never made it past stage 22. My dad, on the other hand, could regularly hit stage 30, which was when King Galaspark appeared, launching an all-out invasion against the would-be defender of humanity.

I felt something bump against my leg and looked down to find Croc nudging me insistently.

“You just stopped walking,” the dog said. “They all have minor hypnotic properties. Best to get a higher Grit level before you risk any coin on those things. The dispensers are just up ahead.” The mimic pointed with its snoot. “Let’s keep moving.”

I grunted, feeling a little lightheaded, but heeded the mimic’s advice.

We left the bulk of the games behind and found a small, partially separated room, devoid of the blazing neon lights painting the rest of the Arcade. A regular white, fluorescent light illuminated several machines, which all looked sorely disappointing compared to the video games situated in the arcade proper.

There were two vending machines—one for various beverages, and another for food items. I examined each and was underwhelmed.

They were exactly what they appeared to be.

Plain ol’ run-of-the-mill vending machines. I could buy off-label soda, bottles of water, or the kind of garbage food you’d expect to see at a rest stop. Candy bars, bags of chips, zingers, and plastic-wrapped cupcakes. None of it was good or especially nourishing, but if you were dying of starvation or dehydration, a vending machine like this would be a literal God-send.

Most of the items cost anywhere between one and three Copper Delver Tokens. On top of having a rarity system—copper, silver, gold, then gemstone—the tokens also had other designations, like Medic!, Slayer, or Elementalist, which were rewarded for completing different types of tasks. The Delver Tokens were by far the most common and seemed to be the generic, default reward tokens.

Interestingly, it was possible to purchase Lesser Healing Elixirs from the soda machine, but only if you had Copper Medic! Tokens to part with. I had several of those, thanks to my near brush with death against the Flayed Monarch, so I spent three of the five, storing the extra Zima Elixirs in my storage space.

Despite the protein bars I’d woofed down at the Extreme Supplements store, my stomach was a tight knot of hunger. Apparently walking for endless miles and murdering things for hours on end was hungry work. MediocreMart would have all the food I needed, but I didn’t want to go into a life-or-death battle while hangry. I was prone to make bad choices when I had low blood sugar. I begrudgingly purchased two candy bars—Snackers! Kick Hunger in the Nuts!—for a Copper Delver Token apiece, scarfing one down and stowing the other for later.

The pair of vending machines weren’t the only dispensers in the room, however.

There was also a boxy red temporary tattoo machine, filled with cheap, cringey-looking designs that seven-year-olds everywhere thought were the pinnacle of badassery. Grinning skulls and flaming four-leaf shamrocks, a heart with a knife stuck through it, and a coiled blue-and-orange cobra ready to strike. There were also several more girly designs—brilliantly colored flowers, elegant butterflies, and a majestic unicorn.

The machine had a large coin-turner that accepted copper, silver, or gold Loot Tokens of any variety.

“What in the shit is this thing?” I asked, hooking a thumb toward the temporary tattoos.

“The Temporary Buff Machine,” Croc replied enthusiastically. “This is the alternative to playing arcade games. You put a token in, turn the knob there, and out pops a temporary tattoo. You apply it to your skin and the bonus lasts for as long as the tattoo does. You’re guaranteed to get something with the temporary tattoos.

“The effects genuinely last much longer—especially if you don’t shower—but they’re always much weaker and you never know what you’re gonna get. Unless you use something other than a Delver Token. If you put a Medic! Token in, you’re guaranteed to get something related to Health regen or damage reduction. Could be passive resistance as well,” the dog added after a second.

“And what about these things?” I asked, crossing the tiny room then placing a hand against the bank of white Gashapon machines, which filled the majority of one wall. They looked like fancy toy vending machines that stood chest high, with bright blue Japanese writing across the sides. Each had a clear case, which displayed a hoard of small plastic capsules, all with colorful lids and tiny bobbles contained within. There were four different toy dispensers, one for each of the various token rarities.

Copper, Silver, Gold, and Gemstone.

It took two Copper Tokens to earn a prize from the first machine, but only one silver, gold, or gemstone token for the others.

Curious, I fished two more Copper Tokens from my dwindling supply and fed them into the machine, turning the crank with an audible click and a clack. A mechanism gave way inside the machine and one of the plastic capsules dropped into the vending slot. I retrieved it from a circular hole at the base and held it up, examining the item within. It looked like a tiny, G.I. Joe-sized set of binoculars.

I pried the lid off the top and let out a strangled gasp. Screw me left, right, and sideways. The inside of the capsule was a self-contained spatial pocket, two feet square in size. I tipped the capsule over, and a set of cheap, but perfectly normal-sized binoculars fell out into my opposite hand. I’d half expected them to be Artifacts, but they weren’t. Just the kind of thing you could buy on the cheap at a Walmart. Or a Walgreens.

“Yeah, it’s a bit disappointing, I know,” Croc said, glancing between me and the binoculars. “But that’s pretty much what Coppers will get you. No Artifacts, just basic survival equipment. Same rules apply when using specialty tokens. A couple of Medic! Tokens will likely get you Band-Aids or a tourniquet. You could wind up with a knife if you had some Slayer Tokens.

“Honestly, most of the folks who have survived down here for a while use the coppers as a kind of trade currency more than anything else. But these other ones”—the dog fixed his gaze on the next three machines in the line—“are generally worth the price of admission. Silvers will usually earn you Common Artifacts with empty Effect Slots or One-Off items. With Gold, you have a chance of earning Uncommon Artifacts or Sigils. No idea about the gemstone ranks, but I’m sure they’re even better.”

I had three silver tokens—Delver, Medic!, and Elementalist—one Gold Ambassador, another Gold Weaponsmith, a Diamond Sentinel, and one Ruby Warlord.

I stowed the binoculars, along with the tiny pocket dimension capsule they came in, then popped the Gold Weaponsmith Token into the third machine and cranked the dial. I pulled out a second capsule, though this one had a plastic gold lid. I opened the container, revealing an even larger interdimensional pocket space. This one was almost three feet square. Not that the item inside needed that much room. In the bottom was a smooth red stone, about the size of my palm, with an odd glyph carved into its surface.

Bloodletting

Uncommon Sigil

Type: Weapon Sigil

Fact, victims rarely die from stab wounds—they mostly die from the resulting blood loss. Fact, bloodletting will make sure they die SO much faster.

Bloodletting deals 2n points of additional Bleed Damage per minute, for two minutes where n is equal to the wielder’s Variant Assimilation Level. Bloodletting can stack up to five times by dealing multiple stab wounds, and each additional instance of Bloodletting will refresh the effect’s duration. What the hell are you waiting for? Go bananas and get to stabbin’!

Restriction: Must be affixed to a weapon that deals piercing damage.

I stared at the bloody stone with what must have been a combination of pure shock and ecstatic joy etched into the lines of my face. Wait, so I could just pop this thing into one of my tools and anything I stabbed with it would just spontaneously bleed out for two minutes? Oh hell yeah. There were so many things that I wanted to stab.

Obviously, this wouldn’t work for my hammer, since stabbing things with a hammer is tough—though, admittedly, not impossible—but it fit my demolition screwdriver like a glove.

I slid the bulky screwdriver from its customary pouch and turned it over in one hand. Truly, there was nothing special about it. It had a clear plastic handle engraved with the word Craftsman in blocky white text, and a long heavy metal shank with a flat tipped head, slightly dulled by years of hard use.

There was nothing pretty about it and I’d picked it up from Lowe’s for twelve bucks, but the most dangerous weapons rarely looked fancy. This thing was the definition of form follows function. This bastard wasn’t built for turning screws, it was built for stabbing things, and I was gonna put it to good use. Intuitively, I took the bloodred rune and pressed it against the length of metal. The tool heated up, vibrating steadily against my palm, and a prompt appeared.

Would you like to add Bloodletting to the Craftsman Demolition Screwdriver, filling one of two empty Effect Slots?

Since this is your first time using a Sigil, be advised that once a Sigil is bound to an Artifact it cannot be reclaimed without destroying the Artifact.

Proceed? Yes/No?

Some small portion of my enthusiasm dwindled as I read over the warning.

Unlike my Spatial Core, it seemed I wouldn’t be able to swap Sigils freely. If I did this, it would be for keeps—no redos if I didn’t like the way things turned out. If a new and better Sigil came along in the not-too-distant future, would I be pissed about this decision?

I only considered the question for another second, before proceeding. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine a better fit for the screwdriver, and the effect would even scale as I leveled the skill through use. There was no point sitting on something this awesome.

There was a bright flare of white light as the red stone melted into the screwdriver, staining the metal shaft a bloody red color.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Evolve from Monkey

Look at you, fashioning and enhancing rudimentary tools to better kill things. This is like that scene out of 2001: A Space Odyssey, except more pathetic somehow. Still, your hairy, primitive, knuckle-dragging ancestors would be proud. And for the record, I’m talking about your Uncle Jed.

Reward: 5 x Delver Copper Loot Token

I absently dismissed the achievement and examined the screwdriver in closer detail, conjuring its item screen. Sure enough, the first Effect Slot was now filled by the deliciously gruesome Bloodletting ability. I gave the tool-turned-weapon a little twirl then took a couple of practice jabs—enjoying the way it felt in my grip—before finally stowing it back in my tool belt.

If that had been Gold, what would a Ruby Token get me?

Instead of dicking around with the Silver and Gold Tokens, I pulled out the Ruby Warlord Token. I’d never been one of those patient kids who liked to save the best gift for last on Christmas morning. I always went in for the kill straight away, picking the biggest present under the tree, then tearing the paper away like a feral honey badger raiding a beehive. I plunked the Ruby Token into the last Gashapon machine in the line and waited with hungry anticipation.

The contraption once more gave a mechanical whirl as I turned the dial and another capsule emerged in the prize slot, this one with a metallic ruby-colored lid.

Excitedly, I popped the top—revealing a capsule space big enough to store a large dog—and dumped the rather small sigil onto my palm. Unlike the last, this stone was pure, inky black and had a gleaming, bone-white symbol carved into its face. Upon closer inspection, a tag appeared: Gavel of Get Fucked – Fabled Sigil. My eyes skipped past the rather colorful flavor text and landed on the sigil’s effect.

Activate a Power Attack, costing 20 Stamina, which inflicts additional damage equal to 20% of the opponent’s existing Health (250 Max Damage). If the opponent is already below 10% total Health, Gavel of Get Fucked lands a Killing Blow, instantly slaying the target. Landing a Killing Blow triggers a follow-up effect, Wave of Justice, that applies the Gavel’s primary effect to all enemy combatants within a twenty-foot radius around the Gavel’s wielder. Gavel of Get Fucked has a cooldown time of 5 minutes.

Restriction: Must be affixed to a weapon that deals blunt force damage.

I just stared, completely thunderstruck.

Ho-lee shit.

Not only was it a Fabled Sigil, but it only had a single restriction: it needed to be bonded with an Artifact that was classified as a Blunt Weapon. But that wasn’t much of a restriction at all, considering my hammer was the best weapon I had anyway. True, this would take up one of the two Effect Slots, but I highly doubted I was going to find something better suited for me anytime soon.

I pressed the sigil against the blunt metal hammerhead and quickly breezed past the confirmation prompt.

As sigil and hammer became one, the handle turned from plain brown hickory to a black so deep it seemed to eat the light. The head practically burned silver against the inky handle.

In a word, it was awesome.

I slipped the hammer into its customary loop and pulled yet another token out, this time the Diamond Sentinel Token. But then I paused, the coin extended halfway toward the vending machine slot. I caught a strange sound, so soft I almost missed it at first. It was like the rustle of dry fall leaves rubbing together. I lowered the token and glanced back over one shoulder at the seemingly empty arcade.

“Did you just hear something?” I asked Croc, feeling a thin thread of worry rear its ugly head. “’Cause I could’ve sworn I heard something.”

“No, I heard it too.” The dog’s body was canted away from me as the mimic peered into the strobing neon chaos beyond. “There’s something in here with us, alright,” Croc confirmed, though it never took its eyes from rows of neatly lined video games.

That certainly didn’t leave me full of warm and fuzzies.

“Care to elaborate?” I asked, then froze as I heard the sound again. Only much, much closer…

CHAPTER 18

TRIPLE M

It was the whisper of fabric on fabric, this time accompanied by a blur of motion off to my left. I wheeled, catching the fluttering edge of a blue sheet, just before it disappeared behind one of the racing machines. Another flash of movement in the corner of my right eye revealed a small figure, no more than four feet tall, who scampered out from behind one of the claw machines.

For the first time, I got a good look at our visitor.

At first glance, I wasn’t particularly impressed or worried.

It looked like a kid wearing a bed sheet draped over its head. The stupid ensemble made him vaguely resemble a ghost. There were jagged holes gouged into the sheet, but I couldn’t see any eyes—just pits of black that seemed to go on and on and on. Those black endless sockets were the most disturbing part by far. A pair of gnarled, bare feet protruded from beneath the hem of the loose-fitting sheet, the toes long and pale and capped with yellowing nails that hadn’t been trimmed in ages.

Dweller 0.393C – Arcade Specter [Level 2]

Arcade Specters look like grubby toddlers pretending to be ghosts for Halloween and that’s about how dangerous they are. Hell, if anything, these little rascals can be mildly beneficial. Their meat is chock-full of healing nutrients, assuming you’re willing to indulge in what is basically borderline cannibalism. Unfortunately for you, the thing that likes to HUNT these guys isn’t so harmless. I’d run if I were you…

“Uh, Croc, how boned are we here?” I asked.

“Hmmm, on a scale of Milkbone to prehistoric fossil, I would say we’re solidly preserved mammoth tusk.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I shot back, one hand already reaching for my newly enhanced hammer.

“It means no need to panic yet, Dan. But…” The mimic trailed off. “But maybe best to hurry it along, yeah? You can ooh and ahh at your goodies once we get out of here.”

Croc had never sounded worried before, but the dog sounded worried now.

Which probably meant I needed to really, really worry.

I spun back to the machines and started feeding my high-end Loot Tokens into each of the respective Gashapon machines as fast as my fingers would move. Three Silver Tokens—a basic Delver Token, one Medic!, and an Elementalist—one Gold Ambassador Token and, of course, the coveted Diamond Sentinel. I didn’t even bother to look at the contents of each capsule, but instead shoved all of them into Storage without a second look, nervous sweat beading on my forehead and running down my cheeks.

There was a thump that rattled the floor off in the distance, followed by a distant sound that was hard to place, but also strangely familiar. It was droning and repetitive. Almost hypnotic.

“And now we should panic,” Croc called. “Time to go, Dan. Like right now!”

The sound was growing louder, more insistent.

With the capsules all safely stowed, I rushed over to Croc’s side and froze when I saw something huge and round emerge from the end of an aisle, not far off. The creature was easily the size of a compact sedan, perfectly spherical, and covered in pebbled yellow flesh. It had two beady black eyes, glossy and lifeless like a shark, and a cavernous maw filled with rows and rows of cruel curved teeth. The jaws of a deep-sea anglerfish, maybe.

I was staring at an off-brand, horror movie rendition of Pac-Man.

Dweller 0.3327A – Mobile Murder Muncher [Level 27]

Let’s not pretend we don’t all know exactly what this is… Yep, a Mobile Murder Muncher. The Triple M is a triple threat and is as fierce as it is stupid. A voracious creature of pure, unthinking hunger, the Mobile Murder Muncher yearns for the healing flesh of the Arcade Specters, which soothes it from the unrelenting pain of its own terrible existence—at least for a short while.

With that said, it isn’t a particularly picky eater and will consume anything unlucky or stupid enough to get in its way. If there is any saving grace to this shitshow of a situation, it’s that the Triple M will not leave the Arcade for any reason. It’s also dumber than a sack of hair. But then so are you for being here in the first place. You really should’ve run when I told you to…

The monster opened and closed its mouth in a rhythmic fashion as it levitated a foot above the star-speckled carpet. Now, I knew exactly what the sound was.

“WAKA-WAKA-WAKA,” the creature thundered, before disappearing down the next aisleway.

Dead ahead, one of the Arcade Specters appeared, this one clad in blue. It took off at a sprint, moving as quickly as possible away from the Murder Muncher. In Pac-Man, the ghosts usually hunted you, but in this bizarro world, of course it was the other way around. The Codex entry said the Murder Muncher was stupid, but it also said the monster was hungry, and if it was after the creepy ghost kids, I didn’t want to be anywhere near them.

I turned and took off in the other direction, running toward the glass-fronted entryway, hoping to get clear of this place before the Murder Muncher could get within chomping range. I took a sharp right and skidded around an aisle filled with more claw machines—these filled with miscellaneous weapons and odd bobbles—then bolted past a bank of first-person shooters, which stood near the exit. Except there was one problem. One huge, pain-in-my-ass problem. A metal security gate had been unceremoniously rolled down from the ceiling and secured to the floor with a thick metal lock.

I could easily stick one hand through the metal slats of the rolling gate, but there was no way I could squeeze my body through. Picking the lock was out of the question, and I didn’t have any Artifacts or Relics that would let me get past the gate. Theoretically, I could bust the lock with my hammer, but it was outside the metal gate, so getting a clean shot would be impossible. And the most Bleach Bolt would do is leave the metal sparkling and clean.

I had a full charge on the Slammer of Shielding, but that was a stopgap measure at best.

I needed to find a way out. Fast, quick, and in a hurry.

I rushed over to the broad glass panel flanking the security gate to the left. I doubted very much that I’d be able to bash my way through, but my hammer did have a few fancy new upgrades and I had Surveyor’s Mark as part of the Catacomber Emblem, which allowed me to alter the physical structures of the Backrooms in small ways. Admittedly, smashing out an entire window probably didn’t qualify as “altering things in a small way,” but I’d feel dumb as shit if I didn’t at least try.

I let the Mana in my core flow down my arm and into the hammer gripped tightly in my hand. The makeshift weapon felt hollow and hungry, like an empty vessel desperate to be filled. My blue Mana gauge flared to life, dropping by several points, then suddenly the weapon swelled, growing to the size of a sledgehammer. It blazed with cold cobalt light, as though it were built entirely from forged Mana, but weighed no more than it had before.

I planted my feet, grabbed the handle with both hands, then swung for the fences, activating Gavel as I did. My Stamina plunged as well, dropping close to zero as even more power surged into the weapon.

The blunt face slammed into the glass with a thunderous reverberation and the smallest hairline fracture crept outward from the impact. Seeing the tiny crack made me think that I might well be able to bash my way free. If I had an unlimited pool of Mana and Stamina and a couple of uninterrupted hours to bang on the glass. But I didn’t have either of those. What I did have was a handful of seconds before I was shark chum. The racket had drawn the attention of the Murder Muncher, and it was racing toward me at an unbelievable speed.

“Oh, fiddlesticks! We need to move, Dan!” Croc bellowed, slamming into my hip with one shoulder.

I stumbled, frozen for a moment by the sight of the onrushing avalanche of pebbled, waxy skin and too-big teeth. The creature was horrifying, but watching its jaws rhythmically shoot up then snap shut was hypnotic. Dreamy. There was a part of me that wanted to stand there, staring placidly into the maw of certain doom like a moron. Thankfully, the jarring shove from Croc broke the strange trance and coaxed my feet into motion. I shook my head and staggered into a run, darting down the connecting aisle.

There was a whoosh of displaced air as the Murder Muncher erupted from the aisle, then turned on a dime and proceeded to follow us.

The rumbling growl of “WAKA-WAKA-WAKA” chased us down the hall, the sound vibrating inside my chest. It was the sound of memories. Of long summer nights and childhood friendships. It was also the sound of my death.

“The Arcade is locked,” I hollered down at Croc, who was pacing me easily. The mutt was fast when it wanted to be, and it seemed Croc had a very strong urge not to be eaten. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Two options,” Croc replied, panting a little even though the mimic didn’t have lungs to speak of. “There should be an emergency exit that will dump us back into the mall. Could be anywhere, though, so we’ll have to stay alive until we can find it. Or we can find a Ravenous Hunger Pellet. It’s a white ball, about the size of a fist. Floats in the air. It’ll make the Murder Muncher vulnerable for three minutes.”

“And then we can kill it?” I asked.

Croc barked a laugh. “Heavens no. It’s level twenty-seven. Even vulnerable, it’ll shrug off anything we can throw at it. But its teeth will vanish for a bit, so it’ll have to gum us to death instead—which it is fully capable of doing, by the way. It’s just a much slower death. More painful, in all likelihood.”

“Then why would you tell me about it!” I yelled, still running.

Except, the words were lost as the “WAKA-WAKA-WAKA” behind me grew so loud it was deafening. I could feel hot fetid breath on my back, and I knew that if I turned around, even for a moment, the creature would bite me in two.

We blasted out from the end of the aisle, and I saw a red neon exit sign a few rows over.

Unfortunately, a pink-sheeted ghost slammed into me at the exact same instant, and the pair of us went down in a tangle of limbs. We rolled several times, and when we finally came to a stop, the ghost was lying on top of me like a lumpy sack of potatoes, and the Murder Muncher was less than ten feet away and closing fast, its predatory eyes locked onto our position.

Oh fuck.

I fumbled for the Slammer, but my fingers felt numb and useless. That was the adrenaline settling in. Adrenaline is one helluva potent drug, but it has a few drawbacks, like diminished hearing, tunnel vision, and the temporary loss of fine motor skills. Which was the reason my fingers were staging a mutiny. But it also has the added benefit of slowing time down to a crawl. Things weren’t actually going any slower, of course, but my brain was processing information at a breakneck speed.

I knew I wouldn’t have the dexterity to use the Slammer, but there was one option that might buy me a few extra precious seconds. Just enough time to get to the exit, if I was lucky.

If I was unlucky, I was going to die horribly.

It wasn’t a great option, and I would have trouble looking at myself in the mirror for a few days, but it was that or be devoured by a mutated version of Pac-Man. Given the outcome, the choice was a no-brainer.

I pulled my legs up, jammed them into the Arcade Specter’s stomach, and mule-kicked the son of a bitch off of me and straight into the oncoming jaws of the Murder Muncher. The ghost was surprisingly light—it only weighed as much as a small child, which had a number of disturbing implications. It sailed through the air like a punted football, its little legs kicking as it issued a terrified mewling noise that might have almost sounded like the word help.

Or maybe not. I was hoping not.

Then the jaws crunched down and there was an explosion of gore. The creature was dead so fast, its Health bar didn’t even have a chance to appear.

A geyser of crimson erupted outward in an arc, spraying the purple carpet and drenching me in blood, bone, and bits of fluttering sheet. It was easily one of the most horrendous things I’d ever seen. I’d kicked that defenseless ghost child into the creature’s mouth, knowing it would be devoured. I hadn’t been aware I was feeding it into the supernatural equivalent of a woodchipper.

Yep, definitely didn’t feel good about that.

But it was me or the ghost, I reminded myself, and I’d pick me all day every day. The Murder Muncher had stopped moving and was mashing through the meat in great noisy gurgles. I scrambled to my feet and took off like a bullet, racing around another arcade machine—classic Donkey Kong—beelining for the emergency exit.

“You okay?” Croc called, appearing beside me at a run. “Because that is an obscene amount of blood.”

“It’s not my blood,” I yelled in reply. “Now move your ass!”

In the distance, the ominous “WAKA-WAKA-WAKA” had started up once more, like the engine of a murderous combine tractor roaring to life, but Croc and I raced through the door and into the relative safety of the mall.

I skidded to a stop—sweating, shaking, and bloody—then doubled over, hands pressed against my knees as I sucked in great, greedy lungfuls of air.

I stole a sidelong look at the dog. “Hey Croc,” I said, “let’s not make any more unnecessary pit stops, okay?”

“Oh, fiddlesticks. But there’s a great Froyo place not far from here,” Croc replied, looking crestfallen. “Don’t know why, but the Arcade always puts me in the mood for Froyo.”

“I just donkey-kicked a toddler into the equivalent of a sentient bear trap,” I growled, looking down at my blood-spattered shirt. “We are not, under any circumstances, getting Froyo.”

CHAPTER 19

FROYO FOR EVERYONE!

Half an hour later Croc and I were sitting on a bench in front of a Froyo place called Yogurt Oasis. We’d come here because Yogurt Oasis happened to be the closest store with a working bathroom, and not in any way because I begrudgingly wanted to make Croc happy. The shop was tiny and manned by only a single level 2 Dweller, called a Seasonal Work Goblin. One Bleach Bolt cleansed the world of the goblin’s existence in less than two minutes, leaving behind a burbling corpse and a single Common Relic Shard.

I caught sight of all the delicious-looking containers of frozen yogurt as I looted the creature’s corpse. I hated myself for admitting it, but Froyo did sound amazing. Maybe it was because I’d very nearly died a few minutes before, or maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten anything but a candy bar in more than a day. But either way, I couldn’t take my eyes off the Sumatra Coffee Blend, which was an unbroken swirl of white and brown frozen goodness. It smelled like caffeine, chocolate, and happiness.

But how could I possibly eat something so delicious after literally feeding another living being into an industrial-sized kitchen blender?

Just the thought of doing it was immoral.

Unethical.

Disgusting.

Honestly, I should’ve been ashamed of myself.

I did it anyway. My gut told me that the random monster toddler from the Arcade would want me to honor its memory with joy, not sorrow.

But before digging in, I made sure to thoroughly scrub off the caked-on blood and wring the gristly chunks of ghost meat out of my undershirt. Just as the ghost child would’ve wanted. It was a losing battle, unfortunately. My undershirt was so stained with blood that it looked solidly red instead of white. Well, faded pink really, since I’d tried to wash it in the sink.

Although it was an Artifact with a Personal Significance, it didn’t have any effects yet, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of wearing it. Not until I found a way to properly wash it. I stowed it in storage and fished out a loose black T-shirt that read, “Existence is a Joke, and We Are the Punchline.”

Croc was sitting beside me with a cup of Passion Mango Citrus Sorbet. The mimic had sprouted human hands at the end of his forelimbs but had left the rest of its dog body more or less the same. Was it disturbing? Not after what I’d witnessed in the Arcade. The Lobby Greeters had been terrifying, and the bathroom Janitor would haunt my nightmares for years to come, but they all dimmed in comparison to the Murder Muncher and the geyser of blood that had soaked me from head to toe.

Everything was a walk in the park compared to that.

Croc enjoyed the sorbet in contemplative silence, which was a nice change of pace, while I polished off the rest of my Sumatra Coffee Blend then pulled out the capsules I’d taken from the Arcade. I’d suffered extreme psychological trauma and had nearly died to get these damned things—I just hoped it was all worth it.

I had three silver capsules, one gold, and one with a sparkling diamond lid.

I moved to pop the lid of the diamond capsule, but Croc stopped me.

“Wait, you can’t do that,” it said, sounding personally scandalized.

“Why the hell not?” I asked. “This is the best one, so I should start with it first.”

“That’s exactly why you can’t start with it first,” Croc replied, rolling its eyes. “Trust me, that one is going to be amazing, but then the rest of them will feel underwhelming, even though they’re actually great prizes. But if you start with the silvers and work your way up, then the anticipation will build and build. Trust me, it’s far more satisfying to do it that way.”

I grunted noncommittally but didn’t feel like arguing with the dog. I was going to open them all anyway, so if Croc wanted to save the best for last, I could do that.

“Fine,” I said, swapping out the diamond capsule for one of the silvers and wriggling the top off with my thumb.

I systematically opened the three silvers, one right after another. The items weren’t world-breaking by any stretch of the imagination, but they were all useful enough in their own way. The Silver Delver capsule rewarded me with an Artifact called Twinning String. It resembled a big ball of red yarn, which sounded lame as hell, but was actually kinda badass.

The way it worked was both simple and ingenious.

First, you cut off a length of yarn, cut that piece in half again, then tied one section around your finger and the other around literally anything else—typically another person or a distant location. The two pieces of yarn were then Twinned together, and you could conjure a wispy blue line that connected the first piece of yarn to the second. It was in every conceivable way inferior to my Unerring Arrow spell, but it would be an invaluable lifeline to anyone else.

I didn’t have any need for it, but I was sure I could get a hefty premium for the yarn.

The Silver Medic! capsule yielded a One-Time-Use Artifact called the Healing Hand Grenade.

Ironically, it didn’t look like a hand grenade at all. Instead, it looked like one of those cheap, green water balloons you could get at the supermarket for a buck or two. The kind that was as thin as tissue paper and would pop if you looked at ’em the wrong way. Naturally, it was filled with Zima. But the effect did exactly like what it sounded like. Wind back and chuck the balloon into a group of friendlies, instantly healing up to 200 points of damage to all allies in the thirty-foot area of effect.

I stored that so I wouldn’t accidentally pop it.

The silver Elementalist capsule ended up being the best of the lot. It granted me a flat 8% resistance to Fire Damage, increased Burn Damage Regeneration rate by 12%, and made the item it was attached to fireproof. There was one minor catch, though. It could only be attached to armor classified as “pants.” Which meant my frayed, ass-hugging jorts. It was annoying, but between that and the Gremlin’s Groin Guardian Relic, at least I knew the ol’ family jewels would be taken care of.

When I opened the gold-lidded capsule, I found a golden medallion, suspended from a gold chain with thick links. On one side was a giant thumbs-up. On the back were the words, “Researcher Approved!”

Seal of the Researcher

Fabled Artifact

Type: One-Time Use

Well look at you, Mr. Hot Shit. Earning a personal nod from the Researcher himself. Not too shabby. You must’ve done something pretty fuckin’ impressive because he doesn’t just go around handing these bad boys out, believe you me.

This is a one-and-done item and serves as a personal voucher from the big guy. The Researcher holds a lot of sway with certain Backrooms factions, and if you present them with this talisman, they’ll treat you like a favorite nephew and allow you to operate freely within their territory. It’s a lot more impressive than it sounds. Remember, in a world where everyone’s gunning for you, it’s damned good to have a token telling them to aim elsewhere.

As for the last item, it was a Sigil Stone and ended up being every bit as good as the Gavel of Get Fucked, which I’d received from the Ruby Warlord Token. Hell, it might’ve been better.

Mana Capacitor

Fabled Sigil

Type: Cloth Armor Sigil

Armor is great… If you’re a loser who plans on getting punched in the teeth all the time like a bitch.

Which is why you don’t want an armor upgrade. Nope, what you really want is a Mana upgrade—because no one can punch you in the teeth if you set ’em on fire with your mind or use a Relic to turn them into USDA-certified organic meat paste. Enter Mana Capacitor. Let’s call it what it really is, a giant magical battery that will supercharge your abilities.

What’s not to love?

Mana Capacitor increases your total maximum Mana Pool by 15%, increases your overall Mana Regeneration Rate by 10%, and has a 5% chance to trigger Wild Surge when using any Relic that costs Mana. Wild Surge instantly replenishes 50% of your total Mana Pool, increases Mana Regeneration by 25% for 2 minutes, and has a 50% chance of duplicating the original trigger spell at no additional Mana cost.

After reading through the description three separate times, I decided it was significantly better than the Gavel Sigil. Although Gavel of Get Fucked offered some extraordinary effects, it was limited in scope, could only be used while wielding my hammer during melee combat, and drained Stamina to activate. The Mana Capacitor, on the other hand, was a passive that would drastically boost my overall Mana Pool and Regen Rate, plus the Wild Surge ability alone was worth its weight in gold.

There was one serious drawback, which felt like a kick in the ballsack.

Restriction: Must be affixed to an item that qualifies as cloth armor.

Naturally, I had exactly one Artifact item that qualified as cloth armor, and it wasn’t my boots, jorts, undershirt, or tool belt. I pulled off the stupid, ass-ugly Versace bathrobe. It was bright red with black cuffs and a black belt, decorated with baroque golden statues and weird Grecian shit. I didn’t have anything else, and this item not only met the requirements but also had Personal Significance, which meant it would scale with me as I leveled. Of all the items I’d Noclipped in with, the bathrobe was the one I hated the most.

And if I added the Mana Capacitor, I’d never be rid of the damned thing. It would haunt me for the rest of my time here—which could be forever, so far as I knew.

“Screw me,” I grumbled, pressing the sigil stone against the robe, then confirming the prompt that followed.

There was a flash of light as the items melded together and a glowing blue sigil, perfectly mirroring the symbol from the stone, appeared bright and bold on the back of the robe.

With a disgruntled sigh, I slung the robe around my shoulders and slid my arms into the sleeves, instantly feeling a tremendous surge of power rush through me like a crackling bolt of electricity. I looked dumb as hell, but fashion didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Only survival. And the Mana Capacitor would help me survive.

“You ready?” I asked as Croc finished the last drags of sorbet. “Because we’ve already wasted too much time as it is.”

Croc took one last longing look at the Froyo and nodded sadly.

Then, because I was both a jackass and a sucker, I easily vaulted over the counter and grabbed each of the stowed tubs of Froyo, disappearing them all into my Storage System. I still had plenty of room to spare and the space was time-locked, so the Froyo would probably last longer than I was going to.

“For later,” I said as Croc visibly brightened.

“You really are the best friend, Dan,” Croc replied. “Let’s go get you to Walgreens so you can finally get the life-saving medication—which is definitely not hemorrhoid cream—that you so desperately need!”

CHAPTER 20

MARCH TO THE MART

We spent the better part of the next six hours putting as much distance as possible between us and the Loot Arcade, all while maneuvering through mostly empty shopping mall corridors and not-quite-so-empty storefronts. The Compass of the Catacomber made the trip as quick and painless as possible. Though, to be fair, there was still quite a bit of pain involved. Spelunker’s Sixth Sense helped me avoid more traps than I could count, but there were still runic pressure plates, magical trip wires, and enough mimics to fill an Olympic swimming pool.

And those were the easy traps.

We stumbled across one hallway shrouded in deep shadow, though the gloom was pierced by thin shafts of light that streamed in through an overhead skylight. Unerring Arrow ushered us through the passageway, but it led us along a path that curved and zigzagged, avoiding each of the beams of illumination. Once we cleared the obstacle, I took out a coat from my storage space and tossed it directly into a shaft of white light out of curiosity more than anything else. Razorblades of concentrated sunfire condensed and sliced the jacket into a hundred smoldering pieces.

It wasn’t hard to imagine what would’ve happened to the oh-so-frail human form.

There were cursed mirror chambers that would ensnare anyone with a weak Grit score in a world of crystalline glass—stranded until you invariably starved to death or died of thirst. We also discovered two temporal distortion pockets, which would suspend unlucky souls inside a bubble of frozen time for a hundred years or more. Victims would survive the cruel process only to find everyone they’d ever known was dead and gone. We even found one of the Gravity Inversion Wells near a pastry shop called Cinnaholics.

That we stayed well clear of, since I was currently enjoying the use of all my limbs.

But seeing all those traps did get me thinking.

One of my new abilities, Surveyor’s Mark, allowed me to mark my path and even make small superficial changes to the Backrooms themselves. I’d learned firsthand that it wasn’t powerful enough to do any meaningful structural damage, but what exactly did small superficial changes entail? Back in the Lobby, I’d used my Sharpie to leave rudimentary directions for myself, but the corridors had quickly dissolved my handiwork. Now though? Now, with a little will and a trickle of Mana, it turned out I could imbue the Sharpie with enough power to leave notes on the walls.

Which is exactly what I started doing.

Shadow Gauntlet: Do NOT touch the beams of light. – Dan

Gravity Inversion Well: Will literally rip all your limbs off. – Dan

The gray bench on the right is a Mimic. – Dan

Cinnaholics is only okay. The pastries are stale. Lot of calories. – Dan

The Sharpie wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to see from a distance, so Croc and I performed a smash-and-grab on a craft supply store called the Funky Fresh Art Mart. We were in and out in less than two minutes, grabbing as much spray paint as I could get my hands on before the store’s artists in residence could drown us in ink or slash our throats with folded origami swords.

The spray paint made marking each of the traps all the easier.

There were also Dwellers to deal with. Lots of Dwellers.

Even with Unerring Arrow to guide us and the map to show us when there were hostile creatures lying in wait, we couldn’t avoid them all. Nor did we want to, truth be told. In order to take over the MediocreMart, I needed to get stronger and level up, and to do that, I needed to hunt.

Unfortunately, the line between hunter and hunted was often a blurry one.

More than once, Croc and I had to haul ass to get away from horrors that were way the hell outside of our respective weight classes—especially when we ventured through the shops themselves. Similar to the dungeons that populated games like those in the immensely popular Titan Realm RPG franchise, most of the shops had lower-level “mobs” and one significantly more powerful “overseer,” which on this floor were typically labeled as “Store Managers”—though Croc assured me that changed based on the theme of each individual floor.

Those Store Managers carried the best shit, hands down, but were not to be dicked around with unless running away wasn’t an option. Still, so long as we didn’t get pinned down or backed into a corner, running was almost always an option. The Store Managers were viciously territorial and would violently eradicate anything inside the bounds of their domain, but once we got outside the confines of their stores, they seemed reluctant to venture out into the mall.

And thank sweet baby Jesus we didn’t stumble across anything even close to as lethal or powerful as the Murder Muncher from the Arcade.

There were plenty of other things that lurked in the common spaces of the mall, however, and the only way to shake those assholes was to kill ’em outright. We tangled with a couple of the Carnivora Rex plants and a lone Wandering Mall Janitor, who bore a striking similarity to the Janitorial Handyman from the Lobby bathroom—though instead of a toilet for a head, it had a mop bucket.

The most common mob, by far, were the seething packs of Mall Rats, which were vicious rodents each the size of a Rottweiler.

They were mean as hell and dealt a disease debuff that lasted for twenty minutes if they managed to land a clean bite. Most of them were low-level, but they traveled in groups of ten or fifteen. One pack was even accompanied by a level 11 Mall Rat King, who looked less like a rodent and more like a mangy werewolf with a bald, pink tail. The Rat King had been wearing colorful boardshorts and a puka shell necklace, which undermined his authority somewhat.

Still—even accounting for the boardshorts and the necklace—Croc and I hadn’t been able to beat the Overseer on our own, so we drew him off to a hallway strewn about with limb-ripper snares. It turned out the Dwellers were just as susceptible to the traps as anyone else.

That might even have explained why so many of the creatures were reluctant to leave behind the safety of their tiny fiefdoms.

I ended up with a score of shallow cuts, painful lacerations, a pair of deep puncture wounds on my bicep—courtesy of the jaws of an especially ambitious Mall Rat—and a broken hand for my trouble. And that was with the map and the Unerring Arrow to guide us. But, if there was one good thing about this place, it was that even the most severe wounds healed at sharply accelerated rates. A broken hand should’ve taken six weeks to fully recover from. The pain had faded within the first hour and by the third, it was almost as good as new.

I also earned heaps of experience points for all the kills—2,325 to be exact, which pushed me up to level 9. Croc and I only earned partial experience for the Rat King, since technically the Backrooms themselves managed to land the killing blow, but the sheer volume of wandering Mall Rats had added up to just over fifteen hundred points. That was enough to push Croc up to level 10, which the mimic dog seemed especially pleased about.

Along with the experience came a small fortune of Shards, Relics, and Artifacts. Unfortunately, most of them were absolute garbage and everything else ended up being duplicates of absolute garbage, which was somehow even worse. There were Relics that caused uncontrolled hiccupping and others that caused unpredictable lapses in memory. Even one that resembled a portable Walkman which, when equipped, made the wielder speak entirely in boyband lyrics.

That one was the worst by a country mile.

There were two notable exceptions.

The first came from the Wandering Mall Janitor and took the shape of a bright yellow triangular folding sign which had a red stick figure man flanked by the words Caution Wet Floor on top and Cuidado Piso Mojado on the bottom. It was a Common Relic appropriately named Slippery When Wet, which allowed the user to conjure a thin sheen of extremely slick water that would cover a ten-by-ten section of floor. Not the most devastating spell in my arsenal, and certainly not on par with Bleach Bolt, but I figured it might have a few practical uses.

I added that one to my Core, bringing my total Relic count to eight.

The other worthwhile Relic came from a level 5 Delinquent Mall Rat—bigger and nastier than the Common Mall Rats, but not quite as deadly or revolting as the Mall Rat King. It looked like a pair of pitted brass knuckles that had seen better days. The effect was a common physical ability called Sucker Punch, which dealt additional physical and emotional damage when striking an opponent first.

What exactly emotional damage entailed, or how it was calculated, I had no idea, but it had a nice ring to it.

I would’ve added Sucker Punch to my Spatial Core without batting an eye, but it happened to have synergistic resonance with the Camo Kit I already had equipped. Croc had mentioned that it was possible to combine Relics with similar effects, creating more powerful or unique spells and abilities in the process. The problem was that when forging Relics, you never actually knew what you were going to end up with.

It was all one big crapshoot.

In theory, you could wind up with an ability that was rare and badass, but there was an even money chance it would be shitty. And after seeing exactly how shitty some of the Relic effects could be, I understood the hesitation.

But I had an ace in the hole.

When I pulled the Camo Kit from my Core and held it in close proximity to the Brass Knuckles, I felt the two items begin to hum and vibrate in my hand like a struck tuning fork a second before a prompt appeared.

Synergistic Resonance Detected!

Would you like to Forge Sucker Punch (Common – Level 1) and Basic Camo Kit – Camouflage Spell (Common – Level 1) into a new Relic?*

Yes/No?

Right below that, like a footnote tacked on at the bottom of a textbook page, was a much smaller line of text.

* Run Researcher’s Codex Compatibility Analysis - Yes/No?

Finding two Relics with a Synergistic Resonance got my blood pumping, but it was the footnote that left me drooling at the prospects. Maybe forging was less like gambling and a bit more like chemistry—and I happened to have the teacher’s study guide stowed away inside my soul.

I mentally selected the Analysis option, and a new box replaced the first.

Researcher’s Codex Compatibility Analysis

Based on historic data sets and extensive Forging models, Sucker Punch (Common – Level 1) and Camo Kit – Camouflage Spell (Common – Level 1) have an estimated 92% resonance compatibility, meaning the number of possible Relic Iterations is Low. The most probable outcome is Mall Ninja’s Strike (Uncommon), or a closely adjacent derivative. Would you like to view additional report records for the Mall Ninja’s Strike ability? Yes/No?

I selected yes once again and quickly read over a brief and extremely dry analytical report of the potential derivative. The changes were significant, but there was also a certain logic to them. Almost as if the forging process served to amplify the best qualities of each Relic, while also making those qualities narrower in focus.

First off, Mall Ninja’s Strike nerfed the duration of the camouflage spell—cutting it in half from one minute to thirty seconds—while also jacking up the overall Mana cost by a factor of ten. The payoff was that the camouflage portion of the ability was vastly more effective. Although I wouldn’t be invisible, I’d gain an active effect during the duration of the spell called Mall Ninja’s Veil, which would allow me to seamlessly blend into surrounding shadows.

Mall Ninja’s Strike also had a more limited function than Sucker Punch but made up for it by packing a much greater… well, punch. It would allow me to deal three times my normal damage, but only if I attacked preemptively while simultaneously shrouded in the Mall Ninja’s Veil. The greatest benefit, though—and the bonus effect that made me decide to forge the two Relics into one—was that the Mall Ninja’s Strike damage bonus applied to spells as well as physical attacks.

The possibilities for a skill like that were endless.

When I finally Forged the two Relics together, there was a tremendous flare of heat accompanied by a blinding, though brief, flash of golden light. When the light vanished, the two items were gone and a cheaply manufactured mall wakizashi rested in my palm, its handle wrapped in faux-silk fabric from several different anime shows. It didn’t look like anything special, but then neither did the Compass of the Catacomber. I examined the new Relic description, confirming what the Compatibility Analysis had already told me.

Mall Ninja’s Strike

Uncommon Relic - Level 1

Duration: 30 Seconds

Cost: 20 Mana / 10 Stamina on Strike

Embrace your inner Mall Ninja as you channel the power of shadow to hide from your enemies… and also from all the people who are actively judging you for buying a mall wakizashi, you nerd. You couldn’t even spring for the full-sized katana? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Once activated, Mall Ninja’s Veil envelops you in an aura of darkness and secondhand cringe, making you seamlessly blend into the surrounding shadows. Your enemies won’t see you coming, but they’ll certainly feel your presence when you shank them right in the kidney! While they were out partying, you were studying the blade, and it shows…

While under the effects of Mall Ninja’s Veil, your first preemptive strike—whether magical or melee—becomes a devastating surprise attack, dealing three times normal damage. Just make sure to exercise caution. You wouldn’t want your Klingon bat’leth to get caught on your tactical fanny pack and ruin your grand entrance.

I grinned in satisfaction.

The added ability to predict the likely outcome of the forging process would be a huge benefit once I got the storefront up and running. I’d be able to collect junk Relics then manufacture them into Uncommon and Rare abilities, which I could sell at a steep markup. Honestly, I was a little sad to lose the versatility of the Sucker Punch ability, but Mall Ninja’s Strike was the better technique, and it wasn’t even close.

I also earned another research achievement for forging my first Uncommon Relic—Easy-Bake Oven. The description was as condescending as ever, but it came with five Copper Forger Loot Tokens, so I didn’t give a shit.

As for the rest of the Relics…

I ended up sacrificing fifteen of them to bring my Bleach Bolt spell up to level 4, although the process wasn’t nearly as quick or easy as forging the two Relics together had been.

Croc guided me through the ritual, which wasn’t at all intuitive. I sat on the floor, legs folded beneath me, and arranged five Relics around me in a rough circle with my body at the center. Each of the objects radiated a strange warmth and a subtle aura of authority and otherworldly power. I meditated on the Bleach Bolt Relic, nestled inside my core, then reached out with my will and mind, drawing the generative power of the assembled Relics toward me.

The objects began to glow with spectral silver light, and after a few seconds, the five Relics crumbled to fine motes of dust, and the colorful essence contained within each of the items flowed toward me, sinking through my chest and into the Relic I held in my mind’s eye. As the energy settled, the Relic level ticked up, moving from one to two. The whole ceremony took about ten minutes from start to finish and left me weak and shaky, but those feelings passed quickly enough.

I repeated the process twice more, laying out the Relics each time and funneling their preternatural energy into Bleach Bolt. The spell description remained the same and so did the Mana cost, but the damage output jumped dramatically from 15 points of Corrosive Damage on contact to 24 points on contact, and it now dealt 5 points of additional Corrosive Damage per minute for five minutes. In short, it was almost twice as destructive as it had been before the upgrade.

That left me with five unused Relics left to my name—one extra Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding, two Gremlin’s Groin Guardians, and two Basic Camo Spell Relics. All of those I left in Storage along with my ever-growing stash of Common and Uncommon Shards. Eventually, I’d forge those into even more Relics, but that could wait until later.

I also earned a wheelbarrow’s worth of Artifacts from the various skirmishes but, by and large, they weren’t much better than the Relics.

Most of them were like the Greater Rage Elixir I found in the supplement store. Sort of okay but offset by a host of horrendous—often crippling—side effects that vastly outweighed any potential benefit. I found a wicked-looking machete that caused you to teleport to a completely random location within line of sight every time you landed a blow against an enemy and a metal bracelet called Jinxed Fortune, which minutely altered probability against the favor of the wearer.

Why would anyone in their right mind want something like that? I wasn’t sure.

The best Artifacts were the ones that tended to have no active effects at all, but rather empty Effect Slots just like the barbell I’d looted off the Roid Gremlin Overseer. I picked up a few more Lesser Healing Elixirs—they were all Zima—and two Mana Elixirs that took the form of the iconic ’90s soda of choice for teens everywhere, Jolt Cola. Those I added to my tool belt so I’d have them on hand for when things went sideways in the worst possible fashion.

Worthless garbage or not, the Artifacts all went into Storage until I could figure out what in the hell to do with ’em. I was starting to get a little worried about my Storage weight capacity. Two thousand pounds sounded like a lot, but little things could add up quickly, I knew.

When MediocreMart finally populated on my map after what felt like countless hours of walking, running, and duking it out against the mall’s many inhuman inhabitants, I took a little extra time to track down another Progenitor Monolith.

I was anxious to raid the off-brand Walgreens and claim my first strip of Backrooms real estate, but I needed to be smart about it. This was a two-star threat, I reminded myself, which meant the Store Manager waiting within was level 10 or above. The Mall Rat King had been level 10 too, and we’d only managed to kill that dickhead by drawing him into an indiscriminate death trap. I doubted that was going to be an option against whatever called the MediocreMart home.

The truth was, if I rushed in there with metaphorical guns a-blazin’, I’d end up dead long before the Monarch ever had a chance to flay the skin from my body.

I’d made it to level 9, and the twenty extra Personal Enhancement Points I now had could be the difference between a long, fulfilling life as an interdimensional real estate tycoon and a bloody death that left me in a shallow, unmarked grave just like all the other Delvers Croc had tried to help over the years. But I was chomping at the bit to get my ass moving, so I didn’t dwell on things overlong.

I still wasn’t entirely sure what Blight was, but it sounded like I wanted to catch it about as much as a case of Super Gonorrhea, so I added two more points to Preservation just to be on the safe side. Bleach Bolt was still my single greatest weapon, so the more of those I could cast in quick succession, the better off I’d be. Working under that assumption, Resonance got seven extra points while Perception ended up with three, significantly raising my Mana. Three points went into Athleticism and the last two went to Toughness, which boosted my total Health up to 40 and my Stamina to 24.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 9

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 7,630

Next Level: 8,250

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 40

Health-Regen/Hour: 1.75

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 24

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 1.85

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 58

Mana-Regen/Minute: 4.5

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 6 (5 + 1 Enhanced)

Athleticism: 8

Toughness: 8

Perception: 13

Resonance: 22

Preservation: 5

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding – Level 1

(C) The Gremlin’s Groin Guardian – Level 1

(C) Force Multiplier – Level 1

(C) Slippery When Wet – Level 1

(U) Mall Ninja’s Strike – Level 1

(U) Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction – Level 1

(U) Bleach Bolt: The Unidentified Stain Eradicator – Level 4

(ME) Compass of the Catacomber (Fully Tempered)

Current Titles – Passive

Out of Your League, Deathwish, Marked for Death, Weapon of Opportunity, Legend in the Making

The physical changes took effect within minutes. It was a genuinely unnerving experience.

My skin crawled as the muscles beneath flexed and swelled. Fat melted away from my midsection like water evaporating from the surface of a hot pan. Raw strength surged through my limbs, and it felt like someone had stripped years off my joints and lower back. Right hand to the Good Lord, it was the closest thing to a miracle I’ve ever experienced. A host of old aches and lingering injuries, which I’d collected through a life of hard living and manual labor, vanished in the blink of an eye.

I’d grown so used to all those chronic pains that I hardly even noticed them anymore, but the sudden and immediate relief was almost enough to make me cry.

Instead of crying, though, I laughed.

In the back of my head, I’d been starting to think that someone up above must’ve hated me something fierce to sentence me to this hellhole, but maybe I’d been all wrong about this place. Were the Backrooms deadly? Sure as shit. Were they horrifying? Without a doubt. Could they kill you in a second if you weren’t careful? Does a bear shit in the woods?

But the Backrooms might also have been the best thing to ever happen to me.

Feeling like I was twenty years old again and in the best shape of my life, I turned away from the Monolith and headed toward the MediocreMart with my hammer in hand, spoiling for a good ol’-fashioned ass-kicking.

CHAPTER 21

MEDIOCREMART

“Isay this in love and with absolutely no disrespect, Dan,” Croc whispered as we stood outside the sliding glass doors that let into the MediocreMart, “but this is not quite as glamorous as you made it sound.”

Through the glass it was easy to see the rows of ruler-straight aisles that stretched out of sight, all loaded down with a bizarre mishmash of off-brand products. The walls were painted a faded salmon color, and they seemed to pulsate with an uneasy internal glow. The glaring fluorescents overhead added to the eerie effect, bouncing off the white linoleum floors and casting a sickly pallor over the entire space. The cash registers near the front stood empty and there was no sign of whatever horrors called the store home, but this place gave me an uneasy feeling.

I mean, everything about the Backrooms gave me an uneasy feeling, but this was different somehow, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“I mean, you’re the human,” Croc continued, googly eyes squinted as the dog studied the space, “so far be it from me to tell you what to enjoy, but I find it extremely hard to believe this place could possibly rival a water park.”

“For the record,” I replied absently, “I never said this was better than a water park—it’s more practical than a water park. Those are two very different things.” I faltered and grimaced. “But there’s also something wrong with it,” I added after a few seconds. I felt like my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense should’ve been screaming a warning at me, but it was oddly silent.

“That’s probably the Blight,” Croc said solemnly. “I told you, it’s an infection. Comes from one of the floors far, far below.”

I frowned, thinking. “Maybe we should pick a different location,” I finally said after a minute. “I’m not afraid, but I’m also not sure I want to spend my limited resources on a location that’s infected with magical herpes. Seems like a bad investment.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Croc said dismissively. “The Blight can spill over into individual locations, but the Dwellers are the disease carriers. If we wipe them out, the store will heal itself in no time at all. Plus, we’ll get loads of extra benefits from the Researcher. It’s a win-win if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I’m very helpful, which is why you should’ve asked me.”

Despite Croc’s reassurances, I hesitated. “Is there any risk that you’ll catch the Blight if we go in here?”

“Aww…” Croc looked at me with tears welling in its eyes. “You really do care about me. No one has ever asked about my well-being before. Usually, it’s ‘Get away from me, you hideous freak, or I’ll set you on fire’ or ‘Can I use you as a meat shield?’ or ‘Why don’t you step on the pressure plate and see what happens?’ But no one has ever asked if I would be okay.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” I replied, shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah, yeah we are,” Croc agreed heartily and happily.

“What about me? Is there any way I’ll catch it?” I asked. “Because earning some extra experience and loot is awesome, but it ain’t worth it if I’m gonna have to chop off my hand because it gets infected with Backrooms rabies.”

“I mean, the Blight is a disease,” the mimic dog said almost apologetically, “so of course it’s possible to contract it, but it’s pretty unlikely. I’ve seen loads of Delvers die—most of them in ways so horrific that it haunts the very recesses of my mind—but I’ve never lost one to the Blight. Instead of thinking about the Blight like a plague, maybe think about it like cancer. There are floors that are overrun with these self-aware tumors. Even spending a few minutes in those places can be deadly. But this high up, where the cancer hasn’t had a chance to metastasize, we’d have to be exposed for days or even weeks before seeing any signs of Blight infection.”

That made me feel better, but only a little. I was glad to hear that the Blight wasn’t Super Gonorrhea, but Super Cancer wasn’t much more comforting.

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. “Alright,” I finally said, enchanted hammer in one hand, my demolition screwdriver in the other. I had a Healing Elixir and a Mana Elixir ready to go and the Slammer of Shielding in my pocket in case things went south. I was never gonna be more ready than this. “Stay close. Stay quiet. Let’s see if we can get the jump on whatever’s inside.”

I padded forward and the doors slid open with a soft whoosh, followed by an automated chime that rang through the store, instantly alerting anything lurking within to our presence.

So much for the stealthy approach…

Immediately, I caught a rustle of fabric and a flash of movement down one of the aisles, but when I turned to get a proper look, the Dweller was already gone. As Croc crossed the threshold behind me, the glass doors slid shut again and my Sixth Sense screamed a warning at me.

“Get down!” I bellowed, throwing myself flat against the linoleum floor as something sliced through where I’d been standing a moment before. Croc followed suit, moving just a split second behind me. I glanced up over one shoulder and saw a gleaming saw blade protruding from the wall behind the checkout counter. The disc, as big as a truck tire, still quivered and vibrated. I scrambled to my knees, searching for the source of the blade, but didn’t see anything.

I was sure it was a trap and not an attack, otherwise my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense wouldn’t have given me a heads-up at all. I’d tested that out extensively during our grind through the mall, and it seemed that the preternatural sense—as glorious as it was—had a few hard-and-fast limitations. Given the sheer variety of skills and abilities I’d seen so far, I had no doubt that a skill similar to Spelunker’s Sixth Sense, but designed specifically for battle, probably existed.

The two skills might even have a certain degree of Synergy, though combining them would be impossible, given that my ability had already been Fully Tempered—meaning it could be advanced no further.

Dismissing the thought, I pulled myself from the floor and looked toward Croc.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Never felt better,” the mimic replied cheerfully. I glanced at the floor, finding that hard to believe. The blade had sheared cleanly through its rubber tail. Golden ichor leaked from the stump and the tail quickly reverted to pale blue flesh.

I cocked an eyebrow and pointed at the missing limb.

“No worries, it’s just a flesh wound,” the dog said, shrugging rubbery shoulders. Without missing a beat, Croc turned around and huge fleshy tentacles exploded from its maw, quickly consuming the missing piece of meat. Before long, the tail sprouted from the bloody stump and no sign of injury remained. Gross, but I couldn’t argue with the results.

“Keep close,” I said, deciding not to comment on the disturbing display of self-cannibalism. “If there was one trap, there’s bound to be others.”

Turning away from Croc, I scanned the area behind the checkout counters on the left, making sure there was nothing lying in wait. I didn’t want something coming at me from behind if it could be helped. The space was clear, but for some reason that only ratcheted up the tension building inside my chest.

Everything about the Backrooms was disturbing, but something about this place in particular got under my skin, sending jolts of fear and uncertainty creeping through my mind. I tried, unsuccessfully, to shake the feeling off as I headed deeper into the store. Instead of picking any individual aisle at random, I moved across the front of the store, staring down each aisle in turn, assessing the situation and searching for any obvious threats.

As I got further and further away from the doors, the lights overhead began to flicker and strobe, as though angry about our intrusion, and a low, inhuman moan sounded over the internal PA system. Undercutting the moan was the rough growl of static and the labored, wet sound of heavy breathing. Then the PA cut off with a clatter, banishing the sound, though that was cold comfort.

I finally made it to the photo development counter.

It sat in the corner next to the rows of refrigerated coolers, which took up the wall furthest from the entry. The interior fridge lights sporadically flashed on and off, but it was the deep pool of inky darkness behind the photo counter that left my skin crawling. That darkness seemed to stretch on forever, and though I couldn’t see anyone, my gut told me there was something in there, watching us. Or maybe it was the photos hanging above the counters that set my teeth on edge.

A variety of framed pictures showcased happy, smiling families. Except someone had methodically gone through and gouged out the eyes of every single person in each one of the photos. Something clicked deep within the gloom and the sound of a movie reel kicked up as a rectangular cube of light bloomed within the dark. It was a movie screen, and I figured the click had been someone turning on one of those ol’-timey home movie reels—the kind they might’ve had back in the late ’70s or early ’80s.

I watched, entranced, as the grainy movie played out and a family of four—a husband and wife along with their two children—enthusiastically ripped open a pile of presents gathered around the base of a brightly lit Christmas tree. There was no sound to the movie, other than the steady flick-flick-flick of the movie reel itself, but if I strained my ears, I could almost hear distant laughter and the sound of tearing wrapping paper.

A gentle numbness crept through my body as I watched, swaying slightly on my feet, but I couldn’t seem to muster the will to care. I felt sleepy. Happy. Warm. Like it was me sitting cross-legged by the tree, soaking up the heat emanating from the fireplace. In fact, I could feel that heat against my back—so comforting and inviting.

On the screen, the reel skipped, and for a second the images changed, but I couldn’t quite make out what had happened.

But it didn’t matter.

The movie quickly resumed and now the kids were ripping at the presents with an almost inhuman fervor. Bright red pieces of paper sprayed up into the air and the parents laughed wildly, but there was a manic look in their eyes and it seemed more and more like they weren’t laughing but screaming. Still, I watched, unmoving. The heat from the fire and the icy numbness of detachment warred for superiority inside my body.

I heard a clatter that might’ve been broken glass, but the sounds seemed distant and unimportant. The blaring sound of the silent movie filled my head completely. The frantic, desperate, ravenous tearing thundered in my ears like a beating heart, but it didn’t sound like paper ripping. The noise had morphed, and now it sounded wet and meaty somehow. The image flickered out of focus again, and pale white static momentarily took its place. Those ghostly flashes of black and white drew me in, deeper and deeper.

Without a thought in my head, I found my feet shuffling forward, toward the photo counter.

The movie reappeared as I slipped past the swinging gate and behind the service counter. Except now the movie was no longer a projected rectangle of light at all. I was inside the living room. I could see the tree. The fireplace. The people. It was so real, I felt like I could walk right up and join them. A sleepy smile spread across my face, until I turned my eyes back to the little boy, frantically shredding his presents. The red-wrapped package was gone and the little boy had changed in the space of seconds.

He had deathly pale skin, faded black hair, and long spidery fingers that ripped through the guts of his screaming sister. The bits of wrapping paper fluttering up were actually thick droplets of blood and pieces of creamy skin. The ripping stopped abruptly, and the boy’s eyes shot up, locking onto me as a thin grin stretched across his narrow face.

Something clicked inside my head and a notification fluttered in the air above the boy.

Dweller 0.375B – Photophage (Blighted) [Level 7]

Prepare to have your grit tested ’cause these monstrosities have a taste for the stupid and weak-willed. FYI, if you’re seeing this, that probably means you.

The Photophage is a grotesque abomination spawned from the crushing loneliness of human memories. They take up residence in those treasured family photos and old home movies, turning your nostalgic mementos into a twisted nightmare game. One minute you’re reminiscing, and the next you’re paralyzed in terror as a long-legged horror descends on you like an avalanche of tearing teeth and shredding claws.

Maybe this is a metaphor for why it’s important to live in the present.

Or maybe it’s just literally a bloodthirsty monster that is going to rip your face off.

Either way, you’re fucked.

With lightning-fast speed and freakish dexterity, the Photophage disembowels its paralyzed victims, reveling in sadistic glee as it crunches through bones and feasts on fleshy morsels. Although not particularly strong, Photophages have a host of illusionary tricks and psychic attacks capable of deceiving your senses and distorting the world around you. If you get snared in their hypnotic spell, pray for a quick death, but know that you probably won’t get one. These things really like to draw it out…

Revulsion and horror washed through me as the prompt disappeared. Thanks to Researcher’s Codex, I now knew what I was up against and how to stop it. But it didn’t really matter because, try as I might, I couldn’t break through whatever hypnotic spell had been cast over me.

The boy, who now had impossibly long arms and legs, left his dying sister and slowly advanced on me. I tried to cast Bleach Bolt, but the numbness invading my body kept my arm firmly at my side.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…

I was going to die, I realized like a punch to the stomach—

Then something painful latched onto my calf like the jagged, iron teeth of a bear trap snapping closed. Pain, sharp and clear, flooded through me, and I blinked several times, as though waking up from a particularly terrible dream. I shook my head and glanced down. A tubular tentacle was attached to my leg, sawing through the thick denim of my pants.

The tube protruded from Croc’s canine mouth.

When the mimic saw that I’d finally come to my senses, the tentacle withdrew, revealing a circular maw that reminded me of a lamprey. Sound crashed over me next. Screams echoed in the air, accompanied by the crackle of flames as one section of shelving burned like a bonfire. My bathrobe was singed and one of the sleeves was charred, as though it had been on fire not long before. Was that the heat I’d been feeling? Had some asshole set me on fire?

“Psychic attack!” Croc growled, spinning away from me to deal with some other, unseen threat.

The store had gone completely dark, except for the light cast by the blaze. There were flashes of movement in the shadows beyond the furthest edge of the flames. Dwellers. Lots of ’em from the look of things, though I couldn’t get a clear look at what we were up against.

But I didn’t have time to deal with that.

The pale-skinned boy with the ghoulishly long limbs from the movie was almost on top of me. His dark hair hung limply across a gaunt skull-like head, and his lower jaw had unhinged, revealing a fang-filled mouth large enough to devour my entire upper body.

The kid let out an undulating screech and leapt at me, clawed fingers ready to tear out my throat.

CHAPTER 22

LET’S REMINISCE

Ibriefly considered pulling the Slammer of Shielding out of my pocket and hurling it at the floor, but I knew the spell wouldn’t activate before the thing was already inside the dome’s radius. Instead, I thrust my hammer forward and triggered Bleach Bolt. Mana rushed from my core and exploded outward from the blunt hammerhead as though it were a magic wand instead of a contractor’s work tool. The burning ball of blue magic hit the creature directly in the chest, splattering across its ribs and shoulders.

The corrosive power immediately went to work, eating holes through the Photophage’s thin skin. A stat plate appeared, showing the monster’s Health and Mana: HP 28/34, MP 42/65. My Bleach Bolt attack was more powerful than ever, yet the Photophage’s bright red Health bar had barely dipped. Clearly, this thing had some sort of Mana or magical resistance. Instead of unleashing another seething ball of corrosive magic, I aimed my hammer at the floor and activated Slippery When Wet, which cost me another five Mana.

A thin, glimmering sheen of water abruptly stretched across the already slick linoleum floor, separating me from the Photophage.

The creature’s foot came down on the surface and its ghastly black eyes widened comically as it lost its balance and stumbled, arms windmilling wildly as it tried to find purchase. As the gangly shithead careened toward me, I channeled a thread of raw Mana into my hammer and it swelled in size, burning with ethereal cobalt light. Before the monster could gain its balance, I swung the hammer in a wicked arc and triggered Force Multiplier at the last second.

The hammerhead—now easily twice the size of my fist—collided with the incoming Photophage with a sickening, bone-crunching thud. My Stamina dropped by half, but it was worth it. The blow caved the skeletal kid’s head in like an overripe melon and it dropped to the floor, though the sheer momentum of my swing sent the monster’s body skidding backward across the water-slick floor. The nasty little SOB wouldn’t be getting up ever again.

Its Health bar had zeroed out, but I stared at it for a few seconds longer anyway. Just to be sure. Once I was certain it was dead, I cut off the slow but steady trickle of Mana to my hammer and turned toward the rest of the darkened store.

For killing the Photophage, I earned 375 Experience and a new achievement, Hammer Time, which came with three Copper Delver Loot Tokens and a single Silver Weaponmaster Loot Token. I didn’t bother to read over the achievement description—I had better shit to do. Like trying to figure out how to not die.

More fires raged. In the dancing orange light, I caught sight of Croc doing battle against a squat figure with gray skin, clad in a tattered white lab cloak.

Dweller 0.395B – Pharmacy Tech (Blighted) [Level 5]

The creature had the molted head of a raven, though its beady black eyes were protected behind a set of clear plastic safety goggles. Strange growths—like gnarled, pulsing tumors—protruded from its arms and legs, and another jutted up from its back. It wore a glove on one hand with scalpel blades jutting out from the tips of each finger like a surgical version of Freddy Krueger. In the other hand, it carried what looked like a Molotov cocktail, except it was made from a glass Erlenmeyer flask.

A short description popped up above the hunched creature, who had a clear penchant for pyromania.

Overworked, underpaid, and sorely unappreciated, Pharmacy Techs are only one bad customer interaction away from burning the whole world down. On top of everything else, the excruciating, cancerous Blight growths riddling their bodies probably don’t help curb their latent homicidal rage. Wielding scalpels, used syringes, and science-based firebombs, underestimate these insane fuckers at your own risk and just pray you don’t run across their boss…

If there were more of these things skulking around in the aisles, that would certainly explain the sudden outbreak of fires.

The Tech slashed at Croc with its scalpel-tipped fingers, slicing through thick folds of blue rubber. Golden ichor splashed across the white floor.

“Hey, buddy, that wasn’t very nice at all,” Croc said, sounding only a little perturbed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn your insides into your outsides.”

The mimic dog reared back onto two legs and swelled in size until it stood as large as a brown bear. Then, Croc’s belly split open from throat to crotch, revealing an enormous, fanged mouth with several lashing tentacle tongues within. Those tentacles struck like angry vipers, latching onto the Tech, wrapping around its arms, legs, and throat. The Dweller struggled fruitlessly against the mimic, but it was only a level 5 and Croc far outclassed it. With a heave, the tentacles reeled the Tech into the gaping stomach mouth.

Croc’s torso jaws snapped closed with a meaty crunch and a spurt of rancid black blood. The streak of black gore across the floor was all that remained of the Tech.

Croc dropped to all fours, shrinking back to the size of a lab, and rounded on me. There was a mixture of fear and despair in its googly eyes.

“Dan, I am so, so sorry you had to see me like that.” Croc’s voice was reproachful, sorrowful even, as though the dog had somehow betrayed my deepest trust. “I hope we can still be friends and that you don’t think any less of me. I swear, I’m a good boy, Dan. A very good boy. Remember, F is for Friend.”

I was quiet for a beat, and the crackling snap and pop from the fire seemed deafening.

“Are you kidding me?” I replied, completely deadpan. Croc wilted even more as though I’d just kicked him in the ribs. “That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole fuckin’ life!” I crowed. “I mean, was it horrifying? Sure. But you’re on my team. If anything, I respect and value you even more than I did before!”

Croc looked up hopefully. “You mean it? You’re not mad at me? You’re not going to abandon me like Jackson did? Or Angela before him?”

“Abandon you?” I scoffed. “Are you high? Of course I’m not going to abandon you. Honestly, I’m kinda pissed you waited so long to do whatever in the hell that was.” I waved a hand toward the aisles. “Go do it more. Just be careful, and if you get in a tight spot, call for help!”

Croc brightened visibly.

“Yay!” Croc cheered. “Let’s go crush our enemies and consume their corpses in preparation for our own dark ascension.”

“Yeah, something like that.” I watched as Croc took to two legs once again, this time looking far less like a dog and more like a grizzly bear wearing a Venom suit. The mimic stormed down a seasonal aisle filled with squirt guns, swimming trunks, and pool supplies, each step shaking items from the shelves as the monster passed.

I just shook my head and moved in another direction.

I’d half expected the Photophage to be the Store Manager, but killing the creature had been too easy, and it had only been at level 7. I was looking for something level 10 or above, and after reading over the brief Codex description for the Pharmacy Tech, I had a sneaking suspicion that I was looking for their direct supervisor. I ran down a few aisles until I spotted what I was looking for all the way in the back of the store, tucked away in a corner.

The pharmacy.

That’s where we needed to go.

I reached inward toward my Spatial Core and triggered one of my other new abilities—Mall Ninja’s Strike. My Mana dropped, but I’d already regained some of my power from my earlier scuffle with the Photophage thanks to my increased Mana Regeneration Rate. Darkness lay thick around me and there were shadows everywhere, so there really was no better place to try out this technique. Fingers of inky gloom reached for me, and power rushed out from my body.

As tendrils of shade spooled around my body, the color faded from my clothes and my skin, until I was little more than a dark, hazy blur. I wasn’t invisible, but rather I looked like a living, moving shadow in the shape of a man. A secondary aura hung around me like a cloak, helping to mask my presence from those with a low Perception score. Covered by the pervasive Mall Ninja’s Veil, I stole along the snack-food aisle, moving silently as I scanned for more enemy Techs or any traps that might be waiting for any unsuspecting Delvers.

It didn’t take long before I found both.

There were runic pressure plates scattered all over the place at random intervals, and though I wasn’t sure what they did, I knew it couldn’t be anything good. There were also a variety of invisible trip-wire sigils strung across each aisle at various heights—some at chest level, others low enough to catch an ankle. They weren’t traditional trip wires, made from metal or string, but rather invisible cords of shadow magic that ran between two connected sigil sensors. When the signal was broken, the trap would activate.

I pulled a teddy bear from a nearby shelf and tossed it across the beam.

A silver light flashed, cleanly slicing the bear in half; white stuffing spilled out onto the floor as the two halves landed. That was answer enough. Thankfully, the traps were easy enough to avoid, since they glowed a dull red in my vision, passively alerting me to their presence. I sidestepped or ducked beneath them, though I was worried that Croc wouldn’t have as much luck. The mimic dog was made of stern stuff, however, so I had confidence that he’d make it through in one piece.

And if not, I was positive that he’d just be able to gobble up any pieces he lost and be good as new in no time.

Getting past the disgruntled Pharmacy Techs wasn’t quite so easy.

I was guessing there were only about seven or eight of them in total, but they moved fast and tended to lob their deadly firebombs from a distance then scamper away. Croc was doing an admirable job of drawing their attention, but even with my shadowy veil in place and the distraction of a giant blue dog-bear thing with an enormous mouth splitting its torso, their Perception was unfortunately high. Too high to simply sneak past them. I tried that once and ended up with a trio of scalpel razors to the calf.

Once I finished clearing this place out, I fully intended to find some better gear. Maybe a suit of medieval plate armor or—barring that—police riot gear. I could wear my personal effects beneath.

Honestly, at this point, I’d settle for hockey pads…

CHAPTER 23

CLEANUP, AISLE FIVE

Between my hammer, the demolition screwdriver, and my newly enhanced Athleticism, I made short work of the lab-coated shithead.

I didn’t try to sneak around any of the other Techs, though. I’d learned my lesson and had no plans to make that mistake again.

Instead, I followed in the wake of Croc’s murderous rampage, staying a few aisles over as the mimic drew the Techs out. Firebombs flew from the shadows as the disgruntled Dwellers tried to murder the dog-bear—not that they could. The mimic was a friggin’ tank who could brush off damage like water rolling off a duck’s back. But, their fixation on Croc did leave them susceptible to my stealth attacks. I kept my distance and clung to the shadows, then launched Bleach Bolts with sniper-like precision.

The corrosive orbs melted through their fluttering lab coats and chewed through any exposed skin, killing the Techs in the span of thirty seconds or less. The triple damage bonus certainly helped get the job done in record time. For those few who survived the initial Bleach Bolt blast, I quickly followed up with either a Mana-enforced hammer blow to the head or a demolition screwdriver to the kidney. The screwdriver’s bloodletting effect was devastatingly effective, and my hammer’s Gavel ability turned those with low Health into red smears on the linoleum.

Did I feel a little cowardly, stabbing them while they had their backs turned?

No. Not even a little. Screw these assholes.

I didn’t have anything to prove to anyone, and this wasn’t some kind of game, no matter that there were stats and floating, eight-bit prompt boxes. This was life and death. This was war, and I’d use every tool at my disposal.

It took me and Croc about fifteen minutes to dispatch the rest of the Techs and another fifteen minutes for me to make the rounds and mark the legion of traps with spray paint.

We still weren’t done yet, though.

We hadn’t run across any Dweller over level 10, nor had we received any sort of achievement notice for completing the job board posting—and I was sure my douchebag Localized Administrator wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like that.

Besides, there was still one section of the store we hadn’t even touched yet.

The pharmacy itself.

I suspected there would be more of the pyromaniac Techs hidden away behind the plexiglass-encased counter along with the Store Manager who called the shots around here.

But I wasn’t prepared to charge headlong into the final boss battle just yet. We were close to the finish line, and I saw no reason to rush things, since we had the time to catch our breath and recuperate.

Croc and I took the brief reprieve to systematically clear the rest of the store, giving the pharmacy a wide berth. Whatever was hiding away back there seemed content to leave us be, so long as we stayed away from its lair. My Mana and Stamina were both low from the initial push and Croc had taken some nasty physical damage, including a few burns that turned its blue, rubbery body into a mass of charred flesh and writhing tentacles.

It seemed there was a limit to the amount of damage the mimic could absorb before it started to affect the creature’s shapeshifting ability.

Croc had a much higher Health-regeneration factor than I did, but even taking that into consideration, there was no way the dog would be fully healed in time to take on the Store Manager. So, even though I was reluctant to part with it, I cracked the Lesser Healing Zima and forced the mimic to drink the restorative elixir. Croc protested, of course, but when I told it that friends didn’t let friends suffer from catastrophic internal hemorrhaging, the dog’s googly eyes teared up and it reluctantly drank.

“I would literally die for you,” Croc declared solemnly once it had emptied the Zima.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I grunted, though I was begrudgingly glad to have the dog around. It was nice not being alone.

While my Mana slowly ticked back to full, I took a little extra time to loot the dead Dwellers for anything that might come in handy for the battle against MediocreMart’s big bad.

Like maybe some of those firebombs the Techs had been hurling at us.

Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail

Uncommon Relic - Level 1

Range: Line of Sight

Duration: 5 minutes

Cost: 8 Mana

Marrying the principles of basic high school chemistry with the arcane powers of bored pharmacy techs, Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail is a one-way ticket to Arsonville, population you! All targets take 15 points of Fire Damage on contact, plus 5 points of additional Burn Damage per minute while within the Area of Effect. Just remember, fire is an equal opportunity force of devastation. You’re just as likely to accidentally burn down your detached two-car garage as you are to kill your enemies.

Not only was it an Uncommon Relic, but it was quick, dirty, and dealt out a metric butt-load of damage for the amount of Mana it consumed. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to control the effects with any kind of precision. It was… well, the magical equivalent of a Molotov Cocktail. It’d be great in an open area like the main floor of the mall, but inside the tight confines of the pharmacy? It was possible that I could end up accidentally killing myself if I wasn’t extremely careful.

I still planned on using it, because only a moron or a jackass passes up a potential weapon like that, even if it was incredibly reckless and more than a little suicidal.

But it turned out, I didn’t need to worry at all.

The Molotov Cocktail had synergistic compatibility with my Bleach Bolt Relic. Under normal circumstances, I never would’ve forged the two techniques into one. Bleach Bolt was my best spell by a landslide, and there was no telling what the end product would be. Except, I had Researcher’s Codex, so I knew exactly what I’d end up with. Bleach Blaze. It had all the same effects as the original Bleach Bolt Relic, but with new-and-improved, melt-your-face-off Fire Damage!

Upgrading the Relic transformed it from an Uncommon ability into a Rare one and added 5 points of Fire Damage per minute while simultaneously draining Stamina by 10 points a minute for five minutes. There were a couple of drawbacks, though. The biggest of which was that the Relic level dropped from 4 to 2, which gutted the overall Corrosive Damage. Still, I was sure I’d get that extra DoT—Damage Over Time—back once I leveled up the ability a little more. It also doubled the Mana cost from 5 to 10, which hurt more than I wanted to admit.

We’d picked up five more of the Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail Relics—as well as a mix of Common and Uncommon Shards—and I briefly considered sacrificing the whole lot of ’em to bump Bleach Blaze up to level 3, but ultimately decided against it. The added level boost might give me a few more extra points of damage output, but I had a feeling that the Uncommon Fireball Relics would fetch a premium from new Delvers once I got my storefront up and running.

Besides, even without the extra levels, Bleach Blaze still dished out 58 total points of combined elemental damage, which was more than enough to take out most of the Dwellers we’d tangled with so far—though I doubted it would be enough to kill the Store Manager in charge of the MediocreMart.

But I had a few other plans brewing on that front.

The nightmarish Photophage, who’d nearly devoured me like a hungry anaconda, also had a Relic called Sleep Paralysis Demon, which resembled the hunched form of a palm-sized stone gargoyle. It was a hypnotic, psionic attack that did exactly what it sounded like—paralyzed onlookers for a short period of time. I’d experienced the full force of that Relic firsthand, so I knew how powerful it could be.

I wasn’t at all surprised to find that it had a synergistic resonance with my Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction, though I was surprised to see that it also resonated with my Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding. The three items together pulsed and vibrated, but there was something subtly off-key about the frequency of that discordant hum.

Upon closer examination, I started to figure out why.

Researcher’s Codex Compatibility Analysis

Based on historic data sets and extensive Forging models, Sleep Paralysis Demon (Common – Level 1) and Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding (Common – Level 1) have an estimated 69% resonance compatibility, meaning the number of possible Relic Iterations is Low to Medium. The most probable outcome is the Colander of Mind Shielding (Common), or a closely adjacent derivative.

Sleep Paralysis Demon (Common – Level 1) and Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction (Uncommon – Level 1) have an estimated 83% resonance compatibility, meaning the number of possible Relic Iterations is Low. The most probable outcome is Bad Trip (Uncommon), or a closely adjacent derivative.

Sleep Paralysis Demon (Common – Level 1), Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding (Common – Level 1), and Psychedelic Light Show of Minor Distraction (Uncommon – Level 1) have an estimated 17% resonance compatibility, meaning the number of possible Relic Iterations is High. With such a low resonance compatibility, creating a predictive Forging model is not possible at this time and the end result will likely be unfavorable.

Would you like to view additional report records for Colander of Mind Shielding or Bad Trip? Yes/No?

As I read over the detail reports for both Relics, I immediately saw the problem with trying to combine all three. The Colander offered passive psionic resistance while Bad Trip was an offensive spell. The Sleep Paralysis Demon could, apparently, augment either of my other two Relics, but smashing them all together would create a bipolar Relic that didn’t know what it was supposed to do. Which meant I’d wind up with something worthless like so many of the Relics I’d already stumbled across in the mall.

After a little careful consideration, I decided that the offensive Relic would be more likely to help me survive the next few hours, so that’s what I went with.

Bad Trip

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: Line of Sight

Cost: 5 - 40 Mana

Duration: 15 Seconds

Bad Trip allows you to conjure between 1 and 8 illusionary blacklight wisps that will swirl through the air in a whirlwind of psychedelic brilliance. But not all trips down the rabbit hole are good ones… Any creature with a Perception lower than yours will see their worst fears manifested inside the blacklight wisps. Those afflicted have a 10% chance of suffering from Paralyzing Fear, immobilizing them on the spot for twenty seconds. The chance of triggering Paralyzing Fear increases by 10% for each additional blacklight wisp you summon.

With my two new Relics equipped to my Spatial Core, the traps all spray-painted and marked on my map, and my Mana and Stamina topped off, it was time to venture into the pharmacy and put this mission to rest.

“You ready?” I asked Croc stoically, checking my tool belt, then examining the handful of other items I’d created in preparation for this fight.

“You’ll tell me all about water parks once this is done?” the dog asked hopefully.

“Everything you could possibly want to know,” I agreed, “and probably a few things you didn’t. Like how people routinely pee in the pool.”

Croc didn’t seem deterred in the least. “I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

Metal roll-away screens had been pulled down, and a dark gray Employees Only door separated the pharmacy from the rest of the store.

The last time I’d gone through a door like that, I’d ended up in a fight for my life against the Janitorial Handyman, and I had a feeling this was going to be no different. Taking one more deep breath, I kicked open the door with a booted foot and rushed in with Croc close on my heels.

CHAPTER 24

THE HARMACIST

Iknew we were in trouble the second we rushed through the door.

Half a dozen of the crow-faced Pharmacy Techs loitered about the room, waiting in ambush. Towering above them was a rail-thin figure wearing a long black cassock beneath a tattered lab coat with a bandolier studded with colorful glass orbs, which ran from shoulder to hip. Cold black eyes regarded me and Croc through steampunk-like goggles inset into a black leather plague doctor mask with a cruel raven’s beak. The Dweller carried an oversized silver revolver, which was already raised and ready to unleash certain death.

Dweller 0.3911A – Harmacist – Store Manager (Blighted) [Level 11]

Eight years, a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of student loans, and for what? For working in the back of a glorified gas station, ten hours a day, five days a week, slinging pills to a bunch of ungrateful shitheads who treat them like part-time McDonald’s burger flippers? Here they are, attempting to do a little good for the world by distributing life-saving medicines to anti-vaxxers who believe they’re secretly agents of the deep state.

Such is the life of a Harmacist.

A few years in retail made these guys homicidally crazy long before the Blight ever touched ’em. Jaded by the worst that humanity has to offer, Harmacists are as dead on the inside as you’re about to be on the outside. Armed with disease bombs and dirty syringes, they sow contagion like the European rats of 1347. These mean sons of bitches know the human body like the back of their gloved hand—they are doctors after all—so choose wisely before facing off against these avatars of disease and disillusionment…

I was moving long before I’d even finished reading through the Dweller’s description.

Even though I’d only been stranded here for less than two days, I’d already learned that an ambush was only ever one breath away. I’d come prepared for the possibility. The Slammer of Shielding hit the floor with a metallic clatter as I screamed the activation incantation, “Let’s Pog!” The golden birdcage blazed into existence and the two-minute countdown timer blinked to life in the corner of my eye. Less than a heartbeat later, the raven-beaked plague doctor opened up with a spray of rounds from the oversized revolver.

Syringes filled with some sort of black sludge erupted from the end of the barrel, slammed into the invisible forcefield, then fell harmlessly to the ground. The arcane barrier would prevent the Harmacist and its minions from harming us in any way, but it only provided that protection for two minutes, and unfortunately, the protective qualities of the dome worked both ways. Although arcane power couldn’t hit me while I was inside, I couldn’t launch a magical sneak attack against someone outside the safety dome, either.

But there were certain exceptions to that rule, as I’d learned.

Hostile Dwellers couldn’t physically cross the barrier threshold, but I could leave the boundary without deactivating the spell. There might be a way to exploit that to my benefit. Although metaphysical energy was incapable of penetrating the dome from either direction, maybe I could physically hurl things through the defensive barrier without breaking whatever strange laws governed the Slammer of Shielding.

I pulled out a black drywall screw from the pouch at my side and flicked it at the plague doctor with contempt. The screw sailed through the golden dome of energy, unmolested, and smacked against the Harmacist’s stupid steampunk goggles. It didn’t do any damage, but it accomplished its dual purposes all the same. One, it showed me that I could, in fact, throw material, non-magical items through the barrier even while in active combat, and two…

It pissed the plague doctor off.

“Hey dipshit,” I called while pulling another pair of items from my storage space.

It was a bottle of cheap vodka with a rag sticking out of the top. I couldn’t use the Erlenmeyer Molotov Cocktail Relic while contained within the dome, but this wasn’t that. Hell, this wasn’t even an Artifact. This was just a bottle of booze I’d picked up from the liquor aisle. It had no magic. No special abilities. But good ol’-fashioned fire is its own special kind of magic, and there was nothing to stop me from fashioning an actual Molotov cocktail.

Or several.

“This didn’t have a price tag on it,” I said, lighting the rag with a silver Zippo I’d taken from the front register. “I guess that means it’s free,” I finished, hurling the bottle. It arced through the air and crashed near the back of the room, dousing one of the Techs in a coat of flames. I pulled a second bottle from thin air and lit that one too. “Maybe you can price-check this one instead.” I tossed it on the other side of the room and watched in satisfaction as the flames raced across the shelving units.

Red Health plates popped up all over the pharmacy as the Techs started to slowly burn to death. The whole while, I kept one eye on the timer, sprinting toward zero.

1:12 remaining…

There was some small part of me that was worried about doing so much damage to the store, since I planned to claim it as my own. But this was part of the Backrooms, so chances were high that it would heal just the same as the Lobby had, given enough time.

I pulled out a third bottle, just for good measure, and fast-balled it right at the Harmacist’s clunky black boots. Tongues of orange and red erupted upward in a whoosh, washing over the lanky Dweller. The Harmacist just stood there, wreathed in flames, and watched me with hate burning in the dark eyes behind its goofy goggles. Its status plate appeared—HP 87/90, MP 120/125—but it hardly flickered at all.

“Your store sucks a bag of dicks, and the lines are too long,” I hollered, flipping the Harmacist the bird before slowly retreating through the door.

I wanted to pull the door shut and jam it, but the door swung inward, so that wouldn’t be possible. I did the next best thing. Dropping to a knee, I wedged my speed square beneath the frame of the door so it wouldn’t close. The steady inrush of oxygen would feed the flames, and with the golden dome still blazing, the Harmacist and its small platoon of Techs wouldn’t be able to get out until the Slammer of Shielding ran out of juice.

My hope was that the rampaging fire would burn them all to death without me ever having to lift another finger. No muss, no fuss.

I felt confident that at least a few of the Techs would die, but held very little hope that the blaze would kill the Harmacist. I had a strong hunch that it would take more than a few well-placed firebombs to end that thing.

“Get into position,” I barked at Croc.

The mimic dog nodded, then quickly disappeared down one of the adjacent aisles, preparing to launch an ambush of its own.

Meanwhile, I picked up a crudely cut sheet of plexiglass and attached it to my left forearm with some rope, which I’d looped through several small holes drilled through the front of the makeshift shield. Thinking about police riot gear had given me the idea—even if I couldn’t find any armor yet, there was no reason I couldn’t make some. I’d scavenged the plexiglass from the photo booth, and though cutting it had been a pain in the ass, between my Stanley utility knife and my newfound strength, I’d managed to get ’er done.

I positioned myself in aisle 25—Cough, Cold, and Allergy—just out of sight of the entryway into the pharmacy proper. Whatever crawled out of there wouldn’t be able to see me, but I’d be able to see them just fine.

Shield on my left arm, hammer in my right hand, I waited in tense anticipation as the timer finally hit zero and the golden glow from the shield guttered and vanished. A billow of smoke wafted out from the door followed only a second later by a high-pitched wail as several hunched, rat-faced Techs streamed out en masse. Severe burns had turned huge patches of skin blister red, and most of their lab coats were little more than smoldering ruins.

Considering these same assholes had set Croc on fire, I didn’t have a sliver of mercy to lend them.

I thrust my hammer forward and triggered Slippery When Wet, conjuring a thin sheen of water across the floor directly outside of the door. Scrambling rat claws hit the water and four Techs went tumbling and sliding across the slick linoleum. One, totally out of control, careened onto a tiled square that looked subtly different from the others surrounding it. In my eyes it glowed with a faint red light, indicating that it was a runic pressure plate.

Spelunker’s Sixth Sense didn’t just allow me to identify traps. It also granted me the bone-deep knowledge of how to arm, disarm, and even move those traps. Most of the deadly surprises scattered through the MediocreMart required specialized tools to manipulate or alter—tools I didn’t have, sadly—but not the one I’d relocated from the Greeting Card section in aisle 4. That was a simple pressure plate construct, which could be picked up and moved without much trouble, although it still required a deft touch.

The already charbroiled Tech skittered across the top of the plate and triggered the arming mechanism. A whirling saw blade of pure Mana erupted from the floor, splitting the creature in two and killing it instantly.

The trap was a one-off, and I’d been hoping to use it against the Harmacist, but this was still better than nothing. Spelunker’s Sixth Sense was an incredible skill, but getting a Relic that would allow me to construct my own traps was at the top of my wish list.

I couldn’t wait for a chance to start building some of these things for myself.

As for the rest of the half-dead Techs, I triggered my new and improved Bleach Blaze. Instead of a blob of pure blue goop, this one had streaks of red swirling through the mass as well as a miasma of orange heat hanging around the outer edges. I quickly cast three bolts, splattering each of the visible Techs with corrosive death magic. My redneck-engineered Molotov cocktail had nearly killed the Techs long before they’d ever made it out of the pharmacy, and Bleach Blaze finished the job without a problem.

Experience flooded in, 175 points for each kill. Combined with what I’d gained from killing the Photophage and the early batch of Lab Techs, it was enough to push me up to level 10—though, fat lot of good that would do me right now. Leveling up didn’t even restore my Health or Mana. And speaking of my Mana, between the Slippery When Wet spell and the series of rapid-fire Bleach Blazes, my blue Mana gauge had damn near bottomed out.

I fished out the can of Jolt Cola, cracked the top with a satisfying hiss, and pounded the beverage, which was so sweet it made my teeth ache. But it was worth it. As the cola trickled down my throat, renewed energy surged through me like a bolt of caffeinated lightning. I crushed the empty can and tossed it on the ground before retreating even further into the aisle. After a few seconds of waiting, another three Techs—all badly burned and mangled from the fire—rushed out of the pharmacy, followed by the lanky Harmacist.

The plague doctor had taken some significant burn damage as well, but its Health still lingered just above half, and it looked as though it was slowly ticking upward. This emo chucklefuck had passive Health regeneration, and from the look of things, its Health Regen was a helluva lot better than what either Croc or I had. That meant I couldn’t afford to take the pressure off, or we’d be right back to square one.

The Harmacist swiveled its head between its minions and barked out guttural commands in a language I didn’t recognize. The words sounded like the way doctors wrote—all jumbled and wrong. The three remaining Techs chittered their acknowledgment, then spread out and began to sweep the aisles. I wasn’t worried about them. Croc and I had anticipated that they’d likely split up to search for us, and Croc was ready to take them out.

That left the towering plague doctor to me.

Drawing in a deep breath, I raised my shield and rushed out into the open, boots slapping against the floor.

The Dweller moved with snake-like speed. It leveled its silver pistol and blasted out several rounds. I flinched, muttering a prayer to the Good Lord Almighty that my shield would hold. If those things were real bullets, they would’ve shredded the plexiglass and riddled my body with bloody bullet holes. But they weren’t. The syringes clanged against the makeshift shield and sent a network of spidery cracks racing across the surface.

But that was all. The shield held.

The Harmacist let out a surprisingly birdlike trill of apparent frustration, then pulled a glass orb filled with sloshing red liquid from the bandolier slung across its chest.

A jolt of panic raced through me, and I knew I needed to put a stop to that quick, fast, and in a hurry. With clear line of sight, I raised my hammer and unleashed Bleach Blaze. The blob of blue and orange hit the creature square in the chest, and the shock of the impact caused the Harmacist to fumble the potion in its gloved hand. The glass orb landed with a crash and red gas billowed out in a cloud, swirling around the plague doctor and obscuring it from view.

A sense of smug satisfaction washed over me.

Suck on that, dick wipe.

My satisfaction was short-lived.

A pulse of cleansing white light rippled outward from the Harmacist until it looked like the Dweller was standing in an angelic halo. As the light touched the tongues of red smoke, they dissipated and vanished. So did the blue splatter of corrosive bleach decorating the Harmacist’s black cassock. As far as I could see, Bleach Blaze hadn’t done any damage at all, and it looked like the Harmacist had some sort of ability to neutralize enemy spells, which was bad news for me, since Bleach Blaze was the only offensive spell I had in my arsenal.

I highly doubted that Bad Trip would have any effect at all against something this high-level and intelligent—the plague doctor was a doctor after all—and the rest of my skills required me to be in punch-you-in-the-teeth range.

Improvise, adapt, and overcome, I thought grimly.

I glanced back over one shoulder and spotted another section of floor I’d marked with a dab of spray paint. Another trap, called an Internal Combustion Engine. Anyone who stepped on it would turn into a living bomb that would explode from the inside out, leveling anything inside a thirty-foot radius. If I could goad the Harmacist to trigger the mechanism, then maybe I could kill it just like I’d killed the Mall Rat King—get the Backrooms to do the bulk of the dirty work for me.

Without thinking, I dropped my hammer into its loop, then grabbed a bottle of bright pink GastroShield from the shelf to my right and pitched it at the encroaching Harmacist. Thick bubblegum-colored sludge splattered across the creature’s cassock. It did about as much damage as throwing a sponge at a mountain, but that wasn’t the point. It was insulting. Annoying. I started backpedaling deeper into the aisle, grabbing other things off the digestive care shelf, which I then proceeded to chuck at the Dweller.

I could see the anger building to a crescendo.

The creature raised its pistol again and fired more rounds, but they bounced off my plexiglass riot shield.

It wouldn’t hold up against too many more of those, but the Harmacist didn’t know that.

“Sorry, jackass,” I taunted. “You’re gonna have to do better than that. You want to kill me, I’m thinkin’ you’re gonna have to get your hands dirty. You can start by cleaning up all this shit.” I reached my arm out and swiped boxes of antacids and bottles of liquid laxatives onto the floor. Pills, powders, and goop of every kind splattered as lids popped off and bottles broke. “Whoops, my bad. You want me to get a mop bucket? I won’t help you clean that up, but I’ll watch you do the work.”

That was the last straw.

I’d briefly worked retail after getting out of the Corps—I’d quit after six weeks. Spending time in an active war zone was significantly less demeaning. The plague doctor pulled out a single-edged sword that resembled an oversized scalpel and darted toward me with a squawk of rage.

I was only a few feet away from the Internal Combustion Engine trap. The Harmacist was barreling straight toward it, and I didn’t want to be within spitting range when that thing went off. I needed to make my getaway and I needed to do it now. I grabbed a bottle of Metamucil fiber powder off the shelf beside me and spiked it straight down onto the floor, just a few feet from the nearly invisible runic symbol.

Pale orange powder erupted outward, coating the floor and enveloping me in a dust cloud. Using the momentary distraction, I triggered Mall Ninja’s Strike, slipped effortlessly into a pool of nearby shadow, and darted outside the effective kill range of the trap.

The Harmacist blundered into the powdery but fibrous cloud, wildly swiping at the air with its gleaming razor blade. Its steps faltered as the dust settled and I was nowhere to be seen. It twirled around, lab coat fluttering out as its black boots missed the trap by a matter of inches.

The Dweller was so close. But not close enough.

I was still cloaked in shadow, but I didn’t have many cards left to play. If I was going to kill this cheesedick and claim the MediocreMart for myself, I needed to do something. I could always launch a Bleach Blaze and hope the Harmacist would stumble back into the trap. The problem was, the spell had done next to nothing before, and once I broke the concealment of the Mall Ninja’s Veil, I wouldn’t get another chance. It would be far more effective if I could get close and physically shove the Dweller into the trap.

The Harmacist was tall and gangly, and it looked like a strong breeze would bowl it over. Getting up close was the best option, but then I would be well within the blast radius of the trap.

Unless…

A devilish idea suddenly occurred to me.

Moving quickly, I opened up my Storage Space and hauled out a wicked-looking machete. It was the Artifact that would teleport me to a completely random location within line of sight as soon as I landed a blow against an enemy. I’d thought the item was as useless as tits on a bull, but I was big enough to admit when I’d been wrong.

It was mostly useless. Except in very specific circumstances.

Like, say, forcing an enemy to stagger into a magical land mine, then teleporting away before the act of heroism turned into a kamikaze mission.

Holding my breath, I crept closer as the cloud of fiber began to settle. The Harmacist continued to turn in slow circles, searching fruitlessly for me. I pulled another screw from the pouch at my belt and tossed it in an overhand arc. The screw landed behind the plague doctor with the soft clink of metal. The noise was just loud enough to momentarily draw the Harmacist’s attention; it turned its back on me, searching for the source of the noise.

In the same instant, I leapt from the shadows and slammed the machete blade into the plague doctor as the weight of my body pushed the Dweller directly into the runic trap.

Time stretched and everything seemed to happen in slow motion as our bodies collided and the machete blade sank deep, slicing through a chunk of the red bar floating above the Harmacist’s head.

Then, there was a flash of light followed in quick succession by the roar of a Harrier jet engine and a terrible burst of heat that singed the eyebrows from my face and left my skin feeling tight and tender.

For a long beat, I thought I was dead, floating blissfully on a sea of white, totally at peace and without a single care in the entire world. Then pain flooded back in as if a dam had broken and I found myself sprawled on the floor, staring up at the white tiles of the ceiling overhead.

I was approximately fifteen feet away from the obliterated corpse of the very dead Harmacist.

Apparently, I hadn’t teleported quite far enough away to escape the blast completely unscathed. My Health had dropped to a thumbnail of red, and everything in my body hurt. I smiled anyway, even though that hurt too. I was alive and I’d just cleared my first Job Board mission. Several new research achievements hung in the air above me, just waiting for me to give them a little attention. I ignored them all, focusing instead on the blue rubbery face that popped into view.

There was deep concern in Croc’s googly eyes.

“Oh drat,” the dog muttered. It sighed. “I really liked this one.”

I laughed, blood frothing on my lips as I did.

“I ain’t dead yet,” I groaned. “Now how’s about you be a pal and see if you can’t find me a healing elixir back in the pharmacy?”

CHAPTER 25

CORVO’S BLANKET FORT

Croc found a small treasure trove of Lesser and Greater Zima Healing Elixirs stashed away inside one of the fridges in the pharmacy. We were just lucky they hadn’t been destroyed in the raging inferno of burning vodka like so many of the other drugs and pharmaceuticals. I knew the store itself would naturally heal over time, but I was less sure that the supplies would regenerate—especially once I cut this section off from the rest of the Backrooms and turned it into my own interdimensional safe haven.

I regretted the need to burn everything down, but we hadn’t really had many other options. Croc and I had barely escaped by the skin of our teeth. If we’d done anything differently, chances were good that I’d be dead right now—just another hopeless casualty like so many of the Delvers that had gone before me. Besides, even with the destruction, there were still lots of prizes to be had. The Healing Elixirs were a huge win, but there was also a cooler filled with Mana Elixirs and another stocked with Stamina Regen Potions, which were called Electro-Quench—“Fuck Your Thirst!”

The potion was bright green and looked like Gatorade.

Most of the other drugs were gone, but the lab equipment itself was in decent shape, which gave me a small sliver of hope that I might be able to start creating my own elixirs at some point.

Two of the Lab Tech bodies were so badly burned and mangled that we weren’t able to recover anything from their charred remains, but we did manage to pick up another four Erlenmeyer Molotov Cocktail Relics, plus five Common Shards and two more Uncommon Shards. That brought me up to thirty-two Common Shards and thirteen Uncommon Shards—enough to start forging the pieces into usable Relics.

The Shards and extra Relics would serve as stock for my store or as fuel to level up my own abilities, but I still wasn’t sure which. It really depended on what my future customers wanted.

For now, I chucked everything unceremoniously into Storage and systematically worked through the debris and wreckage, looking for anything else worth salvaging.

The Internal Combustion Engine Trap had damn near obliterated the Harmacist and had taken a good chunk of aisle 9 along with it. The plague doctor lay in smoking pieces, scattered across the floor, while bits of inky skin and strings of intestine hung from nearby shelving units. Croc and I would have to clean that mess up before our grand opening.

I was gutted to find that the Harmacist’s silver syringe pistol had been transformed into an unusable twisted hunk of scrap metal and that the plague doctor’s oversized scalpel-sword had suffered a similar fate. The sword I could live without, but I’d been salivating over the prospect of running around like John Wayne, quick-drawing the silver syringe pistol and blasting the shit out of anything that looked sideways at me.

Some things were just not meant to be, it seemed.

It wasn’t all bad news, though.

The Harmacist’s body may have been mangled beyond belief, but there was enough of its torso left for me to recover two Relics.

The first looked like a set of small bronze scales, which might be used to measure the components of an elixir. It was a Common Relic appropriately named The Pharmacist’s Scales, which allowed me to exchange Mana for Health or Health for Mana in equal measure. Although it didn’t have any direct combat application, it had to be one of the most useful utility skills in my arsenal, just beneath the Compass of the Catacomber and Bleach Blaze.

I’d suffered some pretty horrendous injuries since Noclipping into the Backrooms, and in my estimation, praying to stumble across a lukewarm bottle of Zima was a terrible long-term survival strategy. As we used to say in the Marine Corps, hope is a shitty plan.

Healing myself completely would burn through the majority of my Mana, but at least it was a reasonably reliable way of not dying. I struggled to think of a situation where I might want to use my life force to supplement my Mana—especially considering how slowly Health Regenerated by comparison—but I’d also thought the randomly teleporting machete had been stupid too, and that had just saved my ass.

I added the Scales to my Spatial Core, which brought me up to nine Relics in total.

The tenth and final slot in my Spatial Core was shortly filled by the Harmacist’s second Relic, which turned out to be a Rare ability called Sterilization Field. The item itself had to be the strangest one I’d received so far. It was a white cube about the size of a toaster oven with a clear glass circle set into a small locking door. Inside the machine were a series of bulbs that emitted a blindingly bright blue light. There were several buttons on the outside, along with a label that declared the box to be a medical-grade UV Chamber.

Variant Research Division: Sterilization Field

Rare Relic – Level 1

Range: Self

Cost: 50 Mana

Duration: 20 Seconds

Every Alchemist knows that working with volatile chemicals and arcane elixirs is dangerous enough without errant strands of magic floating around. Unleash the power of Variant UV-C Bulbs and conjure a bubble of ethereal blue-white light, designed to keep bad magic out and your organs in.

This shimmering field not only travels with you, but also reduces all incoming magic and elemental attack damage by 50%. Even better, any enemy spellcaster trapped within the Sterilization Field who has a lower Resonance Score than you will be unable to activate Mana-Based Relics until leaving the bubble’s Area of Effect. This Relic enables Mana usage.

“It’s more than protection – it’s DOMINATION!”

I’d seen the Harmacist use this skill firsthand to dampen the effects of the red gas cloud and my Bleach Blaze spell. At 50 Mana, Sterilization Field cost a metaphysical arm and a leg to use and would wipe out every ounce of Mana I had at my disposal, but the possible applications were staggering and endless. Sure, it wouldn’t protect me at all from taking physical damage, but even without forging the Relic further, this was a cornerstone technique that I could structure the rest of my build around.

It would be useless against Dwellers like the Roid Gremlins or mimics who mostly relied on physical strength and beating the shit out of their opponents, but it could defang anything that used magic. Things like the Photophage or the crow-faced Lab Techs. Or maybe even the Flayed Monarch.

Though, admittedly, I’d seen the skinless horror show wield that curved khopesh like it had been born with the blade in its hands. The ruler of the 999th floor could probably gut me like a trout without ever using an ounce of magic.

Still, this felt like a small step in the right direction.

Killing the Harmacist earned me 750 experience points, not to mention the added 1,250 Experience for clearing the Job Board Mission, and all the Loot Tokens that came with it as a bonus—five Copper Delver Loot Tokens, two Silver Delver Loot Tokens, and one Gold Mercenary Loot Token. The massive influx of Experience rocketed me all the way up to level 12. Next time I visited a Progenitor Monolith, I’d have fifteen more Personal Enhancement Points to distribute, though most of those were going straight into Resonance.

I also had a string of new unlocked achievements waiting for me, which I casually read over while ripping through a bag of beef jerky and chugging a can of Peak Dew—“Different Elevation, Same Dewy Goodness.” The beef jerky was dry and, like the Jolt Cola, the Peak Dew soda hurt my teeth. Not that I cared. After eating nothing but candy bars and Froyo, this was a feast delivered from on high—like God raining down manna from the heavens.

Except this manna from the heavens left me with burps potent enough to strip paint.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Merc for Hire

How does it feel to recklessly put your life on the line while mercilessly slaughtering others for cold hard cash? Or was it experience points? Fame? Doesn’t matter. The principles are the same. You’ve officially sold your soul and proven you have the careless disregard for your own life necessary to take on some of the dodgiest gigs the Researcher can dream up. Now get your ass back out there—the grind awaits!

Reward: You already got paid for this and we both know it. Don’t try to double-dip, dickwad.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Combination Mechanic

Most people say that randomly smashing a bunch of Relics together is a fool’s game. At best you’ll probably ruin a perfectly good skill, at worst you’ll murder yourself and everyone else inside a fifty-foot radius. But that hasn’t deterred you—which might not be the high praise you think it is. Still, you’ve created not one, not two, but three unique Relics, forging shitty bullshit into slightly less shitty bullshit. My hat’s off to you.

Reward: 1 x Silver Forger Loot Token

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Bargain Basement Hero

Holy cheaply made armor, Discount Dan! You’re like Batman. If Batman was a hobo. Living under a bridge. With terrible credit and a crippling mental condition. What the fuck is wrong with you?! You just cleared a two-star bounty clad in gear so low-level, you couldn’t give it away at a yard sale. For all the protection your current equipment offers, you might as well have ventured in bare-assed. But hey, who needs fancy OSHA-approved dungeon-delving equipment when you’ve got guts, guile, and a pair of cajones the size of bowling balls?

Reward: 1 x Gold Armorer Loot Token. Get yourself something nice… Hopefully something that resembles dignity.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Overkill Overlord

Blam! Bam! Kaboom! That’s the sound of you using a tactical nuke to swat a goddamned fly. Do you feel good about yourself now? By defeating an enemy with an attack that dealt 10 times more damage than necessary to kill it, you’ve officially landed yourself the Overkill Overlord Research Achievement, proving that “excessive” is just another word for “extra fun.”

Reward: 5 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 1 x Gold Slayer Loot Token

Title: Overkill Overlord – Gain a 2x Experience Bonus when dealing more than 10 times the amount of damage necessary to kill any opponent.

I wasn’t eager to go back to the Loot Arcade anytime soon—the Mobile Murder Muncher was still the worst of the horrors I’d seen so far—but I was starting to rack up a significant hoard of tokens once again, including several silvers and golds. The prizes I would no doubt gain would be worth the danger, but that could wait for a little longer. First, I wanted to set up a cordon and get my personal Blanket Fort up and running.

I killed the rest of the beef jerky, chased it down with the remainder of the too-sweet Peak Dew cola, and pushed off the counter with a groan.

“What’s the plan now?” Croc asked, easing his way out of a nearby aisle with strings of gristle and bloody meat dangling from his blue, rubbery snout.

“You’ve got a little something right here,” I said, gesturing vaguely at my entire face.

Croc’s jaws stretched and a huge tongue emerged, pulling the excess strips of meat into his mouth. “Is that better?”

“Yep, you got it all,” I said, feeling queasy.

Intellectually knowing Croc was a carnivorous monster was somehow very different than watching him slurp down chunks of raw monster meat, but I kept my mouth shut. The mimic was terrifying and vaguely disgusting, but it had also proven itself to be an ally a hundred times over. So long as Croc was eating my enemies and not me, I didn’t really care.

“Did you find the medicine you needed?” the dog asked.

I dropped my gaze and couldn’t look at the mimic in the face.

“Yeah, about that…” I said slowly, rubbing at the back of my neck. “I’ve been putting this off for a while, but I’m not sure it can wait any longer—”

“Oh god,” Croc blurted, “you’re dying. Wait, no, it is hemorrhoids. Or you have cancer. But it’s contagious cancer and now I have it too.”

I barked a laugh that I didn’t really feel. “No, it’s none of those things. It’s…” I trailed off, not sure how to explain. “Maybe it’s better if I just show you.”

I fell silent and let things go hazy as I pulled up my mini-map until it filled most of my field of vision. I could see all the details of the MediocreMart—from the registers by the front door, all the way to the still-smoldering pharmacy in the back. Marked on the map were the corpses of the dead Dwellers, their bodies rotting away, and the whole area glowed a faint shade of blue, which indicated it had been cleared of both enemies and Blight.

Although this was my first time using the Blanket Fort ability, the knowledge of how to use it was already nestled deep in the base of my brain, like a memory half-forgotten. I raised a finger and began to trace it across the map, outlining the edges of the newly liberated MediocreMart. In the peripheries of my vision, a blue light bled from the air, following the course of my finger like an ethereal serpent.

As I traced, a numeric counter appeared in a corner of the map, tracking how much square footage I had to play with. The skill granted me twenty-five hundred square feet per character level, which was more than enough to cover the entirety of the store. Which was great news, since there were several other locations I wanted to add in order to really maximize the skill.

I finished tracing the perimeter of the store, connecting the edges of ghostly blue light together, then took a few seconds to mark the sliding glass doors as the designated Entryway Anchor point. As I did, a new prompt appeared.

Corvo’s Blanket Fort

You’ve selected 14,200 square feet of eligible Progenerated Material Resource Space. Would you like to use Corvo’s Blanket Fort to convert the selected material into a Personal Superspace Dwelling? Proceed Yes/No?

Researcher’s Codex Note: Doing so will amputate the selected material from its current Spatial Location and transfer it to an extradimensional Superspace pocket, accessible only through a designated Doorway Anchor. Additional sequestered Progenerated Material can be grafted onto the current space at any time. For a full list of Blanket Fort features and options, please see the Blanket Fort DIY Operations Manual, available after claiming your first section of the Backrooms.

I mentally selected “Yes” and both the prompt and map vanished. The whole room violently shook and rumbled like a raging bull, knocking Croc from its feet and many of the items from the shelves. But the tremors only lasted a few seconds, and once they passed another short notice swam into view in all its eight-bit glory.

Congratulations, you’ve officially created your very own Personal Superspace Dwelling, or PSD—not to be confused with PTSD, which are two very different things, as we learned the hard way. To complete the process, and fully cordon off the selected location, you must first plant a Prime Doorway Anchor Point in an exterior Backrooms location.

7 x Items have been added to your Subspace Storage Space: 5 x Standard Doorway Anchor, 1 x VIP Doorway Anchor, 1 x Blanket Fort DIY Operations Manual.

Would you like to assign a name to your new Personal Superspace Dwelling? If not, the name on record will remain with its current designation: MediocreMart. Yes/No?

Unlike the last message, this one gave me a moment of pause.

A name.

Of course, I’d need to name the place, but I hadn’t given it any thought until right now. I’d had a few bigger, more pressing things on my mind. Like mimics. And mutated Pac-Man. And Molotov-cocktail-hurling birdmen. Now that I had a chance to breathe, however, I realized I couldn’t leave the name as it was. Although MediocreMart was a painfully accurate description of this place, it didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

If I was going to get Delvers from countless floors to shop at my little interdimensional general store and funnel me all their excess Relics and Artifacts, I was going to need something catchy. Something memorable. Something I could use to advertise.

A line from one of the achievements I’d just unlocked bubbled up to the surface of my mind. Discount Dan. It was dumb, but it also had a certain ring to it. But it needed something else. Something more. Something to give prospective customers a better idea of what kind of wares I’d be offering.

As a kid, I’d always loved going to the flea market with my dad. We had a big ol’ flea market not far from us called Big Time Bargains, and about once a month my dad and I would head out that way to look for deals and flea markets were, hands down, the best place in the world to find deals. That and pawn shops. As a perpetual handyman, my dad was always on the hunt for used but well-loved power tools.

Going to the flea market was work for him, but it was pure joy for me. Rummaging through other people’s junk, searching for all the little gems they might’ve overlooked. And there were always treasures to be found, because as the saying goes, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Every month I’d walk away with something. Old coins from places I’d never heard of. Pokémon cards and comic books. Old-school video game cartridges for consoles that were no longer in production.

Who would want those? Me and my dad, that’s who. We had an Atari and an NES, the Super Nintendo and the Dream Cast, the first-generation Xbox and the PS1 and 2. All picked up for dirt cheap from Big Time Bargains. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up and my dad was a frugal man, so we never had the newest things, but he had an eye for a deal like no one I ever knew. I wanted to make a place that he would want to shop in. A place where one man’s trash could be treasure to the right buyer.

“Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains,” I said, the words little more than a whisper under my breath.

There was a brilliant flare of light and the prompt disappeared, replaced by the map once more. The name above the section of real estate I’d just carved out for myself now read Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains in blocky black script.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Safe Space Warrior

The real world generally doesn’t care about your personal comfort and it sure as shit doesn’t come with Safe Spaces, no matter what your high school teacher told you. Unless your name is Dan. Apparently, you are such a special snowflake that the world literally revolves around you. At least a little. Still, I wouldn’t let this go to your head. Good money says you’re dead within a week. RemindMe! 1 Week

Reward: 5 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 1 x Gold Entrepreneur Loot Token

I dismissed the achievement notice with a wave of my hand and turned away from the counter. Croc was looking up at me with a reproachful gaze.

“Dan, I think maybe we have a few things we need to talk about…”

CHAPTER 26

FRIENDS DON’T LIE

It seemed like it would be difficult to pull off a reproachful look as a rubber dog with googly eyes, but somehow Croc managed it anyway.

“You’re not sick,” the dog said, not a question but a cold, hard statement of fact. “And that was no run-of-the-mill spell you just cast, Dan. That was a sequester ritual.” There was no accusation in its tone, but I could see it carved into the lines of the mimic’s face. “I’ve never seen a sequester ritual in action before and that’s because all of them are Mythic quality and no one other than the monarchs and lords of the lower floors have ’em.

“You look like a simple newb,” Croc continued, “but things aren’t adding up. Your navigation abilities. The way you can spot mimics even faster than I can. Your ability to detect and disarm traps that even the most experienced Trapsmiths would readily avoid. It’s all coming together.” Croc nodded his head sadly. “You’ve been lying to me, Dan. If that’s even your real name. But maybe it’s not. Maybe you’re a Josh or a Steve. Could even be an Adam.”

“Of course my name’s Dan,” I replied. “I swear, it’s not like that, Croc—”

“Then what is it like, hmm?” the mimic shot back before I could finish. “Because to me, this feels like you’ve been lying to me from the get-go, even though I’ve been nothing but honest and helpful. Have you ever even gone to a water park? Because I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“My name is Dan,” I reassured the dog, “and yes, I have been to a water park. And I’ve been honest with you… mostly. There are just a few minor details I may have left out.”

“Lying by omission is still lying, Dan,” Croc said stiffly, its tail standing straight up at attention. “And this wasn’t just lying by omission—this was just lying by lying. You said we were friends. Friends might not eat each other, but I’m pretty sure they don’t lie to each other either.” It looked down and seemed to wilt like an old flower, too long without water. “But what do I know? I’m not a human like you. I’m just a dumb, soulless monster, not worthy of trust. That’s what Rashid told me.” The dog peeked up at me with one eye.

“What happened to Rashid?” I asked, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else.

“Vivisected by the Arch-Surgeon of the Bloody Blades,” Croc said morosely. “Quite an ugly death, that one was. Maybe if Rashid had trusted me a little more, he would’ve listened when I told him to stay away from the CryptiCrabs that live in the wishing pond.”

I was silent for a long beat, not wanting to look at the dog that wasn’t really a dog at all.

I sighed, dropped down onto one knee, and placed a hand on Croc’s rubbery shoulder. “We are friends, Croc,” I finally said, breaking the tension. “I wouldn’t be alive right now if it wasn’t for you—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Croc cut in, looking up at me. “I didn’t ask questions about how you managed to get a navigation Relic. But this? Keeping a sequester ritual from me.” It raised a paw and swept it out. “You just created your own personal pocket world. That’s something else entirely. That’s dangerous, and you should’ve told me sooner.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you. Because it is dangerous and complicated and I was afraid you’d abandon me if you knew the truth,” I blurted out before I could overthink things. “Like I said, we are friends, but in my experience, friendship has its limits. If I asked you to help me move a couch, that’s one thing. But asking you to help me wage a war against one of the most powerful creatures in the Backrooms? That’s a big ask, especially for someone you met less than a day ago.”

“I’m not a human and maybe things are different where you’re from,” Croc said, “but here, friend is an unconditional term. This is a hungry world, Dan. A place where everything is trying to kill you if it means surviving for another day. There are alliances. There are factions. Tenuous partnerships. Even kingdoms with hundreds or sometimes thousands of denizens. But that’s all about survival. Every relationship in the Backrooms is transactional. What can you do for me? How can you help me survive?

“But to me, friendship is about companionship,” the dog continued. “It’s about service and loyalty. About being there even when things get hard. That’s why I choose to pick the form of a real, human dog.” Croc paused again, staring deep into my face with its stupid googly eyes. It was like the mimic was peering right into the deepest part of my soul. “I’m not going to leave you, Dan. But if you want me to help, I need to know what kind of trouble you’re in.” The dog cocked its head to one side. “No, scratch that. I need to know what kind of trouble we’re in.”

I took a deep breath and braced myself, preparing for Croc to either run away as fast as its rubber legs would go or attack me on the spot. It was all well and good to extol the virtues of friendship, loyalty, and selfless service until you learned that you were suddenly hanging out with someone at the top of the Skinless Court’s Most Wanted List. Although I’d gotten comparatively lucky so far, having an enemy like the Flayed Monarch was almost a guaranteed death sentence and anyone who helped me would likely suffer fallout as well.

“It all started with a bachelor party,” I said, unspooling the story word by word, beginning with the night before, then telling the mimic about waking up in the middle of a raging battle between two beings of otherworldly power.

Croc asked a few questions while I spoke. The mimic seemed extremely interested in the trench-coat-wearing gunslinger who’d saved my ass with the Slammer of Shielding—though I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

When I finally got to the part about the gunslinger stabbing the hellish Monarch through the chest and knocking loose the Brass Compass that now resided in my Spatial Core, I expected the dog to freak out.

Instead, Croc threw back its head and roared with… laughter. The mimic had a deep, full laugh that resonated in my bones. The sound was so happy and infectious, I found myself grinning from ear to ear, even though I wasn’t quite sure what exactly was so funny.

“So wait…” the dog gasped in between chuckles. “You stole a Mythic Emblem from the Flayed Monarch?” It paused. “Just picked it right up off the floor and stuck it in your core?”

I nodded, sober as a judge.

Croc laughed even harder, falling onto one side, then rolling and thrashing across the linoleum. That went on for so long I began to have legitimate concerns that the mimic was having an epileptic fit. Finally, after what felt like an obscenely long time, the dog’s laughter tapered off. Croc righted itself and swiped a tear from its eye with one paw.

Why or how a googly eye had tear ducts was beyond me.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” the dog said. “I’ve had dreams that weren’t half as satisfying as this. The Flayed Monarch lost one of the most potent Emblems ever to exist to a brand-new Delver. The irony is, in a word, delicious.”

“I’m so confused,” I said. “To me, this all sounds like bad news. I’m level twelve and I basically robbed a supernatural warlord with unspeakable godlike powers of a priceless treasure. The Flayed Monarch Marked me for Death and anyone who serves the Skinless Court is obligated to murder me on sight. Could be I’m missing something, but I’m having a hard time seeing any upside here.”

“I’m going to be honest, Dan, there aren’t a lot of upsides. This is either the best or worst thing to ever happen to anyone, and I’m not sure which it is. The Flayed Monarch is…” Croc paused, tapping one paw thoughtfully against its chin. “Well, powerful beyond the scope of human imagination, certainly. He is arguably the oldest of all the great monarchs and rules the 999th floor in its entirety. But the Flayed Monarch is also not well-loved by most of the other denizens. Even better, you personally met and assisted the Boundless Wanderer.”

Croc’s eyes seemed to shimmer with a new reverence as they looked at me.

“First time I’m hearing that name,” I replied slowly. “Should it mean something to me?”

“Not at all,” Croc said, shaking its head. “You’re as fresh and green as spring grass, but the man you helped—the one who gave you the Slammer of Shielding—he’s a folk hero on pretty much every floor. Except, of course, on the 999th floor, where even whispering his name can earn you a death sentence. See, there are a handful of monarchs that occupy the lower floors, and they’re all perpetually at war with each other. Most of the folks above floor one hundred try to keep their heads down and stay out of the politicking and machinations of the great monarchs below, though sometimes their conflicts spill over even here.”

“What’s this have to do with this Boundless Wanderer guy?” I asked, feeling even more confused than I was before. “Is he one of these monarchs?”

“Yes,” Croc said, before shaking his head, “but actually no. He has the power of a monarch, but no kingdom. He’s a wanderer, like the name implies. But he’s also more than that. The Boundless Wanderer is a traveling monster hunter who prowls the floors, helping people while eternally searching for a way back to your world. He is venerated by most of the humans who call the Backrooms home, and his conflict with the Flayed Monarch is legendary and spans centuries. The skinless nightmare killed the Wanderer’s daughter nearly a century ago, and things have been a bit dodgy ever since.”

“So helping him was a good thing?” I hedged, feeling a little better.

“That depends, doesn’t it?” Croc said. “Mostly on who finds you first. I doubt the Flayed Monarch was able to kill the Wanderer, but he’s still only one man. The Flayed Monarch has the sworn loyalty of most of the Dweller factions that exist within the Backrooms—not to mention several human warbands, including a few that operate in this area. Hudson’s Red Hands work the third through fifth floors, and if any of them find you first, a quick death is the most you can hope for and far more than you should expect.”

“And what about you?” I asked. “You said most of the Dweller factions are loyal to the Flayed Monarch. Does that include the mimics?”

The question hung between us like an ominous storm cloud. Now that Croc knew the truth, where would the mimic stand?

“Yes,” Croc finally said. “Most of the sentient mimics are Aspirants of the Skinless Court. But not me,” it continued reassuringly. “Do you know much about the mimic procreation cycle, Dan?”

“Why in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph would I know anything about the mimic procreation cycle?”

“Well, I know all about human procreation,” Croc replied, “what with the storks and the gnomes and the baskets that you leave under the chimney—”

“I am truly fascinated to hear how you think human procreation works,” I muttered.

“—so I just figured you might have some of the basic facts about mimics,” Croc continued, unabated, “seeing how we are the most common species in the Backrooms—and because we’re best friends and all. We mimics are born in clutches. Mature mimics can lay upward of a hundred eggs at a time, but our parents aren’t exactly the nurturing sort. They lay the eggs and then leave the younglings to fend for themselves. Survival of the fittest, and all that.

“Thing is, I was born premature and defective. I was smaller and weaker than all of my kin and had an internal deformity, which prevented me from perfectly mimicking... anything, really. I can take many forms, but—and this might come as a shock to you—all of them are subtly wrong.” Croc stole a sidelong glance at me, as though admitting some dark and terrible secret. “The truth is, I couldn’t make myself look like a dog, even if you showed me a picture of one.

“I’m broken on the inside, Dan. My siblings saw that and cast me out, fully expecting me to die within days or weeks. But even though my magic is broken, I was always smarter than the others. I could think and talk, which are normally abilities that don’t develop until a mimic reaches maturity, around level twenty. That didn’t help me hunt, though. The truth of it is, I was helpless and would’ve died within weeks if not for the kindness of a human who found me.

“Her name was Gertrude. Gertrude Evans. She was a seventy-two-year-old grandmother who Noclipped into the Backrooms from a laundromat in Madison, Wisconsin. Her husband had died three years before and she lived at home alone with her seven cats. But the cats didn’t come. It was just her, and she was alone and scared. But she was also a survivor. Gertrude served during the Second World War. She said she was a WASP, you know, which is a type of pilot, and not a bug as I originally assumed.

“Anyway, the important thing is that Gertrude was fierce. But she was also kind and sweet and generous. She found me curled up in one of the service corridors. I was level one and so weak from hunger I could hardly move. She was lonely and missed her cats. I was dying and roughly cat-sized. It was a match made in heaven—though, admittedly, her poor eyesight might have also had something to do with it.

“When she started calling me kitty, I assumed the rough shape of a cat. Thanks to my defective genes it was a truly terrible mimicry. It was only good enough to fool someone half-blind and mostly senile. Fortunately for me, Gertrude was both. She adopted me. Fed me.” Croc smiled, unshed tears in its eyes. “She would carry me around inside this enormous tote bag and would pat my head as we walked. At first, I considered eating her, but before long I realized I would live longer helping her than I would consuming her delicious flesh. She was my first friend. Really my only friend until you, Dan.”

“What happened?” I asked. Of all the Delvers Croc had told me about so far, this was the one I wanted to hear about the least.

“She lasted four months,” Croc said evenly. “Survived longer than any of the other Delvers I’ve ever been with. She made it down to the twelfth floor, which is when she ran across an Aspirant of the Court…” The mimic faltered, as though trying to find the right words. “She didn’t make it,” the dog finished simply, though what he didn’t say spoke volumes. Croc never shied away from all the gruesome ways other Delvers had perished but was silent about Gertrude. “As for me, I was branded as an Outcast for helping her.”

Croc’s form blurred until it was a writhing mass of tentacles and teeth. The mimic slowly turned, and I saw a mark burned into its rubbery skin. The brand looked like an angry red welt in the shape of an eye with a jagged crown floating above it.

“I’d reached level three by that point and though I was still weak and small and defective, I was strong enough to fend for myself. There wasn’t enough left of Gertrude to bury, so I figured the best way to pay her kindness forward was to try to help other new Delvers. Because that’s what she’d done for me, and I figured that’s what she would’ve wanted me to do for others.” Croc once more resumed the form of a dog, then dropped its snout and curled in on itself. “Despite my endless list of failures, I’ve done my best to do right by her.”

I scooted over so I could sit beside the dog that wasn’t a dog, then slung an arm around its shoulders. “She sounds like something special.”

“She was,” Croc agreed, leaning its weight against me. “She was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother, and the Flayed Monarch took her from me.” There was an uncharacteristically deep rumble of anger in Croc’s chest as it spoke. “We’ll probably both die in rather excruciating ways, but if there’s even a sliver of a chance that we can hurt the Monarch in the process, then it’ll be worth it.”

“Whoa, let’s rein in all this gruesome death talk,” I replied quickly. “I have no intention of dying as a martyr or some sort of hero. I want to live a long, full life that involves lots of casual day drinking. And, maybe someday, I’d like to find a way out of this twisted funhouse of tomfuckery. I know the odds aren’t in our favor, but I also don’t think this is a lost cause. Not completely. It’s gonna take a truckload of elbow grease and more than a little luck, but I’ve got a plan to keep us both alive and maybe we can continue to honor Gertrude’s memory while we do it.”

I described the Emblem’s manifold abilities and how I planned to use those abilities to make a lot of friends and get my hands on enough rare Artifacts and Relics to give us both a fighting chance against the Flayed Monarch and his army of bootlickers. By the time I was finished, Croc was practically spinning in circles out of sheer excitement.

“Where do we start?” the mimic said as I finally picked myself up off the ground.

I surveyed the store, which was a chaotic mess from our battle against the Harmacist and the crow-faced Lab Techs. There were supplies strewn across the floor, and whole sections of shelving had been blown to pieces. A lot of the structural damage was already starting to repair itself, just as I’d suspected would be the case, but the boxes weren’t gonna pick themselves up, and there were still bodies that needed to be disposed of.

“We’re gonna start with a mop bucket and a little bit of light reading,” I said, reaching through the fabric of space to retrieve one of the new items that had been deposited into my Subspace Storage System. It was a fat three-ring binder, with a cheaply laminated cover that read Blanket Fort DIY Operations Manual.

CHAPTER 27

CANNON FODDER

For the next several hours, Croc and I worked tirelessly, righting tipped-over shelving racks, mopping up spills and blood, and disposing of bodies. There were a shocking number of bodies, though taking care of those mostly fell under Croc’s jurisdiction. The mimic enthusiastically insisted on it, actually. The dog explained that the Backrooms would eventually absorb the “physical material”—its exact words—but that it was much easier and quicker to just consume the corpses.

After watching Croc unhinge its jaw and swallow the first dead Tech like a starving anaconda, I decided to leave the mimic to it. I already had enough nightmare fuel to last me several lifetimes.

I took several breaks to read through my new operations manual, which was chock-full of useful information. Although it looked like a three-ring binder, stuffed to the brim with sheaves of loose-leaf papers, it was actually my Blanket Fort Interface, serving much the same function as the Progenitor Monolith—except for my Personal Safe Space. By simply opening the binder, I could view a staggeringly long list of available resource materials and useable square footage.

The interface portal even granted me access to a set of interactive 3D schematics, which allowed me to manipulate and even reconfigure the space as I deemed fit. I couldn’t use the manual to instantly fix all the broken shit lying all over the place, but I could change the location configuration of the various rooms as well as arm, disarm, and rearrange all of the traps inside the store, which was a damned nice perk.

On top of the traps, the store had several other security features and passive benefits.

Turned out, the building had a rudimentary Spatial Core, though it was called a Progenitor Nexus Relay, and within that core were several unique Relics, though they were labeled as “Bindings.” Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find a way to remove those Bindings—not that I really wanted to—but it seemed possible that I could add compatible Bindings to the Nexus Relay, granting the space some portion of their powers.

The first Binding was a Healing Skill similar to my newly acquired Pharmacist’s Scales, but way better. It was like Pharmacist’s Scales on steroids and applied on an industrial level. The space had its own Health Pool and Mana reserve, and the Unyielding Foundation Binding passively restored and mended all damage dealt to the structural property itself at a rate of 100 Health per hour—which was insane, until I realized that the store had 14,200 Health, which perfectly matched the overall square footage.

At that rate, it would take one hundred and forty-two hours, or just under six days, to totally repair the store from catastrophic damage, which was significantly longer than it would take to bring me back to full health, even from the edge of death.

On top of Unyielding Foundation, the store had four active abilities—Cornucopia of Plenty, Stasis Halo, Ban Hammer, and Cannon Fodder—all of which were fueled by the store’s rather impressive Mana reserve.

Although Unyielding Foundation only regenerated the physical structure itself and not the items contained within the store, Cornucopia of Plenty did. It would only work for items that came with the store and not additional materials brought in later—like Relics or Artifacts—but still… For the rest of my time in the Backrooms, I’d never have to worry about food, Mountain Dew—well, Peak Dew, technically—or finding a toothbrush ever again.

Even better, that also meant that once the pharmacy recovered from the firebombing, the Health, Mana, and Stamina potions would regenerate as well.

Which meant I now had a near-infinite supply of life-saving medicine, which I’d be able to mark up and sell at a steep profit to intrepid Delvers. I say near-infinite because there was one small catch. Unlike Unyielding Foundation, which passively regenerated the store’s Health over time, Cornucopia of Plenty was an active ability that required a small degree of oversight. Inside the Blanket Fort Interface Manual was a comprehensive list of every single item that came in stock with the store—including total item quantity, the Mana regeneration cost, and the regeneration respawn time.

I would have to actively manage my inventory and “reorder” items as they “sold.” Thankfully, regenerating the items drew from the store’s Mana Pool and not my own, but the store had a limited Mana reserve to work with, even if it was vastly larger than my own. The more magically or materially complex the item, the more Mana it cost to make. I could generate a bottle of water for as little as two Mana, while a Beefy Man frozen TV dinner cost around ten.

The Health, Mana, and Stamina Elixirs cost the most by a country mile, at 200 Mana a pop. The store had a total Mana Pool of 7,100, which meant, in theory, I could manufacture thirty-five elixirs a day. Doing so would completely drain the magical reserves, however, which I needed to power all of the store’s other abilities. There was one other significant catch. Each item in the store inventory also had a “Max Stock Value” listed in the binder, and I could never generate more of any given item than that value at any one time.

In the case of elixirs, that number was twenty apiece.

The Max Stock limitation quickly deflated my dream of an endless surplus of cheap potions, but as long as I stayed on top of the store’s inventory management system, I’d be golden.

Stasis Halo’s effect was rather straightforward and didn’t require any forethought or oversight. As the owner of the Superspace, the store was built to protect me at all costs while I was within the confines of its walls. Anyone inside the store who was stupid enough to launch an attack against me—whether it be physical or magical in nature—would instantly be trapped within a temporary stasis field, which would petrify and immobilize them for an entire minute, simultaneously nullifying any hostile magical effects in play.

That was more than enough time to kill them or throw them out on their asses, depending on what mood I was in at the moment. The only drawback was that the spell burned through an epic amount of energy, which meant that it could only be used about three times before the store’s entire Mana reserve dwindled to zero. It was a solid protective measure, but the system could be overwhelmed and eventually overloaded if enough people decided to launch an attack on me all at once.

Of the four active abilities, Ban Hammer was the most complicated and basically served as a moderation tool. I could create a series of rules for the space—no attacking others, for example—and anyone who performed that action would instantly be teleported to a random location on a random floor that the space was connected to, via a Doorway Anchor. I could create any number of rules that the store would passively monitor and enforce, restricting things like stealing, damaging property, or even cussing.

Not that I’d ban anyone for cussing.

I fucking loved to cuss.

Honestly, people often criticized me for my “colorful” language, saying that it demonstrated “a lack of articulation and imagination”—that was a direct quote from my youth pastor—but to my mind, there were few words as flexible or versatile as shit, ass, and fuck. The innumerable ways they could be twisted and strung together to form complicated and nuanced expressions were like poetry when wielded by a true master.

Chucklefuck. Assface. Douchewaffle. Shitstick. Cockwomble.

A work of art, each and every one. Though I made it a point not to take the Lord’s name in vain. My parents raised me Christian and although my dad had a mouth like a drunk sailor, he’d paint my ass black, blue, and red if he ever heard me blaspheme.

As cool as those Bindings were, however, none of ’em even came close to the last and greatest Binding of all, Cannon Fodder.

Cannon Fodder

Uncommon Binding

Cost: 1 x Relic (Common Grade or Better)

Meet your new best friend: a disposable Cannon Fodder minion. These things are cobbled together from whatever random bullshit you have lying around—whether it’s a discarded pizza box, moldy socks, or the rotting remains of your vanquished enemies—then empowered by a single Relic, Common grade or better.

You can conjure one of these unholy, Frankenstein murder-machines for every 5,000 sq ft of Blanket Fort you lay claim to. Cannon Fodder Golems will exist indefinitely until they are either destroyed or banished by their creator. The Relic you use to empower the creature will largely shape its personality but—generally speaking—understanding simple commands is the height of their intellectual prowess.

Their vitality is directly linked to the Health of your Blanket Fort, with each Golem sporting a robust 1% of the Fort’s total Health capacity. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but believe you me, it’ll take more than a few love taps to turn these lumbering morons back into the debris from whence they came. But, because their Health is directly tied to the Fort, they cannot leave without falling apart.

These haphazard doofuses might not be great conversationalists, but when you’re knee-deep in dickheads doing their absolute best to fuck you, you’ll be glad to have ’em around.

Remember, if you’re desperate enough, everything is fodder for your Cannon Fodder.

I wanted to cackle manically like an evil supervillain.

I had minions. I couldn’t think of anything more badass.

After reading over the Binding description, I grabbed a bunch of random garbage from my storage space along with some of the destroyed products still strewn about the store from our battle. I tossed the bloody and broken plague doctor mask from the corpse of the Harmacist in just for good measure. The description didn’t mention how much material I needed to use, and I got the distinct impression that I could make the golems as big or as small as I wanted, depending on what material I used.

Once I had a roughly human amount of material piled up, I rooted through my available Relics, looking for something that I wouldn’t be too sad to part with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t spoiled for options. I had a bunch of Molotov Cocktails, but those I intended to use or sell, which left me with one Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding, two Basic Camo Kits, and two of the Roid Gremlin jockstraps. None of those seemed like great options, but I had two jockstraps, and that seemed like an item that would be hard to sell, even at bargain-bin prices.

I tossed the musty nut cup on top of the heap, then focused on the pile with intention, which conjured a floating prompt.

Would you like to transform the selected material into a Cannon Fodder Golem? Doing so will destroy the Common Relic, Gremlin’s Groin Guardian. Proceed? Yes/No?

I mentally selected “Yes” and the floor immediately began to rumble while the lights flickered frantically for a few seconds.

When the shaking finally stopped and the overhead fluorescents stabilized, the previous pile of junk pulled itself upright onto a pair of bulky legs, made from a combination of twisted metal and random items pilfered from the shelves.

It vaguely resembled a bodybuilder and had a bulky torso made predominately of cereal boxes, medical bandages, and cleaning supplies, all held together by strings of barely visible white energy. Its arms, by contrast, were composed entirely of melted and badly disfigured baby dolls that I’d raided from the toy aisle. A basketball sat on the creature’s shoulders, and plastered to the front was the cracked and scorched plague doctor mask.

“What. The. Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath, more statement than question.

I instinctively took a step back, but the creature mirrored my movements, its huge feet whispering across the tiles as it moved toward me.

“Whoa there, boy”—I raised a hand, palm out—“that’s close enough. In fact, why don’t you go ahead and take a couple of steps back. Give me a little breathing room.”

Green light flared behind the cracked steampunk goggles, but then the creature complied.

“You understand what I’m saying, right?”

The creature nodded, though it had to bend most of its upper body to do so, since the golem didn’t have a proper neck to speak of.

“Can you talk?”

“Can talk,” it confirmed in a gravelly voice that sounded less like a human being and more like a cement mixer brought to life.

“What should I call you?” I asked. “Or does it matter?”

The creature tapped its broad chest with a plastic hand composed of dozens of smaller baby hands. “Me Cannon Fodder.”

I casually waved away the words. “Yeah, yeah, I know that’s what you are, but I’m gonna make another one of you and I don’t want to have to call out for Cannon Fodder One and Cannon Fodder Two—that’ll get real old, real quick.” I considered the creature and rubbed at my chin while I thought. “How’s about we call you Baby Hands,” I said after a minute, “on account of your tiny, rubber baby hands. Does that work for you?”

Baby Hands nodded its body again, apparently indifferent to my naming conventions.

“Perfect. Now why don’t you go help Croc clean up the store while I find enough stuff for another one of you.”

“Baby Hands lives to serve,” the creature grumbled.

“That’s the spirit,” I said, clapping the trash monster on the shoulder.

The golem shuffled away, moving with an uneven gait, then began to pick up and sort items with a surprising degree of efficiency and dexterity. I’d only known Baby Hands for approximately ten seconds, but I could already tell that he was a harder worker than ninety percent of the new hires who would occasionally apply for my contracting crew. Clearly, he was dumber than a box of wet hammers, but that didn’t matter so long as he followed orders.

While Baby Hands lumbered out of view, I headed back over to the toy aisle and raided a bunch of crap to make a second golem. Of all the stuff inside the former MediocreMart, the toys were the least useful of the lot and took up valuable shelf space, which could be used for more important items. I already had plans to create some basic Delver survival kits that I could give out, free of charge, to any of the new arrivals who managed to make it to the shop.

The toy aisle would serve perfectly well for that.

I scooped shit off the shelves with one arm and carelessly plucked items off the racks with the other, tossing all of them into one big heap of useless packaging and cheaply manufactured plastic. The toys themselves were stupid beyond belief, but left me smiling all the same. There was Arachno-Lad, The BULK, Green Lamp Lighter, and everyone’s favorite, the Streak. Beside them was Hare Devil—a mutated giant rabbit with a taste for danger—and Cat Woman’s distant cousin, Jenifer—“She’s just a normal lady that really likes cats!”

Jenifer came with a bagful of accessory cats.

There were also several disturbingly realistic Carbie Dolls, which were all anatomically correct according to the packaging, and came with a wide range of miniature low-carb food products. Even worse were the My Tiny Trotters, and the instantly recognizable Might Morphin’ Force Rangers, which seemed just legally distinct enough to pass muster. The whole lot of them went into the pile, with no plans to regenerate any of those particular items.

I decided to add a bunch of crap from the beauty product aisle because nail polish and eyeliner weren’t likely to be bestsellers anytime soon either.

As for the Relic, I decided to go with the Tin Foil Hat of Mind Shielding.

Although I had another Gremlin Jockstrap to get rid of, ol’ Baby Hands could barely talk, and I really wanted a minion that could do a little more than mop floors or move heavy boxes. Ideally, I wanted something that could work the register in my absence. The Cannon Fodder description mentioned that the Relic empowering the Golem determined its personality, so I was hoping a Relic that was Mind-focused might give this little guy a modest intelligence boost.

I activated the Cannon Fodder skill again, selecting yes when prompted, then sat back and watched the magic of the Backrooms do its wonderous work.

The end result was a gloriously distressing creature that stood about four and a half feet tall, which was only about half the size of ol’ Baby Hands. The golem was thin, almost waifish in appearance, and most closely resembled a Mighty Morphin’ Megazord. Except its arms and legs were made of Carbie dolls and counterfeit Superhero action figures, while its torso looked like a robot, and its head was that of a bright pink pony with a majestic mane of silver hair. A sheen of dazzling glitter covered everything, and the pony had impossibly long eyelashes.

It was worse than anything I possibly could’ve imagined...

Then it opened its mouth and spoke in a sweet, childlike voice. “Morphin’ is magic, and the power of our unholy friendship will outlast your pitiful flesh.”

I shuddered and considered dispelling the creature on the spot then starting over from scratch.

Baby Hands was one thing, but this? This was an abomination. This was a sin against the natural order. The kind of thing so profane it risked calling down the wrath of the Almighty. The problem was, I’d just burned one of the few remaining Relics I had to my name, and if I destroyed the creature there was no guarantee I’d get the Relic back. I couldn’t be throwing Relics away all willy-nilly, just because this thing made me a little squeamish.

“You’re a bit more talkative than the other one,” I observed, folding my arms across my chest as I regarded the Pony-Zord.

The golem giggled, which was worse than any other response it possibly could’ve given.

I sighed. “Well, let’s just hope you have the same work ethic.” I reached into my storage space and retrieved thirty backpacks, all in varying shapes, colors, and designs, along with bunches of shirts and black athletic socks I’d looted from Style-for-Less. “We’re going to make some basic Delver kits,” I said, gesturing to the backpacks and clothes. “Every pack is going to get a shirt and two pairs of socks, but we’ll also need to gather a few extra items from around here.”

I stuck a finger into the air. “Toothbrush and toothpaste.” Another finger joined the first. “Baby wipes.” I added more fingers as I continued to list items. “One of the first aid kits that are back by the pharmacy. Three bottles of water, two protein bars, and a bag of beef jerky. Make sure to get a flashlight from the hardware aisle… Oh, and grab some pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those little Exacto knives from aisle 22.” I looked at the pony, who was staring at me with dead black eyes as deep, ominous, and unknowable as the heart of the ocean.

By the time I was done, I’d run out of fingers.

“You got all that?” I asked.

“We serve perfectly.” The pony giggled again. It was the sound of windchimes blowing next to a graveyard. “We remember all.”

“Why are you speaking in the third person?” I asked, squinting at the pony in suspicion. “Is that like the royal we? Please, god, tell me it’s like the royal we.”

The pony shook her head, mane fluttering majestically. “It is because we are Legion, the devourer of worlds, though you may call us Princess Ponypuff.”

Not only did her answer have a myriad of disturbing implications, but I’d attended enough Sunday services to be keenly aware of the overt demonic connotations of that particular response. Whatever. As long as Princess Ponypuff, devourer of worlds, did as it was told it was all gravy.

“Cool. Well, don’t just stand there, Ponypuff,” I said, making a little shooing motion with one hand. “Pitter-patter, let’s get at er. These basic Delver packs ain’t gonna make themselves...”

CHAPTER 28

NEW MANAGEMENT

It took us another seven hours or so to get the rest of the store cleaned up and in working order. While we swept up broken glass, scrubbed the floors, and righted shelving units, I used the Blanket Fort Interface to see what we had, what was worth keeping, and what needed to be cut to make room for additional provisions.

Overall, I was thrilled.

The former MediocreMart had been less Walgreens and more the bastard lovechild of a Walgreens and a Dollar General, with a little dash of local hardware store sprinkled into the mix. There was a great selection of items ranging from Home Décor and Housewares to Grocery and Automotive. Twenty-eight aisles in total, meticulously laid out with all the basics anyone could ever need for survival.

There were a few aisles that needed to be gutted, but far fewer than I’d originally anticipated.

I was pleased to see that the grocery section had a surprisingly well-rounded selection of food. Boxes of cereal, pasta noodles and marinara sauce, soup and canned veggies, cup of noodles, and shelves full of bread. The frozen section was also loaded down with a variety of TV dinners, frozen pizzas, cheap sliders, and boneless chicken wings. Plus, a whole freezer, near to bursting with ice cream. There were also chips and snack food aplenty that would stay good for a geological epoch, even if none of it was healthy exactly.

The store had flats of bottled water, cases of soda, and a whole aisle dedicated to cheap liquor. The booze would make the time here a little more bearable and it would probably also sell for as much or more than the elixirs back in the pharmacy. Same thing with the cigarettes, cheap cigars, and chew, stashed away by the register. During my two deployments, luxury items like cigarettes ended up being worth their weight in gold as people ran dry and nicotine cravings started kicking in.

All of that stayed, of course, along with the exceedingly well-stocked over-the-counter drug section and other obvious essentials like basic hygiene, hardware, and home décor.

All of the greeting cards in aisle four needed to go, since I couldn’t imagine there would be much need for an abundance of Get Well Soon or Happy Birthday cards. The toy and game aisle ended up on the chopping block as well, along with the vast majority of the beauty supplies. Like the cards, I highly doubted anyone would be in the market for tinted moisturizer, liquid foundation, or bottles of cheap perfume that smelled like old gym socks.

Still, I tossed all of that stuff into my storage space. Waste not, want not as my grandad used to say.

There was a large storage area in the back, positioned behind the refrigerated section, but it was almost entirely devoid of items. Just a large open space with a concrete floor, a notice board, and a row of small metal lockers for employees to store whatever meager belongings they brought with them to shift.

Normally, that was where all the items waiting to go to the floor would be kept, but we didn’t have delivery trucks full of stuff waiting to be offloaded. Which made it the perfect spot to set up temporary sleeping quarters. Eventually, I’d get some simple camping cots in here, but for now, I had Baby Hands and Ponypuff give the place a good sweep and scrub, then set up a series of sleeping pallets on the floor, using blankets and pillows from the Home Décor aisle.

It wasn’t exactly a five-star resort and there was little to no privacy, but for Delvers desperate for a safe place to catch a bit of shut-eye, it would do just fine.

Cleaning up from the fight against the Harmacist and getting the store organized was only half the battle, though. I also needed to go through and price each and every one of the items on offer. Croc found a label gun stashed away in the Employee Lounge by the pharmacy, which made the process a bit easier, but it was still slow and tedious work. Thanks to my visit to the Loot Arcade, I already had a rough idea of what the going market rate was for most of this junk.

I marked food and beverages at a single Copper Loot Token apiece, while things like first aid kits, personal hygiene items, medicine, or survival gear such as blankets and flashlights went for more. Anywhere from two coppers all the way up to one silver. I based it off of how much Mana each item would cost to regenerate. Even though I felt the prices were a tad high, they were actually on par or even slightly lower than what someone would pay to purchase a comparable item from the Loot Arcades, plus I had a significantly wider variety of options.

And no monstrous Pac-Man creatures to contend against. The convenience alone was worth the price to play, as far as I was concerned.

Even though I probably could’ve squeezed a little more money out of each item, undercutting the only other supplier made my products much more attractive, and it didn’t really matter to me, since, essentially, I had no overhead. With a little investment of Mana, all of these products would regenerate. I could sell the same thing, over and over and over again, maximizing my profit through sheer volume.

The adrenaline of the battle against the Harmacist had finally faded from my system, which is when I realized exactly how wiped I was. I fell asleep while sweeping up some broken glass near the vitamin section in aisle 26 and woke up several hours later on one of the makeshift sleeping mats in the storage room. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure how I’d ended up on the pallet, but I suspected Croc had something to do with that. The dog was sitting beside me, staring at me with feverish intensity.

“Good morning, Dan,” the mimic said.

I glowered at the dog. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked, sitting up then leaning back on my palms.

“Just watching you sleep and not thinking about eating you or how succulent your meat would be.”

I recoiled. “Why would you even say that?” I asked, brow furrowing in skepticism. “You’ve gotta know how insanely suspicious that sounds, right? It definitely makes me think you were considering whether to eat me or not.”

“What? No. I would never, Dan,” Croc protested. “Friends don’t kill, eat, or dismember each other. We’ve already gone over this. Even though, objectively speaking, you probably would be delicious. Not that I want to eat you, of course.”

I cleared my throat and scooted back a wee bit. “Of course,” I replied with a weak smile, before politely excusing myself to the bathroom.

Just when I thought I’d finally gotten used to how weird Croc was, the mimic went and did or said something that made me question all of my life choices. At least, inside the safety and protection of the store, I wouldn’t have to worry. If Croc ever did lose control and try to make a meal out of me, Stasis Halo would lock the mimic down faster than a boot Marine buying a used Dodge Charger at a twenty-one percent interest rate.

There were two gendered bathrooms, each with several stalls, but there was also a smaller, private bathroom attached to the employee’s breakroom. That bathroom would serve as my private commode. There wasn’t a shower, unfortunately, so instead I took a quick baby wipe wash—scrubbing away days of blood, sweat, and grime—then brushed my teeth and applied a fresh coat of deodorant, which helped combat the eye-watering stench of BO wafting from beneath my armpits.

I’d need to be on the lookout for proper bathing facilities. Attaching some sort of laundromat probably wouldn’t go amiss either.

The employee’s breakroom was rather lackluster and unimpressive. It had a small, timeworn loveseat and a round table with a few metal folding chairs, but it also came with a small kitchenette complete with sink, fridge, stove, and microwave, as well as the most important item of all time.

A coffeepot.

There was plenty of coffee over in the grocery aisle, so I wouldn’t have to worry about running out anytime soon, and there were extra coffeepots for sale in the housewares section.

Croc slinked into the room as I puttered around the breakroom—nuking a frozen burrito from the coolers and putting on a pot of coffee to brew.

“Listen, I just wanted to apologize for what I said back there,” the mimic offered. “About eating you and all that. For the record, I would not eat you, but as we discussed yesterday, friends don’t lie.” The mimic took a deep, steadying breath. “And though it pains me to admit it, it would be a lie to say I’ve never considered eating you.

“I love helping Delvers, but it’s also in my nature to eat Delvers. But I would never do it. I’m basically the mimic version of a vegetarian. Do I have the capacity to eat you? Yes. Do I have the ravenous desire to eat you? Also yes. But I’ve taken the moral high ground and elected not to eat humans. Except for bad ones,” it amended after a second. “Or ones that are already dead, I suppose.”

Croc seemed to brighten as an idea occurred to it. “You know what? You and I are just like Edward and Bella from the internationally bestselling and beloved-by-all Twilight series, written by the unparalleled wordsmith Stephenie Meyer, starring the expressive Kristen Stewart as Bella, and the eminently talented Robert Pattison as the dreamy, yet mysterious Edward. Our love and friendship cut against the very fabric of nature yet, somehow, we make it work with absolutely no negative repercussions whatsoever. Plus, I like to watch you sleep, just like Edward! The parallels are truly uncanny!”

“Are you being sarcastic right now?” I asked. “Because I genuinely don’t know whether you’re being sarcastic or if you legitimately love the Twilight series.”

“Of course I’m being serious! I mean, what’s not to love? Romance. Drama. Action scenes and cool powers. An apex predator befriending a squishy, irresistibly delicious meat-filled human then subsequentially wrestling with their insatiable desire for murder?” Croc nodded enthusiastically. “It’s very relatable content, Dan.”

“I can’t decide which part of that statement was the most concerning. But I feel the need to point out that Edward does eventually eat Bella—”

“Wait, does that mean you’re a fan of the series, too?” Croc interpreted excitedly.

I was half tempted to deny it, but then recalled the dog’s brutal and uncomfortable honesty. Friends don’t lie to each other. “I read it on deployment, okay? And it was fine. Not great. But fine. If you’re into that sort of thing. Which I’m not. Here’s the real takeaway, Croc. Please, for the love of my sanity and all that is good in the world, never, ever, under any circumstance, for any reason whatsoever, compare you and me to Bella and Edward again. Ever. For any reason. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” Croc shook one eye at me, and the pupil jiggled. “I can’t blink,” it said, “but that’s what I was trying to do there, just so you know. There is one other tiny little point of awkwardness I was hoping to talk to you about.” Croc paused and took one fearful look over one shoulder. “I’m not quite sure how to say this, but it’s about…” The mimic dropped its voice to a whisper. “Princess Ponypuff. The golem with the pony head,” it added for clarity, as though I’d somehow be able to forget the terrifying pony Voltron, destroyer of worlds.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Croc continued. “I’m not saying that she’s overtly created a hostile work environment, but there’s definitely something not quite right about that one. Baby Hands is great. He and I are like two peas in a pod—he’s a great listener, too—but Ponypuff just keeps staring at me with cold, unblinking murder eyes,” Croc said while simultaneously staring at me with cold, unblinking plastic eyes.

“And she’s constantly saying odd things about meat, or ‘the failings of mortal flesh,’ or how ‘the power of friendship shall unlock the great pits of the eternal dark.’ Again, not anything overtly threatening or hostile, but there’s just something that doesn’t feel right about it, you know? She also follows me around. And I saw her surgically dissecting one of the few remaining Carbie dolls. Just little things like that.”

“Gee, that sounds creepy,” I replied flatly. “Can’t imagine what being on the receiving end of that would be like.”

“Couldn’t agree more. It’s amazing how socially unaware some people can be. The point,” Croc continued, somehow missing both my sarcasm and point entirely, “is that I’d love to get out and stretch my legs a bit. Just, you know, get some distance and create some healthy boundaries. We’ve got all these new powers to try out, you need to go to a Progenitor Monolith, plus our Artifact and Relic supply could use a few upgrades before we have our grand opening. I in no way mean this as a criticism, but things are a little… underwhelming in that department.”

I grunted and drummed my fingers on the edge of the cheap table.

Croc wasn’t wrong.

I’d cleaned out the glass security cases behind the front register and replaced the high-end booze, tobacco products, and lotto scratch-offs for the handful of Relics and Artifacts I was willing to part with. Seeing it all laid out showcased exactly how thin our supplies really were at the moment. After crafting the two Golems, all we had left was one Gremlin Jockstrap, two Basic Camo Spells, and nine of the Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail Relics.

The Molotov Cocktails would probably fetch a decent price, but everything else was basically one step above garbage. I could change that, though, assuming we could get our hands on more Relics. Since I could analyze the synergistic effects of Relics using the Researcher’s Codex, I could take trash-tier loot and forge them into Uncommon or even Rare Relics that people would kill to get their hands on. And anything else I could either trade away for better equipment or Sacrifice to level up my own abilities.

I’d put out a couple of the PowerPro Muscle Might Extreme Pump Preworkout Elixirs and the handful of Artifacts I’d looted from the Roid Gremlins and the Mall Rats.

But the handful of Artifacts I had on hand was as disappointing as my Relic selection. There was the enchanted barbell bow staff, the jump rope flail, the Jinxed Fortune bracelet, and a few other miscellaneous items that had no overt power, but empty Effect Slots: a pair of crocheted mittens, a plastic ring with a giant fake flower, a left flip-flop, and a chipped coffee mug with a picture of a kitten hanging from a power line that read, “Just hang in there.”

I’d swapped the classy booze for Lesser Healing, Mana, and Stamina Elixirs, which helped round out the display and was the biggest draw by far.

Still, all things considered, it was rather… lacking was a better word than pathetic, though pathetic was probably more accurate.

Unlike Croc, though, I wasn’t worried.

“You’re right that we need to expand our inventory,” I said, “but you’re thinking about how we’ll do it all wrong. We aren’t the party of D&D adventurers, and our job isn’t to go out and raid dungeons. We’re the distributor, Croc. Our real job is to advertise, and if we do that well, then other Delvers will bring us everything we need and then some, and we won’t have to lift a finger.”

Croc stared at me, rubbery mouth hanging agape. “Once again, I stand in awe of your wisdom, Dan. Truly, you are the defining intellect of a generation.”

I looked for a barb in the words, but as always, it seemed the mimic’s compliment was genuine.

“Just out of curiosity, though,” the dog continued, “how exactly are we going to do that? The advertising and whatnot, I mean.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” I reached a hand through the Void and pulled out a can of spray paint. I’d been pleasantly surprised to find there were cans of spray paint in the Hardware section, which meant I wouldn’t need to raid any more art supply shops in the immediate future. Then I drew out a second item—the red Twinning yarn I’d purchased from the Loot Arcade. That wasn’t endless, but I had more than enough to last me for a good long while.

“Come on,” I said, jamming the spray paint and yarn into the exterior pockets of my tool belt.

Croc and I left the breakroom behind and beelined toward the front of the store.

I gave a sharp whistle as we walked and called out for the two Cannon Fodder golems to meet me by the front. Princess Ponypuff was already loitering behind the counter, while Baby Hands lumbered in from aisle two, his heavy footfalls reverberating off the ceiling tiles overhead.

“Alright, team meeting,” I said. “Croc and I are going out to plant doorway anchors, acquire some new territory, and canvass the area with a viral guerilla marketing campaign—”

“You didn’t mention there would be gorillas involved, Dan,” Croc blurted out.

“Guerrilla not gorilla,” I corrected. Then to really drive the point home, “Just to be perfectly clear, if there are gorillas involved at any point in the process, things have gone wildly off the rails. Now, please stop derailing me.”

“Oh, I see what you did there,” Croc chortled. “Off the rails and derailing me. Very clever, Dan. Very clever.”

“Dammit, Croc, please shut it,” I growled, then made a zipping motion, running my fingers across my lips. “Croc and I will be out for a while, but if things go as planned, we should start to have a trickle of customers before too long. Baby Hands, you’re dumber than a sack of bricks—”

“Baby Hands is hard worker,” the golem agreed, nodding its body.

“Yep, which is why you’re the muscle. If anyone tries looting or stealing anything, you stop ’em and throw their asses out with a polite but firm warning. I’ve already programmed a few basic rules into the Ban Hammer protocol, so if they deal more than ten percent damage to you, the store will auto-eject them, and they won’t be able to regain entry. There’s also a door fee for all Delvers who are over level one. If they want to come in, even to browse, it’ll cost ’em one Copper Loot Token, doesn’t matter the flavor. You got all that, Baby Hands?”

“Baby Hands is Baby Hands,” the golem grumbled. I assumed that was idiot for, “Yep, I got all that, boss.”

“Ponypuff”—I turned my gaze on the demonic MegaZord of toys and evil—“you’re in charge of the shop while we’re out. Your main job is to interact with the customers and man the cash register. Any level zero customer who wanders in automatically gets one of the basic Delver Kits we put together free of charge, plus one complimentary night of sleep.”

“Quick question, Dan, but how are we going to earn Relics if we give stuff away?” Croc asked, sounding befuddled but interested in learning.

“I asked you not to derail me, but that is a fair question,” I replied. “It’s called a loss leader. If a Delver is level zero, it means they’re brand new. Fresh meat, essentially. That also means they probably don’t have anything worth trading. But if we give away one of those survival kits, it’ll earn customer loyalty and it’ll help them survive long enough to get better stuff, which they will then sell back to us.

“There’s even a coupon in each of the kits for ten percent off their first order,” I added, “which should help create repeat business. As for the customers who aren’t level zero, they’ve gotta pay. The items on the shelves are all labeled already, so you’ll just have to ring them out once they’re done shopping. The prices for the few Relics and Artifacts we have are also posted”—I waved at the wall of items, each with a paper sticker attached to the front—“and those prices are non-negotiable.”

The pricing scheme was fair, though certainly in my favor.

We were charging fifteen copper tokens or fifteen Common Shards for a Common Relic or Artifact, or I’d take a two-for-one trade-in on Relics of the same rarity level. The Uncommon Relics and Artifacts were obviously more expensive and ran three silver tokens, one gold token, or fifteen Uncommon Shards apiece. I was also willing to take a two-for-one swap on those, or they could buy an Uncommon for five Common Relics of any type.

As for the Health, Mana, and Stamina Regen potions, those all ran either four coppers of any variety or eight Shards each—which was significantly below the going value at the Loot Arcade. Because the price was so damned good, I’d decided to cap those at three elixirs per customer. They would serve as another loss leader to get people through the door, and even though I was undercutting the Arcade, I’d still be making a healthy profit, since the store would naturally regenerate those over time anyway.

“Let anyone that comes in know that we’re also actively looking to buy any Relics or Artifacts they’re willing to part with.” I reached back into the void and pulled out a sack filled with Copper Delver Loot Tokens. There were thirty-five in there, leaving just five left in my personal inventory. “We’re paying out seven coppers for Common Relics, one silver for Uncommons.” I retrieved a second, much smaller bag, and added it to the first. It contained three silvers, which felt physically painful to part with—the two Silver Delver Tokens I’d earned from clearing the store and one Silver Weaponmaster Token.

Ponypuff accepted the two bags without comment and slipped them into the cash register drawer.

“Any questions?” I asked, eyeing the two golems and wondering if I was making a terrible mistake.

When neither asked, I grimaced and nodded. Probably a terrible mistake.

“Is it time to go summon the gorillas?” Croc asked, sounding hopeful, tail waggling so hard the dog’s rump was damn near vibrating.

“Again—and I cannot emphasize this strongly enough—there will absolutely be no gorillas involved, Croc. And to answer your actual question, almost. There’s just one more little thing we need to do before we can really get this show on the road.” I turned and eyed a spot right next to the front counter. A space that looked like it was custom-built to hold an ATM, or maybe something ATM shaped.

Like a Progenitor Monolith.

CHAPTER 29

NEW ADDITION

As Croc and I exited the shop, I glanced back over one shoulder to find the familiar glass sliding door vanish in the span of three steps. One minute it was there, and the next it was like the entire store had been surgically cut out of existence—neatly removed like a cancerous tumor—leaving only a smooth expanse of tiled wall where the shop had been before.

“Well there’s something you don’t see every day,” I muttered while examining the empty stretch of wall.

Then I realized the same could be said for literally every single thing inside the Backrooms. Giant mall rats the size of Rottweilers. Skinless demons. Firebomb-hurling crows. A dog with googly eyes made entirely out of Croc material. I shook my head, dismissing the thought, and activated Unerring Arrow, fixing the nearest Monolith in mind.

My plan was to head up to the Lobby and start my guerilla marketing campaign there, grinding out some easy experience against the Lobby Greeters, then progressively work my way down. But first I needed to divvy out my fifteen available Personal Enhancement Points. No reason to sit on ’em.

Plus, there was something I wanted to try.

The arrow ushered us back the way we’d come, down a few wide hallways, then through a service corridor that had a handful of easily avoidable low-level traps and a single level 2 Monomorphic Flytrap Mimic, in the form of a metal folding chair. I scorched the Dweller with a quick one-two punch of Bleach Blazes, then looted its smoldering corpse, earning another Basic Camouflage Relic in the process.

Like all the others I’d visited so far, the Monolith was outside of a small bank, this one called Sunset Savings & Loan. I glanced through the frosted white window trying to get a better idea of what exactly was inside the bank and what connection they had to the Progenitor Monoliths. Were all the Monoliths—even those located on other floors—also outside of community banks? I didn’t have an answer, but at this point, I was certain it was more than just a coincidence.

I asked Croc while still peering through the window, though I couldn’t see jack shit inside. The glass was so opaque that I’d need to venture inside if I wanted any sort of answer, and I wasn’t that curious. Not yet, anyway.

“It’s not always a bank,” Croc replied absently. “It’s only a bank here on the third floor. I’ve never been lower than floor eleven, myself, but on floor one you can find them outside of these parking attendant shacks. On floor two, they’re all located by the Plumbers and Steamfitters Union shops. I’ve spent a fair bit of time down on floor seven, as well, since that’s where Howlers Hold is. The Monoliths on seven are always near a principal’s office.”

“Does that mean level seven is a school?” I asked, wanting to know more about the level with the Safe Harbor.

Croc frowned. “More or less. Most of it is school-themed, but there are some school-adjacent areas, too. Outdoor playgrounds. Cafeterias. Nurse stations. Nurseries. Those weird birthday party places that cater exclusively to children between the ages of seven and eleven. Those are usually the Loot Arcades, though.”

“Any idea what’s inside here?” I asked, stepping away from the community bank then hooking a thumb toward the frosted glass.

“Bad stuff is what,” Croc said darkly. “Delvers that go into the banks don’t come back out. Ever. Against my better judgment, I went into one with a Delver from Brazil named Juana. It looked like what you would expect from a small bank. Bland carpet, comfortable chairs, racks of literature about different types of savings accounts and credit cards. But there was a guardian inside. He was called a Vault Teller. He was very tall, the Vault Teller. Maybe eight or nine feet, I reckon, and he wore a nice suit.

“Instead of a face, he had on this ivory-white porcelain mask with a big smile. It seemed”—Croc hesitated for a second, as though considering its words carefully—“not as overtly hostile as most of the store managers,” the dog finished. “But when Juana got too close, he pulled that mask off. He didn’t have a face, Dan. Where it should’ve been was just this empty black hole. That hole sucked Juana right in like a vacuum cleaner. Compressed her into a pulverized ball of meat and bone the size of my fist, then just swallowed her.”

That didn’t sound especially hopeful.

“Any idea what level the Vault Teller was?” I asked, my curiosity growing even stronger.

“Level forty, Dan. For reference, that’s a full thirteen levels higher than the Murder Muncher from the Arcade. The thing that was so strong you couldn’t even have scratched it on your best day—even with that fancy stolen Emblem of yours. I say all that, just in case you were thinking of doing something rash.”

I sighed and moved away from the bank.

“Nope,” I replied, shaking my head. “It just strikes me as odd is all. This place”—I waved a hand around—“it feels wild and chaotic and random, but it’s not. Not always. You said there are Loot Arcades and Progenitor Monoliths in every quadrant. That’s a pattern. But that also means there’s one of these banks, or something like it, in every quadrant, too. And assuming they all have these powerful guardians, the question becomes, just what in the hell are they guarding?”

I let the question hang, unanswered, in the air as I headed over to the Monolith and quickly toggled through the options menu, pulling up my Specimen Bio-Report. I scanned through the details but didn’t linger long on anything in particular. I had fifteen Enhancement Points to burn, and I had a good idea of what to do with them. Although I still badly wanted to enhance my Athleticism and Toughness so that I could take a hit and pummel things to death with my hammer, my magic was just a more effective tool.

It did more damage and was far more versatile than any of my purely physical skills, plus the Mana Capacitor gave me percentage-based boosts, so the higher the base stat the greater the overall benefit.

With that in mind, I dropped two points into Perception and eight points into Resonance, both of which influenced my overall Mana Pool and regeneration rate. I added a single point to Toughness. Thanks to my shitty Health Pool, I’d already knocked at Death’s door one too many times for my liking, and intended to change that, even if it took a little longer than I wanted. I begrudgingly dropped the last four Enhancement Points into Grit, because I was also getting real tired of things screwing around inside my head.

First those shitheels in the Blacklight Emporium, then the hypnotic chomping of the Murder Muncher in the Arcade, and finally the Photophage. My low Grit score had nearly killed me several times over, and I needed to rectify that before it ended up burying me for good.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 12

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 10,990

Next Level: 12,250

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 43

Health-Regen/Hour: 2

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 25

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 1.95

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 77

Mana-Regen/Minute: 6

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 10 (9 + 1 Enhanced)

Athleticism: 8

Toughness: 9

Perception: 15

Resonance: 30

Preservation: 5

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding – Level 1

(C) The Gremlin’s Groin Guardian – Level 1

(C) Force Multiplier – Level 1

(C) Slippery When Wet – Level 1

(U) Mall Ninja’s Strike – Level 1

(U) Bad Trip – Level 1

(R) Sterilization Field – Level 1

(R) Bleach Blaze: The Unidentified Stain Eradicator – Level 2

(ME) Compass of the Catacomber (Fully Tempered)

Current Titles – Passive

Out of Your League, Deathwish, Marked for Death, Weapon of Opportunity, Legend in the Making, Overkill Overlord

Happy with my handiwork, I closed out of the SBR then took a step away from the Monolith as I brought up and expanded my mini-map until it took up the majority of my vision. I wanted to try something, though I wasn’t sure it would work, since I had a sneaking suspicion that the Monolith was in some way tethered to the nearby bank. But when I scrutinized the map, the Monolith itself wasn’t marked in red.

With a thought and a whisper of will, I activated Blanket Fort for the second time, this time tracing an ethereal line in a tight square, which only encompassed the Monolith itself. As the ends of the blue Mana trail connected, the world seemed to groan around me and shift almost imperceptibly beneath my feet. There was a resistance that hadn’t been present when liberating the MediocreMart—almost as if I were prying out a stubborn tooth.

For a long beat, I thought the ability would fail me, but then the familiar prompt appeared again, traced into the air in eight-bit glory.

Corvo’s Blanket Fort

You’ve selected 3 square feet of eligible Progenerated Material Resource Space. Would you like to use Corvo’s Blanket Fort to graft the selected material onto a Personal Superspace Dwelling? Proceed Yes/No?

I stared at the prompt in slack-jawed amazement.

Well how about that?

I was stone certain this wouldn’t work, but if I could actually add a Monolith to the store, it would be a game changer—especially for the fresh meat trickling in from the Lobby. Instead of having to hunt around for a Monolith, they’d be able to stop in, integrate with the VIRUS, then head right back out into the fray, fully equipped with stats, survival gear, and even Relics.

Assuming they could pay my prices, of course.

I was happy to offer them basic survival kits, free of charge, but Relics were too rare and valuable to give away as handouts.

As I selected Yes, the world groaned again and the ground rumbled. A moment later there was an intense flash of light and a thunderous snap that sounded like breaking glass and grinding stone. I stumbled back and blinked several times to clear my vision. When I could see again, the Monolith was, indeed, gone, and where it had been standing was a blank, smooth patch of tile.

Something else had changed as well, however.

A huge crack had appeared across the frosted white window of the Sunset Savings & Loan, then continued down, morphing into a deep fissure that carved its way across the stone façade of the bank. The jagged crack, large enough to stick my entire hand into, terminated at the floor. I dropped into a crouch and ran my fingers along the edges of the fracture. The stone felt slick and also strangely warm, though not hot. I pulled my fingers away and found them coated in a thick, mucus-like goo.

The fuck is going on here?

Although sequestering the MediocreMart had caused some minor tremors, I got the sense that I’d just damaged the Backrooms in a rather significant way. I vividly recalled how much force it had taken to put a tiny hairline crack in the Arcade window. I was sure the Backrooms would heal the damage over time, but I couldn’t even imagine the amount of metaphysical power it would take to inflict this kind of wound in the first place.

I stood and shook the slime free from my fingers, then wiped my palm against the outer edge of the Versace bathrobe for good measure.

“Dan, what in the world did you just do?” Croc asked, sounding equally impressed and scandalized.

“I think I just got us our own personal Progenitor Monolith?”

“But that’s…” Croc started to say. “But that’s not possible. The Monoliths are an integral part of each quadrant, just like the Arcades. You can’t just take one,” the dog finished. Then, “Can you? I mean… Will it even work if it’s disconnected from the rest of the Backrooms?”

“Only one way to find out,” I replied with a shrug.

I reached through the Void and pulled out one of the six Doorway Anchors I’d received after establishing my Blanket Fort for the first time. I half expected it to look like an arcane sigil or maybe a golden skeleton key engraved with runes of tremendous power.

It was neither of those things.

It looked like a black plastic doorplate with a simple white rectangular border. Written on the front of the placard were the words Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains. There was an option to edit the text, but I left it as it was—I was trying to advertise, after all. Intuitively, I fed a trickle of Mana into the item then moved over to the bank in four long strides and slapped it against the glass door. It hit with a sharp thwack and a new prompt appeared.

You’ve attached a Standard Doorway Anchor to a compatible door at the Current Relative Position: 3.28.16.52-67. Completing this action will convert the existing doorway into an entrance to Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains. Warning, unlike VIP Doorway Anchors—which can be reclaimed at any time—once a Standard Doorway Anchor is placed, it cannot be reclaimed for twenty-four hours. Proceed? Yes/No?

I faltered when I got to the part that spelled out the difference between the VIP and the Standard Doorway Anchors. I’d been wondering about that since the items had magically appeared in my inventory, but I hadn’t been able to find anything about them in the operations manual. Now, I knew. The fact that I could only reclaim the standard anchors once a day limited some of the various ways that I could use them, but the VIP anchor mostly made up for any other shortcomings.

With the VIP anchor, I’d be able to pop in and out of my personal Superspace without ever having to worry about backtracking to find a doorway.

I accepted the prompt and a flare of metaphysical weight briefly pressed against my newly enhanced perception. It almost reminded me of the spiritual pressure I’d felt while under the cold gaze of the Flayed Monarch. The skinless ruler had forced me to the ground and ruptured several of my organs just through the sheer power of its presence. That was Mana control, I was beginning to realize. Mana itself had a certain weight to it and the more a person had—or the more a spell consumed—the heavier that weight became.

Based on the pressure building in the air around me, whatever I’d just done was very heavy, spiritually speaking.

Another prompt appeared as the weight lifted then faded entirely.

You’ve created a Prime Doorway Anchor Point, securely tethering your Personal Superspace Dwelling to the VESS (Variant Exploration Surveyor Ship) Superstructure. If you remove this Prime Anchor Point without first attaching a secondary anchor point, it is statistically probable that your Superspace Dwelling will become unmoored from reality and drift into the Oblivion Field within one standard year, where it will suffer utter, unfathomable annihilation.

Due to the nature of your Personal Superspace Dwelling, all Doorway Anchors act as a temporal restriction field, which allows you, the owner, to set up an Admittance Credentialing System to limit access based on criteria of your choosing. Would you like to set up an Admittance Credentialing System at this time? Failure to do so will allow any Delver or Dweller to enter your PSD through all active Doorway Anchor Points. Yes/No?

The operations manual hadn’t mentioned the difference between the VIP and standard anchors, but it had briefly covered the credentialing system—though it had been rather light on the details. Probably because the Doorway Anchors themselves had their own custom interface, just the same way as the store did.

Although I was jonesing to spread the word about Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains, I couldn’t just let any random schlub waltz into my store. I had a skinless murder god hunting me, after all, not to mention all of his cultist shithead pals.

I hit Yes and a new interface appeared, this one just as complicated as my personal SBR Portal and my Blanket Fort Interface.

But it was also intuitive and surprisingly easy to use.

There were several demographic tabs that allowed me to discriminate against damn near anyone for damn near any reason. I could deny access based on gender, age, Variant Assimilation Level, faction affiliation, and about a hundred other things, including a Delver’s former occupation or medical conditions, ranging from the flu to gonorrhea. Obviously, I wasn’t going to keep someone out because of a case of the sniffles—I had enough cough syrup to drown an ox—but that also meant I could prevent anyone with early-onset Blight from getting inside and contaminating my property.

I quickly toggled through the options and kept it general to start, excluding anyone with the Blight or any affiliation with the Skinless Court. I also set the Variant Assimilation Level Cap at thirty for the time being. I could always adjust that as I got stronger, but for now, I wanted to play it safe. Although the store had a metric assload of formidable defensive capabilities, I had no idea how powerful someone above level thirty really was or what kind of Artifacts and Relics they might have at their disposal.

While camouflaged, mimics could render themselves invisible even to my Mapmaker’s Eye, which was a fully tempered, Fabled-grade Relic that also happened to be part of a Mythic-grade Emblem. If a low-level Camo spell could do all that, then maybe there were more powerful Relics that would actively suppress the store’s Stasis Halo or Ban Hammer Bindings, preventing them from engaging. Was I being paranoid? Probably.

But just because I was paranoid didn’t mean I was wrong.

Once all the demographic restrictions were in place, the system prompted me to create an intro message and a set of group rules, which would be shown to every single person—human or otherwise—the moment they attempted to enter through any doorway anchor for the first time.

I only mulled it over for a short moment, before crafting my magnificent masterpiece.

Welcome to Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains. Need supplies, food, Artifacts, Relics, or just a safe place to lay your head for a few hours? You’ve come to the right place. We’ve got a little bit of everything and offer all of it for a fair price.

But—and read this part carefully—if you Fuck Around with me, my employees, or my store I guarantee you will Find Out. Or as my grandad would say, “sow the wind, reap the whirlwind.” This is a neutral space, so whatever problems you have with other Delvers or Dwellers, that shit stays outside my store. Follow the rules and you’ll be fine. Don’t and you’re gonna regret it.

1. Don’t STEAL, or I’ll dropkick your ass into the sun.

2. Don’t harass store Employees. Seriously. They will END you.

3. Don’t damage store property or I will personally feed you to the Mobile Murder Muncher in the Loot Arcade.

4. DON’T BE A DICK. You might be surprised how far not being a dick will take you in life.

5. Discount Dan’s is Neutral Territory. All are welcome here, EXCEPT for the Aspirants of the Skinless Court.

6. All Aspirants of the Skinless Court can go suck an entire bag of dicks.

—Discount Dan

I read then reread my message, double-checking that I hadn’t missed anything important.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the most professional welcome message, but it got the point across and covered all the major bases. Plus, if I thought of anything else, I could always add it in later. Satisfied, I approved the rules then tugged the door open without ceremony and stepped not into what should’ve been the inside of Sunset Savings & Loan but into my own little slice of paradise.

Princess Ponypuff was manning the front desk, looking rather bored, and though there was no sign of Baby Hands, I could hear shuffling footsteps off in the distance accompanied by the squelching sound of a mop.

That guy really did have one helluva work ethic.

Sitting nearby, jutting off from the wall in its own little alcove, was the Progenitor Monolith I’d just added. I hurriedly flipped open my operations manual, accessed the Blanket Fort Interface, and selected the new addition. A ghostly 3D version of the store blazed to life in the air, and I rotated the layout with a quick twist of my fingers so I had a perfect top-down view of the entire store—including the poorly tacked-on new addition. I selected the Monolith with a poke of my finger and the item lit up white on the holographic overlay.

Using the map, I dragged the machine away from its secluded nook and repositioned it near the front desk—right where an ATM should’ve sat, but didn’t. There was a low groan and a subsequent tremor shivered through the floor, but by the time I closed the three-ring binder, the new alcove was gone, and the Monolith had already been relocated to its new position beside checkout.

The real question now, though, was would the Monolith actually work?

Holding my breath in anticipation, I slapped my palm against the reader. The options menu appeared, and a grin spread across my face. I selected my SBR tab, just to be sure, but everything appeared to be working without a hitch.

That left a new question spinning through my head.

If I could steal a Monolith, what about a Loot Arcade? If I could tack one of those sons a bitches onto the store, it could prove mighty useful. Then I faltered. Sure, it would be personally convenient to have access to a private Loot Arcade, but would I be hurting my overall bottom line in the process? The thing was, there was no way for me to take a cut on any of the items within the Loot Arcade—the Backrooms absorbed all Loot Tokens spent—which meant Delvers would come in and spend money on stuff that didn’t belong to me.

Hmm, I’d have to noodle on that one a little and figure out what the best course of action was. But first things first, I needed to start getting the word out.

“Well?” Croc asked, shaking me from my thoughts. “Does it still work?”

My grin widened into a beaming smile and I nodded. “We’re in business, my friend. And now it’s time to go let everyone know…”

CHAPTER 30

GUERILLA MARKETING

With the first Doorway Anchor planted, Croc and I headed back up to the Lobby to start our viral marketing campaign.

Locating a stairwell took less than half an hour thanks to Unerring Arrow, and in short order we found ourselves wandering through endlessly confusing corridors filled with gray carpet, white columns, buzzing lights, and moldy yellow wallpaper. We emerged in a quadrant that was a hundred miles or more away from where I’d first entered the Backrooms, which gave me some sense of exactly how big this place really was.

Each level was easily the size of a sprawling city—according to Croc, some were even the size of small countries—and I couldn’t afford to post more than one Doorway per level. Hell, even if I only planted one on every other level, I’d still need to hit level 500 before I could cover just half of the known levels in this twisted hellhole.

I would be able to move the doors, though, which would likely help in the long run. In the short term, it created a significant logistical problem.

Although I could mark up the walls with spray paint—leaving clues, hints, and even rudimentary directions—the sheer scope of the Lobby was just too massive for that to be an effective long-term strategy. Especially since the floors were liable to shift at sporadic intervals. A phenomenon I personally experienced for the first time after about two hours in the Lobby.

Croc and I were making our way down an unremarkable hallway—identical to a thousand others just like it—when suddenly the whole world rumbled as a massive earthquake knocked me on my ass. Motes of dust rained down from the ceiling, hanging thick in the air, and the lights flickered madly, casting the hallway into darkness for a few long, tense seconds before finally stabilizing. Several long cracks had appeared in the walls, though it would only be a matter of time before the wounds healed themselves.

Once the dust settled, it was damn near impossible to tell that anything had even happened. If it weren’t for my handy dandy mini-map I would’ve written it off as an errant tremor.

Just another weird thing in a very weird place.

My map lent me some much-needed perspective, however. Although the individual sector I was in hadn’t changed at all, that sector itself had moved its relative location within its quadrant, and the quadrant, in turn, had radically shifted its position within the floor.

The mini-map had a useful feature, which allowed me to get an accurate Current Relative Position coordinate at any given moment. Just minutes before the shift, my CRP had been 0.15.23.19-78, which corresponded to Floor 0, Quadrant 15, Sector 23. After the Floor Shift, my CRP had changed drastically to 0.31.12.19-78. Floor 0, Quadrant 31, Sector 12.

The sudden change reinforced my logistical challenge.

Given everything working against me, just how in the hell was I supposed to guide a brand-new Delver—who didn’t know their ass from their elbow—to a singular doorway in a sprawling labyrinth that was as big as the city of LA? Only a thousand times more confusing. With monsters. And no food or water. Plus, the floors shifted, completely rearranging their entire spatial layout at seemingly random intervals.

The answer turned out to be simple and surprisingly elegant:

The red yarn I’d received from the Loot Arcade. The Twinning String.

The string wasn’t nearly as good as Unerring Arrow, but it served a similar function. Although the two small sections of string weren’t physically connected, they were metaphysically connected through a spectral tether of power. With a simple effort of intention, an intrepid Delver could easily use one piece of string to find its twin, no matter how far apart it might be. Even better, because the yarn was an Artifact, it didn’t require Mana to use, which meant even newbs without a Relic could harness its magic.

It was the perfect solution.

I stashed hundreds of little slivers of yarn inside the cash register drawer back in the store. Then I took the twinned pieces, tied each of them into small red rings that could be worn around a finger, and spent the better part of three days systematically distributing them throughout the Lobby.

Well, a relatively small section of it, anyway.

Every time there was a trap or an environmental danger, I’d take a few minutes to spray paint a warning in bright red letters.

Rule #1 - Beware the Bathrooms, the toilets WILL eat you.

—This Survival Tip brought to you by Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains.

Once that was done, I’d pound a nail into the wall with practiced ease, imbue it with a sliver of Mana using the Surveyor’s Mark ability, then loop several of the yarn rings around the nailhead. That done, I’d mark the location on my mini-map, then beneath each nail, I’d write a much smaller note using my Sharpie.

Bad news, you’re in the Backrooms. Worse news, everything is trying to kill you. Better news, I’m not trying to kill you. Take one of the yarn rings, put it on your finger, and follow where it takes you. Or don’t and die—the choice is yours. I’ve got supplies, intel, and a Progenitor Monolith waiting.

—Discount Dan

It was a truly tedious process and because the Lobby was so enormous, Croc and I were only able to loosely canvass two of the thirty-six quadrants. And that was with three days of constant grinding, trekking for fifteen hours or more a day, and only taking short breaks to eat or catch a few minutes of shut-eye.

By the end of the third day, I was starting to get a little discouraged.

This place was just so impossibly vast that our meager efforts felt like a waste of time. It was like trying to empty the ocean with a coffee mug. But if we managed to save one life, it would be worth it. At least, that’s what Croc told me over and over and over again anytime it seemed like I was getting depressed.

There weren’t nearly as many traps in the Lobby as there were on the third floor. The greatest danger was desolate emptiness and the staggering lack of resources. Most of the unfortunate souls who ended up here would probably die from some combination of dehydration or starvation long before they stepped on a runic pressure plate or accidentally sat down on an aggressive flytrap mimic masquerading as a bench.

That didn’t mean there weren’t any traps or threats, however.

The walls themselves were slightly acidic, and there were rooms where the incessant buzzing of the fluorescent lights was so loud and disorienting it could make your ears literally bleed. Stay in there too long, Croc warned, and your organs would spontaneously liquefy, which was an absolutely horrifying notion.

Needless to say, we marked the rooms quickly and didn’t linger.

I also found one isolated room that wasn’t empty like all the others.

It resembled a nondescript lobby—the kind of place that was common at cheap business hotels. There was nothing particularly impressive about it, but after wandering through a desert of carpet, it felt like stumbling into a lush oasis. There were padded armchairs, coffee tables, an empty reception desk, and even a working drinking fountain. The desk had phones that played banal Please Hold music on an endless loop and an ancient desktop computer that had been cutting edge back in 1993.

Beside the desk was a wire rack filled with travel brochures.

Like the Lobby corridors, each and every brochure was identical.

They all had Welcome to the Backrooms! scrawled across the front, but the interior was filled with monotonous pictures of carpet, columns, and, of course, yellow wallpaper. There was ad copy and customer reviews splashed across each page of the trifold pamphlet, extolling the virtues of the Backrooms as though it were a tourist destination filled with wonderous attractions and not a stinking death hole boiling over with murder monsters.

“Get lost in the ambiance – And just about everything else!” one headline read.

“It’s so awesome here, you’ll never want to leave. Which is good, because you can’t! HAHAHAHA – My eyes are bleeding…” another said.

A customer review at the bottom of one page was especially poignant. “Did I want to come here? No. Would I wish this on my worst enemy? Also no. This place is an infinite loop of existential dread. I want to die.” —Matt Smith, Former Guest of the Backrooms

Still, all of that aside, the room was far more inviting than any other space in the Lobby, which obviously meant it was not to be trusted.

In general, the Lobby was sweltering, but the lounge hummed with AC.

Delicious, cool, inviting, refreshing AC, which was perhaps the single greatest technological innovation of modern man.

Unfortunately, the cool air also carried a faint chemical whiff, which was noticeable at first but faded quickly. That chemical smell was a slow-acting anesthetic gas that would knock out anyone who loitered in the cushy lounge for too long. I started to feel a little woozy after ten minutes or so. For those with lower Athleticism and Toughness stats, it probably would’ve been much quicker. The fact that this place would taint something as pure and amazing as AC was a genuine travesty and one of the deepest betrayals yet.

When the gas eventually kicked in, there was something nasty waiting beneath the reception desk.

Well, maybe not waiting beneath the reception desk, so much as it was part of the reception desk. My Spelunker’s Sixth Sense tipped me off right away, and I splattered the creature with a Bleach Blaze that ate through ninety percent of its HP on impact.

Dweller 0.014A – Lobby Receptionist [Level 4]

The Receptionist unfolded its body with a furious shriek as my attack landed.

A tight black suit clung to limbs that were thin and frail-looking, and its head turned out to be the ancient computer from the desk.

No surprise there.

In many ways, it reminded me of the Bathroom Janitor who’d guarded the stairwell down to level three. The creature hurdled over what remained of the desk in a mad rush to murder me even as ghostly blue flames ate through its suit and the pale skin beneath. I could’ve ended the monster with a second Bleach Blaze, but instead, I drove my enchanted hammer into the side of its computer skull, activating the Gavel of Get Fucked as the blow landed.

Since the Receptionist was well below ten percent total Health, the strike triggered the Killing Blow effect—slaying the target on contact. My hammer hit like a bomb blast and the ancient computer that served as the Receptionist’s head exploded, bits of bone, blood, plastic, and screen flying everywhere before the creature’s knees gave out and it collapsed to the ground in a heap.

There was a small bronze key on its corpse, which opened a secret panel in the wall behind the Receptionist’s desk. The door let out into a narrow stairwell that connected to level one.

The creature granted me 150 experience points and had a Common Relic, called Complimentary Upgrade, along with two Common Shards tucked away inside its Spatial Core. Complimentary Upgrade was a decent support spell that could be cast on a single target, increasing all damage that target dealt by five percent for thirty seconds. Unfortunately, the spell had a relatively high Mana cost and couldn’t be cast on self, which limited its usefulness. Especially since it was just me and Croc at this point.

Still, something like that would sell well, so I added it to my inventory along with the tiny bronze key. Then I made sure to spray-paint the room with so much red that it looked like a murder scene.

Although the current Delver Guardian was dead, another would take its place sooner or later.

On top of dehydration and starvation, exhaustion was also a significant problem, since resting for too long invariably summoned the Lobby Greeters. There was no exact science to how long was too long, however. It all seemed to boil down to one thing: how much time you’d spent in the Lobby. Although there were a lot of Greeters, they weren’t everywhere, all the time, as I’d first assumed. The gangly nightmares traveled in packs, which typically ranged in size between five and thirteen Greeters.

Once a pack found you, they started hunting in earnest, and once they got a whiff, they didn’t relent until you were dead or had somehow managed to escape to a lower level. The Greeters were rather timid, though. Opportunists and scavengers. Each one had a comically small Health Pool, and they only dealt a tiny amount of overall physical damage. They made up for their myriad of shortcomings with volume and patience.

Once a target was weak, they would swarm en masse like a school of hungry piranha.

And although they were weak and squishy, they were persistent little butt-munchers who just wouldn’t give up. They could wait for hours or days, biding their time until their chosen prey became so tired and dehydrated that they couldn’t offer any meaningful resistance.

Now that I’d hit level 12, the ghoulish Greeters—with their inky skin, bulbous eyes, and too-wide smiles—were far creepier than they were dangerous. Croc and I purposely took long rests, luring the creatures into range, then slaughtered them by the dozen before moving on. They offered only a paltry twenty-five Experience Points apiece, and despite being level 2, none of them carried Relics, just Common Shards.

But, again, volume.

There were a shit-ton of ’em and they didn’t seem especially bright because more and more kept coming at me, even though I was leaving actual piles of corpses in my wake. Enough corpses that even Croc got full. I massacred so many of the gangly, potbellied bastards that I leapt right past level 13 and hit level 14 by the third day of grinding. I’d earned 2,575 Experience, in total, plus one hundred and eleven Common Relic Shards.

I’d also unlocked a new achievement, which I had mixed feelings about.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Fish in a Barrel

You’re one sick fuck, you know that? I mean, 103 Lobby Greeters? Triple digits. Do you feel good about yourself? These things are about as dangerous as a ninety-two-year-old pensioner picking up a few extra shifts at Walmart because they can’t afford their nursing home care. Sure, they pose a threat to new Delvers, but to someone like you? Slaughtering Lobby Greeters is like shooting fish in a barrel. Using a .50 caliber machine gun. You monster.

Reward: 5 x Copper Delver Loot Token, 1 x Silver Slayer Token

Title: Fish in a Barrel (E) – You exude an aura of pure carnage. Dwellers more than ten levels below you will actively avoid you, and slaying any Dweller below level 5 grants no Experience.

This is an (E)volving title. This title cannot be unequipped. Sucks to be you. Honestly, this is what you get for being a dick and upsetting the delicate ecosystem of the Lobby.

The title seemed to do its job because, after that, the Greeters disappeared like fog burning away with the noontime sun. That made the job easier in some ways, but also much less lucrative. And about a thousand times more monotonous.

In the end, though, that was fine, because it was high time I moved on to some of the other floors. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to do my part to help out all the poor suckers stuck in the Lobby, but I also wanted to pick up Relics, and brand-new Delvers weren’t going to have many of those—if any. I needed to find some more seasoned Backrooms veterans, and the only way to do that was to go deeper.

With Unerring Arrow to guide us, Croc and I headed for the first floor.

CHAPTER 31

THE DAILY GRIND

The next two weeks passed much the same as those first three days in the Lobby had.

Croc and I spent every waking moment grinding through new quadrants and killing anything unlucky enough to get in our way.

That, or hauling ass away from anything that was too powerful to tangle with head-on.

I spent a lot more time running than I’d like to admit.

The whole while, I mapped out different sectors, spray-painted warnings and survival tips, and distributed red Twinning Rings like Johnny fucking Appleseed sowing seeds through the rolling hills of Kentuckiana. We still spent a handful of hours every day up in the Lobby—I’d begun to think of that as charity work—but the majority of our time was spent canvassing the first, second, and third floors.

Of the three proper floors, the first was the least awful.

I mean, it was still a miserable, existential nightmare of unending horror, filled with monstrous Dwellers who would kill you as soon as look at you, but at least there were also resources and a few redeeming qualities.

The first floor took the form of an enormous dystopian parking garage from hell: the kind of thing you might expect to find in a post-apocalyptic zombie flick. Unlike the Lobby, which seemed to be a flat, continuous plane, floor one was an enormous cube with quadrants stacked one on top of the other, all held together by gargantuan concrete pillars, each the size of a skyscraper, which supported the level above.

The garage wasn’t empty.

Its tens of thousands of spaces were occupied by a wide variety of vintage cars, which had been new and shiny once upon a time, but were now rusted and worn with age and disuse. Most of them didn’t have keys and even the ones that did rarely started. These things had been sitting for God only knew how long, and whatever magic animated the generators and lights on the floor didn’t seem to extend to the vehicles themselves.

There were a few exceptions, though.

On the third day of exploration, my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense illuminated a bright orange, 1972 Ford Pinto that miraculously sputtered to life and was powered not by gasoline but by Relic Shards, of all things. Much to my surprise, the ass-ugly piece of shit was actually a bona fide Artifact. A powerful one, too. Not only could I feed it Shards to keep the motor running indefinitely, but it was a summonable item.

’72 Ford Pinto of the Hobo

Uncommon Artifact

Type: Summonable

Cost: 7 Miles/1 x Common Relic Shard

You’re down on your luck, in between jobs while trying to land your big “acting break,” and just got evicted from your studio apartment in NoHo. And no, that’s not a garbage bag, that’s a suitcase. But at least you have this 1972 Ford Pinto that you inherited from your dead uncle, Bill. It’s technically better than being homeless. Yes, it does smell like pee, and sure there is probably a possum roosting in the engine, but at least it keeps the rain off your back.

To summon the Artifact, simply repeat the words Bill uttered every Saturday night during the blistering hot summer of ’81: “It’s Cruising Time.”

To unsummon the Artifact, repeat the words Bill would recite come Monday morning: “Why does God hate me?”

When unsummoned, the Pinto magically transformed into a miniature Hot Wheels made from real die-cast metal, which I could carry around in my pocket. It had a nice feel to it, but weighed no more than a typical Hot Wheels car would. The way the Artifact defied the laws of both god and the conservation of mass was a real head-scratcher, but who was I to question the strange physics of this place?

I had no idea if seven miles to a Shard was good—though I suspected not—and the Pinto had a host of other issues besides. Eighteen miles per hour was her top speed, no matter what I did, and the car radio blared “The Girl from Ipanema” on a continuous loop so long as the motor was running. The woofers were blown, and the radio could not be shut off or even turned down. It was less than an ideal situation, and after a few hours, I was fantasizing about sticking a screwdriver into both my ears to silence Astrud Gilberto’s gentle crooning.

Still, despite its many, many faults, the Pinto was convenient and helped us cover a lot of ground much quicker than we could’ve on foot. And if there was one Artifact like this, it stood to reason that there were likely others. Hopefully ones that were less old, went faster, and had a better selection of tunes.

The first floor was also substantially safer than either the Lobby or the sprawling mall that occupied the third floor. But safer still wasn’t safe. There were mimics by the bushel—often assuming the form of cars, vending machines, and Progenitor Monoliths—which came as no shock to anyone. The Monoliths still resembled ATMs and were all universally positioned outside of locked parking attendant shacks, which were tiny compared to the huge banks of the third floor.

The shacks themselves were secured tighter than a nun’s panties, and try as I might, there was no getting inside.

There were the standard pitfalls to consider, but there were also a variety of floor-specific traps, which were as clever as they were deadly. Oil slicks that would spontaneously erupt into flames. Electrical hazards and carbon monoxide poisoning. Randomly placed car bombs, which gave me traumatic flashbacks to my days of running convoys outside of Fallujah.

And Dwellers, of course.

Always Dwellers.

Although the mimics were the most plentiful, there were also roving bands of faceless humanoids. And when I say faceless, I mean faceless.

They looked more or less like normal, everyday folk, but where eyes and noses and mouths should’ve been was just a smooth expanse of empty skin, stretched too tight against the skull. They couldn’t see, but those cockwombles could hear a pin drop at a hundred yards, and they ran like Olympian sprinters. The majority of the Faceless were between level 4 and 7 and offered anywhere between 125 and 200 experience a pop, which wasn’t bad at all—although, I didn’t get anything for killing the level fours, thanks to my shitty new Fish in a Barrel title.

Even barring the experience, they all carried at least one Relic or the occasional Artifact, though nothing that rivaled the glory of the Pinto.

Their Relics tended to be physical in nature and usually involved enhancing the senses in some way, often increasing sound or smell sensitivity. One even granted infrared vision, allowing the user to see like a pit viper. But those Relics were a double-edged sword with distressing implications. The most common drop was called Mask of the Faceless. It took the form of a blank porcelain mask, devoid of eye or mouth holes, which increased sound and smell sensitivity by 10% each day the Relic was equipped, while simultaneously decreasing eyesight by 10% each day in exchange.

And if you kept the Relic equipped long enough?

You ended up like one of the faceless freaks aimlessly wandering the purgatory parking garage. Which meant that although the faceless weren’t human any longer, most of them probably had been at one point.

That was a thought I didn’t dwell on for too long.

I did score a kick-ass movement-enhancing Relic from a level 9 Ruined Faceless, called Moving Walkway, which was a helluva find with no nightmarish side effects.

Moving Walkway

Common Relic – Level 1

Range: Single Target

Cost: 8 Stamina

Buckle up, buttercup, because it’s time to take a ride on the wild side. Transform the ground directly beneath your feet into a moving walkway, allowing you to dash forward at three times your normal rate of speed for six seconds. Just be careful, because EXITING the walkway can be a real sumbitch…

Much as I hated to see it go, I swapped out the Gremlin’s Groin Guardian for the makeshift haste ability, since being able to close the distance with my enemies or outrun high-threat pursuers was way more useful than a magical jockstrap, which also reduced my magic and elemental resistance.

Although the first floor wasn’t a place I wanted to spend much time, it wasn’t terrible, either. Not compared to everything else in the Backrooms, at any rate.

Then there was the second floor…

I’d come to hatefully think of the second floor as the Devil’s Asshole because it was moist, gross, filled with suffering, and overflowing with shit.

Suffice it to say, the second floor was a thousand times worse than the first and made the Lobby look bright, cheerful, and inviting by comparison.

The entire level was composed of narrow service tunnels, built from water-slick red brick, crammed full of rusty pipes in a hundred different sizes and varieties. Pipes that carried water. Others overflowing with fetid sewage. More still filled to bursting with steam. The cramped corridors were sweltering; it was like being stuck in a steam room located on the surface of the sun. Plus, the constant drip, drip, drip of water was maddening.

Like a nail being pounded into your eardrums over and over again.

The lights flickered constantly, often dying completely—casting the world into total, oppressive darkness—and the whole place smelled like the inside of a hot porta john left to stew in the Iraqi desert for a few weeks. I often found myself trudging through ankle-deep sludge that reeked so bad that I had to wear a cloth facemask to help with the eye-watering stench. I muttered a small prayer of thanks that I’d decided not to use the smell-enhancing Relic from the previous floor.

On top of everything else, the place was dangerous—even more so than the third floor. Right hand to the good lord, I couldn’t toss a rock without hitting a trap.

Intentionally faulty wiring constantly threatened to electrocute unlucky Delvers at pretty much any given moment. Broken valves and cracked pipe junctures would jettison geysers of super-heated steam, capable of melting flesh and muscle in a matter of seconds. Sewage pipes leaked streams of rancid, gag-inducing slurry that could poison you or afflict you with a prolonged sickness called Sludge Lung, which sounded exactly as bad as it was.

I knew that firsthand because I caught Sludge Lung on my second day in the tunnels. I’d had to crawl back to the store in a feverish delirium to sleep off the effects of the sickness, which lasted the better part of a day. None of my elixirs helped either. I spent the entire time curled up in the fetal position, vacillating between a blazing fever and teeth-chattering chills, all while vomiting profusely and experiencing hallucinogenic nightmares.

Without exaggerating, I can honestly say it was the sickest I’d ever been in my entire life.

Thankfully, Croc and Baby Hands were there to nurse me back to health while Princess Ponypuff cooed sweet nothings in my ear about the inherent weaknesses of mortal flesh and the imminent arrival of Vor’ghel, the Devouring Maw who Dwells Beneath.

Good times.

There were rooms on the second floor, as well, but they were all filled with roaring machinery and clanking gears, which Croc ominously referred to as limb rippers. The mimic had lost three different Delvers to the mechanical death engines of the second floor. Over several years, Croc had also lost nine additional Delvers to the unholy Dwellers who called the floor home. There were enormous cockroaches—affectionately referred to as Skitters—skin-melting Slimes, literal shit golems, and elemental steam djinn.

The djinn were all level 10 or higher and completely immune to physical attacks.

Needless to say, I spent the least amount of time on the second floor because—one, fuck that place and the shit horse it rode in on—and two, I couldn’t imagine anyone surviving there for more than a day or two. It was an environmental trainwreck, not fit for human habitation, and no one would spend any amount of time there of their own volition. I reluctantly planted a doorway anchor and left notes when and where I could, but I wasn’t hopeful.

At some point, I’d probably move the door to a floor with a little more foot traffic and less sewage.

The only good thing was the Experience and the loot.

I actively avoided fighting the shit golems for obvious reasons. As for the Skitters, Slimes, and elementals, they were miserable sons of bitches who were hard to kill but gave out excellent experience for the trouble. Enough to push me up to level 15, though my progress stalled after that. So far, the progression system had been rather linear, and levels had come easily enough, but the points needed to advance from fifteen to sixteen were triple what had been required to move from fourteen to fifteen.

I got a decent stash of Relics, which almost made the miserable floor worth it.

Like the Faceless of the first floor, the Skitters had physical Relics, which had to do with Health Regeneration or Poison and Disease Resistance. They were decent and there were no overt drawbacks, so I decided to keep one of each for later.

Most of the Slimes carried a Common Relic called Mucus Membrane. It was a passive aura that caused the user’s skin to secrete a goo-like acid, which dealt a small amount of corrosive damage in retaliation against all direct physical attacks. It synergized well with Bleach Blaze, but after a quick examination, I realized combining the two would transform my best offensive spell into a powerful defensive ability called Viscous Splash.

It was a decent skill, but not at all what I needed, especially since I already had Sterilization Field.

Still, it would be a great passive spell for any new Delver looking to round out their defensive lineup. I also managed to snag a single Uncommon Relic called Arcane Corrosion, from a level 7 Ancient Slime. It actively ate through an opponent’s available Mana reserve, draining ten points of Mana per minute for five minutes. The ability could also stack up to five times, and any additional stacks renewed the spell effect.

It was good. Really good.

And like Mucus Membrane, it also synergized with Bleach Blaze, though the overall effect was far better.

Synergistic Resonance Detected!

Would you like to Forge Bleach Blaze (Rare – Level 2) and Arcane Corrosion (Uncommon – Level 1) into a new Relic?*

Yes/No?

Before committing, I ran a Compatibility Analysis.

Researcher’s Codex Compatibility Analysis

Based on historic data sets and extensive Forging models, Bleach Blaze (Rare – Level 2) and Arcane Corrosion (Uncommon – Level 1) have an estimated 97% resonance compatibility, meaning the number of possible Relic Iterations is Extremely Low. The most probable outcome is Drain-O Bolt (Rare), or a closely adjacent derivative. Would you like to view additional report records for the Drain-O Bolt ability? Yes/No?

I viewed the additional report and was pleased with what I saw.

Combining the two Relics would not only increase Bleach Blaze’s burst damage output, but it would add Mana Drain on top of the Stamina Drain it already dealt. With just a single ability, I’d be able to deal Corrosive and Fire Damage while simultaneously obliterating a given target’s Stamina and Mana pool. It was a dream spell, and I’d be an idiot not to forge the two items together, even though doing so dropped the new Relic back down to level 1.

I hit accept and added Drain-O Bolt into my Spatial Core with a satisfied grin.

The second-best find came from a level 12 Steam Djinn, who was a “Maintenance Chief”—the second-floor equivalent of Store Managers—who ran one of the largest machine shops we stumbled across.

It was a Rare-grade Relic called Scalding Torrent.

It resembled a foot-long hunk of pitted and rusty metal pipe. Its shitty exterior belied its true, badass nature, however. The Relic jettisoned a concentrated burst of scalding steam, which inflicted significant Burn Damage and ignored traditional flame resistances since it was a water-based attack. It filled the same general role as my new and improved Drain-O Bolt, but didn’t deal nearly as much Burst or DoT, plus no Stamina or Mana draining effect.

Adding it to my lineup didn’t make sense at this point, but I tucked it away for my personal collection. My gut told me I’d find a use for it sooner or later.

When I wasn’t grinding through the first three floors and spreading helpful survival tips far and wide, I spent my downtime crafting new Relics using the Shards I’d amassed. At first, I’d been reluctant to use them, thinking they’d be great for bartering, but at this point, it felt like I had an obscene number of the things. Not enough to Scrooge McDuck backstroke through, but I was getting there. Even though killing creatures under level 5 granted no experience, they still dropped lootable items and every single one of ’em had Shards.

Croc talked me through the crafting process, which was strikingly similar to the ritual required to level up individual Relics.

First, I arranged the Shards into two concentric rings. The outer ring was approximately five feet in diameter and consisted of a ring with five evenly placed Shards. The inner ring was three feet in diameter and had four Shards. I stood directly in the center of the pattern, clutching the final Shard in one hand. That Shard acted as the focal point for the ritual and would absorb the latent generative power of the other Shards, eventually giving birth to a new Relic.

What type of Relic formed seemed like a coin toss to me, though Croc insisted I could actively influence the creation process through focused intention. Croc’s explanation for how exactly I was supposed to do that was… lacking was the kindest word I could think of.

“Just want what you want, Dan,” the mimic said confidently as if that advice made a single lick of sense. “Just picture it in your head and force your intention into the Shard. Let your will radiate outward.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” I asked the dog. “Because that sounds like the biggest load of magical, pseudo-spiritual horseshit I’ve ever heard in my life. It sounds like the kind of thing a prosperity cult would teach. That or Gwyneth Paltrow. Just visualize what you want,” I said, trying to emulate the dog’s accent, “and the universe will give it to you.”

Still, as dumb as the mimic’s advice sounded, I tried anyway.

I attempted to keep things simple and easy my first time out of the gate. The most common Relic I’d seen so far was some iteration of the basic Camo Relic, which all of the mimics seemed to hold within their core. I closed my eyes and pictured the camo kit in my mind until it felt so real that I could almost reach out and touch it. I could see the stupid little mirror and the multi-colored smudges of green, black, and brown greasepaint.

With the image fixed firmly in my mind’s eye, I ever so slowly fed a trickle of Mana into the Shard in my hand.

The Shards arrayed around me resonated with a high-pitched whine that made my teeth itch. A moment later heat bloomed in my palm and the Shard vanished, replaced by an item that weighed a lot more than it should have. I cracked an eye and glanced down, disappointed to find that instead of crafting a replica of the Camo Kit, I’d somehow created a dull black boot, which was so worn it looked like the sole would fall off at any moment.

It was a Common Relic called Squeaky Sole and its stats were even worse than the boot looked. Instead of allowing its user to blend into the background, it created an ongoing passive effect that made the user’s shoes squeak whenever they moved.

It was by far the worst Relic I’d seen so far.

My second attempt didn’t go any better, either.

Neither did my third attempt. Or my fourth. Or my fifth or sixth or tenth.

I created Relics that summoned noncombatant pigeons that fluttered around and shit on you when you were least expecting it. Phantom Pocket teleported a random item from your storage space to an unknown location once a day. Another, called Dietary Restriction, caused a nonlethal, but highly uncomfortable allergic reaction whenever consuming an elixir of any type. It seemed like the harder I tried to craft something useful, the more awful the Relics ended up.

They were so bad I couldn’t even forge them to make slightly less terrible Relics.

I ended up sacrificing the whole lot of ’em for levels.

I focused my efforts on the newly enhanced Drain-O Bolt, finally pushing it up to level 5, which cost twenty low-grade Common Relics. I was a little surprised to see that the Mana cost actually tripled, increasing from 5 to 15, but the damage scaled along with it. The spell now dealt 25 points of Corrosive Burst Damage and a combined 20 points of Corrosive and Fire Damage per minute for five minutes. Plus, both the Stamina and Mana Drain had doubled from 10 to 20 points per minute.

The spell was a magical wrecking ball, and only getting better and better all the time.

Best of all, the level 5 advancement added an additional effect called “Split Cast,” which allowed me to split the attack into two streams, capable of targeting two different enemies simultaneously. Split Cast cut the total damage for each portion of the spell in half, but it added an additional level of versatility to the Relic—especially when dealing with a group of lower-level mobs. A single Drain-O Bolt would likely be overkill in many cases, so the new effect would let me get twice the bang for my buck.

I sacrificed another ten Relics to bring Sterilization Field up to level 3, increasing the effect duration by five seconds, then burned the last five I could spare to nudge the Pharmacist’s Scales up to level 2, which didn’t seem to make any appreciable difference. But it was the only healing spell I’d come across so far, despite being a Common Relic, which told me I needed to work on upgrading it.

Overall, it was a long and tedious couple of weeks, but the important thing was that my plan was working.

By the end of our second week, we got our first customer.

CHAPTER 32

SHOPKEEPER

Our first customer was a brand-new Delver named Taylor, who’d wandered into the shop from the access door in the Lobby.

She was a wide-eyed and terrified twenty-two-year-old from Oklahoma State University and, much like me, she’d Noclipped in after a drunken rager. Though her rager had been at a sorority party instead of a bachelor party, but that was really just semantics. Croc and I explained the situation to her as gently but realistically as possible, helped her integrate with the VIRUS using the in-store Monolith, then let her catch a full night’s rest.

In the morning, Princess Ponypuff outfitted the college girl with one of the basic Delver Kits we’d assembled, then dropped her off in the parking garage on floor one.

Honestly, it felt a little cruel to just toss her back into the wild where there was a good chance she’d end up dead in weeks if she was lucky and days if she wasn’t. That or worse, considering the fate of the Faceless who inhabited the parking garage.

As shitty as it made me feel, that was just the reality of this place. I couldn’t help everyone indefinitely and if people wanted to survive, they were going to have to fight for it. That was just the way of the Backrooms. Were we sending them out like lambs to the slaughter? Maybe. But at least we were sending those lambs out with machetes and enough survival know-how to have a fighting chance. We also let her keep the red yarn ring and told her she was welcome to come back anytime, so long as she had tokens to spend or Relics to trade.

By day eight, we had a steady stream of new Delvers trickling in.

Usually two or three per day, from places as close to home as Texas and as far away as Kyiv. They were college kids and soldiers, housewives and day laborers, teachers and lawyers. Men, women, young, old, and everything in between. We even got a Greek Orthodox priest who didn’t speak a lick of English. One and all, we gave ’em a rough rundown on the Backrooms, a decent night’s sleep, and a survival kit to see them on their way. It was the most we could do.

Hell, we were running out of the backpacks so quickly that Croc and I had to raid the Style-for-Less for a second time.

We also paid a visit to a camping store called Open Sky Outfitters, on the third floor. We killed a handful of Dwellers and raided the outdoor essentials section—stockpiling on things like hatchets, machetes, ropes, and magnesium fire starters—then loaded up on collapsible, green camp cots.

For the most part, the survival supplies went into the kits, while the cots replaced the makeshift sleeping pallets in the back storage space, behind the refrigerated coolers. I added a trio of large tents as well, which I planned to rent out for those who wanted a little extra privacy while they slept. Which was probably most people, considering that Princess Ponypuff had developed a terrible habit of watching people sleep with her cold, unblinking doll eyes.

She was so creepy that even Croc continued to feel uncomfortable around her.

It was at the tail end of the second week—just when I was starting to give up hope of ever attracting a paying customer—that a level 25 Delver slunk into our shop, via the door I’d planted on the third floor. He moved with stealthy, lethal grace, like a prowling cat, and constantly scanned every aisle for any sign of danger. I’d spent a lot of time with Marines who had PTSD. This guy had all the symptoms.

Hypervigilance, open hostility, obvious anxiety, and extreme mistrust.

He also wasn’t completely human, though he wasn’t a Dweller either. At least, not according to the tag that appeared above his head.

Delver #12T - 01 - B0BFX6X9M9 – Cendral, Transmog [Level 25]

The tag clearly labeled him as a Delver, just like every other person who’d wandered through the store so far, but I’d never heard of a Cendral before, and he sure as shit didn’t look human. Humanoid, in that he stood upright like a man and had two arms and two legs. But he also had sleek, pale white serpent scales covering every inch of his visible skin, shimmering violet hair, and a pair of upward curling black horns protruding from his forehead.

As someone who’d grown up going to a Southern Baptist church every Sunday, I was inclined to call him a demon. Except, I was guessing the similarities were both superficial and coincidental. The guy wore tight leather pants, a pair of clunky black Doc Martens, and a beat-up leather jacket with a hood stitched into the lining. Beneath the jacket was a full ring mail shirt, cinched tight at the waist by a leather belt with a small circular buckler hanging from one hip.

He had a leather glove covering his left hand, rising all the way to his elbow, and slung over his shoulders was what I could only call a bazooka. But the launcher was spray-painted with so much colorful graffiti that it looked like something that belonged in Fortnite and not out here in the real world. Not that this was the real world, I supposed.

As I studied the newcomer more closely, the Researcher’s Codex populated a more thorough description.

Although Cendrals look like overgrown snakes, they’re actually the distant offspring of the long-dead Dragon Lords of Vytharia. They consider themselves a proud race. Everyone else considers them to be colossal assholes. Oh, look at me, I’m the offspring of a Dragon. No one fucking cares, Jerry.

Unfortunately, Cendrals can back up their arrogance.

They’re strong, fast, and basically fireproof, plus they have some nasty magical resistances. They also regenerate Health at a crazy rate and can regrow limbs, so there’s that. On the flip side, they suck a wheelbarrow full of assholes when it comes to utilizing any Relics that require Mana. Their bodies just aren’t built for it. Best bet, kill them at a distance before they can get close enough to turn you into red meat sauce.

Another brief prompt appeared beneath the more detailed description.

Would you like to use the Codex to examine this Delver’s Spatial Core? Yes/No?

Huh, now that was curious.

I hadn’t seen that prompt with the other Delvers I’d met so far, but then all of those Delvers were brand new and hadn’t added any Relics to their Spatial Core. So maybe I hadn’t seen the prompt because there was nothing for me to see inside them?

I hit Yes.

Nothing happened.

There was a brief pulse of energy that flared around the Cendral, and the Codex simply failed.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the man hissed, his voice smooth with a slight German lilt to it. “It’s considered extremely rude to scan another Delver without their permission. And if you are going to do it, you should know that it generally only works on Delvers of a similar or lower level.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “And it’ll never work on a Cendral.”

He cocked his head and studied me more closely.

“How is it that a level 15 has a scan ability at all, I wonder? Or all this, for that matter.” He swept out a hand, gesturing at the store. “What possible Relic could one so low-level have to accomplish such things?”

“Where I’m from,” I replied evenly, “it’s considered rude to ask what someone has in their Spatial Core.”

The man’s lips pulled up into a lopsided smile and he snorted. “Touché,” he said, acknowledging the verbal parry.

“For what’s it worth, though, I’m sorry,” I added after a second. I didn’t need to apologize, but I didn’t want to create bad blood between us, especially since this was the first Delver I’d ever met who’d been in the Backrooms longer than me. Plus, I needed allies, not enemies, and a few words of apology could go a long way toward making friends. “Wasn’t trying to offend. I’m just new around here. Still learning the ropes.”

The grin faded and the Cendral folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in the Backrooms, but that is a little hard to believe, even for me. I’ll admit that this operation of yours is new enough, but there’s no way you are fresh meat, even if you are only level fifteen.” He dropped his voice low and leaned forward. “Come now, it is just the two of us, na? Who’re you working for, hmm? Which sovereign set this up? I’m guessing we can rule out the Flayed Monarch, based on that little entry notice of yours…”

He trailed off, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

“But then, that is precisely the kind of message the Flayed Monarch would have you write if he were trying to deflect suspicions regarding his involvement.” Finally, the Cendral grimaced and shook his head. “No, perhaps I’m overthinking this. I feel like Wallace Shawn from The Princess Bride. It is not the Skinless Court, but it is certainly the work of one of the great rulers or another. The Lord of Coin, perhaps?” he offered, cocking an eyebrow. “This certainly seems in line with his motives. Or the Iron Tyrant? Could even be the Sorority Queen—”

I raised a hand to forestall him. “It’s none of those. Like the sign says, this is neutral territory. I don’t have any ties to anyone, though I may have gotten off to a bad start with the Aspirants of the Skinless Court,” I reluctantly conceded.

“Well, as you Americans are so fond of saying, fuck ’em.” He tossed up both hands as though in dismissal. “No one likes those arschlöcher anyway,” the Cendral continued, offering me a sly serpentine grin. “If you had to pick a faction to start a war with, that is the best of the lot. The Flayed Monarch is the most powerful of all the sovereigns, true, but he’s also the most deeply resented and hated.” He scratched his chin. “Still, it is a bit of a good news, bad news type situation, I suppose.”

“I take it that means you’re not on friendly terms with them?” I asked.

His face darkened noticeably, then he slowly and carefully peeled off the glove covering his left hand. He winced as the garment came away, revealing not scales but a bloody red limb devoid of scales or skin. Just exposed muscle and sinew.

“That would be a fair assessment,” he replied. “This is what they do to those who cross them. They take pieces. Trophies. Then they fashion them into capes and cowls. I’ve even seen a high-level Aspirant wearing someone else’s leg skin as a pair of pants.” He shook his head in clear disapproval. “Very disturbing to say the least.”

“Wait,” I said, brow furrowing in confusion. “But I thought Aspirants flayed themselves as they advanced through the court?”

“Oh, they do,” the Cendral said in earnest, “which can make it a little confusing. The difference is, when they do it to an enemy, they have magics to make sure the wound never heals and the pain never goes away. Not ever,” he said softly, and I could hear the muffled anguish in his voice.

“When they do it to themselves, however, the process evokes a feeling of ecstasy. Or so I’m told,” he finished, before gingerly slipping the leather glove back in place. “Now, if we are done with the interrogations, allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Jakob. Called Jakob of Greif, by some, and Jakob the Scales, by others.”

He extended his good hand and I noticed there was a small red piece of yarn tied around his pinky finger.

“Dan,” I replied, accepting the proffered limb and giving it a firm pump.

“I surmised as much,” Jakob said, “considering the name of your little store here. Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains. It’s a mouthful, but there is a certain ring to it, I must admit.”

“Mind if I ask you another question since we’re being so friendly?” I asked, releasing his iron-clad grip.

“It’s your store, is it not?” the Cendral replied, cocking a scaly eyebrow. “I think that entitles you to do quite as you please, don’t you agree?”

I shrugged. “That’s true, but since we’re speaking candidly, I can tell you that I’m looking to make allies and I’m not aiming to offend.”

“I doubt very much anything you say could offend me.” He tapped at his scales. “I have thick skin.”

I chuckled. “Alright, fair enough.” I let my next question rip. “What’s a Transmog?”

“Mein Gott, but you really are new here,” Jakob said, sounding rather scandalized. “That or you’re a great actor and you’re nailing the whole naivete angle.” He paused, regarding me with fresh eyes. “Transmogs are Delvers who assume a new racial alignment. I’m not really a Cendral—or at least, I wasn’t always a Cendral. Once I was human, very much like you. That was five or six years ago, now. The Cendral are one of the most common nonhuman races you’ll find in the depths below. They have a rather large settlement on floor two hundred and seventeen, and there are pockets of them elsewhere.”

“So you’re some kind of Dweller hybrid?” I asked.

Jakob snorted and rolled his eyes. “It’s like talking with a child.” He sighed. “The Cendral aren’t human, but that doesn’t mean they’re Dwellers,” he said in a clipped tone. “And you should know they will be very offended indeed if you suggest otherwise. The Progenitor ship has been stuck in our dimension for quite some time, but you must understand that Earth wasn’t its first stop. From what I’ve been able to piece together, we were supposed to have been the last. Would’ve been, if not for the Blight.

“The ship picked up a wide assortment of different races before it ever docked with our world,” he continued in earnest. “There are Cendrals, obviously”—he gestured at himself with a reptilian, claw-tipped hand—“but there are also Nymphshades, Celestari, Kobocks, Drekhnaar, Ecliputaurs, Helionites, Irides, Mystivores, and Kromalkins—and those are just the big ones. Transmogs are Delvers who voluntarily splice their genetic material with another race.”

I squinted at him.

“Wait, let me see if I have the gist of it,” I prodded. “You were human, but now you’re a lizard guy. With scales. And horns. And claws. And presumably other, unmentionable lizard anatomical bits?”

“Yes, to all of the above,” he replied flatly. “Though I would prefer not to talk about the rest of my ‘anatomical bits,’ if you don’t mind.”

“And you did this willingly?”

“Yes,” he agreed.

I sighed and rubbed at one temple. “But why?” I asked after a long beat. “What in the world would make you want to trade in your humanity?”

He shrugged. “Humanity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. As to why I did it. Why do you do anything in the Backrooms? To survive, of course. As difficult as it might be to believe, when it comes to the vast expanse of interdimensional reality, we humans aren’t at the top of the survival food chain. There are a great many things that are faster, stronger, and more durable. Even here on Earth, we are physically outmatched by almost all other apex species in almost every metric, save one. Intelligence.”

He let the word float in the air, heavy like a thundercloud.

“But if you were to give bears human levels of intelligence,” he continued after a moment, “do you truly think man would still rule our world?” He grimaced and shook his head. “Doubtful. Many of these other races offer additional benefits and bonuses, and this one suited my Spatial Core build particularly well. Assuming you really are new, and this isn’t all some elaborate scheme, then you might want to consider it at some point yourself. There are Variant Helix Splicers down in the research labs below, though getting to them can be…” He faltered. “Challenging.”

“Good to know,” I said, cataloging that detail away for later. The idea of trading in my humanity was extremely unpalatable, but would I do it if it meant surviving? Maybe. Though I couldn’t say before the option was on the table in front of me. “You’ve been extremely helpful, so as a small thank you, I’ll give you ten percent off on your entire order.”

“There is no need for that,” the Cendral replied formally, waving away my offer. “I don’t need any of your frivolous provisions or any of your subpar Relics. All I want is elixirs. Health, Mana, Stamina. I’ll take the whole lot of them. I was trying to explain that to your horrifying pony golem, but she insisted the elixirs are capped at three per customer.”

“Sorry, that’s store policy,” I replied. “We want to keep some in stock for other customers.”

“No,” Jakob said matter-of-factly, “that simply will not do at all. You are charging a ridiculously paltry fee, and I am prepared to pay well above market value for the entirety of your stock.” He held up a clawed finger. “One Common-grade Relic per elixir. But, in exchange, I want all that you have available.”

I nearly choked at his offer.

A straight-up one-to-one trade? For elixirs?

Holy shit, but it felt like I’d just hit the jackpot.

I didn’t even need to check the binder to know that we had a total of sixty elixirs on hand—twenty of all three varieties. I had even more in my personal Storage, though I wasn’t willing to part with those. They were my emergency stash for when things went sideways, as they invariably did. But if I was really to part with all sixty, that meant sixty Relics. Even if they were all trash tier, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, I could still sacrifice them and boost a bunch of my best abilities straight through the roof.

Although I was already salivating at the possibilities, I didn’t immediately jump on the man’s offer. If he was willing to waltz right in and drop sixty Common-grade Relics for elixirs without even batting an eye, then it meant I was missing something important. Maybe these potions were rarer and more valuable than I’d first assumed. Or maybe elixirs acted as currency in other places and this guy was trying to pull one over on me.

Sure, taking the deal would be great in the short-term, but maybe it would end up biting me in the ass down the road.

“That’s an extremely generous offer,” I replied after mulling it over for a bit longer, “but I’m still inclined to say no.” I watched as his shoulders bunched and a thread of anger wormed its way across his face. “Unless you tell me why you’re willing to pay so much for ’em,” I amended. “Seems like elixirs should be easy enough to come by, especially for someone as high-level as you. Which makes me think that your offer might not be as generous as it first appears.”

Jakob of Greif stared at me as though trying to decide what to do with me. After a few long seconds, his shoulders slumped, and he seemed to relax just a hair. He exhaled and it was a heavy sound. “You would think procuring elixirs is a trivial matter, but in that you would be quite wrong. Dwellers rarely if ever drop them, which means there are essentially only two ways to obtain them. The first is by earning Medic! Loot Tokens. In the early stages, such tokens can be quite easy to come by because they often are awarded with new research achievements.

“Unfortunately, the longer you’re here, the harder it is to unlock additional achievements, which means the fewer Loot Token Rewards you get, overall. Unless, of course, you are willing to take increasingly suicidal job board posts, which most of us are not. And that means the best way to get elixirs is to farm locations that regenerate them.” He paused and glanced around. “Such as this one, I am assuming. But these locations are also surprisingly rare. The third floor is one of the most diverse, because of its theme, and has a great many resources, which makes it a popular hunting ground.”

“Still not seeing a problem,” I said, restlessly drumming my fingers on the edge of the counter. “Why not just find a location that spawns elixirs and then raid it every couple weeks?”

“The problem is the Black Harbor Syndicate,” Jakob replied stiffly, “whose toes you are unwittingly stepping on. They are a criminal collective, of sorts, who operate with some degree of impunity in almost every single Safe Harbor. And, as it happens, the farming, distribution, and sale of all elixirs falls under their exclusive purview.”

I looked at Croc, who was reclining in a folding chair in a very un-dog-like fashion.

“Did you know about this Black Harbor Syndicate?” I asked quietly.

“Well yeah,” the dog said, crossing its legs. “Who doesn’t know about the Syndicate?”

“Me,” I growled. “I don’t know about the Syndicate. Why didn’t you mention that earlier? Like maybe when we were going over the pricing model for the elixirs?”

The mimic looked at me, puzzled. “But Dan, how am I supposed to know what you do and don’t know? You didn’t ask about the Syndicate or whether selling elixirs was illegal, so I just assumed you had some awesome plan, because you always have an awesome plan.”

I pressed my eyes shut tightly and took a few deep breaths through my nose.

“This sounds like a classic case of miscommunication,” Croc said, “and I think we can all agree that no one is to blame, especially not me. Croc. Who is a good boy that just wants to be helpful.”

It was impossible to stay mad at the mimic, even though it felt like I’d just got sucker punched in the teeth.

“From now on, Croc, just assume that I don’t know anything if you haven’t told me,” I said.

Croc’s googly eyes got strangely large and the dog looked incredibly serious all of a sudden. “Oh, fiddlesticks. That is a huge responsibility, Dan. I’m not even sure where to begin. Do you know how to read? We could start there, I suppose. Or maybe we should have the birds and the bees talk. I read about that in Paperbacks and Paradoxes. Honestly, I was very confused about the whole thing, but I’ll do my best to explain why the daddy bees wrestle with the mommy birds—”

“About the Backrooms, Croc,” I interrupted. “I one hundred percent don’t need you to explain the birds and the bees to me.”

“Wow, that is such a relief,” Croc replied, clearly relieved. “But since we’re on the topic, I don’t suppose you could explain it to me, then? Because, again, the whole premise was very confusing. Birds and bees seem like natural enemies, so them forming an alliance like that seems oddly out of character. Unless…” The mimic trailed off. “Unless it’s a bit like Edward and Bella—from the bestselling and beloved-by-all Twilight series—setting aside their differences to explore the wonders of forbidden love. Is that the answer, Dan?”

I ignored the dog and turned back to Jakob. “So, you were saying about this Syndicate?”

The Cendral glanced between me and Croc, confusion clear in his gaze.

“I was saying that you are courting trouble,” he said. “They have an unofficial decree granted by the sovereigns—who all receive sizeable kickbacks from the Syndicate in exchange for turning a blind eye to their dealings. Collecting elixirs from a raid or from the Loot Arcade is permissible, but they can only be used for personal consumption. Reselling them is strictly off-limits. First offense, you lose a finger or two. The second time it’s the whole hand. Then they start taking off progressively larger body parts.”

“So, you’re hoping to get all the elixirs I have before the Syndicate shuts me down and starts taking appendages,” I said.

“Jein,” he acknowledged with a dip of his chin.

Just my fucking luck.

Not only was I actively at war with the Skinless Court, but now I had to worry about these monopolistic douchebags from the Black Harbor Syndicate breaking my fingers or amputating body parts. At this point, it seemed like the Skinless Court and the Syndicate were going to have to fight over who got to murder me first. I could also take Jakob’s warning to heart and avoid the wrath of the Syndicate altogether by simply not selling elixirs but… Well, I didn’t want to.

Not only did I dislike shithead bullies, but I wasn’t about to kneecap my business before it even got off the ground.

And if elixirs really were in such short supply, this would only drive even more customers to my store. That did mean tangling with the folks from the Syndicate, but in for a penny, in for a pound, as my granddad used to say. Besides, maybe I could cut a deal with the Syndicate, or, worst-case scenario, I’d restrict their access to the store just like I’d done with the dickbag Aspirants who rallied beneath the Flayed Monarch’s banner.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m willing to part with the whole lot for one Common-grade Relic apiece, but since I’m likely signing my own death warrant by selling you these things, I’m thinking maybe you could add something else to help sweeten the pot?”

Jakob considered it only for a few seconds, before agreeing. “That seems like a fair concession, considering the risks involved on your end. Because I am a man of honor, I’ll give you a one-for-one swap, plus I’ll toss in an extremely useful Uncommon-grade Relic that should make you a little more durable. Do we have a deal?”

Sixty Commons, plus an Uncommon Relic? All for a resource that I’d be able to regenerate in a span of two days? I’d be crazy not to take that deal.

I grinned and extended my hand once more. “Hell yeah, we do, partner.”

CHAPTER 33

R & R

Ihanded over a duffel bag worth of elixirs to Jakob and he headed off to one of the tents in the back—compliments of the house—for a peaceful night of rest and relaxation, while I spent the next few hours sorting through the enormous pile of Relics he had unceremoniously dumped onto the front counter.

As expected, most of them were complete garbage, fit only for sacrificing.

Elevator Music conjured elevator music for thirty seconds, cost forty Mana, and had no combat effect whatsoever. Selfie Sense was a bit like my Sixth Sense ability, but instead of locating traps, it allowed the user to detect the perfect lighting and angle conditions for snapping a selfie. I couldn’t imagine a single use for a skill like that and wondered why it even existed.

There were a handful of gems in there, though, including half a dozen Basic Camo Kits and two Sucker Punches.

I forged another Mall Ninja’s Strike and added it to the store’s available Relic Inventory, along with the rest of the Camo Kits and the other Sucker Punch. There was also a Common-grade called Arsonist Accelerant, which took the form of a cheap grocery store squirt gun. Except it was filled with lighter fluid. Although it didn’t have an active damage component, it could conjure a large AoE puddle of lighter fluid that increased all Fire Damage by one hundred percent.

It had extremely high synergy with the Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail Relic, and I forged the two together, creating an Uncommon Relic called Burn, Baby, Burn. It effectively turned the Molotov Cocktail into a flamethrower spell, allowing the caster to unleash a wild jet of continuous flame for as long as they had Mana to burn. It dealt a shit-ton of Burst damage and did decent DoT as well, but it came with a few significant drawbacks that made me hold off adding it to my core.

Burn, Baby, Burn

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: Single Target

Cost: 2 Mana/Sec

Ever wonder what burning hair smells like? Now, you’ll know. Unleash a reckless column of purifying flame and cleanse the world of its many, many transgressions. Let it burn, baby, burn. The target takes 30 points of Flame Damage on contact, and an additional 5 points of damage per second while the opponent is directly in the flame stream.

But there are drawbacks.

Do you know what the life expectancy of a flamethrower operator in Vietnam was? Four minutes. Yours probably won’t be much longer.

While actively using Burn, Baby, Burn, you are rooted in place and unable to move. You receive 2 points of Flame Damage per second while using this skill. If actively using Burn, Baby, Burn while your Health is below 10%, you have a 25% chance of spontaneously exploding—just like the flamethrower operators in ’Nam! This Relic enables Mana usage.

The drawbacks were horrendous—so much so that I didn’t even want to sell the damned thing—but if I could forge it with another Relic that mitigated some of the god-awful side effects, it might be a real contender down the road.

The single Uncommon Jakob had given me to sweeten the pot ended up being a physical Relic that was too good to ignore. It also addressed one of the fundamental problems with my current abilities: I was weak as a newborn kitten. I’d dumped the vast majority of my Personal Enhancement Points into Resonance, Perception, and Grit. Although, in theory, I was already significantly stronger than even the strongest human athlete, compared to the things in the Backrooms, I was like a toddler swinging around a pool noodle.

On top of that, I had a serious glass jaw thanks to my low Toughness score.

The Uncommon-grade Relic Jakob had given me wouldn’t solve all of my problems, but it definitely lived up to the hype. Even better, because I hadn’t harvested it from a dead Dweller, it retained all the levels Jakob had already imbued it with.

Baldree’s Scale Mail Cuirass

Uncommon Relic – Level 7

Range: Self/Passive

Is this just the chest cavity of a dead Cendral? That’s not important right now. What is important about this rib cage/chest cavity is that it’ll imbue your frail, squishy meatsack with a sliver of the Cendral racial bonuses without having to run your body through the DNA equivalent of an industrial woodchipper.

While equipped, this Scale Mail Cuirass—which may or may not have been harvested from a poor schlub named Travius of Baldree—grants the user +1 Toughness per 2 Variant Assimilation Level and offers an additional 10% resistance against all sources of magical damage.

Unfortunately, the Cendral suck so profoundly at magic that their suckage has even seeped into this odd Relic. While equipped, you lose +1 point of Resonance per 5 Variant Assimilation Levels.

Even accounting for the penalty against Resonance, equipping the Cuirass—which did indeed look like the hollowed-out, scale-covered torso of a Cendral—was a no-brainer. An extra ten percent resistance against all forms of magic? Fuck yeah. Plus, I’d gain seven points of Toughness, while sacrificing only three points of Resonance?

Sign me up.

Deciding which Relic to get rid of was a little tougher.

Bad Trip was a solid control technique, and Slippery When Wet had proved to be surprisingly effective more times than I could count.

The best option was to replace Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding, which would cost me a point of Grit, plus the slight protection it offered against Hypnotic Psionics. I hung on to the Tinfoil Hat, though, since I could always swap it back in if I found myself squaring off against a Dweller that primarily dealt in mind-fuckery, like the Photophage.

After sorting through the Relics—forging those worth forging, and separating out those worth selling—I had forty-three Common-grade Relics fit for the burn heap.

Since my Drain-O Bolt had hit the level 5 advancement threshold, the cost to level the ability had increased from five to ten Relics per level. With forty Relics to burn, I could’ve pushed it up to level nine, but instead, I decided to raise a few of my other abilities up to the first advancement threshold, which would give me the most bang for my buck. The Cendral Scale Mail was already at level seven, so I ignored that one, and instead sacrificed ten Relics to bring Sterilization Field from level 3 up to level 5.

The effect wasn’t nearly as exciting as I’d been hoping for, though still not bad.

The total aura duration increased to 30 seconds and the Mana cost decreased by ten points, from 50 to 40. It also added an additional effect: while I was actively inside the aura field, all my Mana costs were reduced by 10%.

Good, but not nearly as flashy as the changes to Drain-O Bolt.

I used fifteen to boost Mall Ninja’s Strike to level 4 and the last fifteen to bring the Pharmacist’s Scales up from level 2 to level 5. The advancement didn’t change the core mechanic of the Relic in any way—it still allowed me to exchange Mana for Health or Health for Mana in equal measure—but now I could extend the effect to others, instead of just myself, which would be handy to have.

Even more so now that I knew about the whole elixir situation.

I spent some time tinkering around with the Monolith, distributing the fifteen Personal Enhancement Points I’d racked up over the past few days. I dropped two points into Athleticism, increasing my attack speed and damage, a single point into Grit—making up for the point I’d lost by removing the Tinfoil Hat—then put five more into Perception and the remaining seven into Resonance.

For my level, I was still critically weak when it came to physical damage output, but overall, things were looking up.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 15

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 16,370

Next Level: 19,250

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 69

Health-Regen/Hour: 3.25

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 36

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 2.7

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 89

Mana-Regen/Minute: 6.35

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 10

Athleticism: 10

Toughness: 16

Perception: 20

Resonance: 34

Preservation: 5

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Moving Walkway – Level 1

(C) Slippery When Wet – Level 1

(C) Force Multiplier – Level 1

(C) The Pharmacist’s Scales – Level 5

(U) Mall Ninja’s Strike – Level 4

(U) Bad Trip – Level 1

(U) Baldree’s Scale Mail Cuirass – Level 7

(R) Sterilization Field – Level 5

(R) Drain-O Bolt – Level 5

(ME) Compass of the Catacomber (Fully Tempered)

Current Titles – Passive

Out of Your League, Deathwish, Marked for Death, Weapon of Opportunity, Legend in the Making, Overkill Overlord, Fish in a Barrel (E)

I caught a few hours of shut-eye after that, since Croc and I had been pounding the metaphorical pavement nonstop for what felt like forever. When I woke up, I was still tired but significantly less so than I’d been before. I headed over to the breakroom with a trio of microwaveable Hot Pockets—well, Magma Calzones, technically—in tow and found Croc and Jakob lounging together at the circular table, a half-demolished plate of chicken wings sitting between them.

Jakob was picking the wings clean with his razor-sharp teeth and Croc was then swallowing the bones down whole. Just slurping them into a stomach that didn’t seem to exist. The reptilian Cendral had a half-full beer propped up on the table, condensation beading on the glass.

“Good morning,” the lizard-man said, lifting his bottle and offering me a small salute.

“Is it morning?” I asked, squinting bleary-eyed at him.

“In the Backrooms,” the man replied evenly, “it is whatever time you want it to be. You just woke up, so for you it is morning. I wanted a beer, so for me, it is evening.” He paused and regarded the glass in his hand. “I find that it is usually evening for me, these days. I never was much of a drinker before coming here, but now it is one of the few pleasures I have left.”

“Amen to that, brother,” I said, before popping the Hot Pockets into the microwave, then setting them to whirling as I hit the start button. “Looks like it’s five o’clock for me too, so how’s about you grab me a beer?”

“Of course,” Jakob replied, fishing one out from the employee’s fridge, then popping the cap off with a claw. He slid it across the table toward me with ease, not spilling a single sud in the process.

I plopped into a chair opposite him and took a long swig, enjoying the flavor of the brew. At least the beer was good here. And plentiful.

“So your compatriot and I”—he nodded toward Croc—“have been discussing this enterprise you have started, and I think your idea might have some merit. How exactly it is you’ve come by this place is still a mystery, and one I won’t press you to divulge, but with all of this advertising, you are going to attract some powerful interests very quickly if you haven’t already.”

“And?” I asked, cutting him off. “What’s it to you? I thought you were just trying to scoop up all the elixirs you could get before the Syndicate cuts my hands off and feeds me to the shit golem on the second floor.”

“Genau. Indeed, I was,” he replied, dipping his chin slightly, “but I’ve had some time to ponder your situation. The truth is, I think the service you can potentially provide would be of tremendous value to a great many Delvers, just like me. Is this vision of yours likely to work? No. Is it suicidal? Yes, almost certainly. And yet…” He trailed off. “And yet I find myself both curious and rooting for your success. Which is why I want to offer you a little advice.”

The microwave dinged, punctuating his words.

“That’s awfully considerate of you,” I said, retrieving my Magma Calzones, which were roughly the surface temperature of the sun. “And I suppose you’re doing that out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Do not be obtuse, it is beneath you,” Jakob replied. “I am doing it because if you succeed it will benefit me greatly. Much like you, I am an outsider. Not fully accepted by the Cendrals below, since I am a Transmog, but not fully accepted by the human settlements for the same reason. Plus, I already have plenty of bad blood with the Skinless Court. As a result, finding reliable allies can be tricky, but this place… It could be something truly fantastic, but only if you survive long enough to make it so.”

“I’m listening,” I said, absently tracing a finger along the slick exterior of my beer bottle.

“You are moving too slow,” he said.

“How the hell are we supposed to move any faster?” I asked, mildly annoyed.

“It’s true,” Croc added in, seeming to sense my frustration. “We’ve been out canvassing levels for sixteen hours a day. Sometimes more. The only way I can see it going faster is if we recruit Princess Ponypuff—an idea I am not particularly keen on—or if Dan finds a way to shed his frail, fleshly need for sleep.”

“I have no doubt you are working tirelessly, but it will not be enough,” the Cendral said, shaking his head. “The marketing, it is creative—perhaps even a stroke of genius. Again, how you are accomplishing such a feat given the nature of the Backrooms is a baffling conundrum, but that is not the point.”

“And your point is what, exactly?” I pressed.

“That you are overtly drawing attention to yourself, but do not yet have any worthwhile allies, discounting dear Croc here and those nightmarish golems working the floor. But they will hardly be enough, considering who your adversaries are. Especially once the Syndicate gets word about your activities. It’s like you’ve installed a neon sign telling everyone who might want you dead exactly where to find you.”

Huh. I wondered if we could get an actual neon sign. That would be a helluva lot more eye-catching than the spray paint.

“The doorway anchors act as temporal restriction fields,” I said dismissively. “I can keep out those shitweasels from the Skinless Court, and if the douches from the Syndicate get froggy I can ban their asses too.”

“And what is to stop them from simply setting up a cordon around each of your little doors, hmm?” he asked. “Will you just stay in here forever?”

“I love how you’re laying out all the problems, and not giving me any solutions to work with,” I shot back.

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“That is only because I have yet to finish. You see, gefährte, I approve of what you’re doing, but to speed things along, you need to post one of these doorways of yours in a proper Safe Harbor—preferably one without ties to the Syndicate. And there is only one I can think of within your reach. Howlers Hold, down on floor seven.”

That wasn’t the first time I’d heard the name.

“The Researcher mentioned Howlers Hold in one of his prompts,” I said, picking at the Hot Pocket and shoving the cooler bits into my mouth.

“You received more than one prompt from the Researcher?” Jakob asked quietly, more for himself than for me. “Curiouser and curiouser.” He eyed me and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But never mind, one mystery at a time is more than enough. Howlers Hold is run by a rather… shall we say eccentric group of like-minded individuals, but they also happen to be quite powerful. They can be a little standoffish toward outsiders, but of all the communities, they are the most likely to render aid to outcasts and new Delvers just trying to find their way.

“You happen to be both: a new Delver and an outcast. And their standoffishness might actually be a benefit in this situation. Although they have a ruling council of sorts, which resides in a hidden enclave somewhere below the hundredth floor, they don’t owe allegiance to any sovereign and their Safe Harbors are among the only ones where the Syndicate doesn’t operate freely.”

“So I wouldn’t have to worry about the Aspirants of the Court or Syndicate thugs?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Jakob cut in sharply. “I said the Syndicate doesn’t operate freely. There will certainly be Syndicate members lurking in the shadows. But they will keep their allegiance hidden. That means more knives in the dark. But there will be far fewer of them, and they won’t have the blessing of the Harbor itself. Making an ally out of the Howlers might prove to be difficult, at least initially, but if you could secure a trading partnership with them, it would certainly boost the prospect of your long-term survival.”

As he spoke, I thought about the fabled Artifact I had tucked away inside my storage space. The Seal of the Researcher. I could only use it once, but assuming the Researcher held sway with the Delvers in the Safe Harbor, then maybe setting up shop wouldn’t be as tough as Jakob thought.

Not that I was going to divulge any of that information to him.

“If you would like,” he said after a moment, “I could, perhaps, make an introduction for you? Although I am not a standing member of the Hold, they’ve always treated me with a great deal of kindness. Friendliness even, which is saying quite a lot since this is a world where friendship doesn’t exist.”

I felt the hairs stand up along the back of my neck, almost as though Spelunker’s Sixth Sense had activated. This had nothing to do with magic, though, and everything to do with gut instinct. Maybe this guy was really on the level, or maybe he was being useful with an ulterior motive in mind. Like getting me out of the store then turning me over to the Flayed Monarch. Or, more likely, killing me the second I was an easy target, and looting every single Relic from my Spatial Core.

“And what’s to stop you from ripping my head off the second we leave this place?” I asked bluntly. “You’re level twenty-five. I wouldn’t last two minutes against you if you decided to kill me.”

The man just grinned. “Maybe you will survive here after all. So long as you assume that everything, everywhere—

“All the time is both lying to you and trying to murder you?” I finished.

“Exactly,” he agreed, practically beaming. “And what would you say if I asked to stay a while longer in this store of yours?”

“As long as you can afford to pay for a room and follow the posted rules—don’t steal shit, don’t harass my golems, don’t break anything—you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I’ll have another shipment of elixirs ready by next week.”

He pulled out a Silver Delver Token and slid it across the table toward me. “Excellent. Put me down for a week—in the private tent of course.”

“Of course,” I said, pocketing the coin.

CHAPTER 34

THE SEVENTH FLOOR

“You know, I like that Jakob,” Croc said as we exited through the sliding glass doors by the front register.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I replied. “You like everyone.”

“That is true and a fair point, but this time I really feel it. Like the warmth I feel in my belly after eating someone. It just feels right, you know?”

“Having never eaten anyone, I do not know. But I’ll take your word for it.” I paused and stole a sidelong look at the dog. “Thing is, Croc, we need to be careful about people like Jakob. He seemed like a straight shooter to me too, but he could be playing us. He can’t hurt us inside the store, but the second we leave, we’re fair game. For now, the only people we can trust is ourselves.”

“Because we’re friends, Dan?” Croc asked. “And friends stick together forever and would never lie, betray, or eat one another?”

“Bingo,” I replied. “Besides, we don’t need Jakob. We can find Howlers Hold ourselves. We know it’s somewhere on the seventh floor, and with Unerring Arrow, we’ll get there eventually.”

Instead of exiting directly into the sprawling expanse of the third floor, we found ourselves in a large shipping elevator. The kind they use to move cargo around shopping malls. Running down a sleek silver panel on the right were buttons that corresponded to each of the various doorway anchors I’d planted so far. There were five buttons in total—one for the Lobby and each of the first three floors, plus a fifth button that simply read VIP.

That button was only accessible by me.

The curious thing was, I hadn’t intentionally added the elevator using my Blanket Fort ability. It had just sort of shown up after I planted the second doorway anchor. Apparently, it was the Backrooms’ logistical solution for one door that had many entrances and exits.

I thumbed the VIP button and the elevator rumbled and vibrated as though great, invisible cables were hauling us up into the abyss. After a few seconds, there was a ding and the doorway slid open with a smooth whisper. Croc and I stepped out through an unremarkable gray janitorial door, set in a beige service hallway on the third floor. The door clicked shut behind us, taking with it the view of the overlarge interior of the elevator.

Curiously, if I were to step through the doorway again, it wouldn’t take me to the elevator at all, but through the sliding glass doors and directly into the store. It was a weird bit of spatial magic that hurt my brain to think about. It was a good thing overall, though, because it meant that if Delvers wanted to use the storefront as a means of traversing between floors, they’d have to pay for the privilege first.

I turned around and ran my fingers over the black plastic faceplate, which simply read “Private Service Access Point,” and tugged it off with a thought and a small trickle of Mana. The placard served as my private VIP doorway anchor, and unlike the others, I could move it freely with no time or placement restrictions. With the faceplate now tucked away in Storage, the door would legitimately connect to a janitor’s closet.

One filled with a level 6 Amorphous Ooze that breathed out toxic chlorine gas.

I fixed the seventh floor firmly in my mind and cast Unerring Arrow, conjuring the ghostly blue arrow that shot down the corridor to the left. It quickly disappeared into another door that led to what Croc had dubbed a “double-decker stairwell”—meaning it connected both to the floor directly above us and to one of the floors below. This particular stairwell was extra useful, however, since it skipped the fourth floor entirely and let out directly onto the fifth.

Finding stairwells was hard enough, but finding stairwells that jumped floors was like finding an uncut diamond in a pile of horseshit. In hindsight, I’d been damned lucky to come across the Janitorial Handyman, even though it had nearly killed me in the process.

I unlocked the metal push bar using the same key I’d taken off the Janitor so long ago and shouldered my way into the stairwell. I took a quick glance around to make sure the way was still clear and that nothing nasty had set up shop since we’d last scoped out this location, then Croc and I headed down two simple sets of concrete steps.

The descent was remarkably anticlimactic, which was fine by me.

Even though Croc and I had discovered the double-decker stairwell almost a week ago, this was the first time I’d actually ventured below the third floor. Croc had told me in endless detail about what to expect, but it still caught me by surprise as the door swung open and we stumbled out into what I could only describe as a 1920s luxury hotel.

Gaudy gold-and-crystal chandeliers dangled from frescoed ceilings, casting warm buttery light across polished marble floors. The soft, distant sounds of a piano drifted through the air, mingling with the muffled chatter of unseen patrons. Crushed velvet drapes framed grand arched windows that looked out into nowhere, while plush armchairs, ornate tapestries, and gilded mirrors hinted at an era of unparalleled luxury. Although I didn’t see anything or anyone, it was impossible to miss the earthy scent of cigars waltzing with a hint of floral perfume.

The place wasn’t my style, not even close, but I’d spent time with people who would pay an arm and a leg to stay in a hotel this fancy. Hell, me and the boys had worked on a renovation job up in Cincinnati that strongly reminded me of this place—and I knew for a fact that even the low-end rooms went for four hundred or more a night. There was nothing in the world that would convince me to pay that much for a place to sleep.

I’d slept in tents, under the stars, and on top of honest-to-god tank treads, and there wasn’t anything a four-hundred-dollar-a-night room could do for me that a bed down at the Motel Six couldn’t accomplish.

Still, assuming things went well with the folks in Howlers Hold, maybe I’d venture back up here and snag a block of rooms to graft onto the store. It would give visitors a little more space, and I could charge quite a bit more for a luxury suite than I could for a tent or a cot in the storage area behind the freezers. I planted a standard Doorway Anchor on a gilded door that let into an empty guest room with a king-sized bed and a boxy TV that buzzed with fuzzy black and white static.

With the anchor set, I’d be able to come back here and look around at my leisure once I’d finished taking care of business with the settlers in Howlers Hold.

We didn’t spend much time exploring the fifth floor, and Unerring Arrow quickly spirited us not toward a stairwell—as I’d first assumed—but toward a dumbwaiter that dropped us down onto the sixth floor, which was utterly and completely dark. Crawling out of the cramped box, barely large enough to accommodate my bulk, and into a pitch-black room was an unnerving experience. I pulled the high-powered Maglite from my tool belt, but the watery beam of light was about as effective as farting into the wind.

The darkness seemed to be a living thing that ate the light after only a handful of feet.

I pulled a secondary flashlight from Storage, hoping that the extra beam would somehow reduce the oppressive nature of the hungry dark. It didn’t help at all. Not a lick. When I dropped to a knee and examined the ground beneath me, I saw pitted concrete, which suggested this was an indoor location of some variety. Past that, though, there were no distinguishable features of note.

But there was a sound in the darkness.

The howl of a distant wind blowing through the branches of a leafless winter tree.

There didn’t seem to be any Dwellers to speak of, but the longer we stayed the more I felt the weight of unseen eyes watching me from every corner.

Not that there were corners.

Or walls.

Or rooms.

This wasn’t a twisting labyrinth like the Lobby or even the endless urban sprawl of the third floor. This was a Void place. A realm of complete emptiness, barren of anything that could conceivably be used for survival. There was just… nothing.

Hell, I couldn’t even locate a Monolith. Not one that existed on this floor, at any rate.

When I asked Croc about the discrepancy, the mimic merely shrugged.

“Of course there aren’t Monoliths,” the dog replied as though it were common knowledge, intuitively known by all. “Lots of people think the sixth floor isn’t a proper floor at all. This is Superspace. Or maybe Subspace. No one seems to agree on which exactly. Far as I can reckon, there are about half a dozen of these floors scattered throughout the Backrooms. The sixth floor. The hundred and third. Two hundred and thirty-two. Three hundred and forty-nine. Those are the ones I’m reasonably sure about.”

“If they’re not real floors, then what in the hell are they and why do they exist?” I asked, still scanning the darkness, looking for threats that weren’t there.

“Now that is the question, isn’t it?” Croc replied sagely. “Why does anything exist, Dan? Who am I, why am I here? What is my purpose, amiright?”

I grimaced and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I can appreciate that it seems like you’re having an existential crisis right now, but I’m not talking metaphorically. Like if this place isn’t a proper floor, why is it in the Backrooms?”

“But that’s what I’m trying to get at, Dan. No one knows. That’s the thing you have to understand about this place—no one really knows anything. About anything. At all. Except maybe the Researcher, but there’s a good chance he’s insane now, so even he’s probably not an entirely reliable source. And that’s assuming you could find him, which you can’t. Or that he’ll talk to you even if you did, which he won’t. We’re all just taking a wild, blind stab in the dark.

“I’ve heard other Delvers say these floors are like connective tissue. Or quantum glue, maybe.” Croc paused, wrinkling its nose. “I’ll be honest, I don’t actually know what quantum glue is, but there was this Delver named Mikal who said it and it sounded really smart. He was some sort of scientist or something before he ended up here. But now that I hear myself say it aloud, it sounds kinda dumb.”

“What happened to Mikal?” I asked because I always had to ask.

Maybe if I survived impending execution at the hands of the Flayed Monarch, I’d take some time to chronicle all of the countless deaths Croc had witnessed. A Thousand Ways to Die in the Backrooms, I’d call it.

Croc’s face fell. “Mikal didn’t last long, but I want to go on record and say that was not my fault. He was in bad shape before he ever got here. Some sort of accident with something called the Large Hadron Collider.” Croc leaned in close. “Not sure who Hadron is or why he’s so large, but he must’ve been one mean fella.

“Mikal’s organs were all mixed up on the inside. Honestly, I’m surprised he made it as long as he did, considering the circumstances. But he was an interesting case, since he’s the only Delver I ever met who bypassed the Lobby entirely and Noclipped straight to level five, which is where I found him. His lungs were on the outside of his body.”

“Does that mean he died of natural causes?” I asked.

Croc just laughed for a good solid minute. The sound was oddly muted in the dark. Eventually it wiped a tear from the edge of a googly eye with one paw. “Natural causes. That’s funny, Dan. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor yet. That usually goes pretty quickly for most Delvers.”

We walked for another hour or so, accompanied only by the sound of our muffled footfalls and the rustle of the distant breeze that never abated, but never drew any closer either. I cast Unerring Arrow every ten minutes or so, but the arrow always pointed straight ahead. Even when I turned around and cast the spell a second time. I got the sense that direction didn’t matter at all here. I wasn’t even sure direction existed. Eventually, my flashlight beam reflected off a freestanding metal door, jutting up from the floor.

It wasn’t connected to anything at all.

No walls. Not even a proper doorframe.

Croc and I circled it three times, scanning for traps. But it was just a freestanding door. When I cast Unerring Arrow, the ethereal trail of light curved around the door and seemed to disappear into its backside. Because I couldn’t leave well enough alone, I tried the door from the front side and thought my jaw might hit the floor as it swung open to reveal the sweltering interior of a machine shop on the second floor.

I shut the door quickly, before anything nasty could lumber through and ruin my day, then tried entering from the other side. This time the door swung open, revealing what appeared to be a dilapidated elementary classroom.

The room lay in ruins. The tile floors were scuffed, chipped, and covered in a thick layer of dust and flaking plaster. Ancient desks, crafted from rusty iron and moldering wood, were haphazardly scattered about the room—many overturned as though the former occupants had left in a hurry. They were small, those desks, and wouldn’t fit anyone larger than an eight-year-old. Looming at the front of the classroom like a wounded buffalo was a significantly larger desk, crafted from rich mahogany.

A wooden ruler sat on the desktop and beside it was a heap of crimson rosary beads.

Behind the heavy desk was a weathered green chalkboard, its cracked and pitted surface covered by a list of rules, written in tight, white cursive lettering.

1. Good children are seen but never heard.

2. The best children are never seen at all.

3. Good boys and girls always say their prayers, or they will be taken by the left leg and thrown down the stairs.

4. When the bell tolls thrice, return to your chambers. You know why.

5. At 3 AM the Sacred Hour begins. Stay in bed, eyes shut tight. No matter what you hear, DO NOT leave your room.

6. Obedient children will avoid the mirrors. It is as it ever was and so shall ever be.

7. Good boys and girls avoid the indulgent temptations of the Partygoers. The cake is a lie. The cake bearer, the Father of Lies.

8. Children who avoid their studies and stay too long at the playground will receive delicious penance.

What the fuck is wrong with this place? I thought as I scanned the list of rules, trying to commit each one to memory. Were they here solely to scare the absolute bejesus out of anyone who stumbled across them? Probably.

Unless they weren’t.

And these rules were so incredibly weird and specific, I had to assume they were in some way a warning. Or at least a glimpse into whatever dangers this creepy place held.

Croc slipped into the room behind me, and the door we’d entered through closed with an audible click, which seemed thunderous in the stillness of the abandoned classroom.

On instinct, I turned around and tried the handle. It opened with ease, but now it no longer led to the yawning darkness of the sixth floor, but rather revealed a small supply closet filled with a heap of old papers, covered with the faded scribblings of children. I crouched down and snatched up a sheet of construction paper with a crude scene sketched in crayon.

There was a little stick figure kid with a wide grin holding up what appeared to be a birthday cake covered with a ridiculous number of candles. The stick figure was in some sort of party room with balloons, and standing behind the figure was the lanky form of a clown in a bright yellow suit. The clown had tufts of red hair poking out and a smile that stretched beyond the bounds of its face.

I shuddered and let the drawing flutter back to the discarded heap.

If there was one thing I disliked even more than furries, it was clowns. And with the furries, it wasn’t a moral judgement. They just made me uncomfortable. But with clowns? I specifically and actively thought less of anyone who, of sound mind and their own volition, decided that being a clown was a good and appropriate life choice.

“I’m guessing this is the seventh floor?” I asked, stealing a look at Croc.

“Of course. It’s the School Zone. Although sometimes people call this place Level Fun, on account of all the Arcades.”

“I thought you said each quadrant had one Monolith and one Loot Arcade. Except for level six, which doesn’t have any,” I amended.

“Yeah, but the Loot Arcades here are enormous. They’re actually larger than any other Loot Arcade above the hundredth floor and they offer a better selection of prizes, too. That’s why Howlers Hold is here. This is one of the best levels for resource access…”

“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming,” I said, forehead furrowing in suspicion.

“Because I was about to add one,” the mimic replied sheepishly. “This is one of the best levels for resources access, but the trade-off is that the Fun Zone Arcades are also among the most dangerous and well defended. Lots of Dwellers. Lots of Blighted areas. On floor three, the Arcades are clear eighty percent of the time, but here, it’s the exact opposite. More danger, but proportionally bigger rewards.”

“We talkin’ Murder Muncher levels of danger here?” I asked.

“Or worse,” Croc said happily. “But I’m sure we won’t have a problem, Dan. You’ve got all your fancy navigator abilities, so I fully expect nothing bad whatsoever to happen to us in anyway.”

Which is precisely when we heard the melodic giggle of a child…

CHAPTER 35

THE SCHOOL ZONE

Hammer firmly in hand, Croc and I slipped out of the dilapidated classroom and into an equally run-down hallway with green walls, so pale they were almost white. There was ample debris scattered along the floor—bits of plaster, old soda cans, crumpled sheets of notebook paper—and the overhead lights dimmed and flickered in signature Backrooms fashion. The giggle of children came again, closer this time. The eerie sound sent goosebumps crawling along my arms.

I focused on the mini-map in the corner of my eye and zoomed in, looking for any sign of hostile Dwellers. Despite the ominous child-giggles, however, the map showed nothing but me and Croc.

I dismissed the map and surveyed the hallway, which branched off with one path heading left and another going right.

To the right, the hallway continued straight as an arrow, going for so long that eventually it just faded from view. The left-hand path connected to a “T” intersection, branching left and right once more. Rows of rusty lockers adorned the left-hand corridor. A few of them were closed, but most hung open at odd angles, concealing pools of shadow. Anything could’ve been hiding in those things, and my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense quickly lit up, highlighting several of the lockers with a hazy red aura.

Traps—though what kind I wasn’t sure.

Scrawled on the wall, directly across from the rusted lockers, was a faded cartoonish mural, which had clearly been made by an army of small children. Or at least painted to look that way. There were several figures lined up in a lime green meadow with a huge yellow sun overhead. There was a gaggle of stick figure kids, each drawn to scale. They wore triangular dresses or boxy, square pants and shirts, marking each one as a little girl or little boy. The figures had large black eyes and crooked smiles that ran across round faces in odd ways.

Standing at their center was an image of the same nightmare clown I’d seen on the discarded paper in the classroom. Tall and gangly, wearing a baggy yellow suit with red puff balls trailing down his front. Spikey tufts of red hair poked out from the tops and the sides of his head, and in one oversized hand, the clown held a bouquet of balloons, all in a variety of different animal shapes. Everything about this situation put my teeth on edge, the mural most of all.

“This is so fun, don’t you think?” Croc said, tail wagging happily.

“In what way does this constitute fun?” I asked, glancing down at the dog.

“We’re in school, Dan. Personally, I never got to go to school, but I always thought it would be so much fun. Reading books. Learning about all the interesting facets of the universe. Making the best of friends who will stay with you for the rest of your life. High school seems like it would be a magical place.” The dog canted its head and looked at me. “Did you go to school, Dan?”

“Of course I went to school. Go Blue Devils,” I replied almost by reflex. “Never went to college or anything like that,” I added after a second. “The Marine Corps was the closest thing I ever got to higher education, but most kids in America at least spend a good chunk of their formative years with their asses stuck behind desks, learning to recite a bunch of bullshit they’ll never end up using. I can still tell you what the quadratic formula is, even though I’ve never once used it. Not since the day after I squeaked by with a C in algebra.”

“Wow, the quadratic formula,” Croc marveled. “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds very impressive. Did they have a lot of singing in your school, Dan? Because I feel like all the impromptu musical numbers would’ve been where I really excelled—if I’d gone to school instead of being born as a defective monster, destined to be alone forever.”

I frowned at the dog. “One, you’re not defective. You might not be like the rest of the mimics, but that ain’t a bad thing. We’ve already killed enough normal mimics to fill a dump truck, but you’re still alive and kicking while they’re dead and gone. If anything, you’re the next step in mimic evolution. And two, what in the hell are you talking about? Impromptu musical numbers? That isn’t a thing. Anywhere. Not even in those fancy, private liberal schools.”

Croc let out a shocked gasp. “Surely you’re not telling me that the award-winning documentary High School Harmonies was factually inaccurate? I based a core chunk of my identity around the ideas espoused in that film.”

I snorted. “Sorry, bud. But most of the things that you see on TV or read about in books rarely represent real life—even when it’s supposed to. That goes double, maybe even triple, for anything you find in the Backrooms. But if you want a tour of school life, I’m pretty sure the unspeakable horrors this floor has to offer are pretty close to the real thing. Come on.”

I fixed Howlers Hold in my mind’s eye and cast Unerring Arrow.

Blue light shot down the left-hand corridor—blurring right past the open lockers and the horrifying clown mural—then took a hard right at the “T” juncture before vanishing out of sight. Of course we had to walk by the clown mural. I’d been naive to ever assume otherwise.

“This is my surprised face,” I muttered, eyeing the mural again. Clowns. I fucking hated clowns. “We’re going thataway,” I said to Croc, jabbing a finger toward the left-hand path since only I could see the etheric blue trail. “But stay close and only walk where I walk. Lot of traps tucked away inside those open lockers.”

“I will be like your shadow,” the dog replied without an ounce of concern as I headed into the hallway proper. I moved slowly, glancing between the lockers and the shoddy linoleum tiles on the floor. Several individual tiles glowed with a subtle red aura, and I knew they were connected to whatever was hiding away in the lockers, working on the same metaphysical principle as the red Twinning yarn we’d been using to direct potential customers back to the store.

Curious, I crouched and tossed a loose screw onto one of the glowing tiles, just to see what would happen. The second the screw landed, there was a click followed by a series of thwacks as a flurry of arrows exploded from one of the lockers. Except they weren’t arrows at all, I realized after a second. They were oversized pencils, each as thick as my finger and as long as my forearm.

As the explosion of pencils lanced the opposite wall, the innocent cherubic giggles I’d been hearing suddenly transformed into unholy wails and pained screams. The sound was so close and so loud I dropped my hammer in surprise and clapped my hands over my ears so the drums wouldn’t rupture. The crude mural drawings were writhing in place, their painted arms waving and flapping as the pictures peeled themselves off the plaster.

Dweller 0.738B – Funtime Doodle [Level 8]

The imagination of a child is a pure and wonderous thing. So powerful, in fact, that it can imbue life and whimsy into even the simplest of creations. A favorite toy, say. Or a cherished childhood blanket, threadbare and stained. Or even a drawing.

Unfortunately for you, the child who drew this particular mural isn’t one of those fun, adorable, gifted kids that you read about in the Smilebook Mom Groups. Little Timmy was one sick fuck. Broken home, addicts for parents, and with a penchant for playing “Surgeon” with all the furry little friends in the backyard.

So, instead of whimsy, these pictures are filled with little Timmy’s murderous bloodlust and insatiable desire for world domination.

Several of the stick-figured drawings had pencil-arrows jutting out from their chests or faces, with a good chunk of their HP already gone. But there were a half dozen of the doodles, all crawling off the walls and surging toward me like hungry zombies.

Even worse, they weren’t alone.

Slowly emerging from the wall was the looming form of the yellow-suited clown, with his bright red pompoms and his tufts of triangular spiked hair poking out like spearheads.

Dweller 0.7813A – Harold the Funtime Imagination Friend [Level 13]

If you thought the Funtime Doodles were bad, just wait until you meet little Timmy’s imaginary friend, Harold the Terror Clown. Thanks to a total lack of parenting or the intervention of any responsible adult, Harold is the pure distillation of Timmy’s murderous impulses. Harold is raw id all wrapped up in a cheap silk suit of confusion, anger, and pain for a childhood that ended far too soon. It’d be tragic if this fucking horror wasn’t going to juggle your organs like bowling pins.

I waved away the description as the first Doodle dropped its blocky shoulders and charged, its mouth contorting in a ravenous maw.

I thrust my left hand forward, fingers splayed wide, and activated Slippery When Wet, coating the patch of floor between us with a slick coat of sudsy water. The Doodle’s foot came down, and the creature promptly slipped, activating another one of the trap tiles glowing red in my vision. One of the lockers erupted with a colossal boom, and a spitball the size of a truck tire sideswiped the son of a bitch, plastering the Doodle against the wall.

The gooey wad of paper and saliva didn’t do any damage, but the stick figure was stuck fast, its legs dangling uselessly above the floor.

I unleashed Drain-O Bolt and activated Split Cast in the same instant.

A pair of bright blue lances of power erupted from my palm, one splattering the creature against the wall with corrosive magic, another hitting one of the Doodles in the chest with a sizzle. The dual spells triggered the Wild Surge ability baked into my stupid Versace bathrobe, instantly replenishing a huge chunk of Mana and duplicating the originally Split-Cast Drain-O Bolt, free of charge. Both blasts landed again, instantly killing the Doodle stuck to the wall, and dropping the other one down into the critical hit zone.

I didn’t have time to grab my fumbled hammer off the floor, so instead I pulled out my demolition screwdriver and slammed it straight into the Doodle’s stick-figure throat. I was not at all ready for the spurt of black ink that erupted from the wound—

And directly into my open mouth. It tasted like turpentine and made me gag.

I yanked the screwdriver free, snagged my hammer from the floor, then swiped the back of my hand across my lips, wiping away the revolting smudge of ink and paint. God this place was so gross. Each level was a brand-new study in disgusting, and I was quickly becoming a doctoral candidate in absolute nastiness.

Croc had swollen in size, rearing back on two legs as it swiped at one Doodle with a clawed mitt as big as a grizzly’s paw. The mimic’s hulking torso had split open, revealing enormous, spiked jaws. A pair of tentacles extended from Croc’s guts, holding another Doodle aloft and crushing its frail form like a constricting anaconda.

There were still two more Doodles on the loose, not to mention Harold—though, curiously, the clown loitered in the back and didn’t seem too keen to approach. But maybe that was because it didn’t need to get its hands dirty. A small cloud of shiny, rubber animal balloons was floating toward me at a rate that was far too fast to be normal. Not that there was anything normal about this situation. I raised my hand and unleashed another Drain-O Bolt at an encroaching green balloon in the shape of a frog.

The spell splashed off the shiny plastic, doing no damage and not even slowing the balloon down.

Damn it. The balloons were inorganic material.

Drain-O Bolt had the same core weakness as its first iteration—it only affected living matter. And naturally it was the only ranged spell at my disposal. But I was a Marine. Improvise, adapt, and overcome had been pounded into my head so often that it was now a part of my DNA. I pulled the tactical speed square from its holster, cocked back my arm, and hurled that son of a bitch like a ninja star with all the strength a ten in Athleticism could muster.

The speed square flipped gracefully, end over end, and hit the balloon frog with a pop.

The balloon erupted in a wave of emerald power that obliterated the nearby Doodle and swatted me through the air like the hand of an angry god. I flipped ass over teakettle and landed in a heap, curls of smoke rising off me as my HP bar strobed an angry shade of red.

“The balloons are bombs,” I said, hoping Croc would be able to hear me. The words came out as an inarticulate croak, my throat raw and bloody.

“Yeah,” came a pained reply from beside me. “Sort of figured that out when it blew off my leg,” Croc replied, still sounding remarkably chipper. The mimic was lying six feet away and had reverted back to its natural form—a blob of bright blue goop with too many arms to count, all covered with eyes and circular mouth orifices. A Health bar hung above its head, and the mimic wasn’t in much better shape than I was.

There was still one Doodle left, plus Harold and all of his fun balloons, which were drifting our way, carried by an unfelt breeze.

With numb fingers I fished out the Super Slammer of Shielding and plunked it down between me and Croc, whispering, “Let’s Pog,” under my breath. The golden birdcage erupted in a dome of brilliant sparks, just in time to intercept the oncoming Doodle and another of the balloon-borne IEDs. The last remaining Doodle—a girl in a triangular black dress with yellow pigtails poking out of her round head—bounced ineffectually off the shield.

A floating lion hit next, and I flinched as a wave of orange and red light bubbled out. The explosion swallowed the other balloons, which set off a daisy chain of rippling destruction.

Boom... Boom. Boom! BOOM!!!

The floor quaked and I was sure the roiling flames would charbroil us alive. But the shield held without so much as a flicker, rebuffing the destruction as the timer spun down.

The blast incinerated the last Doodle and obliterated the lockers, setting off the remainder of the traps. I used the time to get to my feet, retrieve my hammer, and pull two deliciously refreshing Zimas from storage. I handed one to Croc then chugged the other, tossing the bottle away into the rubbish decorating the rest of the floor.

Croc had gained its feet as well and was back in the hulking form of a dog-bear.

We had about fifty seconds left to go on the shield, but I wasn’t keen on wasting any more time. We still had to take out Harold the Terror Clown. Although the last round of explosions had detonated all of his explosives, the freak had more flaccid balloons hanging at his side and was already starting to inflate another. He was about thirty feet away, and we were never going to get a better chance to smoke him than now.

“I need a boost, Croc,” I yelled, a plan suddenly coming together in my head. “I’m gonna kick off your hands and you’re gonna hurl me toward the clown. You got that?”

“You want me to throw you, Dan?” the dog-bear asked, sounding legitimately confused.

“Yep,” I said. “Just aim right for that asshole. On three. One…”

I reached down and picked the coin up.

“Two…” I deactivated it with the arcane catchphrase of yesteryear. “That’s so ’90s…”

“Three…” I roared as the golden barrier vanished with thirty-two seconds left on the countdown timer. At the same time, I leapt up and planted my foot in Croc’s oversized paw, kicking off as I triggered Moving Walkway. Croc heaved, using the sheer weight of its body to hurl me through the air and directly at Harold.

The clown had blown up another balloon, this one a deep purple, and was already furiously tying it into a new animal shape. But I was too fast.

I was speed.

Between Croc’s throw, the force of my kick, and Moving Walkway—which increased the speed of my forward momentum by a factor of three—I was a bona fide human cruise missile. I funneled Mana into the hammer already in my hand, and it swelled in size and burned with a blue light that reminded me of a falling star.

Harold’s eyes went wide, and the stupid balloon animal was only halfway finished when I brought my hammer crashing into the side of his head, still in mid-flight. The fallout from the balloon explosions had already brought the clown into Gavel of Get Fucked range, and I triggered the attack without the smallest shred of mercy. This asshole had almost killed me and my dog—well, sort of dog—but for that I could forgive him. After all, this was a dog-eat-dog world, and it was kill or be killed.

But he was also a clown, and that was simply inexcusable.

Harold’s head exploded as the hammer landed, but instead of spraying blood and gore, a colorful geyser of party confetti erupted outward along with a pair of notifications.

[Level Up! x 1]

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Human Cannonball

Gravity, physics, and sheer fucking audacity: these are the three forces that govern your trajectory as you hurtle through the air, headfirst like a suicidal moron. Most ranged warriors prefer to fire things like bullets, or rocks, or hives filled with angry bees, but not you. You are the projectile. Launched skyward, foes can only watch in horror and amazement as you descend like a lumpy, flesh-colored meteor, bathrobe flapping majestically in the wind.

Reward: 1 x Silver Acrobatics Loot Token

Title: Human Cannonball – Decrease fall damage by 25% whenever you are bodily used as a projectile weapon.

I didn’t have time to read through the notice before I landed flat on my face, flipping and rolling several times before finally sliding to a stop on my back. The collision had knocked a full twenty percent off my total Health, putting me at just above the fifty percent mark, and I’d broken a rib in the process. That would heal quickly, but man did it hurt like a bitch in the interim.

Worst of all, I was covered in colorful bits of confetti.

Problem was, the flakes of confetti were heavy and wet and strangely gristly.

It seemed clowns weren’t made of confetti after all. Their meat was just rainbow-colored…

CHAPTER 36

GOOSEY GOOSEY GANDER

After looting the corpses and recovering my speed square, I planted my VIP Doorway Anchor and popped into the store to distribute my five new Enhancement Points and swap around some Relics. The Doodles dropped a variety of Common and Uncommon Shards, but each one carried a Common-grade Relic called Doodle Buddy, which served as a summoning spell that allowed the user to conjure a level 4 Doodle. The minion would exist for ten minutes, or until destroyed.

The Mana cost was pretty high, at thirty a pop, and it had an internal cooldown of twenty minutes, so it wasn’t the kind of thing I could spam endlessly, but I felt like it had some decent potential. Since I only had ten slots to play with, I reluctantly swapped it out for Bad Trip—though I deposited the Uncommon Mind-based Relic into my own personal storage. The other five Doodle Buddies I added to the store’s Relic stock.

Harold the Terror Clown had also dropped a pair of Relics, one Common grade, the other Uncommon. Both were worthy considerations, at least initially.

The first, appropriately titled Balloon Menagerie, conjured slow-moving balloon animal bombs, which would seek out targets then explode for extraordinarily high burst damage. On the surface it sounded great, but once I cracked the hood and peeked below, I saw there were a couple of significant catches. First, the cast time for creating new balloons was ten seconds—which was absurdly long—and though you could hold up to five balloons at a time, they were extremely volatile.

A fact I’d witnessed for myself, firsthand. Breathe on ’em wrong or look at ’em funny and they were just as likely to nuke you as your enemies.

The other drawback—which was a deal breaker for me—was that the Relic resembled a red, rubber clown nose and when you used it, a corresponding red clown nose appeared on your face. As far as I was concerned, that made it even worse than the Mask of the Faceless, which slowly stole away the user’s face until they were a blind husk of a human being devoid of eyes or nose or mouth.

In my estimation, it was better to have no eyes at all than to bear the indignity of looking in the mirror every day, only to see a clown staring back.

Needless to say, I put the godforsaken Relic up for sale and would pray for the poor soul desperate enough to use it.

The other Relic was a small item called Squirting Flower. It looked like a bright yellow sunflower with a small plastic tube running out the back, which was attached to a red hand pump. Like the cursed nose, this particular Relic also summoned an accompanying physical manifestation, attaching a yellow sunflower to the user’s lapel, which could unleash a quick, concentrated burst of water that dealt five points of slashing damage on contact.

The Mana cost was next to nothing, but it was still dog shit compared to everything else I had equipped.

The thing was, it synergized with two other Relics: Slippery When Wet and the Scalding Torrent I’d picked up from the Steam Djinn on the second floor. Best of all, the three items all buzzed like a hornet’s nest when I brought them together, and when I ran the Codex Compatibility Analysis, it came back with an eighty-nine percent match for a badass little ability called Pressure Washer.

Pressure Washer

Rare Relic – Level 1

Range: Single Target

Cost: 5 Mana/Sec

People underestimate the power of water, forgetting that, given enough time, water carved the Grand Canyon. You don’t have millions of years to wait, though, so we cranked the power of water up to 90,000 PSI and funneled it into a stream the size of your pinky finger. This shit can cut through steel and is hot enough to boil a live lobster.

You’re welcome.

The target receives one stack of Water Erosion on contact, suffering 15 points of Slashing Damage, and receives an additional 5 points of Scalding Damage per second while directly in the water stream. For every three consecutive seconds spent in the water stream, an additional stack of Water Erosion is added, dealing 15 more points of Slashing Damage. When an enemy receives five stacks of Water Erosion, all damage dealt triples for each subsequent stack thereafter.

I whistled through my teeth when I read the report in its entirety.

Pressure Washer had a similar mechanic to the Flamethrower Relic, but without any of the terrible, potentially explosive, side effects. The additional stacking damage could make it a powerhouse long term. It did occupy the same ranged magical attack slot as Drain-O Bolt, which wasn’t ideal, and it didn’t have the Stamina or Mana drain effects, either. But it did have one benefit Drain-O Bolt was lacking.

It would work on anything. Not just organic matter.

My overall Athleticism score was still weak sauce, and casting magic was my strong suit.

Except, I didn’t have many offensive spells, which had nearly killed me during the battle with Harold the Terror Clown. Pressure Washer would give me some versatile ranged options, and I could also probably use it to slice through chunks of the Backrooms itself, if I needed to. I’d have to sacrifice Slippery When Wet, which sucked balls, since that was my only Crowd Control-style spell, but it was worth the price of admission.

I forged the shiny new Relic, added it to my Spatial Core, then quickly used the Monolith to drop three more points into Resonance, and a point apiece into Grit and Athleticism.

Then Croc and I were back at it, scouring the seventh floor for the elusive Howlers Hold.

Even with Unerring Arrow to guide us, the process was as slow as old people shuffling through the food line at a Country Buffet.

The Arrow was awesome—a literal lifesaver that made navigating the floor possible—but it still had limitations. It ate Mana like a hungry pit bull and only lasted for thirty seconds at a time, plus the Backrooms were just fucking enormous. The Arrow was great for finding a targeted location within a single quadrant or even finding an exit or stairwell to a specific floor, because there were lots of available options.

But when the location you were looking for was several quadrants away?

It was a slog, even with the perfect route laid out like a magical version of Google Maps. I felt like Frodo, trekking my ass across half of Middle Earth to return the One Ring.

Croc and I spent the next two days tediously grinding through the School Zone, avoiding countless school-themed traps and legions of Doodles, Clowns, and even worse horrors.

There were packs of Hellraiser bondage nuns who weren’t particularly strong, but wielded a powerful mental magic called Repressed Catholic Guilt, which could leave you weeping uncontrollably on the floor.

We avoided Quadrant 17 like the plague, since apparently it was home to the Mother Superior of the Sisters of Silent Shadows, which added extra time onto the trek.

The playgrounds, which were everywhere, were even worse.

The equipment was all built from old sheet metal that was as hot as a stove burner and so rusty that even looking at ’em would give you tetanus. The dusty sandpits beneath the playgrounds held gargantuan worms, which had clearly been inspired by the Shai-Hulud of Dune. That or Tremors. It was hard to say, though they were terrifying as hell either way. Croc and I had to American-Ninja our way across the scalding playground equipment, swinging from monkey bars and scaling dubious rope bridges as though we were kids playing the Floor is Lava.

Except if you stepped on the floor a giant sandworm would eat your leg.

The worst terror by far, however, was Goosey Goosey Gander.

That sadistic, goose-bodied motherfucker.

Every so often as we trudged through the winding halls of high school hell, I’d hear a faint snatch of that old nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme that had both confused and frightened me as a kid.

Goosey goosey gander,

Whither shall I wander?

Upstairs and downstairs

And in my lady’s chamber.

There I met an old man

Who wouldn’t say his prayers,

So I took him by his left leg

And threw him down the stairs.

It was creepy and unnerving as shit. What even was a goosey gander? Why was it in some lady’s chamber? And, most importantly, why the hell did this goose feel the need to commit elder abuse?

All I had were questions, never any answers.

The voice would only whisper a single line of the poem at a time, and sometimes the words were so faint that I almost thought it was a trick of my imagination. Until the last line bled from the air and a mutant horror goose—half man, half goose, easily ten feet tall, and built like a brick shithouse—materialized out of nowhere like an Avenging Angel of the Lord, fully prepared to smite the wicked. Before I could do a damned thing, the asshole goose-man summoned a set of concrete steps, picked me up by my ankle, and hurled me down the stairs with a flick of his wrist.

I broke my collarbone and lost about fifteen percent of my total HP, due to the fall.

And then, just as quickly as he appeared, the horror goose vanished.

Gone in the blink of an eye like a bad dream.

Except then the rhyme would start all over again, the tension building and building with each passing line. Every hour or so, I’d hear another snatch of verse and I knew the goose was one step closer. And it wasn’t like I could do anything to stop the monster. It was level 42, so even if I threw every spell I had in my arsenal, it wouldn’t even make a dent in its Health Pool. The impending sense of dread and doom, coupled with the complete helplessness of the situation, was a form of intense psychological warfare.

A form of intense psychological warfare that worked extremely well.

Pretty soon I was jumping every time I saw a shadow flicker in the corner of my eye.

The goose pitched me down the stairs four more times before I finally remembered the rules, so neatly scrawled on the chalkboard in the classroom. Rule number three, Good boys and girls always say their prayers, or they will be taken by the left leg and thrown down the stairs.

The innocuous line had seemed dumb and random at the time, but I started muttering a short prayer whenever the rhyme started up again, and the goose finally let me be.

The whole time, I left copious notes, warning other Delvers about the multitude of dangers, as well as nailing more and more red Twinning rings to the walls, which all led to a door that I’d planted not far from where Croc and I had first entered the floor.

Say a prayer. Doesn’t matter to who. Just say a prayer or that sadistic Goosey Gander chucklefuck will literally throw you down a set of stairs.

—This Survival Tip brought to you by Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains.

CHAPTER 37

THE RED HANDS

Early on the third day of what was beginning to feel like a doomed quest to nowhere, Croc and I blundered into a large school locker room with a slick, mildew-covered floor, filled with rows of lockers and wooden benches that had probably endured more horrors than I could ever even begin to imagine. Just thinking of all the wrinkly nutsacks those benches had witnessed firsthand gave me full-body chills.

The gentle pitter-patter of water hitting the floor came from unseen showers off in the distance, and a carpet of misty steam crawled through the room, fogging the communal mirrors hanging above the sinks.

Coming from up ahead were voices.

Croc and I ducked behind a set of lockers, concealing ourselves from view.

Loitering in a large open space between the lockers and the sinks was a ring of Delvers, all encircling another Delver, who stood in the center with an enormous nail-studded baseball bat drawn, raised, and ready to fuckin’ rumble. The bat-wielding Delver in question was female, maybe five foot even with a slight figure, and she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

She was also a furry.

Not a Cendral like Jakob, or some other half-human, half-animal Transmog.

She was a legit, honest-to-god, furry.

Fuck. My. Life.

Delver #03A - 04 - B07J1R7885 – Human, Archetypal [Level 19]

She wore a skintight pink bodysuit with a patch of white fur running down the chest. Cartoonish oversized white paws covered her hands, and she had on a pair of matching furry white boots that went up past her calves. A set of floppy pink bunny ears trailed down her back, completing the look. Thank the good lord above she wasn’t wearing one of those weird full-head furry masks, but I wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.

Interestingly, she had an eclectic assortment of additional armor strapped on over the bodysuit itself. A single spiked pauldron jutted up from her right shoulder, kept in place with a leather chest harness. A silver vambrace adorned one forearm. She had a ringmail skirt wrapped tight around her hips, hanging down to midthigh. A leather belt held an oversized meat cleaver that looked like it had been forged in the foulest pits of Isengard.

She looked young—late twenties or early thirties—with pale skin and short blonde hair that looked like it had been styled with the meat cleaver at her hip.

“Just tells us where he is, Temperance,” one of the other Delvers was saying.

The speaker towered over the furry and had shoulders that belonged on an NFL linebacker, with a gut to match. His skin was rough, almost pebbly, and it looked like he’d just waltzed off the set of a dollar-discount version of Mad Max Fury Road. He wore tattered camo pants and hockey pads studded with razor blades. The guy had a bright pink Mohawk, styled into pronounced liberty spikes, and was covered in a legion of colorful tattoos. Except for his forearms.

Each forearm, from elbow to fingertips, was completely devoid of skin…

Just gristly red meat and strikingly white lengths of tendon.

There were five members of the gang.

Each was dressed in a similar fashion, and all were missing patches of skin below the elbow or around the hands. But no one had as much skin missing as Mohawk. As I examined the leader a little more closely, a tag briefly flickered above his head.

Delver #03V - 05 - B00VZDY58O – Human, Variant [Level 20]

I could’ve used the Researcher’s Codex to glean a little more information about the man, but I remembered Jakob’s warning. This douche was higher level than me, so there was an even money chance that examining him wouldn’t work anyway. Plus, douchenozzle and his buddies hadn’t seen me yet and I didn’t want to risk tipping them off beforehand. Instead, I activated Mall Ninja’s Strike, burning twenty Mana as a pocket of deep shadow reached out and engulfed me.

The rest of Mohawk’s posse ranged in level between fourteen and seventeen, but there were a lot more of them than there were of us.

“Where who is?” the furry said in a clipped accent that sounded vaguely foreign. British maybe. Or possibly Eastern European? Hard to say.

A girl wearing a leather jacket decked out in silver studs raised a piece of paper with the image of a man scrawled across the front. It was a caricature drawing—the kind of thing street performers did on the Oceanside pier—but even though the features were comically overexaggerated, there was no mistaking who they were looking for. Especially since the name “Discount Dan” was written in bold, blocky letters directly beneath the image.

“Hey, that looks like you, Dan,” Croc whispered from behind me. “They got the bathrobe and everything,” the mimic added.

“Yeah, no shit,” I muttered, gaze still fixed firmly on the scene playing out ahead.

Looked like all of my poor life choices were finally coming home to roost. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that these were Aspirants of the Skinless Court, and they were on the hunt for little ol’ me.

“We know he’s on this level somewhere,” Mohawk said. “Just tell us where he is and maybe we’ll let you go without giving a tribute to the Monarch.”

As Mohawk spoke, another one of his goons—a balding guy with tattoos crawling up the sides of his head and over his face—removed a thin, curved filet knife. The blade glittered darkly in the buzzing, overhead lights of the locker room.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Braxton,” the furry replied stiffly, then gave a dismissive sniff.

Braxton. Of course Mohawk’s name was Braxton.

“This picture of yours means nothing to me,” she said, “and I’ve never met this Discount Dan before. Now if you’re done interrogating me, I’m on Howler business.”

Mohawk—aka Braxton—chortled and rolled his eyes. “I still don’t understand what you see in those losers, Temp. They’re weak. Soft. They have their dumb fucking rules and play pretend that we can be civilized. But this isn’t civilization. This is the fucking wilderness. It’s survival of the fittest and you know that better than anyone.” A crooked grin stretched across his face. “You’re broken, like us. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that if you try and lay a single hand on me, I’m going to cut your dick off,” she said, sounding as saccharine-sweet as a Disney princess. She even batted her long eyelashes at him and gave him a disarming smile that looked positively feral.

Mohawk chuckled. “That attitude right there could take you far in the Red Hands, Temp. You know I like ’em feisty. Just tell us what you know about Discount Dan here”—he thumped the paper—“and I’ll put in a good word for you with Hudson. He and I are like this.” He raised a hand and crossed his fingers. “One word from me, and you’ll be a lieutenant and not some little bitch running errands for those fur-faced fucks in the Hold.”

Her hand tightened around the handle of the baseball bat. “I already told you,” she said, still smiling, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But like I said earlier, if you want to get feisty, I’d be more than happy to cut your knob off so you can go fuck yourself with it.”

There were coarse laughs from the other Delvers present, but Mohawk wasn’t laughing. The smile slipped away, and anger rippled beneath the surface of his face.

“There’s a difference between feisty and disrespectful,” Mohawk growled, his brow furrowing in displeasure. “And maybe you haven’t seen Discount Dan, but a little birdy tells me you know more than you’re letting on.”

“How many times did your mother drop you on the head? Because for the last time, I don’t know—”

Mohawk’s hand lashed out like a striking cobra and snagged a tiny bit of red yarn from her finger. I hadn’t even noticed it was there.

A Twinning Ring.

One of mine.

“Cut the bullshit, Temp. How’s about you start telling us the truth before Jordan”—he hooked a thumb toward Face Tattoos—“has to start carving, eh?”

Face Tattoos offered a malicious grin filled with yellowed and rotting teeth, then advanced a step with the filet knife outstretched.

“Goddamnit, Braxton, I don’t know him,” she spat. “I saw one of his warnings, just the same as you and anyone else with a pair of functional eyes. If you want the ring, you can take it. Go deal with him yourself.”

“That might be the first honest thing you’ve said today,” Mohawk replied, nodding. “Unfortunately, we already tried to pay him a visit. The door won’t work for us. Not for any Aspirant. But you’re not one of us. Maybe if you were to go and take care of the problem for us…” He trailed off.

She pouted. “Oh, does poor little baby need someone to kill the big bad man for you?” she needled. “Well, tough luck because I don’t take requests. I only kill the people I want to kill. Like you, if you don’t leave me alone.”

“I have no doubt you’d gut me if you could,” Mohawk sneered, “but we both know you can’t. And for someone who doesn’t take requests, you seem more than happy to do bitch work for the Howlers.”

“That’s because they don’t make me want to vomit in my mouth when I look at them.”

He backhanded her across the face with casual cruelty, splitting her bottom lip wide open. She staggered a few steps from the blow but didn’t seem cowed in the least. Instead, there was a dangerous, deadly fire burning in her eyes.

“I’m done with your bullshit, Temp. You don’t want to play nice?” He shrugged. “That’s fine. But then neither will we. If you aren’t gonna help us out, then I’m afraid we’ll have to take an offering of flesh, bunny rabbit.”

She tensed, and I couldn’t tell if she was going to turn tail and run or try to beat the shit out of the guy with her baseball bat. It seemed like she could go either way.

“I’ll let you pick,” Mohawk said, clearly not worried about whatever threat she might pose. “Left ear, or right? Which’ll it be?”

“For what?” she snarled. “For picking up this stupid ring? You’re going to take one of my ears for that?”

Mohawk nodded in agreement. “Yep,” he confirmed. “Since we can’t get to the man himself, we’ve been given orders to go after his customers. Try to firmly dissuade anyone from using his services. Looks like that includes you.” The nasty sneer tugged at the corners of his lips. “Now, which’ll it be, Temp? Left?” A long pause. “Or right?”

There was a manic, almost hungry glint in his eyes, but it couldn’t match the sheer batshit crazy intensity in her gaze. I could tell the pink-suited, baseball-bat-wielding furry wasn’t gonna go down easy. She was gonna fight these fuckers to the end, win, lose, or draw.

Even if they killed her for it.

In that moment, I knew I was going to do something stupid.

Just like I’d known I was going to do something stupid back in the Lobby when I’d helped the gunslinger against a demon that could kill me with a look.

Much as I wanted to make a smart choice, I couldn’t turn my back on this lady, even if she was a furry, and even if Croc and I were outnumbered and outclassed on pretty much every level. This lady was elbow-deep in shit-sandwich and it was partially my fault. If I walked away, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror without seeing her stupid, bunny-eared face.

And even if I ran now, this wouldn’t end here.

These postapocalyptic douchewaffles were going to target my customers. If I wanted to stay in business, I needed to send a message. A strong one.

Plus, helping her was the right thing to do.

Even if it was also the stupid thing to do.

“Get ready, Croc,” I whispered just loud enough for the mimic’s ears. “It’s time to kill some motherfuckers. But don’t worry, they’re the bad ones…”

CHAPTER 38

KILLING BLOW

Croc and I needed a game plan before barreling in there like reckless morons.

I mean, we were morons for not just running away, but we could try to avoid being reckless. As my dad always used to tell me growing up, if you’re going to do something stupid, try to be smart about it. I did a cursory scan of each of the five members and got a baseline level for each of ’em.

Four of the five were Archetypal Human, while their boss was a Human Variant.

Starting with the lowest-leveled member of the group, I metaphorically rolled the dice and used the Codex to pull up a rudimentary bio report on his Spatial Core.

Richard Johnson

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01- B00WCAOQME

Variant Assimilation Level: 14

Race: Human, Archetypal

__ __ __

Health: 114

Stamina Reserve: 70

Mana Pool: 24

__ __ __

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Thick Skin – Level 8

(C) Pocket Sand – Level 1

(C) Curb Stomp – Level 3

(C) Bare-Knuckle Brawler – Level 5

(C) Escalation of Force – Level 3

(C) Shoulder Check – Level 4

(U) Dumpster Dive – Level 5

(U) Razor-wire Fisticuffs – Level 6

(U) Double Bounce – Level 5

(R) ???

Affiliations of Record

Hudson’s Red Hands, Pledge; Skinless Court, Neophyte Aspirant

Although the Codex didn’t allow me to see anything else, based on his stats and the names of the individual Relics, it wasn’t hard to guess that this guy was a brawler of one variety or another. The scuffed brass knuckles hugging his fists confirmed my suspicions. The guy didn’t seem to notice that I’d scanned him at all, which meant he likely had a shitty Perception score, so I moved on to the next lowest-ranking member of the party and progressively worked my way up from there.

They had another shitkicker type at level 16, while the guy with the filet knife was a level 17 who seemed to specialize in torture. He had Relics with names like Thumb Screw Grip, Sadistic Glee, Embalmer’s Anesthesia, Trip Wire, and Crude Stitch—though he had a fair number of healing Relics as well.

When I scanned the fourth member of the group, though, things went sideways. Natasha Anno was level 18, and unlike the rest of her pals, her Mana Pool was through the roof and her Relics clearly leaned toward the arcane. She had a few support buffs, but most of her spells were ranged damage dealers.

Her back stiffened as I scanned her, and her head snapped up, eyes flaring wide.

Well, shit.

“We’ve got company,” she growled softly, gaze darting around the room.

“Who’ve you got with you, Temperance?” Mohawk asked, suddenly looking nervous. “One of the Enforcers from the Howlers maybe?” He paused, a sneer curling his lips. “Or maybe some other little bitch boy, looking to curry favor with the rest of the furverts.” He wheeled around without waiting for her to reply, scanning the darkened corners of the locker room.

I instinctively scooted further back into the shadows.

“Come on out, little bitch boy, we were just playing,” he called, voice echoing off the tiled floors. “We weren’t really gonna hurt her. Just planning to put a little fear into her heart.”

He was looking the wrong way, toward the showers, which were still jettisoning thick curls of steam, but he’d turn my way before too long.

I pitched my voice low. “We need to move fast, Croc. Hit ’em while we still have the element of surprise.”

“Are you sure, Dan?” Croc whispered back. “Because this seems like a very bad idea.”

“It is a bad idea,” I agreed, “but that weirdo in the bunny suit needs our help. And sometimes doing the right thing is a bad idea, but you gotta do it anyway.”

“Are we gonna die, Dan?” Croc asked, though he sounded more determined than scared.

“Not if we’re smart,” I lied, feeling a small jab of guilt. Friends weren’t supposed to lie to each other but telling him the truth wouldn’t help anything. In a firefight, your troops needed to see confidence, not uncertainty. “But we’ll need to be decisive. That lady”—I jabbed a finger at the spellcaster, Natasha—“is bad news, so I’m gonna kill her before she can do any real damage. I’m going to make a big distraction, then we’re gonna do Croc-apult. I want you to aim for the spell slinger, understand?”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Croc murmured. “We haven’t tested Croc-apult yet.”

“No time like the present,” I replied. “While I’m dealing with the spellcaster, you’re going to have to handle Mohawk and his knuckle-dragging buddies for a little while. Make sure they don’t surround you. Hopefully Rabbit Ears over there will be able to help us out. If things get too bad, I want you to run—I’ll be able to find you after the dust settles.”

“I don’t see any dust, Dan,” Croc replied, sounding worried.

“Just a figure of speech,” I said. “Now get your game face on.”

Croc manifested a pair of dark eyebrows, which slanted sharply downward across the top of its googly eyes, making the dog look like an angry anime character. It was more hilarious than intimidating, but I didn’t tell the dog that. Croc was trying its best.

“I’m ready, Dan. Let’s kick some bad guy butt in the name of justice and Froyo.”

“For Froyo,” I agreed solemnly.

The dog’s form shivered, morphing into what could only be called a half-sized replica of a medieval catapult. One with a crooked mouth, googly eyes, and angry black eyebrows, of course. Still cloaked in shadow, I slipped into the bucket, said a small prayer to sweet baby Jesus above, then targeted Mohawk and unleashed a full-strength Drain-O Bolt while his back was still partially turned toward me.

“We’ve got incoming!” someone screamed, but it was too late.

The blue ball of corrosive magic roared into Mohawk with a wet slap and the sizzle of flesh as the spell immediately went to work. And because I’d cast while shrouded in the Mall Ninja’s Veil, the attack hit for three times its normal damage, dealing a total of 75 points of Corrosive Burst Damage on impact, knocking the ugly son of a bitch’s Health down by nearly half. And the additional DPS damage immediately began shredding his Health, Mana, and Stamina bars.

“Hey, dicknoodles,” I proclaimed as the Aspirants of the Court turned toward me in evident shock, “I’m Discount Dan, and you’d better keep my name out of those cock holsters you call mouths.”

They all stared at me in complete and utter disbelief. Then an enraged war cry went up and the two brawlers and Mohawk all rushed toward us with squeals of inarticulate fury.

I fired off a second round of Drain-O Bolt—burning through another 15 Mana—then activated Split Cast, peeling the single spell into two smaller blobs of corrosive death. The first hit Mohawk dead in the face, splattering across his eyes, while the second caught the bare-knuckle brawler across the lower jaw and chest. Unfortunately, the guy was wearing black football pads, covered in graffiti and metal rivets, so the blast only did a few points of damage.

I wanted to kick myself for not using Pressure Washer instead, but it was too late now.

I had 54 Mana left and I would need almost all of that for my plan to work.

“Come get some, shitheads!” I growled, making a come-at-me-bro gesture, baiting them onward as I drew my hammer from its loop with my other hand.

At the same time, I cast a glance behind the ranks of charging shitkickers and saw that Bunny Ears was now going toe-to-toe with the Hellraiser wannabe with the filet knife.

A furious green halo had erupted around her, and the baseball bat was a whirlwind in her hands. She effortlessly slapped aside a knife thrust with the bat, then pointed it at Face Tattoos and unleashed a ball of writhing black shadow. When the inky ball hit her assailant, it exploded into a thousand smaller shadows. They scuttled across the man’s face, wriggled into his ears and nose, slid down his neck, then disappeared beneath his armor.

Face Tattoos shrieked bloody murder, dropped his knife, and frantically scratched at his eyes. “Spiders! You shot me in the face with a ball of spiders, you stupid bitch!”

“If you think the face is bad, just wait until they get to your asshole,” she cackled, before swinging her bat in a vicious arc, burying the nail-studded head into his thigh. He squealed like a pig and dropped to the ground, bat still lodged firmly in his leg. Temperance watched on in glee as he flailed and rolled, slapping frantically at the legion of scurrying spiders that were swarming his body.

I was as horrified as I was impressed.

Meanwhile, the spell slinger, Natasha, was in the middle of an incantation, a ball of seething red light coalescing between her palms.

“I think not,” Temperance the bunny said. She thrust one hand out, her palm flat, and shouted, “Talk to the Hand!” Her voice crashed into the enemy spellcaster like a physical blow. The red ball abruptly blinked off as a thick shroud of silence enveloped her completely. Some sort of mute spell, I was guessing.

There was never going to be a better time than now.

The three brawlers were almost on top of us, ol’ Face Tattoos was slowly getting back to his feet, and the spellcaster was momentarily stunned into silence.

“Now!” I thundered at Croc.

There was a sharp twang and I felt the ground jerk beneath me, propelling me upward and forward all at once. I triggered Moving Walkway a heartbeat before my feet disconnected from the faux wooden platform and the spell propelled me through the air and toward the spell slinger like a human missile. The attack had worked so well against Harold the Terror Clown that Croc and I had been experimenting with ways to make the technique more effective.

Having the mimic launch me with its palms was inaccurate and unreliable at best. It ended with me flat on my face with a broken nose as often as it worked. But with my new Human Cannonball title, I wasn’t quite ready to call it quits.

Which is why we had invented the Croc-apult.

A Croc-powered catapult.

We’d launched dozens of Dan-weighted objects and had honed the process into an exact science over the past few days, even though we’d never tried this move in actual combat. But it worked like a dream. Mostly. I soared over the incoming goons, pointed my free hand down, and activated a single pulse of Pressure Washer, drilling directly into the top of Mohawk’s exposed head for 15 points of Slashing Damage and another 5 points of Scalding Damage.

That—combined with the pair of Drain-O Bolts he’d already absorbed—dropped him below thirty percent Health.

I sailed past the brawlers, coming so close to the ceiling that I almost brained myself on a light fixture, then descended in a perfect arc. In a cruel twist of irony, I’d actually ended up using the quadratic formula to help figure out and fine-tune the catapult trajectory. When my ninth-grade math teacher, Mr. Farris, had told me I’d use it sooner or later, I bet that wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

I slammed into the spell slinger like a wrecking ball.

The landing was less than graceful, and I snapped my left index finger when it jammed into the spell slinger’s cheekbone. The break sounded like a pistol going off, but I ignored the bright lance of pain capering through my hand. At this point, a broken finger was pretty much par for the course. And, thanks to my Human Cannonball title, the fall itself did almost no damage at all.

“I’m going to make your blood boil,” the woman snarled as she rolled out from beneath me and leapt to her feet. Apparently, the furry’s suppression spell had lapsed, because the spell slinger whipped a hand forward and hurled a bright bolt of red magic directly into my face.

The agony was immediate and washed through every inch of my body all at once.

True to her word, it felt like my blood was literally boiling inside my veins. My HP dropped at an insane rate, though interestingly hers was plunging as well. I’d be long dead before that mattered, though. It was hard to see or think with the intense pain rampaging through my body like an angry Kaiju, but I knew what I needed to do. Gritting my teeth and pushing through the searing, blinding torture, I reached into my core and triggered Sterilization Field.

Blue-white light erupted outward, forming a dome with me at its center. The blood boil spell guttered and died, vanishing instantly as the light encompassed the enemy spellcaster, abruptly cutting her off from her Mana. My Health stabilized at just above forty percent, and I looked up at the woman with murder etched into the lines of my face.

Her eyes widened in terror, and she tried to quickly backpedal out of the suppression field’s area of effect. But that wasn’t happening—not if I had anything to say about it. I didn’t have an ounce of Mana to use, but I didn’t need it. I bolted forward and tackled her ass to the ground. I landed on top and quickly straddled her at the hips. In comparison to my bulky frame, she seemed painfully small and frail.

She wore leather leggings and a denim biker vest, along with a mishmash of assorted armor, ranging from shin guards and hockey pads to a medieval chainmail. A steel gorget protected her throat and a weather-beaten steampunk hat sat perched on her head, concealing short hair that had been shaven down to the scalp on one side.

Unlike all of the monsters I’d killed so far, this was a real human being. She wasn’t a horror clown or a giant slug or a gangly nightmare with a toilet for a head. This was a person. A person who had accidentally Noclipped into this living hell against her will just like me and everyone else who’d inadvertently got stuck here.

I had my hammer raised, ready to drive home the killing blow, but I hesitated.

Despite my time in the sandbox, I’d never actually killed a person before.

I’d killed plenty of person-shaped things since coming to the Backrooms, but this wasn’t the same no matter what I told myself.

I lowered my hammer.

She had no such qualms. She pulled a dagger from her boot and shanked me in the ribs, driving the blade in until it hit bone. My Health took another nasty nosedive, dropping down to thirty percent, and that’s when it clicked inside my head.

Human or not, if I didn’t kill her, she would kill me.

Period. End of story.

And though I still felt conflicted, I reminded myself that this lady had been ready to flay an innocent woman just because she might know where I was. The Backrooms changed people, and though she looked like me, the truth was that I had far more in common with Croc than I did with her. She’d traded in her humanity a long time ago, and all that remained was a husk of the woman who’d once been.

Face Tattoos was back on his feet and barreling toward me, so I slapped the Slammer of Shielding down. “Let’s Pog, motherfucker!” I thundered, conjuring a cage of golden light. He bounced off the arcane dome and landed on his ass, completely unable to help his companion.

“Nope,” I growled, raising my hammer, “this is a cage match. No getting out that easy.” Then I brought the hammer down on the side of her face.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, until there was nothing but a pulped, bloody mess.

[Level Up! x 1]

Research Achievement Unlocked!

Cold-Blooded Murderer

Congrats, big guy! Looks like you’ve finally popped your murder-cherry.

Remember, guilt is just Experience Points for the soul. Be careful, though, because it gets easier every time you do it! Murder is sort of like riding a bike in that way—except riding a bike doesn’t usually leave you with lifelong night terrors. At least, not if you’re doing it right. Anyway, sleep tight, I’m sure this pivotal moment won’t haunt you for the rest of your days!

Reward: 500 Experience Points, 1 x Gold Marauder Loot Token

Title: Cold-Blooded Murderer (E) – Earn 2 X Experience Points for Delver Deaths. Like I said, this shit gets easier and easier every time. This is an (E)volving title.

My chest constricted and my stomach clenched into a knot.

I felt sick, but now wasn’t the time to get all introspective. Now was the time to fuck shit up. I could deal with the weight of my guilt later, after we’d survived this shitshow. I gritted my teeth and yanked the dagger from my ribs, blood gushing down my side in a warm, metallic rush. I tossed the weapon aside and pulled myself off the badly disfigured corpse, wiping a few drops of blood away from my face with the back of one hand.

One down, four more ass-whoopin’s left to go.

CHAPTER 39

KNIGHT IN SCALY ARMOR

My Health was critically low and though I’d regained about eight points of Mana during the tussle, that wasn’t even enough to fire off a single Drain-O Bolt. The Sterilization Field vanished but the golden protection granted by the Slammer of Shielding still had almost an entire minute left before it zeroed out. Not that I could stay in there that long. Croc was doing its best to hold down the fort against the three Brawlers—well, two now—but things weren’t going well.

One of the thugs was dead, ripped completely in half with his legs not far from Croc’s paws while his torso was draped over the top of a bank of lockers, bits of gray intestine trailing down to the floor.

But the mimic dog was in bad shape, its Health sitting at just above the twenty-five percent mark. Mohawk must’ve chugged an elixir at some point, because his HP was back up above eighty percent and the other dickhead barely looked like he had a scratch on him. I couldn’t just barrel in there, though. I was one stiff breeze away from keeling over, my Health was pitifully low, and my Mana was running on E, which meant I couldn’t cast any of my most devastating attacks.

Using the protection of the barrier, I ripped out a Jolt Cola, tilted it onto its side, punched a hole with my demolition screwdriver, then proceeded to shotgun the whole thing like it was 2009 and I was at a barracks party in Pendleton.

It took me less than five seconds to drain the can, and by the time I was done, arcane power surged through my veins, practically begging to be used. I tossed the can aside and let out a thunderous belch, loud enough to shake the room and wake the dead. Then I picked up the Slammer—muttering “That’s so ’90s!”—and tucked it back into my pocket, dispelling the barrier of protection.

Face Tattoos still had the baseball bat jutting out of his leg and Temperance was currently clinging to his back, her legs wrapped around his stomach, while she bit at his neck and savaged his face with gleaming black claws. His HP was down below fifteen percent, and I reckoned he didn’t have long for this world. Mohawk, however, spun around at the sound of my gaseous war cry.

His eyes slid around me and landed on the crumpled and bloodied form of the spell slinger, dead on the floor in a pool of blood and shattered skull fragments.

“Natasha,” Mohawk whispered, his lips trembling. “No, no, no.” The words were equal parts denial and prayer. A supplication to whatever cruel god he believed in.

I suppressed another small pang of guilt and used the brief pause to activate Pharmacist’s Scales, swapping forty points of Mana for an equal amount of Health, which pushed me back up to seventy percent. I was still a long way from fully recovered, but it was good enough for government work.

“If you didn’t want her to end up dead,” I taunted, raising my hammer and resting it against my shoulder, “then maybe you should’ve avoided the whole murderhobo angle. Turns out that actions have consequences, and the dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.”

“You’re a dead man and you don’t even know it yet,” Mohawk howled, and then he started to grow.

His face turned cherry red and his whole body swelled, veins pulsing and muscles bulging obscenely. Bits and pieces of armor started popping off, until he stood in nothing but shredded camo pants that were so tight they looked like Daisy Dukes. Mohawk stood nine feet tall, half again as wide, and now had skin that was the blister red of a burn victim. Bony white spikes exploded out of his shoulders and horns jutted from his head while fangs filled his mouth.

“This is gonna blow,” I muttered, mind racing to form a plan. I was drawing a blank.

And before I could do anything, the red monster was barreling toward me like an out-of-control freight train, enormous legs and arms pumping as he ran.

I was sorely missing Slippery When Wet—or any sort of crowd control ability for that matter. Hell, this guy’s Resonance Score was probably scraping the bottom of the barrel, so even Bad Trip would’ve been a lifesaver. But I didn’t have any of those equipped, nor did I have time to swap out Relics on the fly.

I’d just have to make do with what I had.

I pointed my hammer and activated Doodle Buddy.

A blob of living ink rose from the floor, assuming the form of a five-foot-tall stick figure girl with a triangular dress, yellow pigtails, and a rough-drawn pitchfork clutched in one hand.

The summoned doodle lasted all of three seconds.

The living drawing raised her weapon and dashed toward the lumbering, red-skinned titan—

And was immediately pancaked by a giant foot the size of a manhole cover.

That was thoroughly disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

I slammed my hammer back into its loop, then raised both hands and unleashed a Drain-O Bolt from one palm and a concentrated beam of pressurized water from the other. The blue ball of potent corrosive bleach slapped against the giant’s chest and immediately went to work, eating through unprotected skin and the muscle beneath, but the freak didn’t even seem to notice.

That or he didn’t care.

I lowered my left hand just a hair, so the water blast was aimed squarely at ol’ boy’s rod and tackle. That got his attention. Especially when Wild Surge triggered and a second stack of Water Erosion hit the son of a bitch in the nutsack. But Mohawk kept right on coming, powering through the stream of water undeterred.

I idly wondered if he had a Relic similar to the Gremlin’s Groin Guardian in place. It would make sense for a build like his.

I danced back two steps and activated Moving Walkway, which violently dragged me away from the bright red murder machine. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the wooden gym bench until the back of my legs slammed into its edge and I toppled over, landing on my back with a wheeze. I hit the ground like a sack of bricks, knocking the breath from my lungs, but thanks to the rush of pure adrenaline coursing through me, I hardly noticed.

I gained my feet just in time to see a fist, larger than my head, driving toward me like a battering ram. I dove right, the fist narrowly passing over my head, then rolled upright with my demolition screwdriver in hand. I lunged, driving the head of the screwdriver into the giant’s thigh, dropping his Health by a grand total of seven percent—and that was with the Bloodletting bonus in effect. I wasn’t sure what Relic he was using, but he seemed to be damn near indestructible.

I juked right, but I was too slow by half.

A knee shot forward like a piston and nailed me in the chest.

There was a bright flash of disorienting light and a wave of force ripped through my body. Something broke. Actually… a lot of somethings broke all at once. It felt like half the bones in my body had just been simultaneously turned to shards of glass.

I flew backward like a rag doll and slammed into the lockers with a resounding clang, then slid down into a rubbery heap. I couldn’t stand and my right arm hung limp and useless at my side.

Mohawk stomped forward with killing intent.

Those were the footsteps of certain death approaching, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. The ride had barely begun, and it was already over. It looked like I would end up being just another cautionary tale for Croc to tell future Delvers.

I couldn’t help but wonder what he would say about me.

“One time, there was this Delver named Dan who had terrible hemorrhoids. Ended up having every bone in his body turned into Jell-O. A real shame. He was a good fella.”

“Any last words?” the guy asked, looming over me like a gravestone.

“Your Mohawk looks dumb as fuck,” I gurgled, blood frothing on my lips.

He snarled and brought a foot screaming toward my face—

But before the killing blow landed, a leather sofa sideswiped Mohawk like a tractor-trailer, knocking him into the nearby sinks. The sofa—an actual, fully-fledged, honest-to-God love seat—flipped over, cushions cartwheeling through the air, and landed at an odd angle against the lockers.

It felt like a fever dream, and a host of questions raced through my mind.

Most of those questions were furniture-related.

Like, why was there a sofa in here?

And, where did it come from??

Also, who the fuck threw the sofa???

Before I could fully work through the flurry of questions, there was a blur of motion, followed in short order by a flash of pale scales, violet hair, and curling horns.

I knew the figure even half-dead.

Jakob the Scales.

The level 25 Cendral had a hulking tower shield strapped to his right arm and another shield attached to his left—though that one was forged from crystalline blue light, which emanated from a large sapphire attached to his wrist.

Mohawk shook his head, clearly dazed from the blow, then pushed away from the sinks and took a wild swing at the approaching Cendral.

Jakob effortlessly deflected the blow, knocking Mohawk off-balance, then smashed him in the teeth with the tower shield. Mohawk dropped to the ground as though his legs had spontaneously decided to call it quits at that very moment. Although Jakob carried no visible offensive weapon—other than the bazooka slung across his back—that didn’t seem to deter him in the least from laying the smackdown of the century on Mohawk.

Using the dual shields strapped to his arms, the lizard man went to work with brutal, workmanlike efficiency. Jakob curb-stomped one knee, shattering the bone with an audible crack, then proceeded to break Mohawk’s other leg with the blunt edge of the heavy metal shield. The enormous thug howled in pain, raised a hand in retaliation, and unleashed a column of noxious green light. The spell hit the surface of the blue shield and evaporated in a harmless hiss of steam.

Before Mohawk could fire off another blast, Jakob jammed the blue shield straight down, slicing off Mohawk’s outstretched hand just below the elbow. The limb came away cleanly, almost as though the shield had cauterized the wound.

The severed limb landed with a wet thump on the tiles.

Mohawk caterwauled even louder—understandable, given the circumstances—and reached for Jakob with his other hand.

That was a mistake. The last one the man was ever liable to make.

CHAPTER 40

THE ODD COUPLE

The burning blue shield vanished in an eyeblink and suddenly there was a bowie knife clutched in the Cendral’s hand. Jakob gave the blade a quick twirl, then drove it through Mohawk’s palm, pinning his hand to the floor.

“If you want to keep the rest of your body parts,” Jakob said coolly, “you should just lie there and play dead.”

Mohawk grunted weakly and made no further move to retaliate.

Honestly, it was one of the most lopsided fights I’d ever seen. Like watching a toddler go all out in a no-holds-barred fight against Mike Tyson.

In less than thirty seconds, the hulk was nothing more than a lumpy sack of bloody meat with a badly misshapen head sticking out like a hitchhiker’s thumb. He was still alive, however, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why. Obviously, Jakob could kill the man in a heartbeat if he wanted to, yet instead he seemed to be playing with him. Jakob was looking down on the battered and broken Mohawk in pity or disgust. Maybe both. Then he sighed and tsked.

What a shame, that expression seemed to say.

I fully expected Jakob to put the man out of his misery, but instead, he turned back toward the entryway, where a lone enemy still remained. Croc had killed one Brawler, and Face Tattoos was dead and thoroughly butchered not far from Temperance’s furry white feet. Her boots and outfit were splashed with bright scarlet arcs of blood, which made her look even more feral than before. Croc was splayed out on the floor, a pool of sticky blue liquid spreading out like a halo.

The mimic had reverted into its true form—a nauseating mass of tentacles and eyes and too many mouths—and didn’t seem to be breathing.

I felt cold panic as fear grabbed me by the throat.

Was he dead?

No, couldn’t be. I refused to believe it.

Croc had endured so much; there was no way he’d go out like this.

Then, just when I was about to give up hope, the dog that wasn’t a dog took a ragged, hitching breath and I caught sight of its Health bar. There was just a sliver of red remaining, so small I’d almost missed it entirely. But Croc was alive, though for how much longer, I couldn’t rightly say.

The last of the Red Hand thugs was loitering not far off, though he wasn’t in much better shape than Croc. He had one hand pressed against an enormous hole in his side and half his face was just… missing. As though it had been burned off by acid. Which was probably the truth, considering that was the douchebag I’d hit with Drain-O Bolt.

Jakob slowly made his way toward the man but stopped a few feet away. “This is the part where you run very, very fast and reconsider all of your poor life choices while you do so, verstanden?”

The color drained from what remained of the man’s face, and he nodded frantically. Then without saying a word, he turned and sprinted back into a connecting corridor before the Cendral could change his mind.

“That will cause no small number of headaches, I expect,” Jakob muttered, watching the man’s retreating back until he disappeared around a corner. With a resigned shake of his head, the tower shield collapsed in on itself until it wasn’t much larger than a circular metal frisbee. He slipped it from his forearm and hooked it to his belt with practiced ease.

The lizard man bent over and scooped Croc into his arms as though the rubbery mass of tentacles and eyes weighed no more than a small child.

Meanwhile, Mohawk was stirring on the floor.

His red skin had faded away and he’d shrunken down considerably, though he was still enormous. The catastrophic damage he’d endured was even more apparent. The man’s face was a colorful mosaic of blacks and blues, intermixed with splashes of red. Although the white, bone-like spikes had disappeared, they’d left a legion of deep lacerations in their wake. With a weak groan, Mohawk managed to prop himself up on his elbows and crane his neck toward the approaching Cendral.

“Please, let me go,” he wheezed, his voice weak and the words dripping with desperation. “I’m Hudson’s right-hand man. You spare me and I can get you anything you want. Anything. You just name it. Loot. Relics. Women. Whatever.”

Jakob growled at the man, the sound emanating from deep in his chest. “Quiet,” he hissed. “I will deal with you in a moment.”

“Or I could just deal with him now,” Temperance said.

She leapt upward and sprinted across the air itself, closing the distance between her and the Mohawk in five long strides, never touching the floor once. I’d seen the gunslinger perform a similar feat during his battle against the Monarch, so it must’ve been a fairly commonplace Relic. She landed on Mohawk’s chest and buried her cleaver right in the man’s skull, splitting his head nearly in two.

Mohawk was dead before Jakob could take two steps.

“Verdammt, Temperance,” Jakob said, though he sounded more exasperated than angry. Almost as though he’d expected nothing less from her. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t have the testicular fortitude to do it,” she replied, standing.

“I believe the correct phrase is intestinal fortitude,” Jakob corrected.

“I know what I said,” she replied, jerking her cleaver free. She regarded its bloodied edge, then casually banished the streaks of crimson from the blade with a flick of her wrist. “We both know you weren’t going to kill him, so I took care of the problem for all of us.” She paused and stared down the hallway where the other thug had retreated. “You should’ve let me kill the other one, too.” She pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval.

“You know, there are places in the world where not murdering people indiscriminately is actually considered a virtue,” Jakob replied flatly.

“And none of those places exist inside the Backrooms,” she fired back. “The man you let live? He’s going to bring back others, and they will not be inclined to show you the same courtesy.”

“I cannot control the decisions or impulses of others,” Jakob said, shrugging his shoulders, “only my own. But your point is well taken, which is why we’d better mop things up here and get moving rather quickly, don’t you agree?”

“What about him?” Temperance asked, waving her cleaver toward me.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about him,” the Cendral replied. “You take care of the corpses, I’ll take care of him.”

I didn’t much like the sound of that.

Jakob took one last long look at the dead brute, then sighed in disappointment and made his way toward me with Croc in his arms.

His black boots clicked softly on the tiles as he walked.

I braced myself, resigned that this was probably the end for me. I hadn’t stood a chance against Mohawk, and Jakob had just ripped him a new asshole without breaking a sweat. He could probably kill me with an aggressive fart from across the room if he wanted to. Especially since my HP was under ten percent and I couldn’t move my arms or legs.

“Just let Croc go,” I croaked out as the Cendral drew closer. “He’s a good boy.”

Even speaking that much felt like running a marathon up the side of Mount Everest. While dragging a dump truck. With flat tires.

Jakob snorted, little puffs of smoke lazily drifting up from his nostrils, then dropped to a knee beside me. He set Croc gently on the tiles.

“I am not here to kill you or your pet—”

“Not a pet,” I barked, “a friend.”

“Sehr gut, your friend, then.”

“Will he be okay?” I choked out through sheer force of will.

“Mimics are versatile and resilient creatures,” the Cendral replied. “He will need time to recover naturally, but he will be fine. I would be more concerned about yourself.”

He grimaced, evaluating me through hooded eyes. I felt a cool chill wash over me and knew he was scanning me—though what sort of information he could glean, I wasn’t sure. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be able to see the Emblem tucked away in my Spatial Core, or I was a dead man walking.

Not that I could walk.

“Looks to be some sort of Bone Splinter effect. Nasty business.” He rubbed his chin, then reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of items. The first appeared to be a small tin of shoe polish and the other was a bottle of Zima. Probably one of the very elixirs I’d sold him a few days earlier.

“I’ll need to realign your skeletal structure before I heal you,” he said, his yellow, reptilian eyes boring into mine, “or you’ll be irreparably crippled for the rest of your short and unfortunate life.”

He unscrewed the tin and scooped out a glob of black polish, which he smeared across my forehead without any fanfare or ceremony. The stuff smelled strongly of almonds, and it felt oddly refreshing against my skin. Jakob spread a little of the goop along his own forehead, then sealed the tin and stashed it back in his leather jacket. “Brace yourself, this is going to hurt like a bitch, as you Americans say.” He pressed a scaly hand against my chest.

I found it hard to believe that whatever he was about to do could possibly hurt worse than having half of my bones turned to dust in the first place, but as a wave of power flowed into me, I realized I’d been so, so wrong. A swarm of angry fire ants crawled beneath the surface of my skin, acid burbled through my veins, and it felt like someone was breaking and rebreaking my bones a thousand times over all at once.

The world trembled around me and black crept in along the edges of my vision.

I was right on the edge of passing out—which honestly would’ve been a blessing—but then it was over, and the pain passed as abruptly as it had begun. My HP was still pitifully low, but it had finally stabilized, and I could suddenly move my limbs again.

Jakob pulled away, suddenly looking drained and sickly. Bright lines of crimson and black sludge leaked from his eyes and ears and nose and mouth.

“You okay?” I asked.

He waved away my question with one hand, then took out a linen rag and began to mop the gore from his face.

“Just one of the side effects of that particular Artifact,” he replied with a scowl. “It’s a transference salve. Unpleasant, but effective.” He lifted the Zima and popped the cap with a thumb, then pushed it into my palm. “Now drink.”

I accepted the bottle with a trembling hand. “Seems like I owe you a debt of gratitude,” I said between gulps of delicious refreshing Zima, the number one bone juice on the market. “Though I’ve got a few questions. Like how the fuck did you find us? And also, did you throw a fucking couch at that guy?”

Jakob grinned then reached up and affectionately patted the barrel of his bazooka as though it were a beloved pet. “Sofa launcher,” he said by way of explanation. “Most of my Relics augment strength or physical resilience, so it’s always good to have a little ranged support. As to how I found you…”

He dipped his fingers into the pocket of my bathrobe and pulled free a tiny bit of red yarn. A matching piece of yarn was wrapped around one of his fingers.

“I planted it on you back in the store,” he said. “Between the Twinning string and my own racial abilities, it was easy enough to find you.” He paused, staring at me with unnerving intensity. “I’ve been following you for several days now.”

My eyes narrowed and suddenly the scaly Delver was a little too close for comfort.

“That doesn’t exactly fill me with warm and fuzzies,” I said, voice hard. “You saved our ass, but it’s sorta offset by the fact that you’ve also been stalking us for the better part of a week. I guess my question is, why? Why follow us at all, especially if you aren’t planning to murder us and loot our bodies.”

“Rest assured, you need not fear him taking your life,” Temperance interjected, her tone filled with a hint of amusement. “He doesn’t kill anyone. Jakob is a pacifist. Isn’t that so, dear Jakey?”

“I told you not to call me that,” Jakob replied, glowering at her over one shoulder. “And I’m not a pacifist in the strictest sense of the word.” He waved at the battered Mohawk. “I will remind you that I did break both of his legs and remove one of his hands.”

“Plus the knife thing,” I added.

“Plus the knife thing,” he agreed.

“But you would have let him live,” Temperance said, “because you just don’t believe in killing.”

“I don’t believe in killing Delvers,” he corrected. “Which is fine since you enjoy killing enough for both of us.”

“Someone has to do it,” she said, idly twirling her baseball bat.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’ve been following us,” I pressed.

“The answer is not so sinister as you might think,” he replied after a brief pause. “I was simply curious about you. It should come as no surprise that I didn’t entirely believe your story. Which is why I followed you. Watched you. To see where you would go. Who you would talk with. I fully expected to see you liaison with one of the sovereigns’ emissaries. Which sovereign I wasn’t sure, but one of them, certainly. Imagine my surprise when I turned out to be wrong.

“For several days you explored this floor, leaving your survival tips and bits of Twinning string. But no one ever came for you. Even still, I was not convinced. Not fully. Not until I saw this.” He reached into his coat and drew out the caricature sketch. There were droplets of blood splashed liberally across the paper. “It seems you weren’t lying about being hunted by the Skinless Court.” He tossed the wanted poster toward me and it flipped and fluttered to the ground.

“But that still didn’t explain why you chose to help Temperance, here,” the man continued. “You risked life and limb in a hopeless fight to save a person I am certain you have never met before.” A thoughtful look flashed across his face. “I couldn’t make sense of it. What does he have to gain by doing this? I asked myself as I watched you fight a battle you surely could not win. But I could think of no reasonable answer. And then it occurred to me. You were helping because you believed it was the right thing to do.”

“And that’s why you saved our asses?” I asked, choosing my words carefully. Self-proclaimed pacifist or not, this guy could still mop the floor with my intestines if he wanted to. “Because we helped out some rando who was about to have her ears cut off?”

“Among other things,” the Cendral replied. He stole a sidelong look at the barely recognizable corpse not far off. “As I told you earlier, I have no great love for the Aspirants of the Court. And, as an added benefit, this gave me an opportunity to prove to you that I wish no harm on you or your strange companion.” He ran a hand along one of Croc’s tentacles.

“I’m sure you will have more questions, but perhaps those are best left for later. As Temperance so insightfully pointed out, the man I let go will likely return with reinforcements, and their leader, Hudson, will not be so easily dealt with as this lot. Best we not be here.” He turned an eye toward Temperance, who was crouched over Mohawk’s corpse. “Have you looted all the bodies?” he asked.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” she called back, standing with a strange Relic clutched in one hand. It looked like the bright red skull of a demon. She disappeared it through space and time, presumably depositing it into her own personal storage space.

“Very good,” Jakob said, helping me to my feet.

Even after the salve and the Zima, my muscles were still sore and my joints felt oddly tender, but my legs were steady enough to keep me upright. I bent my arms a few times and flexed my hands, just to make sure everything still worked, then I bent over and scooped Croc up, cradling his rubbery body against my chest.

A bleary eye blinked open at me from the mass of Eldritch limbs, then a mouth hole spoke.

“Dan?” the voice asked, hardly more than a murmur. Even though the thing in my arms didn’t look like Croc the dog, it had its voice. “Did we do good?”

“Did great, buddy,” I reassured it, squeezing the squishy mass tightly against me. It should’ve been gross but wasn’t. Croc may not have been human, but it was my friend—multi-mouth orifices and all. “Now let’s get you back to the shop.”

“Just promise me one thing, Dan,” Croc whispered again, its voice ragged.

“Anything, buddy.”

“Please make sure Princess Ponypuff doesn’t watch me sleep. It’s super creepy. Also, I’d like more Froyo.”

I snorted, rolled my eyes, and made my way for the nearest door. “You got it, buddy. You can have all the Froyo you want.”

CHAPTER 41

OLD HISTORY

Ilounged in the breakroom across the cheap, circular table from Temperance the Murder Bunny.

The gentle hum of voices drifted in through the open Employee’s Only door, accompanied by the squeak and scuff of distant feet. The store was busy with the hustle and bustle of new customers. We had fresh meat from the Lobby as well as a handful of veteran Delvers, who’d trickled in from other floors. Half of our cots were rented out for the night as well as two of the three private tents.

One by Jakob and another by a grizzled level 18 from the fifth floor who had the thousand-yard stare of a man who’d seen some truly disturbing shit.

Taylor, the college girl from Oklahoma, was back, and she’d picked up another stray along the way. A twenty-year-old named Stephanie from Fort Lauderdale. The two of them both wore haunted expressions and looked almost as shell-shocked as the level 18, but they were alive. That was the important thing. Apparently, they’d made it down to the second floor, and were still recovering from the unfortunate decision.

They had moved on to the third floor since then, which was an infinitely better choice.

Taylor had acquired some riot gear along the way and had a hockey stick wrapped in barbed wire. Her friend was sporting baggy sweatpants along with a pair of hockey pads, looted from a sporting goods store. Taylor shelled out three silver Loot Tokens for one of the Molotov Cocktail Relics, while her friend used a combination of Shards, Relics, and Tokens to purchase a Basic Camo and the Complimentary Upgrade I’d scored off the Receptionist in the Lobby.

And though I was rooting for ’em both, they were by no means unique. There were at least half a dozen Delvers with similar stories and experiences.

Despite the Skinless Court’s attempt to stifle my efforts, business was booming. Baby Hands was keeping the place neat and tidy and Princess Ponypuff was holding down the fort like a champ—mostly because everyone was too terrified to cross her. Whenever someone tried to haggle, she would just shriek at the top of her lungs like a possessed bullhorn until they relented and paid the full sticker price.

We’d need to upgrade the facility before too much longer. Especially if I could get a foothold with the Delvers of Howlers Hold.

I pulled my thoughts away from the store and back to Temperance, who was staring at me like I owed her money and she was about to collect by breaking my legs. The lady was weird, and it had nothing at all to do with her being a furry.

Well, mostly not that.

The quiet stretching between us was intense and unnerving and I felt an intense need to break the lingering silence.

“How do you and Jakob know each other?” I asked over a cup of coffee that smelled like happiness.

“He delivered me from a temporal distortion pocket,” Temperance replied. “One of those enduring, evergreen tales—boy meets girl, boy rescues girl from the maddening torment of a frozen eternity suspended in time. Truly, a story as ancient as the stars.”

That wasn’t the answer I’d been expecting to hear.

Temporal distortion pockets were nasty traps with a wide variety of strange and horrifying effects. Some accelerated time, causing victims to wither away to nothing but dust and bones in a matter of seconds, while others froze time completely. Years or even decades could pass while the victim was imprisoned. Croc and I had even stumbled across one on the seventh floor that actually caused the victim to revert back to a baby.

But only their head.

Big ol’ adult body, little itty-bitty baby head. Super fucked up.

Needless to say, we had given all of the time distortion pockets a mighty wide berth. Since Temperance was A) alive, B) looked to be in her late twenties, and C) didn’t have a baby head, I was guessing she’d gotten stranded in a frozen-time version.

“How long were you stuck inside?” I asked, genuinely curious.

She frowned, her brow knitting in thought.

“Time is hard to track in the Backrooms, but Jakob and I did the math once. By his estimation, I was trapped for around three hundred and thirty years, give or take a decade or so.” She spoke offhandedly, as though she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear-sized Truth Bomb.

Three hundred and thirty years, frozen in a time pocket?

I just stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment, the numbers tumbling around in my head. “I call bullshit,” I blurted out. “There’s no way.”

“Oh, that you were right,” she said, a dash of anger and a hint of sorrow in the words, “but I can assure you it’s quite true. My grandparents arrived at Naumkeag with the first English settlers in 1626, and my family helped build the Massachusetts Bay Colony outpost from the ground up.”

“So you’re like a settler or something?” I asked.

“Weren’t you listening? My grandparents were colonial settlers. My parents were farmers. As for me? I was a witch. At least that’s what everyone in Salem said before they tried to hang me by the neck for consorting with the Devil.” A dark shadow flickered across her face, here then gone. “Not that they managed to kill me. Not like the others. My parents gave me up to the church and my own fiancé swore he saw me communing with a familiar. The traitorous twat.”

She faltered, drumming her fingers restlessly on her mug.

“I ran before they could kill me or force me to confess,” she said, the words a sneer of contempt. “Better to die cold and hungry and alone in the woods than be tortured and murdered by all the people I trusted most in the world.” She looked at me, a deranged smile on her lips. “That’s how I ended up here. I got lost in the woods, but instead of dying I wandered into the Backrooms. They saved me,” she said with a feverish intensity.

I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or lying through her teeth, but one thing was obvious. This lady wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards. She was kinda hot, too—though not even remotely hot enough to make up for the sheer level of crazy that was radiating off her in waves.

If the Marine Corps had taught me one thing, it was keep your dick away from crazy.

“So why did you and Jakob part ways?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back onto slightly steadier ground.

“Nothing so complicated.” She took a long sip of coffee. “Our personalities clash. He’s thoughtful and doesn’t like to kill things, while I’m impulsive and strongly believe in indiscriminately murdering anything that crosses me for any reason. We’ve always had something of a contentious relationship, as you might imagine. He and I decided it was better for everyone if we went our separate ways after he dropped me off with the Howlers.”

“How long have you been with the Hold?” I asked, finally circling around to the one topic I was keenly interested to learn more about.

I didn’t want her to feel like this was an interrogation, but this was the first chance I’d really had to ask someone about the elusive Safe Harbor down on the seventh floor and I was dying for some more information. After all, information was power, and this lady—crazy or not—had intel I badly needed.

“I’ve been with them for the better part of three years,” she said. “Some of the best years of my life.”

“What are they like?” I asked. “The Howlers, I mean. I’m hoping to get a foot in the door and establish a trading network with them, assuming they’re open to the idea. One of those, I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine-type deals.”

She pondered my question for a long beat. Then a crooked grin spread across her face.

“Misfits and weirdos and outcasts and degenerates. Each and every one of them. Just like me. Well, maybe not just like me. Most of them are generally less stabby, though they aren’t weak like Jakob. They’ll do what needs doing. They’re all wonderful. Except the ones I want to kill.”

“How many of them do you want to kill?” I asked.

“I have a list to help me keep track.” One hand darted into her skintight bunny suit and came back out with a worn and heavily creased piece of paper. She unfolded it with reverent fingers, as though it were a sacred text. Both sides were covered in names. Some scratched out, others underlined or written in all caps. It was a very long list. She tapped a finger against a small clump of names. “Less than ten,” she said, scanning the sheet.

“Maybe I’m wrong, but ten still seems like a pretty big number.”

“For Temperance that is an extremely small number,” Jakob said, slipping into the breakroom from the hallway. The soft squeak of rubber followed as Croc trailed in just behind the Cendral.

I felt a weight lift off my shoulders that I hadn’t even been aware was there.

I’d poured a Zima into one of the mimic’s many mouth orifices as soon as we’d made it back to the store, but the elixir hadn’t done much for the Dweller. Even using the Pharmacist’s Scales hadn’t done shit. Turned out, Croc had been afflicted with a slew of nasty diseases and debuffs that actively prevented healing elixirs or Relics from working.

Thankfully, Jakob carried an entire pharmacy worth of salves and potions around with him. He’d managed to dig up a specialty brew called Super-strength Almond water, which dispelled the bulk of the most harmful ailments. The mimic was back in its very human dog form and looked significantly improved, even though it had only been a scant few hours.

“There are about two hundred or so members of the Hold,” Jakob continued, “so that makes up less than five percent of the total population.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t make it sound any better,” I replied. “Pretty sure wanting to kill five percent of a people group is a war crime.”

“When you consider that Temperance wants to murder ninety-nine percent of all people she meets, it’s actually a rather impressive statistic.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and collapsed into the seat beside me.

Croc padded over, dropped onto his haunches, and rested his head on my knee, googly eyes staring up at me.

“Glad to see you’re doing better, buddy,” I said, scratching behind one of his rubbery ears. “Thank you,” I said, shooting the Cendral an appreciative glance. I still didn’t fully trust the man, but he’d saved my only real friend and for that, I owed him a debt.

“Kein Problem,” Jakob replied, absently waving away my thanks. “It is the least I could do, considering you saved this delinquent here. She and I may have radically different moral philosophies, but it would pain me to see something bad happen to her.” He frowned at Temperance. “Not that I truly believe there is anything nasty enough on this floor to kill you, Kleiner Hase. Not even the Aspirants.”

Temperance beamed and a small blush crept into her cheeks. “That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Jakob.”

“I didn’t intend it as a compliment,” he replied tersely, “though I am glad you are alive.” He paused, frown deepening as he regarded her. “But I do wonder why you were wandering around all by yourself when the Red Hands are obviously out in force.”

Temperance wrinkled her nose and scrunched up her face. “They kicked me out again,” she said.

Jakob looked utterly unfazed by the revelation. “What did you do this time, I wonder?”

“Hardly an offense worthy of expulsion. It’s not even really my fault. Jackson got a little handsy with me, so I cut off his hands to teach him a lesson,” she said nonchalantly as though she were discussing the weather and not maiming another human being. “He survived and the Skin Scribe managed to reattach both limbs, so I’m not sure why everyone made such a fuss.”

“I’ve learned that people can be funny about that sort of thing,” Croc agreed, slipping into the last open seat. “A while back, I was helping this Delver named Francis and Francis had one of his arms ripped off in a machinery room on the second floor. I ended up eating the limb, because it was right there, and it was just going to go to waste. But with the way Francis reacted, you’d have thought I was the one who ripped his arm off.

“Long story short, Francis freaked out, called me a ‘fleshy abomination’—whatever that’s supposed to mean—then ran headlong into a ravenous pack of Skitters, who finished the job. It was a very confusing experience, overall, though I did learn some valuable lessons about human sensibilities and boundaries. Turns out they are extremely attached to their limbs, on account of the fact that they can’t spontaneously regrow them the way a mimic can.”

“I can also regrow my limbs,” Jakob noted.

“This, dear Jakob, is precisely why no one likes Cendrals,” Temperance said, tossing her hands up in exasperation. “You lot always manage to make everything about yourselves. We are all quite aware of your ability to regrow your bloody limbs, and I assure you, it impresses no one.”

“I’m a little impressed,” Croc mumbled.

Jakob stoically ignored her needling. “How long did they excommunicate you for this time?”

Temperance soured and folded her arms across her chest. “Indefinitely, not that it’s any of your business. Wraith was not at all pleased by my ‘antics,’—she air quoted the word—“especially since Jackson happens to be his biological brother. Though how two people ended up Noclipping together is beyond me.” She scowled at the table as though it had personally offended her. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a way back in. Wraith gave me an assignment and said all will be forgiven if I can resolve a tiny issue they’re dealing with.”

“It sounds like this Wraith guy is the person I need to talk to about setting up shop in the Hold,” I said idly, swirling my coffee.

Temperance snorted. “If that’s what you’re after down on seven, you might as well cut your losses and move on to a different floor. You’ll never make it through the front gates.”

“Why is that?” Jakob asked, leaning forward, his interest piqued. “It’s been several years since I paid the Hold a visit, but I remember them being rather welcoming to outsiders.”

“Things change,” Temperance replied, her voice laced with unease. “Especially of late. Everyone’s nerves are frayed. There are murmurs of war brewing between the Sovereigns. They’ve locked down the Hold. No one in, no one out. Not for the foreseeable future, anyway. They may bend the rules for you, Jakob, but him?” She shook her head. “Never. Not when he’s the very one stoking the flames of dissent.

“They despise the Aspirants as much as anyone, but Wraith won’t risk igniting a war for the sake of an outsider. Although…” She trailed off, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. “Perhaps there’s a way we could help each other.” A cruel, conniving smile stretched across her face and she steepled her fingers in a way that reminded me strongly of an evil villain about to start monologuing. “Tell me, Discount Dan, what are your feelings on the Blight?”

CHAPTER 42

THE ASSIGNMENT

“Obviously, I don’t want to contract cancer-rabies or whatever in the fuck Blight actually is,” I said. “But I’m willing to listen if you think there’s a way I can strike a deal with the Hold.”

I briefly considered the golden Seal of the Researcher tucked away in my storage space. I was pretty sure that if I showed up at the gates and flashed that bad boy, the Howlers would welcome me in with arms open wide. But that was also a powerful single-use item, and once I used it, there would be no getting it back. If there was a way I could win their trust and hang on to the medallion as well, I was interested. Even if there were complications.

“They’re having Blight issues,” she replied, her sour smile transforming into a mischievous grin. “The Hold itself is located near one of the largest Loot Arcades on the seventh floor. That’s why they built the Safe Harbor there in the first place. But something nasty has taken up residence and they’ve been reluctant to send their own people out to deal with it, since the Aspirants are all out and on the warpath.”

“Let me guess,” I said, “that’s the job you’re supposed to handle to get back into their good graces?”

“You’re more perceptive than you look,” she replied. “If you help me, I suspect that good grace might extend to you as well. Plus, I’d be willing to vouch for you.”

I looked at her askew. “Yeah… I feel like having you vouch for me might do more harm than good. And even if that’s not the case, there’s no guarantee that helping you will get my foot in the door.”

“It certainly won’t hurt your chances,” she replied, “especially since it seems that you’re at least partly responsible for all the trouble with the Aspirants. If you want to open trade with the Hold, this would be an excellent olive branch. The thing about the Howlers is that they never forget a debt.” She paused, boring into me with unflinching eyes. “They also never forget a transgression. Knowingly or not, you’ve brought trouble to their doorstep, but if you fix one of their problems they will remember.”

I grunted, already knowing I was probably going to say yes.

“Let’s just say for one minute that I’m interested. What exactly are we dealing with?” I asked, before taking a long slug of coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, which pretty much summarized my feelings about this whole operation.

“Hold on. I’ve already accepted the bounty and have the details saved to my Grimoire.” She raised both hands, fingers flying through a complicated set of arcane gestures. “I’ll just share it directly with you.”

After a few more intricate motions, she clapped her palms together, then pulled them apart in quick succession, revealing an enormous leather tome, floating in the air directly in front of her.

“What the hell is that?” I asked incredulously, gesturing toward the floating book. The cover appeared to be crafted from human skin and the book looked like it was meant to summon the Old Ones from the fathomless depths below.

I wanted one.

“It’s my localized VIRUS interface portal,” she said offhandedly while flipping through several pages.

“I didn’t see anything about that anywhere in the Monolith.”

She flipped another page and finally glanced up. “That’s because you’re operating on the newest iteration of the VIRUS,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m still using a much older version. Iteration 16.6. I could upgrade, but prefer the old ways.” She affectionately tapped the dusty parchment pages. “I don’t see the windows as you do. Instead, my localized familiar speaks to me through journal entries. There are a few compatibility issues with the newer Monoliths, but I find it’s worth the occasional headache.”

“What do you mean the newer Monoliths?” I asked, confused. “Are you talking about the ATMs?”

She nodded. “I’m not sure when exactly those came around, but when I first Noclipped, the Monoliths resembled large standing stones with ancient glyphs carved into their surfaces. I’m told you can still find some of those older versions if you go deep enough down. The Black Forest on floor seventy-four is supposed to have quite a few. Now, do you want to see the entry or not?”

I had about a thousand questions, but I also really wanted to see the entry. Obviously, the Flayed Monarch was mobilizing his forces, so I was working against a shot clock and needed to make some friends of my own. And the faster the better.

“Yeah, fine. Show me the stupid entry,” I grumbled.

She waved her fingers over the pages and they flickered wildly, as though caught in a strong gale. An otherworldly light emanated from the tome, conjuring ghostly green text that lazily backstroked across the air. There were clearly similarities between this and my own eight-bit notification system, but the differences were still fascinatingly stark.

Even the language was old-timey and weird.

Like something out of a Shakespeare play.

If Shakespeare had been on bath salts.

Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree

Peril Assessment Quotient: ۞۞۞

Current Geographic Position: 7.56.02.88-20 (Ye Seventh Floor, Quadrant 16, Sector 23)

Once a youngling’s paradise, a sanctum of swaying slides, cacophonous mechanick games, and delightful clockwork jamborees, now a den of pain and inequity of the most horrifying order. The provisions are abominable, the costs preposterous, and the cleanliness so dubious, it hath earned the scrutiny of the Plague Doctor’s Consortium. Verily, thou wouldst never wish to sojourn here, yet fate hath other plans, for no child can resist the wonderous allure of this carpeted hellscape.

Twisted by the accursed Blight, the entertainments within this Mythic Trove of Trinkets have metamorphosed into hellish riddles, crafted with the sole aim of mauling, disarticulation, or—in the most blessed of circumstances—incurable emotional scars. The orb pits are a nightmarish tableau of bladed playthings and venomous murk. The marionette shows? ’Tis best to remain silent, for they instruct in matters most grotesque.

As for Funtime Frank, the mechanickal beast of yore, on him we shall not expound. He is a subject most ominous, to be considered only with dread and loathing.

The sole redemption? Shouldst thou survive this dire excursion, the loot, in a twist most ironic, is nigh wondrous. Hark! When next ye hear the jingle, once a herald of merriment, know ye must confront Funtime Frank. And Frank shall bring ruin upon thy household for ten generations.

Reward: 3,500 Experience Points, 15 x Copper Delver Loot Tokens, 3 x Silver Delver Loot Tokens, 1 x Golden Mercenary Loot Token, 1 x Sapphire Loot Token.

Accept Quest? Yes/No

I read the damned thing over three separate times, and it was like someone was talking in cursive at me. Still, I gleaned enough to get the gist of it. This was some kind of Chuck E. Cheese, Discovery Zone mashup, bursting at the seams with games, questionable food, plastic play tunnels, and a nightmarish animatronic band, which was presumably led by Funtime Frank.

“I don’t want to be a party pooper,” Croc said, its eyes gliding over the text hanging in the air, “but this seems like a terrible idea. I’ve never personally seen Funtime Frank, but I’ve heard of Funtime Frank. Also, anecdotally, several years ago I was working with a trio of Delvers who tried to raid that particular Arcade against my advice—”

“Let me guess,” I interrupted, “they were beaten to death with their own limbs?”

“Wait, did I already tell you about Maria, Chad, and Robert?” Croc asked.

I sighed. Of course they’d been beaten to death using their own limbs. “We need to find a way to make friends with the Howlers, and this seems like the best way to do that. You love making friends,” I said, eyeballing the dog. “I thought you’d be on board.”

“Although my desperate need for friendship does haunt my every decision like an angry ghost I shall never be rid of, protecting my best friend forever is my top priority. And that’s you, Dan. You are my BFF and I care about you even more than waterslides or Froyo or the critically acclaimed book and movie series Twilight, which is why I need to tell you that this is a very bad idea. Maria, Chad, and Robert died in minutes, and that was before Funtime Frank contracted the Blight.

“He’ll be far more powerful now,” the dog continued. “And this is a three-star job. That might not sound particularly ominous, since it’s only one star higher than the MediocreMart, but the Threat Assessment Ratings aren’t linear, they’re exponential. A two-star rating is twice as difficult as a one-star rating, and a three-star rating is twice as difficult as a two-star rating. Whatever we’re dealing with will be well above level twenty. Even level thirty isn’t out of the question. This is a suicide mission.”

“He’s not wrong,” Temperance admitted readily. She almost sounded happy about it, which was concerning. “There is a reason why the Howlers haven’t dispatched a strike force, and it’s not just because they are shoring up their defenses in case the Aspirants decide to take a shot across the bow. Funtime Frank is dangerous and there is a chance we will die. With that said, it is not as hopeless as it seems. I have it on good authority that Frank is only level twenty-five. Tough but not impossibly so.”

“Then why such a high threat rating, I wonder?” Jakob asked, his claws clicking against the tabletop. “Seems like a two-and-a-half-star bounty at most.”

“No, the three stars are warranted,” Temperance replied. “Frank may only be level twenty-five, but he isn’t alone. He may be the leader of the Funtime Jamboree, but he is not its only member. To take him out, we’ll need to take out the whole band, too. And they are all at least level eighteen.”

“How many of them are there?” I asked.

“It’s a classic quintet,” she said, “including Frank, of course.”

I glanced at Croc.

An image of the mimic sprawled out on the floor, a single footstep away from death, cartwheeled through my thoughts. The mimic had warned me that picking a fight with Mohawk was a bad idea. I hadn’t listened and it had very nearly cost Croc its life. I couldn’t let that happen again, especially since the Researcher’s Seal would likely grant me access to the Safe Harbor without any complications.

The potential upside was worth the risk in my estimation, but I’d only do it if Croc was fully on board.

“What do you think?” I asked the mimic in all earnestness. “You know the stakes. Establishing a trade relationship with the Howlers is crucial, but if you sincerely think it’s a suicide mission, we can try to find a different way instead. What do we do here, buddy?”

“You, Dan, are trusting me, Croc, to make the call?” Croc asked, its googly eyes suddenly the size of teacups.

“Maybe if Maria, Chad, and Robert had listened to you,” I replied with a shrug, “they wouldn’t have been bludgeoned to death with their own limbs. Friends trust their friends, and I don’t aim to make the same mistake. So what do you think? Do we help her out or not?”

“I think you’ve just made me the happiest normal human dog in the whole world,” Croc said. “I also still think this is a terrible idea.”

“What if he came with us?” I asked, nodding at Jakob.

I liked the oddball German, but I still didn’t trust him for shit.

In his defense, I didn’t trust anyone other than Croc at this point, although Baby Hands was slowly edging his way into my inner circle—that weirdo was a hard worker. My mistrust also extended to Temperance, but she was only two levels higher than me, and she didn’t have a Mythic Emblem as an ace tucked up her sleeve. If push came to shove, I was confident I could at least get away from her, if not outright kill her.

Jakob was another matter, entirely.

Still, no man was an island, and if I was going to hold my own against the Monarch and the Aspirants, I wasn’t going to be able to do it alone. I’d need to trust other people eventually, and so far, the Cendral had proven himself to be reliable if nothing else. Maybe he’d kill me the second he got the chance, or maybe not. But if I didn’t take a few risks, the Monarch was one hundred percent gonna put me in a coffin. And I’d probably be alive and without an ounce of skin on my body when he did.

My question gave Croc a long pause.

Finally, the mimic-dog bobbed its head, googly eyes jiggling wildly. “Between the four of us, I think we’d have a shot.” Croc turned the look at the Cendral. “The real question is, will you help us?”

Jakob regarded his talons for a moment, as though in deep consideration. Then, finally, he sighed. “Wer A sagt, muss auch B sagen, as my countrymen say. I think the closest English expression is, In for a penny, in for a pound. I will help, but if we are going to do it, best to be smart about it. Getting the two of you”—he glanced between me and Temperance—“up to level twenty must be our highest priority. If we can do that... Maybe we can beat Frank and clear the Blight.”

“Well fuck it,” I said with a grin. “Let’s go power-level our asses off then kill evil Chuck E. Cheese.”

CHAPTER 43

GEAR UP

The plan was simple, elegant, and as insane as it was ballsy.

Head over to Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree and grind the lesser Blight-infected Dwellers who lurked within, until eventually we were strong enough to take on Frank and his animatronic jamboree posse. I had my reservations. Croc and I had visited one of the Loot Arcades on the third floor, and though I wouldn’t want to fuck around with the Mobile Murder Muncher, it didn’t seem like a great place to grind out loot or levels.

The Arcade we’d visited was just too small.

Not much bigger than the arcade they had at the Kenwood Towne Mall in Cincinnati.

Temperance and Jakob assured me that wouldn’t be a problem.

It seemed the Loot Arcades of the seventh floor were legendary for their size, and apparently Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree was a legend even among other legends. Hell, it was the sole reason the Howlers had settled on this trainwreck of a floor in the first place.

Frank and his animatronic band had always been bad news, but they mostly stayed in the Big Top, which was well away from the gaming floor and the prize booth. The other horrors that called the Jungle Gym Jamboree home, however, were also stronger and far more aggressive than they’d ever been before. That’s what the Blight did. It deformed the body with raw Mana and twisted the mind with so much pain that only rage remained.

Which, according to Temperance and Jakob, made it a great place to grind. Tons of overpowered bloodthirsty Dwellers who would attack on sight? Check. Great access to loot? Double check. Plus no one else in a ten-mile radius would be stupid or crazy enough to step foot in there, so we wouldn’t have to worry about the Aspirants—not inside the Arcade proper, anyway.

There were a few things to take care of first, however.

I’d leveled up after our throw down with Mohawk and the others, and Jakob had given me my cut of the Relics from the Aspirants we’d killed. They were distributed based on a “keep what you kill” loot policy, so Temperance walked away with the majority of the trophies—since she’d officially taken out both Mohawk and Face Tattoos—but I scored a few good items. The spell slinger I’d killed had a few decent Relics, and even though most were a mixture of Common and Uncommon, she’d had a pair of Rare-grade Relics as well.

Four of the ten had been utility-based.

Homing Pigeon was the Relic version of the Twinning String, and allowed the user to tag a single location, then find their way back, while Warning Bells was a vastly shittier version of my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense. Similarly, Common Bestiary was a weak-sauce version of The Researcher’s Codex—except it only worked on Dwellers and only if they were under level 15. And, like Wikipedia, sometimes the info was just flat-out wrong, since all the entries came from Delver “observations.”

Her fourth Utility, Bed Rest, was a decent, if underwhelming, passive that let the user regain Health and Mana at an accelerated rate while sleeping.

She had one physical attack Relic, with a similar effect to my Force Multiplier but for bladed weapons, and another that minorly increased Constitution. The last four were all arcane-focused, which was fine by me. She had one low-level Common ranged attack spell, Sanguine Blast, which didn’t even come close to the raw damage output of Drain-O Bolt or Pressure Washer. That one got put up for sale as soon as I could pass it off to Ponypuff.

The other three were keepers.

Insurance Pact was an interesting Uncommon-grade, Stamina-powered ability that allowed the user to make an “insurance pact” with an ally, allowing both pact members to share up to twenty percent of their max Health Pool with the other for ten minutes. I couldn’t see myself using that personally, but it would be great for someone who focused more on a support role. Like Jakob, who probably had an insane Health Pool, on account of his build and race.

I’d see if the Cendral wanted the item before putting it up for sale.

The next was a skill called Cashback Rewards, which was much more useful than the name implied. It was Rare-grade and allowed the user to form a link with a single enemy in line of sight. While linked, twenty-five percent of damage dealt to the enemy from all sources healed you instead. Although the spell cost was high, it had a good duration and only a ten-minute internal cooldown timer. Overall, it was a stellar skill that would be great for a squishy damage dealer like myself.

But that wasn’t the most interesting thing.

It synergized with the third Relic, an Uncommon-grade called Crimson Rain.

Crimson Rain itself was an AoE spell that rained blood and dealt 10 points of damage per minute for two minutes to anyone inside the spell’s effect radius. Good, but far from spectacular. Although Crimson Rain and Cashback Reward synergized, their compatibility was surprisingly low, clocking in at just forty-eight percent. But together, they also resonated with my Drain-O Bolt. When combined, the three Rare-grade Relics had a ninety-five percent compatibility rating.

I ran the full Codex Compatibility Analysis and carefully read through the report on the Relic iteration, just to triple-check before I did anything hasty.

StainSlayer Maelstrom: Industrial-Grade Cleansing Power

Fabled Relic (Fully Tempered) – Level 5

Range: Line of sight

Area of Effect: 30' Radius

Cost: 50 Mana

Cast time: 10 Seconds

Effect Duration: 1 Minute

Cooldown: 2 Minutes

Summon a torrential downpour of prescription-strength cleaning solution that falls with the subtlety of a sledgehammer in a glass factory. Instead of targeting a single mess, StainSlayer Maelstrom “sanitizes” all organic matter in a thirty-foot radius in a nightmarish baptism of ’roided-out, industrial-grade MegaBleach! Fuck yeah!

This stuff might even be powerful enough to cleanse your soul of the innumerable war crimes you’ve likely committed!

Like purifying flame, StainSlayer is an indiscriminate cleanser. Anyone caught in the deluge without proper Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) suffers 125 points of Corrosive Burst Damage on contact. Those caught in the “Splash Zone” take an additional 2 points of Chemical Burn damage per second and lose 1 point of Mana and 1 point of Stamina per second. Yeah, this’ll fuck shit up.

This Relic enables Mana usage.

I whistled through my teeth. Hol-ee shit.

Although the two-minute cooldown time was less than ideal—since I wouldn’t be able to spam the ability—and the Mana cost was higher than I’d like, it was still a phenomenal spell. It dealt truly brutal burst damage and had powerful DPS to boot, not to mention the Mana and Stamina drain effect.

There were still a few drawbacks, however.

Just like with the original Bleach Bolt, this was only effective against organic material, so there was a good chance it would be worthless against Funtime Frank and his animatronic jamboree posse. Still, ninety-five percent of the Dwellers I’d stumbled across so far were organic, so Frank was a short-term problem. The other major drawback was that the spell dealt damage indiscriminately. Anyone stuck in the downpour was going to get boned.

Unless…

Unless they had the right Personal Protective Equipment.

With all the resources I had sitting around the store, there might be a way to deal with that particular problem. As a general contractor, my duct tape skills were without peer, and I also had access to plastic drop cloths, rain ponchos, and sunglasses.

If I couldn’t figure out a solution, no one could.

The only other drawback—though, I wasn’t entirely sure it was a drawback—was that doing this would Fully Temper the Relic. That meant no more forging. No more changes. No more upgrades. The skill would likely evolve and improve somewhat as I leveled it up, but the basic effects and functionality would remain the same from here on out. If I did this, I’d end up with my first Fabled-grade Relic—discounting the abilities inside the Emblem—but some small part of me wondered if I shouldn’t hold out for just a little longer.

Fabled was good, but it wasn’t Mythic.

But that was greed whispering into my ear, I knew.

There were Delvers who would give their left nut for a Fabled Relic, and here I was, seriously considering whether to hold out or not, because there might be something minutely better somewhere down the road.

Maybe.

If I was lucky and didn’t die first.

I had a good thing here, and if I didn’t act now, I knew I’d regret it sooner rather than later. As my grandad said, better to have one in the hand than two in the bush, especially since there was no guarantee that I’d ever even find a bush.

I accepted, forging the new Relic.

There was a potent rush of power when I added it to my Core. The sensation wasn’t quite as intense as when I’d equipped the Compass of the Catacomber, but it was in the same ballpark. StainSlayer Maelstrom was an object of real power. One that was on par with the abilities of the Flayed Monarch, and it was all thanks to the Compass. Without the Researcher’s Codex, I never would’ve smashed those three Relics together. The risk was simply too great.

But now I had another power, worthy of a dark god of the Backrooms.

With my shiny new Relic in place, I paid a quick visit to the Monolith and distributed the handful of Enhancement Points I’d earned from my last level up. Since we were going into a Blighted hot zone, I decided to drop two points into Preservation, bringing it up to seven. Maybe that was overkill, but when it came to debilitating, life-ending super-diseases, I was in the better-safe-than-sorry camp. I dropped one point into Grit, bringing that up to thirteen, then split the two remaining points between Resonance and Perception.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 17

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 19,285

Next Level: 23,500

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 76

Health-Regen/Hour: 3.55

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 41

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 3.1

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 105

Mana-Regen/Minute: 8.21

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 13

Athleticism: 12

Toughness: 17 (9 + 8 Enhanced)

Perception: 21

Resonance: 40 (44 – 4 Debuff)

Preservation: 7

Spatial Core - Active

(C) Moving Walkway – Level 1

(C) Force Multiplier – Level 1

(C) Doodle Buddy – Level 1

(C) The Pharmacist’s Scales – Level 5

(U) Mall Ninja’s Strike – Level 4

(U) Baldree’s Scale Mail Cuirass – Level 7

(R) Pressure Washer – Level 1

(R) Sterilization Field – Level 5

(F) StainSlayer Maelstrom – Level 5 (Fully Tempered)

(ME) Compass of the Catacomber (Fully Tempered)

Current Titles – Passive

Out of Your League, Deathwish, Marked for Death, Weapon of Opportunity, Legend in the Making, Overkill Overlord, Fish in a Barrel (E), Human Cannonball, Cold-Blooded Murderer (E)

My gaze lingered on my new title, carelessly tacked on to the bottom of my Specimen Bio-Report like a festering wound.

Cold-Blooded Murderer.

Natasha Anno, that was her name.

I knew nothing else about her, but my mind clung to that detail. I felt the crunch of bone beneath my falling hammer. The coppery scent of blood filled my nostrils. Rage and anger, guilt and regret all surged through me in a confusing snowstorm of emotion. She would’ve killed me. I knew that just as surely as I knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west.

Somehow, that fact was cold comfort.

Maybe it was that she’d been a woman. Call me a chauvinist, but my dad had taught me that you never laid your hand on a woman. It just wasn’t something real men did. I knew that was bullshit, and Iraq had taught me that lesson in the most painful way possible. We’d been rolling through Ramadi when a woman in a midnight-black burka charged our convoy and triggered a suicide vest, secured beneath the flowing garment.

There’d been nothing anyone could do, and Sergeant Martin had ended up dead as a result, pieces of him scattered across the dusty road and hanging from the power lines overhead.

Women could be just as dangerous as men, especially when backed into a corner with nothing to lose. But even though I knew that on an intellectual level, guilt still hung around my neck like heavy iron chains. You don’t lay a hand on a woman, my old man’s voice insisted in the back of my head. Not ever. I idly wondered about him for a moment. Whether he was doing okay. How he and Mom would be coping with my disappearance.

Knowing him, the crotchety old bastard was probably making a nuisance of himself with Cincinnati PD. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he was down at department headquarters every single day, badgering the detectives or harassing the desk sergeant about my case. He was a retiree with nothing better to do, and he actively enjoyed being a pain in the ass.

I pushed thoughts of my dad away, along with the lingering guilt over Natasha Anno. I had better shit to do than wallow in self-pity over something I couldn’t change.

Focusing on the task at hand, I toggled over to my storage space and reviewed the other Relics I had stashed away. These were the ones that weren’t quite good enough for the Varsity Team but were still solidly in the JV Squad. Although none of them were currently equipped to my Spatial Core, I’d be able to swap them out in under a minute if the need arose. The Monolith let me quickly search and sort through my inventory until only the Relics showed up on the display.

- 1 x (C) Basic Camo Kit – Level 1

- 1 x (C) Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding – Level 1

- 1 x (C) Gremlin Groin Guardian – Level 1

- 1 x (U) Erlenmeyer’s Molotov Cocktail – Level 1

- 1 x (U) Burn, Baby, Burn – Level 1

- 1 x (R) Bad Trip – Level 1

Of the six, only Bad Trip and Molotov Cocktail were likely to see any use, but it was still good to remind myself what I had on hand. It was a bit like the tools in my belt—just because I used some much more frequently didn’t mean the others were worthless. A hammer was great, until you needed a Philips-head screwdriver or a socket wrench. In the right situation, any one of those Relics could be a value-add.

Even the disgusting Gremlin nut bucket.

CHAPTER 44

MANA DISPLACEMENT EFFECT

It took us the better part of a day to get to Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree—though between Jakob, Temperance, and Unerring Arrow, I’d never had an easier or more stress-free trip. Temperance seemed to intuitively know every inch of the seventh floor, even though that was impossible given its sheer scope, and as a level 25, Jakob could swat down anything that looked at us funny.

Well, not anything, anything.

We still needed to say our prayers, lest Goosey goosey gander—that goose-bodied shitweasel—throw us down the stairs like disobedient children.

But almost anything.

Not that the Cendral did much killing.

He seemed predisposed to nonviolence, even against the monstrous Dwellers, which was a mirror opposite of Temperance. She had a lady boner the size of Mount Everest for killing… well, everything. The colonial settler turned furry—words I never imagined saying, not in a million years—was a force of nature and she had a Spatial Core full of Relics designed to help her commit Dweller genocide. She killed things so aggressively and so fast that there really wasn’t much for me to do, other than navigate and scrawl survival tips on the walls in spray paint.

My constant need to advertise seemed to annoy the shit out of Temperance, who only wanted to go, go, go as fast as humanly possible so she could kill more things. But I wasn’t going to pass up a golden opportunity like this one, and for all her homicidal prowess, she couldn’t navigate this place the way I could.

The rather leisurely journey also gave me a chance to ask Jakob a few questions that had been bugging the absolute shit out of me for the past few weeks:

Namely, why in the hell was everyone so low-level?

It didn’t make any sense.

I’d been in the Backrooms for a little over a month and I’d already surpassed Delvers who’d been here for years. Sure, I had advantages no one else did, but the Compass didn’t make me inordinately stronger or faster than other Delvers.

So why the weird disparity?

The reasons were legion, it seemed, and the enigmatic German was only too happy to explain in excruciatingly comprehensive detail, which frustrated Temperance to no end. She was less interested in talking and more interested in stabbing.

“You must remember that your experience is quite atypical,” Jakob explained while Temperance looted the body of a Locker Lurker, which had tried to get the jump on us. The Lurkers were basically giant hermit crabs, who used the dilapidated lockers as makeshift shells. They were some of the weaker Dwellers on this floor, and easy enough to dispatch, so long as you didn’t run into a cluster of the clawed sons a bitches.

“Finding a powerful Navigation Relic so early on was an exceptional stroke of good fortune for you,” the Cendral continued. “Most new Delvers are not so lucky. And because of that, they cannot wantonly cavort across several floors over the span of a few weeks. It simply isn’t done. Even finding a stairwell to the next floor can take months, and the risks of such exploration simply aren’t worth it for most.

“Those lucky enough to survive the Lobby and find a way down often have a surprisingly simple list of goals: find a Progenitor Monolith, locate a reasonably reliable source of food and water, then carve out a space within close proximity to said food source. They will fight Dwellers who move into their territory if they must, but every battle is a terrible gamble. And most won’t venture far from their base of operations, unless great need drives them to do so.

“To be honest, that is one of the reasons why this whole enterprise of yours so intrigues me,” he continued, stealing a sideways glance at me. “The store is invaluable not only for its material resources, but for its ability to help Delvers transcend floors with relative ease. And the Twinning Rings allow even the newest Delvers to navigate with some fixed reference point. Intentional or not, you are single-handedly incentivizing exploration in a way I have not seen before.”

I grunted.

I hadn’t thought about any of those points, but it all made a certain degree of sense. There were still a few holes in his explanation, however.

“Just assuming for the moment that everything you said is all true,” I replied after mulling it over for a beat, “that still doesn’t actually explain why people are so low-level. Sure, it might take ’em longer to level up, but even if someone hunkered down in one spot for a year and only killed Dwellers out of pure necessity, it should still only take a few months to hit level six or seven and then they could grind lower-level Dwellers without much worry about dying. Kill enough level-one and level-two monsters and you’re bound to hit level ten. Or is there something I’m missing?”

“There are still the traps to consider, Dan,” Croc said, its feet squeaking along beside me. “Arguably, the traps are a bigger danger than the Dwellers, even for more powerful Delvers. Unless you have some sort of Trap Sense Relic, you just won’t see those things until it’s too late. Approximately sixty-three percent of all the Delvers I’ve ever worked with died to traps or environmental hazards.”

“The mimic makes an excellent point,” Jakob agreed. “Having the ability to navigate is only half the problem, and there is one other factor worth taking into consideration. Perhaps the biggest factor of all.”

“And that is?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

“The Researcher,” he replied, somber as the grave. “Many Delvers assume, erroneously, that when you kill a Dweller you receive experience points from the creature itself. A common misconception, especially because that is the way that it works for Dwellers, like Croc.” He motioned at the dog. “But you must remember that the Delvers and Dwellers are of an entirely different metaphysical nature. Dwellers are a product of the Backrooms, birthed by the Progenitor Engine, so their bodies are naturally compatible with the strange magic of this place.”

“If that’s true, then why do the Dwellers get progressively stronger the deeper down you go?” I asked. “Seems like strength would be a function of time, not location. The older a Dweller gets, the stronger they get. But Croc’s been around for decades, and it was only level seven when we first met. If it can just kill other Dwellers and eat their power, Croc should be ridiculously OP by now.”

“It’s a phenomenon called Mana Displacement Effect,” Croc said, chipper as ever. “If we kill other Dwellers we can consume and absorb their essence, which has an effect similar to experience points, but our Spatial Cores are leaky. Filled with holes just like my body.” The dog waggled its bottom, showing off the assortment of dime-sized gaps punctuating its rubbery skin. “And the less residual Mana there is on a given floor, the more quickly we leak until an equilibrium is reached.

“The floors furthest away from the God Box—that’s what we call the Progenitor Engine—have the least amount of total residual magic. People think about the Backrooms like a cake with a bunch of different layers. The Lobby is on the top, like a delicious layer of frosting, and the God Box at the bottom is the crisp, tasty crust. Boy, do I wish that were true, because I love cake. Especially ice cream cake. But instead of normal ice cream, the layers are all Froyo.”

“Are you hungry, Croc?” I asked.

“I am, actually. How did you know?” the dog asked.

“Just a wild guess,” I replied with a lopsided smile. “Anyway, you were saying the Backrooms are like a cake?” I prompted.

“No, I’m saying they aren’t like a delicious Froyo cake, even though everyone thinks they are. It’s actually more like a planet. And the God Box at the center is the source of all Mana and it pushes that Mana outward. The floors closest to the core have extremely high levels of Mana, and the layers furthest away don’t.”

“So the Dwellers down deeper are proportionally stronger on every floor because there’s more residual Mana—”

“Which means the Mana Displacement Effect is weaker,” Croc finished. “I.e., we leak less and can hold significantly more.”

“Then why didn’t you ever move deeper down?” I asked the dog in all earnestness.

“Because then I wouldn’t have been able to help new Delvers,” Croc replied simply, as though the answer should’ve been as plain as the nose on my face. “That’s always been my purpose, Dan. I was stronger once, a long time ago. Made it all the way up to level fifteen.” The dog shuddered, its shoulder slumping, its ears drooping. “That was far enough for me. It’s bad down there, Dan. Ugly and mean and lonely. Though not anymore.” The dog brightened visibly. “Because now I have a friend! And we can still help new Delvers no matter how deep we go! It’s a win, win!”

My smile broadened and I leaned over and patted the dog that wasn’t a dog on the head.

“Okay, I guess that all tracks,” I said, straightening. “So we don’t absorb essence, but instead earn experience, which comes from the Researcher. Does that mean there’s a Mana Displacement Effect equivalent, but for Delvers?”

“Yes and no.” Jakob shook his head firmly. “Once a Delver advances, the levels remain. The stronger a Delver is, however, the less experience they receive from the Researcher for killing creatures sustainably below their level. The Localized Administrators even actively penalize Delvers for grinding levels against weaker creatures for too long. Have you, perhaps, received some sort of evolving title that limits your ability to earn experience from lower-level Dwellers?”

I nodded. “Fish in a Barrel,” I said, feeling a prickle of unease race along my spine. “I don’t earn any experience for killing creatures beneath level five.”

“As I expected. I have a similar evolving title called Kinderspiel. Child’s Play, in the English vernacular. I unlocked it shortly after hitting level twelve and it evolved once more when I hit level twenty. I no longer gain any experience for slaying creatures beneath level ten. Temperance has a similar title as well, Forgone Conclusion, which limits her in the same manner.”

“I utterly detest it,” Temperance growled over one shoulder. “They drop loot, yes, but fail to grant any experience at all.”

“That seems counterintuitive,” I said. “Could be I’m wrong, but the Researcher seems like he’s actively trying to help us survive. At least that’s the sense I got from the few messages I received. And my Localized Administrator is a colossal dick, but I’m reasonably sure it’s in my corner. It seems like they’d want us to be as strong as possible.”

“No one knows the answers for sure,” Jakob said, “but there are a number of theories—though I find some are far more plausible than others. One camp, the Red Spectators, believes the Backrooms are a game. A giant, bloody colosseum designed for the entertainment of the Researcher, or perhaps some other distant superintelligence. They believe the system is thus designed to force Delvers to descend to deeper floors, where great threats wait.

“There are others”—he glanced briefly at Temperance—“who believe the Backrooms to be a divine test of sorts. A proving ground, designed to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

“I can still hear you,” Temperance called back over one shoulder.

A slight blush crept into Jakob’s otherwise white cheeks, but he pressed on. “The Roomkeepers, like our Temperance here, believe the chosen few who pass the trial by making it to the thousandth floor are whisked away to a distant paradise world, where there is no suffering or pain or misery. But to get there, you must first endure the inferno and come away purified. That or be purged.”

“You make it sound like the Christian Heaven,” Temperance growled from up ahead, “but it isn’t. It bears far greater resemblance to Valhalla—an unending revel of feasting, ale, carnality, and bloodshed. The Backrooms exist solely to ensure that only the worthy may step into the Grand Hall.”

That sounded like a bunch of pseudo-religious bullshit to me, but then what the fuck did I know? Maybe this Researcher really was some all-powerful Viking god. Though even if that was true, I wouldn’t much want to worship a god who allowed this kind of butchery and tomfuckery to happen under his watch. Either he was an evil god or a breathtakingly incompetent one.

“The Cult of Noth believes all of this is some vast, global-governmental conspiracy called the Variant Research Division,” Jakob continued after a beat. “Sort of a Men in Black type organization. Some in the cult hold that the Backrooms was built by the VRD as a prison, meant to contain dangerous and anomalous entities from other dimensions and realities, while another, smaller faction, believes the facility was designed to force human evolution through unethical experimentation.”

Of the three theories so far, that sounded the most plausible, though I had a hard time swallowing most conspiracy theories. Not because I believed the government was morally above doing that kind of shady bullshit, but because logistically it seemed unlikely. I’d worked in the military—had deployed to war zones—and I’d learned people had big fucking mouths. They couldn’t help but talk and brag even when it endangered their own lives.

Orchestrating a conspiracy on a smaller scale, where maybe only a dozen people were involved, seemed conceivable. But a conspiracy on the scale of the Backrooms? That would take thousands or tens of thousands of people to pull off, and some shitty, low-level lance corporal somewhere would run his mouth eventually. No way could they keep this kind of thing under wraps indefinitely.

“I’m guessing you have a differing view?” I said, more statement than question.

“Indeed, I do. Though understand that it’s all pure conjecture.” Jakob’s lips stretched into a thin line and his eyes took on a hazy, distant appearance as though he were looking far off into some distant memory. “As I said, no one knows the mind of the Researcher, and if there are true answers to be found, I suspect they are buried so deeply on the lower floors that none of us will ever likely find them.”

“As for me, however, I think it has to do with the Blight. I don’t fully understand what the Blight is, or where it comes from, but clearly the Researcher is trying to eradicate it. The existence of the Job Board hints at as much. I believe his goal is not to find one champion, but to raise an army of champions capable of eradicating the Blight on the lower floors. The Job Board is the carrot—clear the Blight, get rewards. The experience restrictions are the stick.”

I turned his explanation over in my head, examining it from a dozen different angles. “That doesn’t track either. If the Researcher’s goal is to make an army of champions, why not just power level everyone the second they Noclip into the Lobby? Then they could just wade through the lower floors and butcher everything that gets in their way.”

Jakob pitched his voice low. So low, Temperance wouldn’t be able to hear us. “Because I unequivocally do not believe the Researcher to be some benevolent, all-powerful god. What if,” he whispered so quietly I needed to lean in to hear him, “his resources are finite?”

Huh. Now that was an interesting thought.

“If his resources are finite,” I said slowly, “he can’t afford to make bad investments. And we are the investments.”

“Precisely,” Jakob agreed, clapping me on the shoulder. “The first twenty-five floors are a gauntlet designed to show which new arrivals are worth investing in. But there is an artificial level cap. And if you want to push past it—to grow stronger and get better Relics—you will eventually be forced to go lower, which is also where the Blight is more pervasive.”

“You’re saying the people who camp out on these floors for years and years and years are the ones who’ve what? Given up?”

“Something to that effect,” Jakob agreed with a shrug. “And thus, the Researcher has given up on them. A crop that has yielded no fruit. Although, again, this is just my own speculation. Perhaps it is a cruel game for the amusement of some galactic audience. Or a vast conspiracy or an inferno, meant to purify the chosen for paradise. The only way to know for sure is to go deeper.”

The conversation had given me a lot to noodle on, but I couldn’t put the cart before the horse. If I wanted to live long enough to get actual answers, I’d need to survive Funtime Frank first. And that? Well, that would be easier said than done.

As we rounded a corner, I caught my first look at the Jungle Gym Jamboree and I instantly regretted the decision to come here…

CHAPTER 45

JUNGLE GYM JAMBOREE

Stepping into Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree was like plunging into another dimension entirely.

This place wasn’t a simple mall arcade, like the place Croc and I had raided on the third floor. Nope. The Jamboree was a neon-drenched city that was like the bastard love child of Chuck E. Cheese and a traveling carnival. A vast ocean of arcade games stretched out for as far as I could see: video games, pinball, basketball shootout, claw machines, racing simulators, spin-n-win ticket machines, and enough Skee-Ball machines to accommodate an army of rowdy kids, all hopped up on Mountain Dew and adrenaline.

The aroma of pizza mixed with the saccharine scent of funnel cake and cotton candy assaulted me like a closed fist to the nose. My stomach grumbled at the mere idea of hot food that hadn’t been cooked in a microwave, but I pushed that thought away. We had business to handle.

Rising up from amongst the games like impossible skyscrapers were janky carnival attractions painted in a variety of eye-searing colors. They clanked and dinged and hummed with a dizzying symphony of mechanical noises and discordant music. An old-school Ferris wheel turned off in the distance, its buckets empty, but the wheel rotating continuously all the same. There were garish, brightly lit carousels and bumper cars, a spinning teacup ride and an elaborate mirror maze.

Even a full-sized train, which roared around the perimeter at insanely dangerous speeds.

The real jaw-dropping wonder, however, was the incomprehensibly huge network of plastic play tubes that crisscrossed the city-sized fun zone, zigzagging through the air high overhead. Like the veins of some gigantic creature, they twisted and turned, rising high then plunging low, branching off into long curlicue slides, ball pits, and secret hideaways. It was an aboveground labyrinth with branches and entryways scattered liberally across the jamboree.

Although it beggared the imagination, in theory, a kid could enter the tubes on one side of the Arcade and emerge miles away without ever having to set one foot on the sticky purple carpet. In the center of the city was a huge, striped tent marked by a large neon sign that read Funtime Frank’s Funhouse Jamboree Zone!

“Heavens to Betsy, it’s absolutely breathtaking,” Croc whispered reverently from beside me, its googly eyes fixed firmly on the hundreds of different slides, all in various shapes and sizes. “I mean, just look at all those slides. Sure, it’s not a water park, but it’s still a thousand times better than the Burger Barn Play Palace.”

“You’d do well to avoid those slides,” Temperance growled, her eyes continually roving for potential threats. “Some have saw blades embedded in the tubes. Others are studded with nails, strung with piano wire, or rigged with explosives. Even the so-called harmless ones are anything but. The Howlers lost a Delver to one of the ball pits just a few months past. By the time they retrieved what was left of him, it wouldn’t have filled a soup ladle.”

Croc’s tail wilted. “What monster could do something so terrible…”

“The Backrooms are a hard place,” Jakob replied solemnly, “and there are many dangers. The Delvers that come here know the risk.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the Delvers,” Croc replied. “I mean, that’s sad too, I suppose. But I was talking about the slides. How could someone ruin something so pure and joyous?” Croc shook its head, eyes sad. “It’s a travesty.”

I snorted. Of course, Croc was concerned about the slides. I choked back a laugh and absently patted the mimic’s head. “I’m sure we could find one that’s safe to use,” I said reassuringly. “But first we need to take care of Funtime Frank.”

I eyed the interconnected plastic maze. It looked like the only way to access the big top was through the tube network. But that also meant we probably wouldn’t have to worry about stumbling into Frank prematurely.

“We aren’t ready for Frank,” Jakob said, almost as though he were reading my mind. “Not just yet, anyway.” He unclipped the metal frisbee from his belt and secured it to one arm. There was a click and the disc unfurled, transforming into the large tower shield I’d seen before. “If we take him on as we are, we shall surely perish. Both of you”—he looked at me and Temperance in turn—“need to level.”

“Where to first?” Temperance asked, idly twirling her meat cleaver, clearly eager to get to the butchery.

“We’ll want to redeem Loot Tokens before we head into the Funhouse,” the Cendral said, “but we’ll want to get tickets first.”

“Tickets?” I asked, frowning. “I don’t remember seeing tickets at the last Loot Arcade we visited.”

“The Jungle Gym Jamboree is unlike most of the other Arcades,” Temperance explained. “It’s the very reason the Howlers chose to establish the Hold here in the first place.”

“There are still vending stations, Gashapon machines, and temporary tattoo dispensers,” Jakob explained. “But all the Arcades have those,” he added. “At least above level one hundred they do. But the bigger Arcades, like this one, also have prize booths. You use the Loot Tokens to play the games and win tickets, then you can exchange those tickets for the prizes.”

“What kinda prizes are we talking about here?” I asked, eyes squinting in suspicion. “Because gambling away Loot Tokens seems pretty fucking dumb, especially when the toy machines are a sure thing.”

“Trust me,” Jakob said, serious as a heart attack, “the risk is worth the reward. They aren’t cheap, but if you are both skilled and lucky you can win powerful Artifacts and even Uncommon or Rare Relics. And unlike the Gashapon machines, you know exactly what your prize will be—assuming you earn enough tickets to secure your desired reward.”

“What about killing Dwellers?” I asked.

Obviously, I was interested in the prospect of getting some cool new shit, but the primary reason we were here was to grind levels.

“Do not concern yourself about that,” Temperance said with a sadistic grin and another twirl of her meat cleaver. “The games that offer the greatest bounty are those steeped in bloodshed. Killing, my dear, and plenty of it…”

I’d never heard her sound more excited, which made me nervous. Although I hadn’t known Temperance long, I’d known her just long enough to realize that fun for her was a nightmarish, LSD-fueled hellscape for everyone else. But that probably did mean we were going to get some awesome experience.

Weapons drawn, Jakob ushered us into the carpeted wonderland, quickly weaving through rows upon rows of classic video game cabinets, slipping past the racers, then heading toward one of those ol’-timey shooting arcades, which had the pump-action BB guns. Except the weapons sitting on the tabletop weren’t BB guns at all, but sleek AK47s with wooden stocks and dull, black metal frames.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, picking one of the weapons up and running my hands appreciatively along the upper receiver. Although the Marine Corps didn’t officially train or use AKs, we’d learned how to use the weapons in preparation for our first deployment to Iraq. The Russian-made Kalashnikovs were the favored weapon of insurgents and foreign paramilitary groups across the world.

Arcade AK

Bonded Artifact

Type: Ranged Weapon

Created by Mikhail Kalashnikov in 1947 and adopted by the Soviet Army, the AK47 is a weapon forged in the fires of conflict, revered by warlords and revolutionaries alike, and single-handedly responsible for more deaths than any other weapon in human history. And it ain’t even close. Is this thing sophisticated? Fuck no. But it’s built like a brick shithouse, never jams, and will still work even if it’s underwater, covered in mud, or rusted over. In short, this weapon will still be killing people long after you’re dead.

This Artifact is Locationally Bonded to the Funtime Frank’s Shooting Gallery. It will not work if removed from its bonded venue.

“How good of a shot are you?” the Cendral asked, cocking a scaly eyebrow at me.

“Not as good as I used to be,” I said, idly pulling the charging handle back and checking the chamber. It was empty. “But at this range,” I said, nodding my chin toward the shooting gallery, “I should be fine.”

“Good, good. Then step inside.”

Jakob directed me through a small batwing gate and into the shooting gallery itself. It was western-themed, the ground covered in gritty sand facing what appeared to be the façade of dusty general store, built from weathered wooden planks with faint traces of peeling paint. There was a hitching post and water trough in front of the elevated wooden deck. Wooden whiskey barrels were lined up to the left of the batwing doors, while piles of crates were neatly stacked on the right.

A wooden sign dangled in front of the building. The Rusty Spur Trading Post.

“Are you ready?” Jakob asked, from behind me.

I grunted, nodded, and shouldered the weapon, tucking it tight into my shoulder pocket. I took a few deep breaths and rested my cheek against the buttstock, looking for the small circular targets that normally adorned such shooting galleries.

There were none.

What the hell am I supposed to shoot? I wondered.

The metallic clunk of a coin dropping into a slot caught my ear. Surprised by the sound, I lowered the AK and glanced back over one shoulder.

“Good luck,” Jakob said, sliding another copper token into a slot I couldn’t see. A hazy blue shield erupted around the perimeter of the gallery and the dusty jangle of an old-timey piano erupted all around me.

You have entered a Mana Suppression Field. Relics requiring Mana will not function while in this zone. Your Bonded AK is now operational!

Before I could even finish reading the message in full, I heard the sharp report of a firearm—except I hadn’t pulled the trigger. Something whizzed by my leg, missing by inches, and a round plowed into the dirt beside me, kicking up a small plume of grit.

I whipped my head forward, cheek pressed against the buttstock once more, and saw a small green man, maybe three feet tall, his head peeking out of a wood-slatted barrel.

The creature had puke-green skin and a bald, knobby head. There was a black bandana tied across its nose and mouth. It wore a canvas duster, but no shirt. It also had a dusty six-shooter gripped in one long-fingered hand.

Dweller 0.746D – Shootout Gallery Goblin (Blighted) [Level 6]

The Gallery Goblin cocked the hammer back on the antique Colt and fired again. Thank the good lord, the little shit was a terrible shot. It jerked the trigger—classic noob mistake—and the gun barrel kicked up in a belch of yellow fire and gray smoke. The round went wide, slamming into the energy barrier and disintegrating on contact. For a brief moment, I wondered whether the same thing would happen to me if I tried to leap through the shimmering wall of light.

Definitely not worth the risk, I decided.

Before the goblin could cock the hammer again, I leveled my weapon and let loose with a quick burst of fully automatic fire. AK’s were reliable but notoriously inaccurate. At thirty feet, however, I mowed down the goblin like overgrown grass. The rounds tore through its frail body, decimating the barrel in the process. Green blood splashed against the general store wall. A Health bar appeared for an eyeblink but drained just as quickly.

Another pair of reports rang out, one coming from my left, another from the right.

A second pistol-wielding Gallery Goblin had popped out of the horse trough, while a third goblin—this one carrying a bolt-action rifle and wearing a dark brown Stetson—fired at me from a second-story window. I dove right, but there was shit-all for cover and I was too slow on my feet—especially without Moving Walkway to aid me.

Pistol Goblin was as shitty a shot as Barrel Goblin had been, but it seemed Rifle Goblin up in the window knew how to lead a target. The Colt round hit the dirt, kicking up more debris, but the rifle round punched cleanly into my left thigh, tearing through the muscle like a surgeon’s scalpel. I let out a cry of pain and landed hard on my shoulder, skidding a few feet through the dirt before coming to a stop.

The pain from the gun wound was like a burning star nestled inside my leg.

But I ignored the pain, rolled partway onto my back, and strafed the AK across the front of the building, not even bothering to aim the weapon. The gun barked and a spray of bullets riddled the goblin in the Stetson. My fire discipline was garbage, but that was one of the benefits of the AK. They proved that quantity had its own sort of quality.

I squeezed the trigger again, screaming the whole while.

Rifle Goblin went down in a gurgle of blood, and I managed to take out the second Pistol Goblin before it could get another shot off. Wincing, I pushed myself into a sitting position. The blood seeping from my wounded leg turned the ground a muddy red-brown. It didn’t look like the bullet had nicked the femoral or I’d already be dead, but if this went on for much longer, I’d bleed out anyway.

Panting, with dust plastered to the sweat coating my face, I hefted the AK and scanned the front of the general store. Three more Gallery Goblins popped out in quick succession, two from the pile of crates, the last sauntering out from the batwing doors. The third was taller than the others by at least a foot and wore full cowboy attire. He had a pair of ivory-handled pistols slung low across his hips, though neither weapon was drawn.

Dweller 0.748D – Gallery Goblin Gunslinger (Blighted) [Level 8]

The music jangled and changed, and a low whistle filled the air.

I’d heard this tune many times before. It was the same music old Western films played for the Shootout at High Noon scenes. The gunslinger with dual pistols was obviously the big bad, and I had a feeling he’d be a mite bit tougher to kill than the others. At least, he would be if I intended to play by the rules of the game.

One of the lesser Shootout Goblins had a rifle, but the one closest to the general store entryway wore a crisscrossing bandolier filled with sticks of cherry red dynamite. He had a stick clutched in one hand, the fuse sparking and hissing like an angry snake as the goblin prepared to hurl the dynamite at me and turn me into meat confetti. Instead, I raised the AK, took a deep breath, and slowly squeezed off a solid grouping into the creature’s chest and arm.

Puckered wounds bloomed across the goblin’s pitifully sunken chest, and its upraised arm fell limply to its side. The lit dynamite landed with a chunk, rolled a few feet to the left, and exploded just as the gunslinger drew his ivory-handled pistols. A bubble of orange and gold and red billowed up and out, enveloping the gunslinger and the other two goblins, who were still seeking cover in the stacked crates.

I squinted against the intense blaze.

When the fireball finally dissipated, there was nothing but charred remains and a dark, smoldering soot spot where the gunslinger had been moments before. The wooden sign, which had previously read, The Rusty Spur Trading Post, strobed with fire-engine red neon lights: Winner! Winner! Winner! The Arcane Suppression Field engulfing the shootout fizzled and died. When I tentatively tried the AK again, it had gone inert.

Just a dull, lifeless hunk of metal and wood once more.

Research Achievement Unlocked!

High Noon Hijinks

Howdy, partner! You just survived a rootin’ tootin’ gunslinger shootout against the notorious Gallery Goblins at Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree. Most Delvers aren’t crazy enough to dick around with these guys, but then you’re no ordinary Delver. You’re a fucking moron. But hey, you shot your shot and only got a little shot in return, so I guess it all worked out.

Reward: 250 Experience Points, 1 x Gold Gambler Loot Token – If you’re willing to take a walk on the wild side, there are even better games out there. Just sayin’…

I dismissed the achievement, then used the gun as a crutch to gain my feet, sweating and shaking the whole time. With a growl, I wheeled on Jakob and the others, offering each one a look that could strip paint.

“What the actual hell, you blue falcon assholes!” I bellowed, hurling the weapon down in a puff of sand and dirt. “I could’ve died, you assclowns.”

“Oh my god, Dan,” Croc said, wilting under my stare. “I am so, so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Yeah, but these douche canoes did,” I said, shifting my glare between Jakob and Temperance—the latter of whom was grinning like a lunatic and actively trying not to laugh in my face. “I got shot, you dickheads.” I gestured at my leg, still bloody and ragged from the wound.

“But you survived,” Jakob said, sounding unperturbed. “And if you can’t handle a little friendly fire from the goblins of the shooting gallery, then you certainly won’t fare well against Funtime Frank.”

I grumbled to myself, though I had to admit he was probably right.

The gunshot had drained my Health Pool by thirty-five percent, but now that I had access to my Mana again, I used the Pharmacist’s Scales to swap twenty-seven points of Mana for Health, topping off my HP bar.

“You still coulda warned me,” I muttered, experimentally putting a little weight onto the limb.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Temperance asked.

“It is best if you experience it firsthand,” Jakob agreed. “And the challenges will only get more difficult from here. All things considered, you did quite well for your first outing.” He raised a clawed hand, revealing a tangled string of tickets. “You earned seventy-five tickets for that little performance, plus a decent amount of experience to boot.”

I grunted, but realized he was right.

I’d earned the two hundred and fifty points for the research achievement, but another one hundred and fifty for killing the goblins—though the numbers seemed a little on the low side to me. The four basic goblins had each been level 6 and the Gunslinger had been level 8. I would’ve expected accordingly higher experience payouts.

When I asked Jakob about it, he simply waved away my doubts.

“That’s quite normal. A Dweller’s level isn’t the only factor. Your level is also factored in, and then there is the quality of the creature itself to consider. Most of the Dwellers slaved to the Arcade Games are of the lowest quality. D-grade.”

“Eh, come again now?” I asked, looking sideways at the Cendral.

“All Dwellers are classified by a Letter-Ranking system, Dan,” Croc said, tail waggling. “It ranges from S to D. S is for super powerful, basically god-tier Dwellers. If you see one of them, you’re probably already dead. A-grade tend to be location bosses or store managers, like the Harmacist or the Rat King.

“B-grade are the basic iterations—semi-intelligent, with one or maybe two level-appropriate Relics. Then comes C-grade and finally D-grade, like those Gallery Goblins. D-grade aren’t actually considered true Dwellers at all. They’re more like living Artifacts or summoned minions, conjured by A-class Dwellers. Sort of like the Doodle Buddies you can make. They look like the real deal, but die quicker and only operate on a basic set of scripts.”

“Although the Arcade creatures are all D-grade,” Jakob said, “they still give out decent experience and, more importantly, tickets.” He held up our prize. “And there are other games. Better games. This one was just to get you warmed up and familiar with the idea. But the real games, the ones with the best experience and ticket payouts, cost substantially more to play.”

A crooked grin stretched across Temperance’s face. “They are also far more deadly.”

I withdrew the Gold Gambler Loot Token I’d earned for unlocking the High Noon Hijinks Research Achievement and held it out. The gold glinted in the lights overhead.

“What kinda game could we play for something like this?” I asked, suddenly feeling an ember of excitement ignite inside my chest. True, tossing me unprepared into the shooting gallery had been kind of a dick move, but now that I was over the shock, I had to admit this place was pretty amazing. Even if it was also deadly as hell. Getting additional experience all while earning tickets for the prize booths sounded… fun.

Maybe Temperance’s murderous ways were starting to rub off on me, because I honestly couldn’t wait to see what was next.

Temperance the Murder Bunny stared at the coin and the ghost of a wicked smile appeared on her lips.

“Whack-a-Mole?” she asked, shooting Jakob a look.

“Whack-a-Mole,” the Cendral agreed solemnly. He didn’t sound nearly as enthusiastic.

CHAPTER 46

FUN AND GAMES

The four of us spent the next nine hours grinding through murder game after murder game, each more interesting and batshit crazy than the last. We started with Whack-A-Mole, which cost a Gold Loot Token to play. The price tag seemed awful steep, especially considering what kind of badass shit a Gold Loot Token could buy in the Gashapon machines, but Jakob hadn’t led me astray so far, so I decided to trust him.

Whack-A-Mole ended up being a Tower Defense game. Sort of. And this time I didn’t have to play alone.

Croc, Jakob, Temperance, and I all shuffled through a sliding door and into a large circular chamber which, in perfect Backrooms fashion, was significantly larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. Honestly, it reminded me of the Colosseum in Rome, except instead of classical architecture—white marble, graceful arches, and Ionic columns—it was all strobing neon, grimy carpet, and insane carnival music.

Thirteen doors dotted the perimeter of the circular room at even intervals. Each was labeled with a bright neon number, one through thirteen. They were also large enough for a grizzly to waltz through, which was extremely disconcerting.

Directly in the center of the odd colosseum was a giant carrot.

The carrot was person-shaped, with knobby arms, stringy legs, and a mop of eye-searing green hair. The person-shaped carrot was also alive, though it didn’t try to communicate with us in any meaningful way. Not even when Croc transformed into a giant blue carrot, covered in holes, to try to put the odd Dweller at ease. Instead, it sat in the center of the ring, weird arms clutched tightly around its equally weird legs, letting out distressed whimpers every few seconds.

The Carrot Man flinched whenever anyone got to close to it.

Dweller 0.754D – Beta-Carotene Bitch Boy [Level 4]

These poor, unathletic, ginger-body doofuses are among the most pathetic and miserable creatures in the Backrooms. For them, existence is pain—quite literally since they’re created for the sole purpose of being ripped apart over and over and over again. These guys are basically Prometheus but way less cool, since they never offended the gods by giving man the ability to produce fire.

They’re also as weak as newborn kittens and as useful in combat as a paper umbrella is in a monsoon. These things aren’t built for fighting, they’re built for fleeing. Not that they usually get very far. Their crunchy, vitamin-rich bodies are a tantalizing treat for the monstrous Tunnel Maulers, so often found in the Endless Cave of the Eighth Floor, and those things are fast. When the Tunnel Maulers show up for dinner, you’re really gonna wish you were anywhere else…

The goal of this particular game turned out to be surprisingly simple, if morbid.

Protect the poor carrot schmuck from progressive waves of gargantuan moles. The aforementioned Tunnel Maulers.

As expected, the Tunnel Maulers were each about the size of an angry hippo, built with thick, rippling muscle, and covered head to toe by coarse brown fur. Each paw was the size of a shovel and capped with three enormous claws, which could dig through the earth or eviscerate a victim with equal ease. The Tunnel Maulers had fleshy, tubular mouths, which made them look like oversized anteaters. That mouth, however, acted more like an elephant’s trunk and was ringed with jagged teeth capable of sawing through damn near anything.

The moles came in waves.

A door would open, disgorging one of the monstrous creatures into the arena with us.

One at first. Then two. Then three. Four. On and on and on.

The first Tunnel Mauler started off at lowly level 5, but each successive Mauler added into the mix gained an additional level. Which meant the second wave had one level 5 Mauler and one level 6 Mauler.

The creatures could dive into the earth and swim beneath the ground as though it were water, and their hide was so thick and tough that not even Temperance’s meat cleaver could fully penetrate. Their attacks weren’t especially difficult to avoid, but when they did land a blow, they hit like sledgehammers. One emerged beneath Jakob’s feet and knocked the Cendral across the room and into the far wall as though he weighed no more than a stuffed animal.

There were a couple of saving graces.

First, the creatures weren’t after us at all. They were entirely fixated on the carrot man, who chaotically darted around the arena, trying his best to avoid the murderous behemoths. With that said, the Maulers would still obliterate anything that got between them and the carrot guy. Which, unfortunately, was literally our only job. Get in the way. Save Carrot Man. Period. When the carrot died—inevitably ripped apart and devoured alive by the moles—the game ended.

The other saving grace was that, unlike the shootout gallery, my magic worked in this game. Even better, the Maulers were especially vulnerable to the Mana-based attacks.

I got to try my shiny new StainSlayer Maelstrom spell for the first time, and it was exactly as awesome as I’d been hoping for. The spell took longer to cast than I’d like, but the effect was worth the wait. Violent, swirling blue clouds formed overhead and poured fat, sizzling drops of blue-white corrosive rain down on anything inside a fifteen-foot radius. It left melted bodies, chunks of bloody meat, and foaming blue puddles of corrosive devastation in its wake.

Honestly, ensuring I didn’t accidentally catch my teammates in the area of effect was the biggest drawback to the new spell.

For close combat and single targets, Pressure Washer worked like a champ, easily carving through the layers of fur, fat, and muscle like a hot knife through a pat of butter.

Still, even with Jakob, Croc, and Temperance, we only managed to get to the eleventh wave before one of the Maulers mangled the manic carrot.

“It’s like he has no sense of self-preservation at all,” Croc noted as the carrot actively ran toward a group of encroaching Maulers.

The dog was right.

The carrot was almost as scared of us as it was of the Maulers, even though we were actively trying to save the dumbshit. It had all the brain function of an actual vegetable and was literally too dumb to live. It ended up blundering into one of the Maulers during the eleventh wave and was subsequently ripped apart, orange gore splashing across the arena floor as the carrot mewled in pain. That part left me feeling uneasy, and I ended up using a blast of pressurized water to put the poor bastard out of its misery.

Its oddly human cries would probably haunt me until the end of my days.

Although the Maulers didn’t drop Relics or even Shards, they gave great experience points—far better than the bird-chested goblins from the shooting gallery. Plus, we got tickets. Seven hundred and fifty for making it all the way to the eleventh wave. Not too shabby, though we would’ve earned an even thousand had we managed to win the game and survive all thirteen waves. We would’ve played again, but each game had a twenty-four-hour cooldown period.

There were plenty of other games, though. And they were all just as disturbing as Whack-A-Mole.

Each was based on a classic arcade game or carnival attraction. Assuming those games were live-action and produced by the director of the Saw franchise.

I’d played Duck Pond more than once as a kid. My parents would take me whenever the traveling fairs rumbled through during the hot summer months of southern Ohio. A legion of semis and RVs would roll in like the high tide, take over an abandoned section of parking lot, and set up their rusted rides and con games for a few weeks at a time. Then they’d pack up and move on with heaps of cash, leaving before they had a chance to outstay their welcome.

My family would go every summer, often more than once, and Duck Pond had been among my favorite games, mostly because you were guaranteed to win. All you had to do was fish out one of the floating rubber ducks from a plastic kiddie pool, then you’d win whatever was stenciled on the bottom of said duck. Most of the prizes were terrible, but like I said, you always came away with something in hand.

The Backrooms’ version of Duck Pond was more or less the same.

Except the rubbery ducks were each the size of a Rottweiler. Some ducks were exactly what they appeared to be and awarded tickets.

Other ducks were mimics—some as high as level 20.

Others still were bombs.

Or arcane traps.

One just sounded like a car alarm going off, but there was no way to shut off the blaring racket.

Thanks to Spelunker’s Sixth Sense, though, I was able to easily avoid the terrible assortment of traps, so we cleaned up.

We stopped just once to raid one of the many concession stalls that littered the vast arcade. There were several food courts scattered around the Jamboree, but they all required either tokens or tickets and I wasn’t keen to spend my resources on food. Not when I had all the resources I needed back at the store.

But the concession stalls were different.

Those were guarded by Adolescent Snack Shack Sentinels, armed with cystic acne and razor-sharp spatulas. None of the zit-faced Dwellers were higher than level 10 and we put ’em down in short order, giving us access to all the food we could eat.

Most of the stands served soft pretzels, cotton candy, or other equally garbage food, but thanks to Unerring Arrow, we managed to find one with thick, cheesy slices of pizza, perfectly cut crinkle fries, loaded nachos, and charbroiled hotdogs that tasted like the ones you could get at the ballpark. Best of all, the food offered temporary buffs that lasted for up to four hours in some cases.

Eating the pizza granted the Stuff-Crust Health Bar, which restored five points of Health over five minutes and increased Health Regen by 2% for four hours. Eating more than one slice restored additional Health, though the Regen bonus didn’t stack, which sucked a wrinkled nutsack. Finishing an extra slice did renew the buff duration, however. The nachos came with the Carb Load buff, which had a similar effect but for Stamina. Those buffs could run concurrently, which made them even better, so long as you weren’t afraid of packing on a couple thousand calories.

The crinkle-cut fries were just fries, but they were finger-licking good, so that was something.

As for the delicious all-beef franks, they gave the Gas Station Hotdog buff, which prevented you from contracting food poisoning and reduced damage from disease by 5% for three hours.

Although the bonuses were small potatoes in the grand scheme of things, in the Backrooms every little advantage mattered.

While working my way through the better part of half a large pizza, I decided to use Corvo’s Blanket Fort to add the entire stall to the storefront. Sure, we had plenty of food already, but the sheer convenience of having hot pizza, loaded nachos, and ballpark franks on demand was too tempting to pass up. The rectangular metal box was also only ninety square feet of total space, which was next to nothing. Not compared to how much I stood to earn from the stand.

I was positive my customers would happily pay a premium for the extra buffs, even tiny ones. We could also serve the piping-hot food with frosty cold beer, which we had plenty of.

Corvo’s Blanket Fort

You’ve selected 90 square feet of eligible Progenerated Material Resource Space. Would you like to use Corvo’s Blanket Fort to convert the selected material into a Personal Superspace Dwelling? Proceed Yes/No?

I’d never accepted faster in my whole life.

Fat and happy, we hit the bathroom, making sure to check for mimics before using any of the toilets, then got back to the grind.

We played High-Striker—the carnie game where you use a mallet to send a puck flying toward a bell high overhead—and Ring Toss. Balloon Darts, Space Invaders, and a real-life version of Frogger. Except we were the frogs and we had to duck, dodge, and dive our way through an army of sentient cars with a taste for human blood. We fought swarms of goldfish piranha and horrifying funhouse clowns. Clambered over tottering rope bridges, suspended high above lagoons filled with unholy crocodiles the size of Cadillacs.

We burned through Loot Tokens and endured more nightmare games than I could count, and we still didn’t get through even a fraction of all the possible games.

By the time we were finished, every muscle in my body ached and throbbed, I could barely stay on my feet, and every inch of me had been splashed or splattered in blood, shit, vomit, or fluids even more unspeakable in nature.

We’d also earned just over ten thousand tickets, and I’d jumped from level 17 to level 20, while Temperance had made it all the way up to 21. Even Croc had advanced and was now sitting at level 16. The mimic was still substantially lower than the rest of us, but Dwellers also leveled slower by nature and had to constantly kill things to keep from leaking like a sieve. Conversely, they could also absorb Mana passively, so once we made it down to the lower floors, Croc would probably blow past the rest of us in an eyeblink.

Tickets in hand, we headed over to the prize redemption booth to pick out some swanky new prizes.

CHAPTER 47

THE PRIZE BOOTH

The prize booth was exactly what it sounded like.

There was a long, glass-fronted cabinet filled with smaller, less valuable trinkets, while the bigger high-ticket items hung on the wall, grouped by price. Perched on top of the counter were small, computerized kiosks with colorful touchscreens and ticket eaters.

Just Scan Your Hand to Begin! the pixelated screen flashed.

My Spelunker’s Sixth Sense didn’t send up any sort of warning, but still I hesitated. Just because the computer wasn’t overtly a trap didn’t mean it couldn’t bone me in the long run. Sure, it probably wouldn’t explode or eat my hand when I touched it, but it could activate some asinine and improbable Rube Goldberg machine that would leave me running away from a sentient Indiana Jones boulder that wanted to grind me into meat paste.

I glanced at Croc, who simply bobbed its head. Nothing to worry about here, Dan, that gesture said.

Reluctantly, I pressed my palm against the scanner and felt the familiar warm buzz I’d come to associate with activating a Progenitor Monolith.

The screen flickered and a message appeared.

Welcome, Dan Woodridge, Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C, to the Loot Arcade Prize Gallery Redemption Kiosk. The Prize Gallery tab has been successfully added to your Progenitor Monolith Interface Menu. Loot Arcade Location: Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree has been added to your Prize Gallery tab. Insert your tickets now to redeem amazing prizes!

There was a rectangular slot on the side of the machine that I could feed the tickets into, but since it seemed the tickets would be permanently linked to my Specimen Bio-Report, we decided to split them first.

I’d paid for most of the games from my own pocket, but I wouldn’t have been able to clear half as many games without Jakob, Temperance, and Croc to lend a hand—or a tentacle, in the mimic’s case. In theory, the tickets were mine by right, but hoarding them wouldn’t win me any friends. Plus, I needed the others to be at the top of their game when we went toe-to-toe against Funtime Frank.

Jakob politely declined when I offered him a share—which didn’t entirely surprise me—and Croc wouldn’t be able to use the Relics anyway. Dwellers evolved their own Relics as they advanced and crossed specific evolutionary thresholds.

Temperance, on the other hand, was more than happy to accept. I graciously gave her a third of the haul—3,091 tickets, in total. That left me 6,182 tickets to spend, which I promptly fed into the kiosk. They disappeared with a mechanized whirl, like a fat kid inhaling a fruit rollup, and a new ticket balance immediately appeared on the screen.

The prize system worked a bit like a giant vending machine.

Each item had a price tag along with a redemption code, prominently displayed on a little placard. All I had to do was punch the code into the computer and, assuming I had the tickets to pay, the item would instantly appear inside my storage space. Just like magic. I did idly wonder what would happen if I vaulted over the glass-fronted counter and started pulling Relics off the wall display, but Jakob strongly disabused me of the notion.

Turned out, that was how Delvers earned a one-way ticket to Floor: You Cheated! And that was a floor no one ever came back from. Not ever.

So, because I had no desire to die a horrific death stretched over the course of slow and painful years, I played by the rules.

Smaller Artifacts and Insert Sigils, ranging from fifty to three thousand tickets, were held within the glass display case. On the lower end were Common Artifacts with empty Effect Slots, but the prize booth also had Uncommon and even Rare Artifacts with some genuinely badass abilities. A pair of Augmented Reality Glasses created a real-time HUD overlay that would allow the user to see traps and identify mimics, in a close approximation of my Spelunker’s Sixth Sense.

There was a pricey vial of Bioluminescent Tattoo Ink, which had unique properties. I got the sense that the ink itself didn’t actually do anything, but rather was a component in some larger ritual. A pair of red-and-white high-top sneakers, Get-Air Gordans, allowed the wearer to literally walk on air for up to thirty seconds per day. There was even a pair of Silver EarPods, which instantly translated any foreign language in earshot. That item was extremely tempting. But at three thousand tickets, I had to reluctantly pass.

An elegant brass key, appropriately called a Quantum Skeleton Key, had my name written all over it, even though it didn’t have any immediate combat or survival utility. The key could be inserted into a wide array of locks and would quantum shift between realities until it found one where the object in question was already unlocked, then duplicate that status.

In essence, it was the ultimate lockpick.

It only had three charges, and it wouldn’t open Arcane Seals or Quantum Locks, but it would still work for ninety-nine percent of the other locks I’d run across so far. Having something like that in my back pocket could be the difference between life and death.

I dropped 750 tickets on the key and didn’t even bat an eye.

Next up was a strange pry bar about the length of my forearm with an angled hook on one end and what appeared to be an engraver’s awl on the other. The Apprentice Trapsmith’s Pry Bar. There was a wide range of different tools that would-be Trapsmiths used to disarm, move, or repurpose traps, and this was one of ’em. Even though I didn’t know how it worked, the potential was too good to pass up, and all for the low, low price of 150 tickets. Practically a steal.

There was also a Common-grade weapon sigil for a measly two hundred and fifty tickets that caught my eye. Simply called Boomerang Bound, it could be attached to any melee weapon. When thrown, the weapon would automatically boomerang, returning to the thrower’s hand after successfully hitting a target. Having a physical, ranged attack seemed like a great option on the off chance that I ran out of Mana in the middle of a fight and didn’t want to wade elbow-deep into the battle.

I even knew what I wanted to attach it to.

My tactical speed square.

The speed square was basically the poor man’s version of a batarang, and if I could make it magically boomerang back into my hand, I’d finally be able to live out my boyhood fantasy of transforming into Batman and curb-stomping shitheads.

Although there were countless other weapon and armor sigils I wanted to snag, I needed to choose carefully. This stuff was expensive with a capital E, and I still had Relics to pick through.

The Common-grade Relics were all decent quality and had a standard price tag of 1,000 tickets per Relic. Extremely pricey, considering it had cost more than two Silver Loot Tokens to earn that many tickets. But Relics were the one thing you couldn’t buy from the Gashapon machines, and you could examine the Relics at the prize booth before purchasing, so you knew exactly what you were getting.

In my estimation, it was hard to put a price tag on that kind of convenience.

The Uncommon-grade Relics were 2,000 tickets a pop, and the Rares—which were few and far between—ranged from 3,000 all the way up to 5,000 tickets. There were several Relics that left me salivating, but I didn’t want to risk changing my build too drastically right before facing off against Funtime Frank and his five-man band. Going into the big game with a bunch of untested abilities that I didn’t really understand was a surefire way to end up dead.

But there was one I couldn’t pass up.

Mental Micromanagement was a Rare-grade Relic that topped the scale at 5,000 tickets. Despite the high price, it had incredible potential for someone like me with high Resonance and abysmal Athleticism.

Mental Micromanagement

Rare Relic – Level 1

Range: Line of Sight

Cost: 1 Mana/Minute

Mind over matter isn’t just one of those bullshit slogans found at the bottom of motivational posters. Not for you anyway.

Those bestowed with Mental Micromanagement can weave invisible telekinetic strings around any object weighing less than forty-five pounds. Whether you’re lifting a key from afar, guiding a blade through the air, or fetching a couple of cold brewskis from the fridge without getting up, this skill bridges the gap between thought and reality.

Each new level enables you to control an additional object, turning this solo act into a full-blown telekinetic orchestra. Word of warning, though, trying to mentally control too many items at once is a good way to give yourself a brain aneurysm—and no, that’s not a joke. The Mana cost per minute also doubles with each additional item you telekinetically wield. This Relic enables Mana usage.

The idea of actively giving myself a brain aneurysm was worrisome but gaining the ability to control objects with my mind offset any potential risk. The weight limit was a bit restrictive and meant I wouldn’t be able to hurl my enemies through the air or use it to toss Croc across the field of battle, but that was fine. My hammer was only 19 oz after all, and if I could use it to beat the ever-living shit out of enemies a football field away, I’d be happy as a pig in shit.

Plus, the more I leveled the Relic up, the more weapons I’d be able to wield from afar.

I couldn’t help but recall the battle between the Flayed Monarch and the Boundless Wanderer. In my head, I saw an army of bloodred weapons zipping through the air, hacking and slashing at the dusty gunslinger from a dozen angles all at once.

Whatever Relic the Monarch had used to accomplish the feat was leaps and bounds above this one, but they were clearly in the same vein. And if I could use the Codex to forge it with other powerful Relics, maybe I’d be able to turn this skill into one that could rival the Monarch, given enough time.

Buying the Relic would take up almost all of my remaining tickets, and I waffled for a couple of minutes. I could pick up two Uncommons and a Common for the same cost. But after looking everything on offer over for a second time, I decided I’d rather have one super badass Relic that complemented my skill set instead of three mediocre ones that I probably wouldn’t even end up using in the long run.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled the trigger on Mental Micromanagement, leaving me with a grand total of 32 tickets. Not enough for jack-shit else—though the remaining balance stayed on my new Prize Gallery Tab.

Loot in hand and feeling weary to the bone, I planted my VIP Doorway Anchor, and we made our way back to the store to clean up, gear up, and catch a little bit of shut-eye before our final showdown with Funtime Frank.

CHAPTER 48

NOW HIRING

The shop was bustling with activity, even though I was hearing more and more rumors about Aspirants poking around the various doorways scattered about the floors. It didn’t seem to be stopping anyone from venturing into the storefront—not yet anyway—but that could change if the Aspirants managed to blockade all of the doors in and out. Although I could move the doorway anchors once every twenty-four hours, exiting through any of the given doorways could also drop me or my customers directly into an ambush.

I’d need to do something about those jerkoffs eventually. For now, though, taking down Funtime Frank and establishing a trade partnership with the Delvers of Howlers Hold was still my top priority.

But there were a few logistical issues that needed to be taken care of before we headed back out. With foot traffic picking up, Princess Ponypuff and Baby Hands were having a tough time handling the influx of new customers. Baby Hands was still dumb as a painted rock, and even as capable as Ponypuff seemed to be, she could still only do so much. With the addition of the new concession stand, the simple fact was that I didn’t have enough hands on deck to keep things running smoothly.

I needed to scale up.

There were a few options on the metaphorical table.

I could add one new Cannon Fodder Golem for every 5,000 square feet of claimed space. But even with the addition of the Monolith and the new concession stand, I was still only at 14,291 square feet. Just over seven hundred square feet shy of what I’d need to be able to forge a new minion. There was nothing preventing me from going out and tacking on enough space to spawn another golem, but that felt… irresponsible.

I wanted all of my square footage to count, and randomly slapping on something just for the added space seemed like a bad long-term choice.

My other option was to destroy Baby Hands and craft a new, smarter minion, but I had reservations about that too. Sure, Baby Hands was dumber than a wet blanket. And yes, he wasn’t actually a person at all. But Baby Hands was a hard worker, and I trusted the neckless garbage golem a hundred times more than Ponypuff. Plus, Croc would be devastated if I killed him. The pair of them really were like two peas in a pod, and when Croc wasn’t hanging around with me, he was off playing with the taciturn golem.

I couldn’t kill Croc’s second-best friend in the whole world just because it was the smart thing to do. I mean I could, technically, but I wasn’t a monster.

Which left me with one option.

Hire some extra help.

I headed over to the cash register and took the visitor log from Ponypuff.

The pony-headed minion was drinking a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor, called Alley King Gold, while simultaneously chain-smoking cigarettes. Beside her, an ashtray held a small mountain of crumpled butts. Strictly speaking, Ponypuff didn’t have lungs or internal organs, so I wasn’t quite sure how she was managing to day drink and smoke like a chimney, but I’d given up trying to figure out the physics of this place weeks ago.

She idly bleated at me like an angry goat, but then went back to reading a glossy magazine as soon as she realized I just needed the guest logbook.

I scanned the list of names and saw a few familiar ones as well as a couple of new ones.

I dismissed the newcomers right away.

The level 18 was still here, camped out in one of the tents. According to the log, his name was Michael Bolton, though I was pretty sure he wasn’t the Michael Bolton—’80s pop-sensation superstar with classic hits, such as “How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?” and “Can I Touch You… There?”

At least, I didn’t think so.

Though upon further reflection, there was a certain resemblance. The Michael Bolton hiding out in a tent had to be in his mid-to late sixties, which put him around the right age, and he had a mane of wild silver hair that cascaded down around his shoulders. Was it possible that the Michael Bolton was sleeping in my storage room?

No. That was crazy.

Probably.

Didn’t matter.

Even if it was the Michael Bolton, the guy was level 18 and as jumpy as a Marine fresh home from an active combat zone. The guy had wicked PTSD and I wouldn’t trust him with a pair of bootlaces. I definitely wasn’t going to trust him to help run the store. Jakob was on the roster as well, but I needed his help to take out Funtime Frank, so that was no good.

That left just two names.

I headed into the sleeping area and nudged Taylor, the college girl from Oklahoma, awake with the toe of my boot. She was snoring softly on one of the cots, while her friend Stephanie was asleep on the floor beside her, curled up in a thick sleeping bag that had probably come from one of the sporting goods stores. Taylor had managed to crawl her way up to level 7, while her friend had made it to level 6. Not too bad at all, considering they didn’t have any of my obvious advantages.

Taylor startled awake and shot up, eyes wide in a mixture of fear and rage, one hand thrust out while another dropped toward a knife stashed at her hip.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said, backing up a few steps and raising my hands to show they were empty. At the same time, I mentally prepared to cast Sterilization Field, which would neutralize any hostile magic she tossed my way. “Not looking to hurt you. Just wanted to make you and your friend there a job offer.”

She grunted, eyes darting left then right.

Finally, when she seemed certain that I wasn’t about to harvest her kidneys, she lowered her hand and shook her friend awake. She never took her eyes off me, though, which was smart. I mean, I wasn’t going to do anything to her, but she didn’t know that. And not trusting anyone in the Backrooms was survival rule 101.

Her friend blinked and sat up after a moment, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand.

“Everything okay?” Stephanie asked groggily. She didn’t seem to be nearly as alert as her friend. Then something seemed to click inside her head and her eyes opened comically wide, gaze swinging back and forth between me and Taylor. “Hey, you’re the guy, right? Discount Dan? Like, this survival tip brought to you by Discount Dan?”

“One and the same.” I took a few steps back and lowered my hands. “Like I was telling your friend, I’m not here to hurt you. Just the opposite. I’m wondering if the two of you might be interested in doing a little work around the shop?”

“What kind of work?” Taylor growled, swinging her legs out over the edge of the mattress. She looked like she was actively preparing to bolt if this conversation went sideways. “We’re not doing weird sex shit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What? Weird sex shit?” I asked, brow furrowed. “No, I don’t want you to do weird sex stuff. I want you to work the new hotdog stand…” I faltered.

“You want us to work a hotdog stand?” Taylor repeated, voice flat and dry as the Sahara.

“Yeah, you know what?” I replied. “Hearing myself say that out loud, I can sort of see how you could get the wrong impression, but I can assure you that working the hotdog stand is not in any way a euphemism for weird sex stuff. It’s an actual hotdog stand, though it has more than hotdogs. There’s pizza, nachos, fries, and also hotdogs. The food gives slight buffs and comes premade. I just need someone to work the stand. Deliver the food, accept payment. That kind of thing.”

“Why don’t you get one of your weird trash monsters to help?” Stephanie asked, standing from her spot on the floor. She looked a little more relaxed than her friend, but her hand had come to rest on the pommel of a hunting knife, dangling from a belt slung around her hips.

“It’s complicated,” I replied, “but the long and short of it is that I can’t make another for a little while yet, and the store is getting too busy for the two golems I do have to handle everything. Point is, I need some extra hands to help around here. It’ll come with pay and perks.”

“What kind of pay and perks?” Taylor asked.

“You can share a cot on the house,” I replied, “plus you can take as much food as you want from the concession stand. I’ll also give you a ten percent store discount on anything else, including Relics and Artifacts.”

They shared a quick, subtle look between each other, but neither made a move to leave.

“Look, if you don’t want the job, it’s no sweat off my back.” I hooked a thumb toward one of the tents. “I’ll just go ask Michael Bolton. I bet he’d be more than happy to take me up on the offer.”

“Wait,” Taylor said, “Michael Bolton’s here? Like the “My Secret Passion” Michael Bolton?”

“No, not that Michael Bolton,” I said, shaking my head. “At least, I don’t think so,” I amended after a moment.

Finally, Stephanie reached over and squeezed Taylor’s wrist. The motion was subtle, but I caught it out of the corner of my eye.

“Yeah, okay,” Taylor offered, finally pulling her hand away from the dagger at her belt. “Show us what we have to do.”

Before I could get the girls set up, I needed to do a little rearranging. When I’d added the concession stand, it had randomly attached itself back by the pharmacy, which was no bueno. The placement made no sense, and once we got the pharmacy up and working, having both things shoved back in the corner would create floor congestion. Using the Blanket Fort Interface, I moved the electronics section, which had been located not far from the front checkout counter, and relocated the concession stand.

The stand fit neatly between checkout and the photo booth. It was the perfect location. Good foot traffic and excellent visibility. Plus, Ponypuff would be able to keep an eye on Taylor and Stephanie without having to actively leave checkout.

I had the two girls help me move a couple of plastic folding tables, previously stashed in the storage room, along with a couple of folding chairs. We set the two tables up in front of the stand so folks would have a place to sit and eat. It wasn’t fine dining by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a damned bit better than eating a blistering hot Magma Calzone on a cot in the storage room.

Once that was done, I spent a half hour or so walking the two college girls through the concession stand, showing them around and laying out what they would be responsible for. I had Baby Hands shadow me so he could act as their direct supervisor. I didn’t have a lot of faith in the golem, but he seemed to pick up most of what I was laying down. The girls would work in eight-hour shifts, with an overlapping four-hour break between, so they could still go out and grind levels together for a few hours each day.

The concession stand operations were extremely simple, and the stand itself generated the food without any need for cooking. Mostly, they would be there to serve the food and collect cash. Well, Shards anyway.

Taylor still didn’t seem like she entirely trusted me, but free food and housing were hard to say no to.

By the time we were done, the food stand was already starting to draw a small crowd of hungry Delvers, all clamoring for a bite. Since Taylor and Stephanie had a handle on things, and I was dead on my feet, I slipped away to grab a bit of shut-eye.

CHAPTER 49

MANA HACK

Instead of beelining directly for my tent in the back, I headed over to the private Employee’s Only bathroom to rinse off.

I smelled like an unwashed armpit, and I was pretty sure there were chunks of something unspeakable stuck in my teeth. I brushed vigorously and nearly drowned myself with mouthwash, then wiped the blood, grime, and gore from my body. It took almost an entire pack of baby wipes to get the job done. I really needed to get some proper bathing facilities set up in here, complete with showers. Adding a washer and dryer probably wouldn’t go amiss either, since my clothes smelled like rank butthole.

Hell, my stench had probably freaked Taylor and Stephanie out more than anything else.

I sprinkled a bit of medicated talc powder into my Daisy Dukes then added a fresh layer of deodorant to help combat the lingering stench. Using the extra deodorant probably wasn’t the smartest idea since there were a fair number of Dwellers who hunted by smell. But I figured they’d be able to smell my BO just as much as my deodorant, so it was one half dozen or the other. At least this way, the people around me wouldn’t also have to suffer.

Mostly clean, I quickly hit up the Monolith and distributed the fifteen new Personal Enhancement Points I’d earned from leveling up. I dropped a single point each into Grit and Preservation, bringing my Grit up to 14 and Preservation up to 8. Resonance was still my most important trait by a country mile, so I added another nine points to that, which brought it to 49—and that was accounting for the hit from the Cendral Scale Mail Cuirass Relic. The last four points went into Perception, bumping the stat up to 25.

My Health and Stamina hardly budged at all, but my overall Mana Pool inched up to 110 and my Mana Regen Rate was just a hair beneath 9 Mana per minute.

With my points taken care of, I finally slipped into my personal tent, which I’d tricked out with goods from the Home Décor aisle.

There was an extra-wide cot with a premium, full-sized air mattress on top. A gray area rug covered the otherwise cold floor. A folding camp chair sat in one corner beside a collapsible TV tray for meals. A small nightstand held a battery-powered lantern and a few other personal effects—fresh underwear, clean socks, a few extra shirts. It wasn’t exactly home sweet home, but I’d certainly slept rougher. Hell, I’d crashed at job sites with nothing more than a painfully thin iso-mat and an emergency blanket to cover me.

Compared to that, this was practically a luxury resort.

I kicked my boots off and plopped into the chair. I badly needed to catch a few hours of shut-eye, but I was too worked up over my shiny new prizes from the Arcade.

After carefully looking through the Relics already stashed away in my Spatial Core, I decided to swap Force Multiplier for Mental Micromanagement. Then, after a long beat, I opted to exchange Doodle Buddy for Bad Trip. I was sad to see Force Multiplier go, but fighting up close and personal just didn’t make a whole lot of sense with my current build. Had this been a video game or RPG campaign, I would’ve been on the front line, swinging a sword or bare-knuckle brawling without a question.

But this wasn’t a game. This was my life.

The truth was, spell casting was devastatingly powerful, and with the Compass of the Catacomber, the higher my Resonance and Perception, the better off I’d be in the long run. It just didn’t make sense for me to be hooking and jabbing.

As for Doodle Buddy, I wasn’t nearly as sad to see that particular Relic go.

I planned to hang onto it, since there was a good chance it would synergize with something down the road, but as a stand-alone skill, it was rather… disappointing. A fact that had become painfully obvious during the battle against Mohawk and the rest of his Aspirant buddies. As a level 4, the summoned Doodle was little more than a speed bump to anything higher than level 10, which was just about everything on the seventh floor.

And even though Bad Trip didn’t deal any damage, it was a decent crowd-control ability.

A chilling tingle rippled through me when I equipped Bad Trip.

When I added Mental Micromanagement, on the other hand, I started to actively bleed from my nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. On top of that, a pounding headache roared through the inside of my skull and an intense wave of vertigo washed over me. It felt like the whole room was spinning drunkenly beneath me. I acutely remembered the warning from the Relic description, “this is a good way to give yourself a brain aneurysm—and no, that’s not a joke.”

Despite the disclaimer, I had indeed thought the flavor text was just a joke.

The sensation lasted for a solid five minutes before finally passing. I used a few more baby wipes to clean up the gore, but the fact that I was actively bleeding from several face holes was rather concerning. I was alive, though, and that was the important thing.

I felt another wave of vertigo—though much less intense—when I activated the effect for the first time.

Although I couldn’t see anything, I distinctly felt a thin, shimmering line of power extend outward from my chest. The invisible strand of energy was no thicker than my pinky finger and it almost felt like I’d grown another limb. But it was a weak, clumsy limb. Uncoordinated and alien. Almost like a newborn infant flailing its tiny hand around for the first time.

The strand of mental energy wrapped around the wooden shaft of my hammer, and it floated upward, hanging unsteadily in the air. It bobbed and weaved as great beads of sweat rolled down my face.

Holy shitballs. This took a lot more effort than I’d been expecting.

I’d broken my right arm in the sixth grade, and I’d ended up in a full arm cast that ran from bicep to palm.

It wasn’t a clean break and there were complications, which required a couple of surgeries to make things right. As a result, I’d had to learn to write with my left hand. For the first couple of months, every motion was slow and awkward. My handwriting was so bad even I couldn’t read it. And it wasn’t just writing. Brushing my teeth. Eating with silverware. Even wiping my ass. I had to do all of it left-handed, which was a deeply humbling experience.

Trying to use the hammer with the new mental limb was just like that.

I flexed the limb, attempting to take a swing with the floating hammer, and instead, I sent the tool careening across the tent. It slammed into the fabric wall and promptly slid down behind the air mattress.

I sighed. Just perfect.

Even though the spell had cost less than a single point of Mana, I felt mentally exhausted by the effort.

Most of the Relics so far had simply conferred their abilities without much muss or fuss, but this one required genuine skill, it seemed. And that was with only a single strand of telekinetic energy. If I pushed this Relic up to level 15, I’d be able to wield fifteen different strands simultaneously.

Though, honestly, even the thought of attempting to wield two objects simultaneously left me queasy.

I wasn’t about to give up, though.

I’d never been the smartest, strongest, or fastest sumbitch around, but if I had a superpower, it was that I didn’t know how to quit. Even when I probably should’ve. The sheer thickness of my skull was the stuff of legends.

Using nothing more than my mind, a trickle of Mana, and a truck-worth of sheer willpower, I pulled the cot aside and forced the hammer back into the air.

I wasn’t going to let this spell beat me, especially not after spending five thousand fucking tickets on it.

For the next several hours I used a combination of Jolt Cola Mana Elixirs and Pharmacist’s Scales to keep that hammer aloft. It turned out to be a damned bit easier to keep my Mana topped off, thanks to an exploit I hadn’t even thought of. The Mana Capacitor Sigil, baked into my stupid Versace Bathrobe. Not only did Mana Capacitor increase my maximum Mana Pool by 15% and my overall Regeneration Rate by 10%, but it had a secondary ability called Wild Surge.

Every spell I cast had a 5% chance of triggering Wild Surge, which instantly replenished up to 50% of my Total Mana Pool, while simultaneously boosting my Mana Regen rate by 25% for two minutes. There was also an additional 50% chance of proccing a duplicate spell at no additional cost, though that mattered less in this instance.

The cost of Mental Micromanagement was only one Mana per Minute—which was dirt cheap—but I quickly realized something important about the spell: Even though I wasn’t actively “recasting” the spell every minute, the VIRUS interface acted as though I was. Which meant for every minute I had the spell running, there was a 5% chance of triggering Wild Surge.

On average, running Mental Micromanagement for twenty minutes straight almost guaranteed that Wild Surge would activate, instantly restoring up to 50% of my Mana Pool.

And that was only the beginning.

After a little experimentation, I discovered that if I disrupted the spell—quickly cutting off the telekinetic flow—but restarted it before the end of a minute passed, that counted as a new cast, but cost no additional Mana expenditure. Essentially, “juggling” an item in the air—stopping and restarting the telekinetic flow in rapid succession—could trigger Wild Surge almost once a minute. Best of all, the regeneration buffs stacked.

Between Mental Micromanagement and my stupid fucking bathrobe, I’d figured out a truly broken exploit to generate a nearly constant supply of Mana.

Even though I was tired, my discovery only enticed me to practice even harder.

For the first hour or so, I just held the hammer in the air. Working to keep it nice and steady and not bobbing drunkenly all over the place like a sailor returning to ship after a long night of debauchery. I also practiced starting and stopping the flow of energy while keeping the hammer airborne. Although it didn’t cost much Mana, the sheer concentration required was insane. Like trying to do advanced calculus. While cooking pancakes. And giving a cat a bath. All at once.

But the longer I practiced, the easier it got. Not easy. But easier.

Once I could handle that, I tried doing stuff with the hammer.

Move it across the room.

Swing it.

Hit things with it.

I even tried tossing it straight up into the air, then catching it before it hit the ground. I failed more often than I succeeded, at least at first. By the third hour, I hardly dropped the hammer at all. As tired as I was, I moved into the store and started doing a little target practice. I had Croc toss throw pillows from the Home Décor aisle into the air and I’d use the hammer to smack ’em down.

It looked ridiculous, but the practice helped hone my rudimentary abilities considerably.

We progressively moved to smaller and smaller items, pillows to packets of ramen noodles, then finally tennis balls, looted from the seasonal aisle.

“You know, Dan,” Croc said, tossing a green ball heavenward, “this reminds me of that whole montage in Breaking Dawn—the fourth and final volume in the international bestselling Twilight series—where Edward patiently trains Bella in the use of her new vampire powers.”

“Dammit, Croc,” I growled, batting the ball away with a soft squeak. “I thought we already talked about the Twilight thing. You’ve got to stop comparing us to Edward and Bella. It’s weird. Really, really weird.”

“There’s nothing weird about loving the Twilight series, Dan. But if it makes you feel better, I could maybe compare this to the time when Edward and Jacob had to set aside their differences and work together to take down the Volturi—though really, that unlikely friendship more closely mirrors our current relationship with Jakob.” The mimic paused. “I just realized Jakob the lizard man has the very same name as Jacob the werewolf. Oh what a twisted tale of love we weave, Dan.”

I sighed. “Just throw the damn ball.”

Once I could hit an object out of the air eight out of ten times, I attempted to use the hammer at increasingly greater distances. The further away an object was, the harder it was to wield accurately. Although the spell description said the range was line of sight, I found my ability to keep the weapon airborne failed completely at about sixty feet. I also realized that at those further distances, utilizing my demolition screwdriver was actually much more effective.

Swinging the hammer took a far greater degree of mental dexterity, while simply shanking something with a projectile was surprisingly simple. The mechanics of it were just easier.

Still, progress was progress, and by the time I headed back to my tent—a pressure headache building steadily behind my eye sockets—I felt reasonably certain I could use the ability in combat without actively hurting myself or others. Plus, I could confidently trigger Mental Micromanagement frequently enough to ensure that Wild Surge procced, which meant I’d be able to cast more spells, faster.

Satisfied with my efforts, I collapsed onto my mattress and was asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

CHAPTER 50

WELCOME TO THE FUNHOUSE

Ten hours later, fully refreshed and with a stomach full of delicious breakfast pizza, we made our way back to the Jungle Gym Jamboree. Thanks to my VIP doorway anchor, getting into the Arcade was as simple as the press of an elevator button. Although I knew we were walking into trouble, I felt optimistic about our chances. I had no illusions that this was safe. Funtime Frank was level 25, infected with Blight, and had four other high-level Dwellers in his corner.

There was every possibility that at least one of our team members wouldn’t be walking away from the fight.

Still, we were as ready as we were ever going to be. Everyone was rested. We’d topped off our supply of medical-grade elixirs. My Slammer of Shielding had a full charge. And, after a decent night’s sleep, my new Mental Micromanagement spell was working better than ever. It seemed physical and mental exhaustion made it substantially more difficult to use your mind to move shit.

Who would’ve guessed?

We made our way through the labyrinth of plastic tubes that zigzagged through the Arcade. Those tubes spanned the entirety of the enormous Loot Arcade and were the only way to access the funhouse tent that waited at the heart of the Arcade like a fat spider sitting at the center of its web. Unlike the plastic play tubes that graced most kids’ play places, these were the size of sewer pipes and were easily large enough to walk in.

Even with the extra headroom, they were still claustrophobically cramped, swelteringly hot, and oddly echoing—amplifying sounds in strange ways that fooled the ear.

Because the spaces were so tight, we had to move in single file, and engaging in physical combat would be difficult, if not impossible. There was no room to swing your arms, much less a baseball bat or giant shield. Thankfully, Temperance wasn’t limited to strictly stabbing and smashing things. Although she focused on agility and dealing damage, she had a handful of useful Mana-based Relics that could pack a nasty punch even in close quarters.

Her most disgusting spell, by far, was Ball of Spiders.

It was exactly what it sounded like. Instead of hurling a ball of magic, she hurled a ball of magical spiders. The spiders all dealt a fractional point of poison damage with each bite, but there were hundreds of the long-legged critters. They served as a great distraction. Turned out, trying to concentrate on anything while being simultaneously swarmed by a couple hundred spiders was no easy task.

Hell, walking through a single strand of spiderwebbing was enough to send me into a fit of panic for a few seconds. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what I would do against a spell like that.

Probably try to set myself on fire.

She also had a DPS ability called Smallpox Blanket that afflicted anyone she cut with Super Smallpox. Lesions would erupt across the victim’s body, dealing disease damage for five minutes or until they were healed. And healing was almost always necessary, because every time one of the pus-filled lesions burst, the effect duration would reset. Much like Temperance herself, the skill was super messed up on every conceivable level. But—also like Temperance—it was very, very effective.

She also had two crowd-control abilities.

Puritanical Chains conjured ghostly chains that would root a single target in place for twenty seconds. Her second control spell was Witch Hunt Hysteria. If the target’s Grit was low enough, relative to the caster, Witch Hunt Hysteria had a fifty percent chance of inducing a state of hysteria, causing enemies to turn against one another. The pair of spells made for an excellent, and devastating, combo.

She took point, with me right behind her serving as the trap finder and navigator. Croc came next. The dog constantly tried to wedge itself between me and the wall so we could walk beside each other. There wasn’t enough room for that, but Croc’s attempts were both endearing and oddly reassuring. Jakob brought up the rear, ready to deploy his shields in case anything tried to flank us from behind.

The tubes themselves were more disorienting than dangerous.

There were hundreds of different branching pathways, and without Unerring Arrow to guide us, I had no idea how we ever would’ve found our way through the warren of plastic.

There was a smattering of traps along with a handful of different Dwellers, who all called the tube city home. The most prevalent were the packs of Feral Crotch Goblins. Two feet tall with pudgy legs and plump cherubic faces, they almost would’ve been cute if not for the bloodred eyes, the jagged needle-like teeth, and a wailing cry both loud and persistent enough to drive anyone to madness. On top of all that, the crotch goblins were Blighted—cancerous growths littered their tiny bodies—which made them nightmares to handle.

The worst residents by far, however, were the Ball Pit Barrys.

We had to take several long, twisting slides on our way to the big top.

Initially Croc was excited, but most of them were filled with traps of one kind or another. Nails embedded into the plastic. Or saw blades that popped up from the floor. Or razor wire, stretched tight across the tunnel, meant to decapitate riders as they flew past. Using my telekinesis and my new Trapsmith’s Pry Bar, I managed to disarm the whole lot of ’em with relative ease. But if slides were involved, there was simply no getting around the Ball Pit Barrys.

Each slide dumped us into knee-deep pits filled with colorful plastic balls. Ball pits like that were a staple at every play place I’d ever seen. Kids loved ’em despite the pits being disgustingly unsanitary and cesspools of disease.

Naturally, all of the balls were sentient.

They were also all named Barry for reasons I couldn’t fathom.

The little shits spit acid and hurled the nastiest playground insults I’d ever heard. One called me fat and another said, and I quote, “You’re what happens when a mommy drinks during pregnancy.” One of the Barrys told Temperance that she was the reason “God didn’t talk to humanity anymore,” and Croc had to endure a host of Twilight-themed insults.

“Edward should have cured cancer instead of going to high school!”

“Jacob imprinting on Renesmee was the dumbest plot device in modern literature!”

“The writing in the Twilight series is only okay!”

Croc was nearly reduced to tears.

And killing the Barrys only made things worse, not better. For every Barry killed, two more would spawn, both even louder and more vicious than the original.

They were like Hydras. Except plastic. And meaner.

Thankfully, the Barrys wouldn’t abandon their ball pits, so all we had to do was endure the weak acid spray and insult torrents long enough to clamber back into the tubes.

It took us the better part of two hours, but finally we arrived at an enormous slide that reminded me of a yawning gullet. Hanging above the cavernous maw was a brightly lit sign that read Funtime Frank’s Funhouse, This Way!!! When I cast Unerring Arrow, the ghostly blue line erupted from my chest and disappeared down the slide, quickly vanishing out of sight.

“Welp, here goes nothing,” I muttered, sitting down on the platform then pushing my body into the darkness beyond.

I braced my hands and feet against the slide walls to slow my downward descent. At the same time, I used my new telekinetic ability to keep my Maglite hovering in the air, its beam illuminating the darkened tube ahead of me. I went slowly, searching for traps. For the first time since entering the labyrinth, I found none. When I got to the bottom, I hollered back up the curving slide, giving the all-clear for the others to follow.

Once everyone had safely made it down, we pushed our way through a red-and-white-striped canvas flap and into what looked like the interior of a traveling circus tent.

Old-timey light bulbs dangled from the peaked canopy, radiating outward, reminding me once more of a spider’s web. The air was heavy with the sickly-sweet scent of cotton candy intermingling with stale popcorn and a musky odor that reminded me of the zoo. The floor was covered with hay and peanut shells, which cracked and crunched with each footstep. Temperance could move like a ghost when she had a mind to, and even she made a racket loud enough to wake the dead.

Trying to be stealthy here would be next to impossible.

Ahead, there were four raised platforms, each about five feet tall. Two on the left, two more off to the right.

Resting atop each platform was a circus wagon. Garish red and gold things with huge wheels and open sides. The four wagons were empty, but I imagined they wouldn’t stay that way for long. The far side of the tent was shrouded in a cloak of darkness so thick I couldn’t see shit even when I turned on the Maglite. The beam simply hit the darkness and stopped as though the gloom were actually a solid wall, forged from pure shadow.

I looked a question at Temperance and Jakob, hoping either might have some answers.

Jakob frowned and shook his head, while the murder bunny simply shrugged and pulled her cleaver free with one hand.

“Any idea what we should do here, Croc?” I asked.

“Turn around and go get Froyo?” the dog offered, sounding both scared and apologetic.

“Sorry, buddy,” I replied with a sigh, “we’ve come too far for that.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Croc replied, tail drooping in defeat. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Everyone stay close,” I said softly, “and keep an eye on those platforms.”

I kept my hands free, while my demolition screwdriver floated just above my left shoulder. I could send the thing flying forward like a spear with a thought.

With Croc to my left, Temperance to the right, and Jakob once more bringing up the rear, I edged forward, using Spelunker’s Sixth Sense to scan for traps, mimics, or any other nasty surprises looking to send us all to an early grave.

I didn’t see anything.

No pitfalls, pressure plates, or Mana snares.

The peanuts and hay continued to crunch underfoot, not that it mattered much. There was still no sign of Frank or his animatronic jamboree. At least, not until we made it to the center of the room. Although I couldn’t see any sort of pressure plate or mechanical switch, I distinctly heard an audible click, followed by the rumble of an unseen motor and the metallic clanking of great gears groaning into motion.

“It’s a trap!” Jakob hollered, though it was already too late for the warning.

A huge metal cage erupted from the hay-covered floor, shooting upward to form a dome that encompassed the entirety of the tent’s interior. In a heartbeat, we found ourselves imprisoned inside a carnival version of the Thunderdome. The purpose of the cage was immediately obvious: it was there to cut off any attempt at retreat. We were trapped, and I had a sinking suspicion the walls wouldn’t drop until either Frank was dead or we were.

I winced as a terrible mechanical grinding noise filled the air and overhead spotlights kicked on. Buttery yellow beams of illumination fell on each of the circus wagons. Four animatronic figures rose from the pillar-like platforms in a hiss of multicolored steam, as though they’d been hidden away in elevator shafts below, just waiting for a group of morons to blunder into their lair.

Colorful neon signs flashed above the four wagons, proclaiming each of their names.

On the left was Synthia Lynx, the Keytar Synthesizer, and Drumbo Chumbo, the Pachyderm Percussionist. Off to the right were Vex Vixen, the Foxy Violinist, and Bellatrix Black, the Bassist Bear. They were all level 20, which I’d been expecting.

Their appearance, on the other hand, was wholly unexpected. In my head, I’d envisioned these things as sleek robots, meticulously crafted from chrome, rivets, and neon. Like something ripped out of Blade Runner.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

These horror shows looked like they’d crawled out of a bad taxidermy shop. Synthia was the unholy bastard child of a human and a cyborg, all wrapped in the mangy fur of a lynx.

Her fur had been dyed electric blue and was zigzagged with splotchy green stripes, but even at a distance, it was easy to spot the mangled seams and crude stitches crisscrossing her body and limbs. Her eyes—which were strangely human—burned with an unnatural blue fire, like bottled lightning. Her hands, a crude merging of human fingers and furry paws, danced effortlessly over a hot pink keytar—half guitar, half piano—which appeared to be a direct extension of her body. A mangy tail swayed rhythmically behind her.

I’d more or less made peace with the fact that Temperance was a furry. I wasn’t comfortable with it exactly, but it didn’t bother me either.

But these things were the stuff of living nightmares personified.

And it wasn’t just Synthia the lynx. They were all like that.

Horrible amalgamations of humanity, machine, and zoo creature.

Drumbo Chumbo was an enormous gray elephant with pebbled hide tightly stretched over a metallic frame. A series of drumheads, each covered with pale tan skin, was embedded directly into the creature’s gargantuan stomach, while a pair of brassy cymbals dangled from both tusks. He wielded a pair of heavy mallets. His eyes, like Synthia’s, were oddly human and seemed to be crying out for help.

Crying for a release from this cruel existence.

Vex Vixen was a bright crimson fox, much smaller than the others, and covered in uneven patches of fur and shiny copper plates. Her tail swished back and forth in time with the pounding beat of Drumbo’s percussion work while a purple bow zipped and weaved over a zebra-striped violin.

The last of the four was arguably the most disturbing of all. Bellatrix had the hulking form of a black bear—red muscle and gleaming chrome peeking out from beneath her butchered fur—but the face of a human woman. This woman, whoever she’d been, was beautiful. Her nose straight and refined, her jaw strong with high cheekbones. Unlike the rest, her eyes had been plucked out and replaced by gleaming yellow orbs that pulsed in time with the music. Her claws picked and thumbed at the thick strings of her bass guitar, driving the frantic rhythm of their song.

Naturally, they were playing a synthwave remix of “The Final Countdown,” because of course they fucking were. This whole place was like an ’80s LSD fever dream.

As the music crashed through the circus ring, another overhead spotlight, even larger than the others, burst to life, illuminating the far section of circus tent, previously cloaked in darkness.

And there, standing at the precipice of a series of stadium-style seats, waiting for his grand reveal, was Funtime Frank.

“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me,” I grumbled, running one hand through my hair.

CHAPTER 51

MONKEY BUSINESS

“Hey,” Croc said from beside me, “Funtime Frank’s a gorilla.”

Funtime Frank was indeed a gorilla.

Or at least, predominately gorilla shape. Frank was covered in grimy black fur, speckled with silver, and had beady, deep-set eyes that burned like hot coals. He was easily eight feet tall, four feet across the shoulders, and had arms that were bigger than my torso. An electric blue tie dangled from a neck as thick as a tree trunk, and a fat cigar protruded from the corner of Frank’s all-too-human mouth, letting out a constant plume of smoke.

Stacked beside the gargantuan gorilla were colorful barrels. Some blue, others green. More fire-engine red or deep purple.

The moment I saw those barrels, I realized the awful, terrible truth. Just as the Mobile Murder Muncher from the third-floor Arcade had been a nightmare version of Pac-Man, Frank was an acid-trip parody of Donkey Kong. Barrels included.

“I thought you said gorillas wouldn’t be involved in any part of the process,” Croc added, tilting its head to one side as it regarded the Arcade Boss.

“Nope,” I replied softly, my eyes still locked on the massive simian. “What I said was that if there are gorillas involved at any point in the process, things have gone wildly off the rails.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks. Does that mean things have gone wildly off the rails, Dan?”

“I think we’re about to find out,” I replied as the Codex generated a new entry.

Dweller 0.7824A – Funtime Frank – Arcade Boss (Blighted) [Level 24]

Funtime Frank is a mad scientist’s wet dream. The perfect blend of man and machine, all gift-wrapped with the primal prowess of an embalmed silverback gorilla. Make no mistake, this monstrous neon-drenched mashup is a blast from the past who is ready to fuck up your future. Although the stage-dominating simian is more than happy to leave the spotlight and turn you into pink mist with his reinforced metal fists, he prefers to do his dirty work from a distance.

Those barrels of his? They are far more than wood and nails.

Some go BOOM! Others? They’re full of skin-melting goo. But the best ones? Those are packed with hordes of horrific animatronic murder minions, all hell-bent on achieving a single objective: wrecking your shit.

Killing Frankie-boy ain’t easy, especially since he isn’t a solo act. Frank’s the charismatic front man of the Funtime Jamboree. You’ll need to send Frank’s bandmates—Vex Vixen, Bellatrix Black, Synthia Lynx, and Drumbo Chumbo—packing before you have a snowball’s chance in hell of hurting him. Thing is, their beats don’t just slap, they shield Funtime Frank with powerful buffs that make him… well, not invulnerable exactly. But there’s not really another good word that fits.

Hope you’re ready to dance, because Funtime Frank is here to party, and his parties involve copious amounts of cocaine and murder. Though mostly murder.

Current Active Effects: Melodic Shield, Beat of War, String’s Sorrow, Bass Boost

My eyes raced over the words, quickly parsing between the flavor text and the actual meat of the description. The long and short of it was that Frank was one bad SOB. He had a host of ranged attacks, could summon minions, and was basically invulnerable until we took out the other four band members who were buffing him through the gills.

The only upside—and it was a big upside—was that my StainSlayer Maelstrom spells would likely affect the band, since they were at least partially composed of organic matter.

“What do we do here?” Temperance yelled to be heard over the pumping beat of the drums and the buzzing drone of the keytar.

“Classic arcade setup,” I called back. “We need to take out the band first. Otherwise, attacking Frank won’t do anything. But watch out for his barrels. They all have different effects. I’m thinking we split up. There’re four band members and four of us. Math makes it pretty simple.”

Much as I hated to split the party, we couldn’t afford to focus all of our attention on one single target. If we tried that, it would open us up to all sorts of nasty attacks. Especially with an invulnerable Frank chucking exploding barrels at us when we weren’t looking.

“Perfectly fine by me,” Temperance declared, her gaze sweeping over the four members of the band. Her eyes narrowed sharply when they landed on Synthia, the keytar playing lynx. “The cat bitch is mine,” she growled, already prowling forward. She looked more like a hunting wolf than a timid bunny.

I eyed up the elephant man, hammering away at his drums. He looked powerful but slow. As long as I kept that son of a bitch from landing a blow, I could probably take him. “I’ve got the elephant man.” I glanced right, at the other two remaining band members. The fox looked like the least dangerous of the four, while the bear was legitimately one of the most distressing things I’d ever laid eyes on. And that included the Mobile Murder Muncher from the third-floor Arcade.

“Croc, you’ve got the fox.”

“You can count on me, Dan,” the dog replied, taking off like a blue rocket. The mimic shifted as it moved, its body swelling up and out, until it was easily as large as any of the uncanny-valley robots. “Jakob”—I grabbed ahold of the Cendral before he could take off too—“keep my dog safe, okay? I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to the big blue idiot.”

“I’ll do what I can,” the man replied with a shallow dip of his head. Then he turned on his heel and took off after Croc at a dead sprint.

I turned my attention back toward Temperance, who was already rapidly closing the distance with Synthia Lynx. Although the striped keytar player was buffing Frank, she wasn’t content to stand by while Temperance attacked. The cat woman turned toward the approaching murder bunny and let loose a jagged riff of discordant notes that sent chills racing along my spine.

Power built and brilliant streaks of blue lightning lanced downward, stabbing at the ground with furious vengeance.

The bunny was lightning-fast herself, though, and easily dodged each of the attacks. The bolts of energy pockmarked the floor, leaving behind a series of smoking divots. As quick as Temperance was, however, she wasn’t ready when Drumbo Chumbo, the elephant percussionist, brought a huge foot slamming down. The ground rumbled and a huge fissure zigzagged across the floor, threatening to swallow Temperance.

The murder bunny dove to the right at the last possible moment, narrowly avoiding the crack spreading along the ground—

But she didn’t avoid the purple barrel, which sideswiped her like a Mack truck.

The barrel didn’t explode on impact, which was a small mercy.

Instead, it shattered, wooden shrapnel flying out in every direction as a score of butchered cyborg monkeys scampered out, screeching loudly and waving their arms in the air.

Dweller 0.734D – Reanimated Murder Monkey [Level 4]

Ever wonder what happens to all the lab monkeys once the scientists are done with ’em? Yeah, now you don’t have to wonder.

Monkeys in a barrel? Really?

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was anyway.

It genuinely would’ve been funny if not for the fact that the reanimated monkeys were about five seconds away from ripping Temperance’s throat out. The creatures charged with reckless abandon before the furry could gain her feet.

With a thought, I sent my screwdriver shooting forward like a bullet fired from a high-powered rifle. The tool punched into one monkey’s throat with enough force to blast clean out the other side in a geyser of black gore. Two more monkeys had broken off from the pack and were attempting to flank me from the left and right. The floating screwdriver pirouetted in midair then slammed into the monkey on the left. I thrust my right hand out and unleashed a concentrated beam of pressurized water that sliced the other monkey clean in two.

Three more monkeys had converged on Temperance, who was still struggling to gain her feet. They were scrambling all over her, teeth biting at her arms, claws raking at her skin. One was even yanking on her hair.

But she wasn’t taking things lying down—even though she was technically lying down. Her meat cleaver was a blur. She decapitated one monkey, then sliced the arm off another. She leveled her free hand and hurled a ball of spiders right into the face of the third. The monkey screeched in terror, showing far more emotion than I would’ve expected as it stumbled back a few paces, swatting madly at the bugs.

Temperance brought one boot up and slammed it into the creature’s stomach, propelling it backward.

I cut it down with another quick pulse of Pressure Washer, then rushed over and hauled her to her feet.

“I know you like to work alone,” I yelled, fending off yet another monkey with my screwdriver lance, “but if we’re going to survive this, we need to work together. And, in this case, that means staying together.”

She rolled her eyes but nodded. “Just try not to slow me down too much.”

“Back in the Marine Corps, we had this saying. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”

She grinned. “My people had a saying as well, fast is fast. But I suppose we can try it your way.”

We’d killed about half of the mechanical monkeys, but more were closing in.

Temperance drew her bat and pointed it at the pack of feral apes like it was a magic wand. “Venatus Veneficae Surgit!” A writhing ball of green light flashed from the tip of the blunt weapon and slammed into the encroaching wave of monkeys. When the ball hit, it exploded into a fine mist, tendrils of green magic boring into noses and eyes and mouths.

Half the monkeys turned and violently hurled themselves at the other half, screeching frantically as civil war broke out among their ranks.

We let them fight it out amongst themselves as we closed the distance with Synthia Lynx.

Another barrel, this one bright red, arched toward us from the stadium seats, but this one I sniped from the air with a thread of water. Good thing too, since it exploded, releasing a billowing cloud of orange and red flames.

Synthia jabbed at the keyboard once more, conjuring another discordant jangle of music.

Energy built, but I cast Sterilization Field for 40 Mana. The dome of blue-white light rippled outward, enveloping both me and Temperance before Synthia’s lightning lances had finished forming. The bolts of power still penetrated the shell, but passing through the wall of light reduced their strength by half. Temperance soaked up twenty damage, which shaved off seven percent of her HP.

An errant bolt slammed into my shoulder for seven points of damage on contact, sending a jolt of electricity racing along my arm. I shook the pain away with a grimace.

“Get up there,” I yelled now that we were finally in range. “I’ll take out Tiny.” I waved toward the elephant man.

Temperance nodded curtly, then backpedaled a few steps and sprang upward, running across the air, until she landed on the raised platform housing Synthia. A green nimbus flared to life around her as she lashed out with her baseball bat.

Synthia met the blow with her keytar, turning the strike, then retaliated with a brutal front kick. Temperance danced away, just out of reach, then feinted left and rolled right, unleashing another spider bolt at the lynx.

Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t watch the fight.

I had Drumbo Chumbo to deal with—not to mention several more incoming barrels.

Funtime Frank had launched a trio of barrels in rapid-fire succession. One red, one purple, one neon green.

Purple was more reanimated minions and red was a firebomb. The neon green was new.

I raised my hand and launched another jet of water at the red barrel, silently praying the ensuing explosion would take out the other two barrels. But just in case they didn’t, I launched my screwdriver at the green barrel like an antiair missile. In my book, there was no such thing as overkill. I even had the title to prove it.

The beam of water triggered the firebomb barrel. It exploded in another room-shaking blaze of oranges, reds, and golds, but unfortunately, the blast radius didn’t take out the other two incoming projectiles. The screwdriver also ricocheted ineffectively off the side of the green container, spinning away then landing on the floor with a clatter.

Well, shit.

Drumbo was winding up for another stomp attack, and I didn’t have time to take out both barrels with water pulse.

Unless…

A truly unhinged idea occurred to me, but I really had nothing to lose, so why not roll the dice?

CHAPTER 52

BARRELS OF FUN

Iaimed my hand like a finger gun and unleashed a jet of water, blowing the purple minion barrel to pieces. In the same instant, I cut the flows of telekinetic energy to my screwdriver and reactivated the spell, reaching outward toward the green barrel with an invisible limb of mental might. I’d practiced this same maneuver with my hammer a hundred times before. This was no different, just on a bigger scale.

My mental limb enveloped the barrel at the speed of thought, and I felt something groan in protest within my core. Mental Micromanagement could only move things up to forty-five pounds, and the green barrel was at the very edge of my limits.

Perspiration instantly slicked my face and chest; my whole body trembled as though I were squatting at max capacity. But, by the good Lord Almighty, the barrel came to a wavering halt a handful of feet from the ground. Then with a roar, I hurled the barrel right at the lumpy, gray-skinned elephant drummer. It cartwheeled through the air and slammed into the wagon with a splintering crash.

The barrel burst and a burbling green goo splattered all over Drumbo. The elephant man trumpeted in a combination of pain and rage. Whatever attack he’d been preparing to launch was suddenly forgotten as he tried desperately to scrape away the face-melting acid.

An achievement notice pinged in the corner of my eye, though thankfully, it didn’t materialize. Just a small icon blinking on and off before disappearing.

Drumbo was taken care of for the moment, but I had another problem to deal with.

My water jet had effectively turned the purple barrel into a barrage of wooden shrapnel, but the monkeys inside had sustained only minimal damage.

Several monkey corpses rained from the sky and splattered against the ground.

Most of the monkeys inside had sustained only minimal damage, I amended. A few had been turned into ribbons of meat and fur.

More monkeys hit the ground, but these were alive and pissed. To be fair, I also would’ve been pissed had the circumstances been reversed.

With a shrieking howl, the remaining apes charged, simian feet and hands scrambling for purchase, lips pulled back in a rabid rictus.

I smirked, a feral gesture, and reached inward, tapping into my most powerful spell. Mana exploded outward and great blue-white clouds formed in a swirling, churning mass. Corrosive rain fell not in fits and spurts, but in a torrential sheet. Great fat droplets of super bleach drenched the reanimated monkeys. None of the minions were above level 7, and the spell reduced them to disgusting globs of gristle and fur in a matter of seconds.

One lone monkey, on the very edge of the AoE spell, managed to escape with a handful of HP still intact, though its skin was already sloughing off.

I snagged my screwdriver from the ground with Mental Micromanagement and sent it hurtling through the creature’s skull, killing it instantly. The telekinesis spell procced Wild Surge, instantly boosting my available Mana from a mere 23 points all the way up to 78 points. Still a long way from full, but more than enough to kill Drumbo.

The Sterilization Field around me guttered and died, but I ignored it as I skirted the fallout from the bleach Maelstrom and made my way toward the elephant man.

Drumbo saw me coming and jumped from his wagon, landing on the ground with a thunderous rumble. The acid from the green barrel had chewed through much of the elephant’s pebbly gray hide. Its hit points had dropped by a full third. Red muscle, glistening yellow fat, and the metallic glint of pistons and gears showed through its ruined exterior. Drumbo slammed an oversized mallet against one of the drumheads embedded in its stomach.

Earthen spikes erupted from the floor beneath me.

My Spelunker’s Sixth Sense flashed a warning a heartbeat before it was too late. I scrambled to the right, but one of the rocky spears punched through the sole of my boot, skewering my foot. My quick reaction speed had kept me from being impaled through something vital—like my guts or spine—but the pain was still excruciating. The rocky spear also prevented me from running. The stone protrusion was only half an inch in diameter, but the damned thing was a good three feet long.

Drumbo raised a foot, and I knew what was coming.

He was going to split the earth again. Conjure a fissure to swallow me whole.

I didn’t give him the chance.

I activated Pressure Washer and brought the beam of water slashing across his upraised shin. The acid from the green barrel had already chewed through his hide and the underlying muscle beneath. The beam of water severed the remainder of the tendons and connective tissue. The lower portion of Drumbo’s leg fell off in a spray of scarlet blood and black motor oil.

An almost comically shocked expression flashed across Drumbo’s face and then the elephant drummer tumbled like a felled tree. He landed hard enough to rattle my teeth. His Health had dropped to half and it didn’t look like he could get up. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still a deadly threat. A rabid animal, with its back in a corner and no other options, was the most dangerous sort of monster.

But his injuries bought me enough time to handle the shaft of rock piercing my foot.

I pulled my hammer free, braced myself, then took a swing at the spear. I’d been driving in nails for years and years, so my aim was true. The hammer shattered the rocky spear just above the top of my boot. It was a perfect hit. Didn’t matter. A renewed wave of agony roared downward just from the sheer vibration of the hammer blow. The pain was so intense I thought I might pass out. That or puke. Maybe both.

With the wound throbbing and screaming, I jerked my foot straight up. Blood gushed out the bottom of my boot, leaving a puddle on the hay below.

I fished a lesser Zima from my tool belt and chugged it. Sweet, delicious relief spread through my foot like a soothing balm as my HP recovered.

“That really hurt, you cockwomble,” I growled, closing in on the downed elephant. Drumbo raised his mallet again, but before he could strike the drum, my screwdriver impaled his hand, pinning the appendage to the ground. “Doesn’t feel good, does it!” I screamed.

Then I was on top of him, blinded by rage and pain and fear. My hammer fell again and again, giving me flashbacks to Natasha Anno. I’d killed her the same way. I suppressed the internal revulsion and triggered Gavel of Get Fucked. Because Drumbo’s HP had just dipped below the 10% threshold, the skill instantly triggered Killing Blow. Power erupted from the end of the hammer. What remained of the elephant’s big fat head just exploded, splattering me with blood and bits of bone matter.

But that wasn’t all.

Since I’d effectively landed a Killing Blow with the Gavel, the cascading effect, Wave of Justice, triggered next.

Wave of Justice applied the Gavel’s primary effect to all enemy combatants within a twenty-foot radius. In this case, that meant dealing damage equal to 20% of the opponent’s existing Health Pool—with a max cap of 250 Damage. Vex Vixen and Bellatrix Black were both outside of the spell’s range, but Synthia Lynx wasn’t.

I turned in time to see crimson power wrap around the keytar player like the hand of an angry god. As it happened, Temperance had already dropped her below 10% HP as well, which meant Killing Blow triggered for a second time in as many seconds.

The lynx’s head just… popped. Like an overinflated balloon filled with red paint.

Gore splattered across Temperance’s pink bunny suit, but she didn’t even flinch. If anything, she looked happy as a clam. A psycho, bloodthirsty clam.

She turned on a furry heel and surveyed the carnage.

“Not bad,” she said, before leaping lightly from the platform and landing in a crouch. “Maybe I underestimated you. This level of destruction is truly impressive.”

“Appreciate it,” I replied, “but we can pat ourselves on the backs once we take out gorilla boy, there.” I glanced in Funtime Frank’s direction and a curious thing happened. His nameplate popped up again, but it had changed.

Dweller 0.7828A – Funtime Frank – Arcade Boss (Blighted) [Level 27]

Current Active Effects: Bass Boost

Holy shit. The monkey-fucker had gone up a grand total of three—count ’em, three—levels. That couldn’t be good.

The fact that he was down to a single active effect, Bass Boost, was a small victory, though. It probably meant that Croc and Jakob had killed one of the other band members.

I turned and spotted the mangled remnants of the fox violinist in a lumpy pile. All that remained was a combination of guts and wires strewn out across the gaudy, gilded wagon.

We weren’t out of the woods yet, though.

Croc and Jakob were going toe-to-toe with the final member of the band, Bellatrix Black the Bassist Bear. Things did not appear to be going well. Bellatrix was easily the largest and most terrifying of all the band members, and she’d left the safety of her podium, apparently preferring to take the fight directly to Jakob and Croc. The bear’s HP was still above 80% while Jakob’s was below 70% and Croc was down by half.

Fuck.

There were also more barrels incoming.

I grabbed Temperance by the arm and shoved her toward the colossal woman-bear. “Go help them,” I yelled. “I’ll take care of Frank.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She offered me a Cheshire grin that seemed to spread from ear to ear, then bolted toward the bear without an ounce of hesitation.

I turned back toward the stadium bleachers. There were four more barrels careening toward me this time—two purple barrels, one red, and a final one that was cobalt blue. Clearly, I’d pissed off Frank and now he’d taken off the kid gloves. Taking out the purple barrels would be a waste of time, since it wouldn’t stop the reanimated monkeys anyway. I had no idea what the blue one did, so I sniped that one first with a blast of water.

The barrel shattered on impact and a cloud of blue gas swirled through the air but quickly dissipated. Even though the blue mist never touched the ground, the temperature in the tent dropped by at least ten degrees. Some sort of frost attack, then.

I telekinetically snagged the final barrel from the air with a grunt of effort and a metric shitload of willpower. The barrel slowed, the liquid inside sloshing ominously around. Then, just for shits and giggles, I returned the barrel to the sender with a flick of my wrist. True, Frank was invulnerable as long as Bellatrix the bass-playing bear was alive and kicking, but I was hoping that protection didn’t extend to the barrels stacked in a large pile beside the huge gorilla.

King Kong let out a bellow and stretched a giant hand toward the incoming barrel, but he was just a hair too slow. The cherry-red bomb smashed into the other barrels, setting off a cascading series of explosions so loud and intense, I thought it was going to bring the tent down on top of our heads. I dropped to the deck, pressing my belly against the dirt, though I kept one eye out for any other inbound threats.

A fireball, mixed with swirls of electric blue and neon green, billowed up like a miniature mushroom cloud, and Frank disappeared behind a wall of blinding light. The heat of the explosion singed my face and kicked up a hail of peanut shells.

When the fireball finally receded and vanished entirely, I hesitantly gained my feet. I brushed my hands off and surveyed the scope of the utter devastation.

The stadium seats were just… gone. In their place was a smoking, char-black crater.

CHAPTER 53

REVENGE OF THE FRANK

Iwhistled through my teeth.

Huh, that had worked much better than I’d anticipated. Honestly, I’d seen some pretty gnarly explosions during my time in Iraq and on demo sites scattered across the greater Kentuckian planes, but this… This was on a whole different level.

The two monkey-filled purple barrels that Frank had hurled prior to the detonation had somehow survived the explosion. The remaining minions were picking themselves up off the hay-covered floor.

Bellatrix and the others had also been far enough outside the blast radius to avoid taking any damage. The hulking bear with the horrific and all-too-human face was down below fifty percent now. She was bleeding from a legion of different wounds. Temperance danced and twirled around the lumbering creature like a manic pixie, hacking with her cleaver and bludgeoning with her bat. Croc had retreated from the front line, taking cover behind a sectional sofa while Jakob treated the mimic’s injuries.

A colossal roar pulled my attention away from the scene and back toward the blackened crater. It was hard to see anything thanks to the thick plume of smoke drifting up, but there was definitely something moving in there.

I held my breath as the hulking form of Frank emerged from the curtain of black and gray.

His Health bar hadn’t dropped by even a single percentage point, which wasn’t much of a shock since the Bassist was still alive. He hadn’t come away completely unscathed, however, regardless of what his HP bar said. His black-and-silver fur had been almost entirely burned away, and smoldering ruined chunks of skin and meat hung from his thick frame.

Frank threw his head back and issued another furious roar, rhythmically pounding at his chest with enormous fists. I stared on, completely dumbstruck, as the thirty-odd reanimated murder monkeys turned away from me and swarmed the gorilla. They leapt on him en masse, and before long he was buried beneath a veritable sea of simian bodies.

What the Kentucky Fried Fuck is going on here?

Horror dawned on me as I saw the small army of monkeys begin to melt—their flesh turning into a gelatinous mess, which merged with Frank’s own battered and broken body. The gorilla swelled in size.

Nine feet, then ten.

Twelve feet.

Fifteen.

Up and up he went, like Jack’s beanstalk straining toward the heavens above.

By the time the dark alchemy was finished, Frank stood at least twenty-five feet tall, his chest as big as a tractor-trailer, his arms like a pair of juvenile redwoods. His entire body was covered with bits and pieces of reanimated monkeys. Simian arms and twitching tails poked out, seemingly at random. Distorted Monkey faces protruded from his shoulders, chest, and legs like cancerous growths.

Uh-oh.

“Time to party!” Funtime Frank bellowed, his voice the sound of an industrial cement mixer. Then Franken-Kong charged me. He ran on all fours in a rolling, simian gait that ate up the ground at an incredible rate.

“Could use some help over here!” I hollered, stealing a quick glance at the others. Bellatrix was missing an arm, and ropes of intestine and sparking wires drooped from a slash across her abdomen. Her Health bar was strobing manically, warning, warning, warning, but she still had a little gas left in the tank and she wasn’t going down without a fight.

“We’ll be there when we can!” Jakob hollered back.

Bellatrix exploited his moment of inattention and lunged forward, slamming a huge foot into the Cendral’s metallic shield. The kick knocked Jakob back at least ten feet and left him gasping and wheezing on the floor.

I turned back toward the charging Kong. I just needed to buy a little time here.

That I could do.

I pulled out my perpetual ace in the hole, the Super Slammer of Shielding, spiked it on the floor, and intoned the arcane ritual words of old. “Let’s Pog!”

The golden birdcage sprang up around me, and the two-minute countdown timer appeared, tattooed on the air. Funtime Frank skidded to a stop a handful of feet before the edge of the shimmering barrier and let out a roar of impotent rage, so loud it dropped me to one knee. The huge eldritch monkey horror raised a fist the size of a monster truck tire and brought it crashing down on the top of the dome.

This dome had seen some nasty shit over the past several weeks, but for the first time the bars of light flickered and trembled beneath the force of the strike. It was just for a moment. A flash, here then gone. But suddenly I wasn’t feeling quite as confident. Maybe Frank’s rage wasn’t quite as impotent as I’d first thought. I’d read the Slammer item description more times than I could count and remembered the words with crystal clarity.

The Super Slammer of Shielding is a rare magical Artifact, which summons a mostly impenetrable dome of arcane power, capable of protecting all those within the confines from physical, arcane, and elemental attacks.

Mostly was the key word there. Looked like Funtime Frank was going to put the resiliency of the shield to the test.

Fists fell, one after another, like artillery blasts, the dome straining under the furious assault. The golden bars wavered and distorted. Cracking. The shield had only been in place for fifteen seconds and I had serious doubts that it would last another fifteen seconds at this rate. I needed to do something to get Frankie-boy to lay off or he was going to crush this thing like a soda can with me trapped inside.

My spells couldn’t pass through the arcane dome, but physical objects could.

I had a couple of actual Molotov cocktails left over from my fight with the Harmacist and also my speed square batarang. Neither seemed like great options against a twenty-five-foot-tall cyborg gorilla covered in the melted corpses of reanimated lab monkeys, but I just needed to buy time, not kill this fucker.

I pulled my speed square from my belt, wound my arm back, and let ’er rip, aiming at the ape’s face. My poor man’s batarang flew true and sunk all the way into one of Frank’s fist-sized eyeballs.

There was a sickly wet pop and the gorilla screeched, stumbling back as he groped at his face. Unfortunately, the speed square didn’t come back because it was lodged in Frank’s eyeball.

Without missing a beat, I pulled out three run-of-the-mill Molotov cocktails—these all made from bottles of Jack Daniels and stuffed with greasy rags, soaked in lighter fluid. With nimble fingers, I pulled out a Zippo and lit the first bottle. The rag went up in a blaze and I fastballed the bottle of Jack at the staggering monkey before he could get his bearings. There was a crunch of broken glass followed by a great woosh as the flames spread up Frank’s stocky legs.

I quickly lit the second and third bottles, throwing both in quick succession.

The two bottles joined the first, one smashing against the ape’s chest, the other splashing hungry flames across one arm. The ape howled, and a Health bar appeared above its head. The bar turned from a burnt gold to a bloody red and dropped for the first time. The last active effect, Bass Boost, loitering beneath Frank’s nameplate had finally disappeared, though Frank’s level had also ticked up by one.

The Franken-Kong was now level 28. One level higher than the Murder Muncher from the Arcade on the third floor.

Could we kill a level 28 blighted Dweller the size of an office building?

I had no clue. But we were gonna give it the good ol’ college try.

“Alright!” I yelled over one shoulder to the others. “Let’s wrap it and tap it!”

Croc was busy eating Bellatrix’s head, but the others were already scrambling to get into their new protective gear. They were moving quickly, but I still needed to buy them a little more time. I didn’t want to trigger StainSlayer Maelstrom prematurely and I was hesitant to use Pressure Washer on the overgrown ape. The flames were doing a good job of distracting Frankie-boy, and using water would only douse the inferno crawling across the creature’s monstrous body.

Time to do something stupid.

With the golden protective shield still in place, I quickly swapped Bad Trip for a much more unstable Relic. Burn, Baby, Burn.

The Uncommon, Flamethrower Relic clicked into my Spatial Core and I felt chaotic power surge outward through my veins like a raging forest fire. Death and Destruction sang inside me. Burn, Baby, Burn only cost 2 Mana per second—an extremely cheap spell—and dealt a nasty 30 points of Flame Damage on contact, plus 5 additional points of Fire Damage per second. Sure, it would also deal 2 points a second of Burn Damage to me as well and there was a chance I could spontaneously explode, but so what?

Now wasn’t the time to play it safe. Now was the time to set shit on fire.

I deactivated the Super Slammer, then squared my shoulders, thrust both hands forward, and unleashed a red-hot column of flame as thick as a telephone pole. My skin started to crackle and blaze in the same instant, terrible heat spreading backward up my hands and along my arms. Scorching my chest and face in the process. My HP bar began to drop, and the pain consumed my world. It felt like touching a hot stove. But with my whole body.

I didn’t care.

I just screamed and let the flames flow, because as much as they were hurting me, they were hurting Funtime Frank even more.

I let the spell roar for a full ten seconds, until Frank blazed like a Yule log and his Health had finally dipped below 90%.

My own Health had plunged by nearly a quarter and my skin felt raw. Like it had been stretched too tight across the muscle and bone beneath.

While Frank raged and burned, I took a few seconds to spam Mental Micromanagement, starting and stopping the telekinetic flow in rapid succession like a burst of machine-gun fire. It didn’t take long until Wild Surge activated, quickly boosting my Mana back up to 101.

Unfortunately, the flames had started to die down, leaving burnt and blackened ruins in their wake. Funtime Frank wasn’t looking like he was having a fun time at all. He looked pissed.

The enormous ape opened its mouth and spit something wriggling and purple at me.

The color drained from my face as I realized what it was. A writhing ball of monkey parts, all jumbled together. Arms and legs, tails and faces. I raised a hand and attempted to blast apart the incoming cannonball of fused lab monkeys, but the narrow beam of water just punched straight through. The ball of limbs and faces continued hurtling toward me undeterred. I took evasive action, but my stupid boot caught on a piece of wooden shrapnel from one of the barrels.

I stumbled and instinctively glanced down. It was only for a moment, but when I looked back up, the ball of monkey parts smashed into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. I doubled over, wheezing, and pitched onto my side, suddenly unable to breathe. The monkey ball didn’t do much damage, but it did break apart on impact. Before I fully knew what was happening, a dozen or more severed monkey arms were somehow pinning me to the ground.

CHAPTER 54

CHOKE ON THIS

Alashing tail wrapped around my throat like a garrote, cutting off my already dwindling air supply. Seconds later, a decapitated monkey head rolled across the floor and latched onto my right bicep while another head bit down on my calf.

I struggled to get up. To pry the grasping limbs from my body. They were strong and surprisingly nimble. It was like fighting an army of Things from the Addams Family.

The bigger issue was the tail squeezing my neck like a boa constrictor. I reached up with my one free arm and tried fruitlessly to jam my fingers in between the tail and my neck. It was useless. My HP was steadily plunging. Cold, cruel realization washed over me. I’d come all this way just to get choked to death by a disembodied monkey tail. That was the biggest load of bullshit I’d ever heard in my life.

Then I felt the tremendous thud of a colossal approaching footstep.

Darkness was creeping in at the edges of my vision, but I still managed to catch a glimpse of Funtime Frank stomping toward me. The shadow of the creature stretched across me, and Frank raised his foot high. He was going to crush me like an insolent bug.

Somehow, I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than getting choked out by a monkey tail. It seemed a little more dignifying, but only a little.

I bucked and kicked, doing everything in my power to break the stranglehold of the grasping limbs, but they had me dead to rights. I braced myself, preparing for a quick and brutal end—

A trio of ghostly blue chains erupted from the ground, wrapping around Franken-Kong’s leg. Two more snared the creature around the throat, tugging tight as though Frank were a dog on a leash being brought to heel.

Temperance’s Puritanical Chains.

The spectral chains started to pop and snap. They wouldn’t be able to hold the creature at bay for long. But long enough.

A pair of hands slipped beneath my armpits, roughly yanking me backward. Then Croc was in front of me, its jaws yawning wide. Fleshy blue tentacles pulled the simian limbs free like giant leeches, slurping them down.

“You okay, Dan?” the dog asked as the last of the monkey parts vanished down its throat.

“Glad to see you guys,” I said. My voice was hoarse, and my throat felt raw. Bruised.

Croc looked more or less the same as ever, but Temperance and Jakob had both donned rather curious attire over the top of their regular armor. Thick yellow rain jackets, with the hoods up. Heavy-duty rubber waders—looted from Open Sky Outfitters—covered their legs and feet. Yellow, Rubbermaid cleaning gloves protected their hands, and black plastic bandanas covered their noses and mouths. Both had on a pair of thick safety goggles to safeguard their eyes.

It looked for all the world like they were wearing makeshift hazmat suits, which wasn’t far from the truth.

“We all know what to do here,” Jakob said. “I’ll draw his attention. Temperance, you get close. Focus on tendons, wires, ankles. Break its mobility. Dan”—he glanced toward me—“death from above.”

“And what should I do?” Croc asked.

“Keep Dan safe,” Jakob replied solemnly. “None of this will mean anything if he dies.”

The Cendral turned on a heel and bolted away from us. As he ran, a terrible blaring siren emanated from his chest, ber-ber-ber-ber-ber. It was the sound of a broken smoke detector, wailing at full blast. The racket was like nails on a chalkboard and made me irrationally angry and irritated for reasons I couldn’t quite explain. That was one of Jakob’s Relics, I knew. It was literally called Faulty Smoke Detector and its sole purpose was to draw and hold the attention of hostile Dwellers.

Annoying as fuck, and so loud it was impossible to ignore. It was the perfect aggro ability and it worked like a charm.

The chains momentarily restraining Funtime Frank finally vanished. But instead of lumbering toward me or Temperance, the giant gorilla focused entirely on Jakob, hate and rage burning in the creature’s eyes. Arcs of blue lightning flashed from the ends of Frank’s fingertips, but Jakob easily absorbed the damage on his glowing shield.

The monster was so thoroughly distracted, it didn’t even notice as Temperance darted between its malformed feet. The killer furry immediately went to work with brutal efficiency, her meat cleaver carving deep, gruesome furrows in Frank’s skin.

Meanwhile, Croc’s form shimmered.

The mimic looked more or less like a bear. A bear drawn by a four-year-old, sure, but a bear all the same. Before I could do anything, Croc lumbered over and scooped me up in its arms then pulled me tight against its rubbery belly. Blue flesh crept over me, forming… a giant baby holster. My arms and legs protruded from the bottom.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled, feebly kicking my legs.

“Protecting you. You know what they say, Dan. Keep your friends close and your best friend in a Baby Bjorn made of flesh. Besides, you can barely stand. So, I’ll be the legs, and you just focus on spell casting.”

This was easily the most demeaning thing that had happened to me since Noclipping into the Backrooms. Maybe the most demeaning thing to happen in my entire adult life. Almost being strangled to death by a rogue monkey tail didn’t even come close.

But, I had to admit it was surprisingly comfortable.

“Fuck it,” I said, shaking my head. “Let’s Baby Bjorn this bitch!”

Legs dangling down like an overgrown toddler, I activated StainSlayer Maelstrom for a second time, raining down corrosive death from above. Fat droplets of super bleach drenched Frank, melting through his fleshy exterior and dealing a devastating amount of damage while simultaneously eating through the monster’s Mana and Stamina. The super bleach puddled on the ground, splashing onto Temperance, but between the waders and the raincoat, she was fine.

More disgusting monkey balls peeled away from Frank’s body—each one depleting a small portion of the creature’s overall Health—and rushed toward us.

“Don’t worry, Dan,” Croc called. “I’ll take care of them.”

The mimic surged into battle. Tentacles kept the monkey balls at bay and huge feet and hands crushed anything that got too close. I trusted Croc completely and focused all my effort on Frank.

I let Pressure Washer rip at full blast, the lance of water cutting through the creature’s hide even more effectively than Temperance’s meat cleaver. At the same time, my hammer sailed through the air, held aloft by a strand of telekinetic force. I pumped extra Mana into the weapon until it swelled to the size of a sledgehammer and burned with ghostly blue light.

I brought the hammer screaming down in a wicked arc right into the side of Frank’s hideously deformed face. The cooldown timer on Gavel of Get Fucked had reset, so I triggered the effect again, burning 20 Stamina in the process. Frank was well above sixty percent Health, so there was no chance Killing Blow would activate. But that didn’t matter. The blow still landed for a total of 190 points of damage, knocking him down below 50%.

Frank spun around, ignoring Jakob, and focused on me and Croc.

The gorilla let out a thunderous roar and slammed a foot against the floor.

A huge fissure zigzagged toward us—the attack identical to the one that Drumbo Chumbo had used earlier. Despite being the size of a bear, Croc was both fast and agile. The mimic easily danced away from the edge of the growing chasm while I continued to chip away at Frank’s Health, smashing him in the face with my hammer and spamming Pressure Washer—garnering additional stacks of Water Erosion with each passing second.

Temperance had managed to climb onto Frank’s back and was currently riding him like an angry rodeo bull and not a twenty-five-foot-tall, reanimated cyborg gorilla. Her cleaver fell in a rhythmic series of wet thwacks, each blow eating through a sliver of the creature’s total HP.

Burning green orbs of power shot from the gorilla’s eyes, zipping toward us—

There was a thunderclap off to the right as Jakob summoned what appeared to be a black hole. The swirling black vortex was about the size of a manhole cover and hung, unsupported, in the air. The green orbs immediately veered off course, sucked into the black hole. The black hole vanished with a pop and Jakob surged forward in a nimbus of golden light—his Cow Catcher Charge, at work.

The Cendral raised his blue shield up, then brought the burning edge straight down, slicing through one of Frank’s toes. The shield cauterized the wound in passing.

Frank howled in rage and spun like a top, one giant foot mule kicking Jakob in the chest, launching the lizard man across the room. He landed in a boneless heap, his HP bar critically low. He wasn’t dead, but unless I could spoon-feed him a healing elixir, it looked like he was out of the fight for the time being.

Then, to make matters worse, Funtime Frank reared up and huge earthen spikes erupted from his back. An army of spears, all identical to the earthen spike that had impaled my foot. In an eyeblink, he’d transformed into a giant porcupine. And Temperance never saw it coming. Spikes pin cushioned the murder bunny in half a dozen places. She tumbled off Frank’s back and landed in a spreading puddle of red—blood hemorrhaging out at an astounding rate.

She took a long, wheezing breath, her arms flopping weakly beside her.

She was still alive, but for how much longer?

Frank’s HP was lingering just above twenty-five percent, and suddenly it was down to me and Croc. We needed to end this thing and we needed to do it yesterday if we had any chance of saving our friends. There was a good chance it was already too late.

“What do we do, Dan?” Croc yelled as he squashed another monkey ball with one foot, splattering bits of fur across the hay-covered floor.

My mind raced but nothing was coming. My Mana was low. I had enough juice to cast one more StainSlayer Maelstrom but that wouldn’t be enough. It might knock Frank below twenty percent, but then I’d be running on empty. I was sure I could get Wild Surge to proc again, but even if I did, so what? Every spell in my arsenal wouldn’t be enough.

It was too bad I’d destroyed all of his stupid barrels. If I had one of those explosive barrels, I could’ve lodged the damn thing in Frank’s throat and turned his head into pink mist.

I froze…

Wait. That’s the answer.

Although I didn’t have a barrel, I had something else in my inventory that might do the trick.

“We need to get him to face us!” I bellowed. “I just need a clear shot at his mouth.”

Before the words were even out, Croc was already on the move.

The mimic raced around the circus ring, straddling environmental hazards and leaping over scurrying monkey balls. The mimic skidded to a halt a handful of feet in front of Jakob—still down for the count—then wheeled to face Frank, who was staring at us with hate etched into the lines of his deformed simian face.

I raised a hand and activated Pressure Washer, this time aiming right at Frank’s… frank and beans. The blast of water hit for 15 points of Slashing Damage, which barely moved the needle on Frank’s HP bar. But getting blasted in the junk by a stream of water with 90,000 PSI of force behind it had to hurt like a bitch. Funtime Frank threw his head back and roared, which is when I acted. I reached through a jagged tear in the fabric of reality and pulled an Artifact from my Storage.

It was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand.

It wouldn’t stay that way, though.

I wrapped the object in a thread of telekinetic power and sent it flying with all the accuracy of a sniper round straight for Frank’s yawning, cavernous mouth.

The object glinted as it flew, flashing in the circus lights.

It was a bright orange, die-cast, 1972 Ford Pinto. It looked like a Hot Wheel car.

CHAPTER 55

JUST REWARDS

As the die-cast Hot Wheels entered Frank’s gaping maw, I yelled, “It’s Cruising Time, you no good monkey fucker!” and the car enlarged to its full size. At twenty-five feet, Frank was one big ol’ chunky monkey. But his mouth wasn’t large enough to contain a full-sized sedan. Not even a subcompact two-seater like the Pinto. Frank’s head just… exploded as the car reached its full size. Blood, bone, and bits of metal flew out in a geyser as Frank’s body toppled to the side, landing with a thud, the twisted remains of Pinto right on top.

And just like that, Funtime Frank was dead. So was my car—an unfortunate casualty of war—though the heap of motorized shit had served me well.

With Franken-Kong and the rest of the jamboree dead, the metal dome walling us in retracted and disappeared back beneath the debris- and gore-splattered floor. We’d done it. Against all odds, we’d won. Beaten the monster at the heart of this place and purged the Blight while doing it, though we weren’t completely out of the woods yet.

Temperance and Jakob were both in terrible shape—though Temperance had taken the worst of the punishment. Frank’s spike attack had turned her into a furry pincushion. Right hand to God, it looked like someone had cut her down with a machine gun. Puncture wounds and lacerations dotted her body, and a great pool of blood was already congealing in a crimson halo by the time Croc and I got to her.

By all rights, she should’ve been dead. I legitimately couldn’t understand how she had survived at all.

It turned out she wouldn’t have, if not for Jakob.

Unbeknownst to me, the Cendral had equipped the Insurance Pact Relic I’d given him back at the Mart. The same Insurance Pact I’d received from the corpse of Natasha Anno, Aspirant of the Skinless Court. The Uncommon-grade ability enabled the caster to form an “insurance pact” with an ally, sharing up to twenty percent of their max Health Pool with the other for ten minutes. Jakob had formed the bond with Temperance early on during the fight, an act which had saved her life without a shadow of a doubt.

It was also the residual trauma from the pact that had knocked Jakob out cold and not getting mule kicked in the chest by Frank, as I’d first assumed. The pact didn’t just share the HP Pool, it also shared the pain both parties suffered while the ability was active.

It was a nasty side effect, though again, without it Temp would’ve died.

A few Zima Health Elixirs—and a little extra TLC, courtesy of Pharmacist’s Scales—saw both the Delvers back on their feet and good as new. Mostly. Temperance’s protective raincoat and rubber waders had been shredded beyond recognition. The items weren’t Artifacts, which meant they wouldn’t naturally recover over time. It was a small loss in the grand scheme of things, and nothing that couldn’t be replaced with a few quick raids.

Once I was sure my friends weren’t going to die, I took a minute to wade through the sea of notifications that had rolled in like the high tide. There were a lot of ’em, which came as a shock to no one.

[Level Up! x 2]

Research Achievement Unlocked…

Research Achievement Unlocked…

Research Achievement Unlocked…

I’d earned a broad swath of new achievements for a wide range of insane and borderline suicidal behavior.

Friendly Fire for redirecting one of Frank’s magical barrels directly into Drumbo Chumbo. Hit-and-Run for using a vehicle to murder an Arcade Boss. A third, called Barrel of Monkeys, for slaughtering more than fifty reanimated lab monkeys at once. I even earned one called Flame On! for setting myself on fire with my own Relic. I wasn’t sure if I was the most or least proud of that particular research achievement, though it did come with a Silver Firebrand Loot Token, which was a nice touch.

The fifth and final achievement was for clearing the Jungle Gym Jamboree Bounty. It came with enough loot and prizes to make all of the horrible, extremely traumatizing events of the past hour almost worth it.

It also came with a new title, though I wasn’t in love with the name...

Monkey Fucker

Slap my ass and call me a monkey’s uncle!

You did it, you crazy son of a bitch. You killed Funtime Frank and cleansed the Jungle Gym Jamboree of the encroaching Blight. Huzzah! And you didn’t just kill him, you really fucked his shit up good. Using a Ford Pinto to explode his skull? Absolutely insane and a stroke of genius. But also, the work of a true master murderer. This kind of raw chutzpah deserves a round of applause and enough loot to fill a bathtub.

Reward: 3,500 Experience, 10 x Copper Delver Loot Tokens, 3 x Silver Delver Loot Tokens, 1 x Silver Gambler Loot Token, 1 x Sapphire Binder Loot Token, 1 x Golden Kiosk Franchise Opportunity.

Title: Monkey Fucker – Deal 15% additional damage to opponents more than ten levels higher than you.

Interestingly, another prompt appeared beneath the new achievement.

Synergistic Resonance Detected!

You have two active titles with extreme synergy. Would you like to Forge Out of Your League and Monkey Fucker into a new Title?*

Yes/No?

I hadn’t realized that titles even could be combined like Relics.

Croc had never mentioned the possibility—although it was likely that Croc didn’t know either. The one steadfast truth I’d learned about the Backrooms was that no one knew everything. Hell, no one knew most things. And even the stuff they thought they knew was probably wrong.

There was an asterisk next to the prompt, letting me know I could run an analysis of the new title using the Researcher’s Codex. Because I wasn’t an idiot, I hit yes and read over a rather dry but thorough report of the derivative title.

The two titles basically did the same thing already, so combining them made sense for a variety of reasons. First, the effects wouldn’t stack separately, which meant I’d be wasting a title slot. Second, the two titles were far better together than they were apart. And last, but certainly not least, I wouldn’t get stuck with a title called Monkey Fucker. That alone was enough of a selling point to persuade me to hit yes.

I accepted and gleefully read over my new title.

New Title Forged: Punch-Out!! Champion – When facing an enemy 5+ levels higher than you, all damage you deal is magnified by 3n%, where n is equal to the level difference between you and your opponent.

I cackled like a maniac, earning curious and concerned glances from the others. I didn’t care what they thought. Even with a bit of quick and dirty mental math, that meant I’d deal 15% additional damage to anyone five levels higher than me, and 30% more damage to someone ten levels higher. The Flayed Monarch was at least level 100, so did that mean I’d be able to score 300% damage against him? Probably. Though even that might not be enough to put a dent in the monster’s Health Pool.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only title that had changed.

Listed just below Punch Out!! Champion was my Fish in a Barrel title. It had also evolved without my consent, just like Jakob had said it would. Perfect.

Title: Barracuda in a Barrel (E) – You exude an aura of pure carnage. Dwellers more than ten levels below you will actively avoid you and slaying any Dweller below Level 10 grants no Experience.

This is an (E)volving title. This title cannot be unequipped. Is the little wah-baby sad because they can’t murder Dwellers too weak to fight back? Well cry me a river, you murder hobo, because I don’t give a shit.

It took us another hour after that to mop up the scene and loot the corpses.

Although the reanimated monkeys didn’t have any Relics of their own, each had at least one Common-grade Shard a piece. We walked away with ninety-seven Shards in total. Even split three ways, it was a fantastic haul for half an hour’s worth of work.

Then there were the Relics.

Each of Funtime Frank’s badly taxidermied bandmates had at least two—Beatrix the bass-playing nightmare-bear had three—while Franken-Kong himself had four. That gave us thirteen in all. Split four ways, that was three apiece, though Croc didn’t want a share. As a Dweller, the mimic didn’t use Relics in the same way we did. All the dog wanted was “the leftovers”—a phrase and notion I had no desire, whatsoever, to investigate further.

After a little haggling, Jakob and Temp ended up with four Relics each, while I got five since I’d been the one to land the killing blow against Frank. The fact that the Pinto was trashed beyond repair also factored in. Artifacts like that didn’t come along all that often, and scoring an extra Relic seemed like a fair exchange.

Deciding which Relics to pick was a tough call because they were all amazing, each in its own unique way. Melodic Wall conjured a Mana Frequency Shield, capable of dispelling spells on contact, while Thick Fat boosted Toughness and soaked up physical damage like a sponge. Adaptive Immunity was a particularly interesting Relic that offered a unique form of resistance immunity. When activated, the caster developed 50% Resistance to the last type of damage they received for ten minutes.

Like I said, they were impressive skills—some magical in nature, others physical—but most I passed over for a variety of reasons. In my opinion, Melodic Wall was a shittier version of Sterilization Field, and I already had a powerful Toughness-boosting Relic in the form of Baldree’s Scale Mail Cuirass. Things like Adaptive Immunity or Thick Fat made far more sense for a close-combat tank like Jakob. There were a couple of ranged offensive spells as well, Harmonic Blade and Synthwave Shock, but neither was quite as good as Pressure Washer.

Ultimately, I picked a more eclectic assortment of Relics. Not quite as traditionally straightforward, but useful in different ways.

The first was a bizarre Rare-grade Relic called Unhinged Taxidermist. It was the same ability Frank had used to summon barrels overflowing with reanimated lab monkeys. Monkeys who had almost torn me limb from limb, I might add. It was a summoner Relic that worked in a similar fashion to my Cannon Fodder Minion ability, though with a few slight differences. As with Cannon Fodder Minion, I couldn’t just conjure prefab minions from thin air.

Instead, I needed to build them.

The difference was, I couldn’t use random garbage…

I needed corpses. Corpses and machines.

In true Doctor Frankenstein fashion, I could play with the powers of creation to smash together machine and flesh, forging unholy abominations not fit for the eyes of mankind. Pretty badass, honestly.

Unhinged Taxidermist

Rare Relic – Level 1

Cost: 50 Mana

Cast time: 10 Minutes

Material Components: 1 x Corpse, 1 x Relic (Common Grade or Better), Mechaniks

Ever wanted to play God with a wrench and some spare monster parts? Well, now you can! Who needs friends when you can stitch together the leftover chunks of yesterday's enemies with whatever scrap metal you have lying around? Not you, which is good, because people will actively avoid you when they see your grotesque entourage of Taxidermied Horrors.

You may create up to 2 Minions for every Relic Level.

Once forged, your minions can be summoned or banished to an extra-dimensional subspace container at will. If destroyed, vanquished minions will be instantly returned to their subspace container, and once repaired, they can be redeployed. Each Horror’s stats and capabilities will vary wildly based on the quality of components used.

This Relic enables Mana usage and comes with a complimentary tetanus shot.

Reading over the description, I realized it was distinctly possible that Frank’s bandmates had been human, once upon a time. Nowhere in the Relic description did it say the corpses had to be from Dwellers…

It was impossible not to picture Synthia Lynx with her feline face, mangy electric blue fur, and the crude stitches crisscrossing her body. I couldn’t get the thought of Drumbo Chumbo out of my head. Their eyes, strangely human and frozen in terror, would haunt my nightmares for years to come—assuming I made it that long, which was no sure thing. Not here.

It was a fucked-up skill, without a doubt, but it was also powerful. And I needed power.

So, as gross as it was, I took Unhinged Taxidermist for myself and then harvested what remained of the band to my Subspace Storage System. The maximum weight allowance was only two thousand pounds, which meant I needed to be picky. I would’ve loved to scoop up what was left of Frank in a bucket and haul him back with me, but the big ol’ son of a bitch was four or five thousand pounds easy.

With a little help from Croc and Temperance, I collected the serviceable bits and pieces from the rest of the slaughtered bandmates. Arms and legs. Animatronic innards. Vex Vixen’s head was entirely gone, but the rest of her was mostly intact and Synthia Lynx was almost entirely in one piece. I also reclaimed whatever I could from the Pinto. It would never function as a motor vehicle again, but maybe with a little tinkering and elbow grease, it would get a second life as a minion.

When I was done salvaging what I could, Croc finished what was left.

The next Relic, another Rare, also came from Frank and seemed to be part of a paired set with Unhinged Taxidermist. As twisted as the first Relic had been, the second was arguably worse.

Much worse.

Form FleshTron, Go! allowed the caster to temporarily “absorb” all summoned Taxidermied Horrors, transforming them into a mech of meat and metal with the caster piloting the unholy abomination from the inside. Like Voltron but worse. That had to be the ability Frank had used during the finale of the battle. The one that let him suck up the scattered Reanimated Lab Monkeys like a Shop Vac and transform into a kaiju of fur and fangs.

The cost of using the Relic was extremely high. Prohibitively so.

It had a thirty-second cast time, a 120 Mana cost, and a forty-eight-hour cooldown period. Worst of all, once the spell guttered and died, I wouldn’t be able to summon any minions at all for a full day. Obviously, it wasn’t the kind of thing that I’d want to have equipped regularly, but it would make one helluva ace in the hole if things ever went truly sideways. In the Backrooms that wasn’t a question of if, it was a question of when.

I tucked that one away for later.

Fault Spike was an Uncommon I’d looted off Drumbo Chumbo.

Fault Spike

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: Line of Sight

Cost: 5 - 50 Mana

Cast Time: 2 Seconds

Duration: Permanent Terrain Alteration

Taking the phrase “get fucked” to a whole new level, Fault Spike summons between 1 and 10 razor-sharp earthen shafts capable of spit-roasting your enemies like a luau pig. Because luau pig is definitely what you were thinking when I said spit roast. Fault spikes are considered permanent terrain alterations and will stay put until the Backrooms decides to undo your handiwork, so don’t place them anywhere you don’t want them long-term.

Each spike deals 25 points of piercing damage on contact and the target is afflicted with 1 stack of Uncontrollable Hemorrhaging, dealing 2 points of Bleed Damage for each second they are impaled. Another stack of Uncontrollable Hemorrhaging is applied every five seconds. If five stacks of Uncontrollable Hemorrhaging accumulate, the target suffers Earthbarb and any attempts to remove the spear deals an additional 25 points of Tearing Damage. This Relic enables Mana usage.

I’d personally been on the receiving end of that particular technique, and Frank had used it to turn Temperance into a bona fide pincushion. It was a nasty AoE spell, which also had some solid crowd control potential—one area where I was sorely lacking.

It also happened to resonate with my Pressure Washer skill.

In theory, the two items could be forged, though when I used Codex Analytics, I was less than impressed with the overall result. The two skills only had a twenty percent compatibility rating, which meant there was no telling what I’d end up with. Hard pass.

Frequency Modulator, on the other hand, I snagged specifically because it resonated with two of my other active Relics. On its own, Frequency Modulator let the caster “shift vibrational frequency” for five seconds, making them semi-intangible and 95% resistant to all forms of physical damage. It was a damn good ability all on its own. When combined with Mall Ninja’s Strike and Moving Walkway, however, the net result was mind-blowing.

When forged, the three Relics created my second Fable-grade Relic, Neural Slip Stream. At its core, Mall Ninja’s Strike was a camouflage spell with an added sneak-attack damage buff, while Moving Walkway was the Backrooms’ version of a basic haste spell. Neural Slip Stream took the best parts of all three abilities and merged them into a single, powerful effect.

When triggered, it transformed me into a being of pure thought. At level one, it made me both invisible and intangible for up to five seconds. No one would be able to see me, and while intangible, I was 90% resistant to all forms of damage, both melee and magical—though telepathic and psychic damage increased by fifty percent.

On top of that, I’d be able to move like the wind and phase through physical objects and terrain hazards. Basically, the damn thing turned me into an avenging specter capable of tearing across the battlefield and dodging even the deadliest attacks. With a thought, I’d be able to effortlessly close the gap with my enemies or gain some breathing room, depending on the circumstance. It cost 25 Mana to cast and had a thirty-second cooldown, but that was nothing.

The single biggest drawback was that I couldn’t deal any damage while in Spectral Thought form.

Still, for five seconds, I’d be a ghost. And I’d be the next best thing to invincible.

As good as the other Relics were, the last was the one I was most excited for, even though it was only an Uncommon.

I’d finally earned my first Trap Relic, something I’d been actively hunting for ever since my battle for the MediocreMart. As I read over the Relic description, I cackled with feral glee.

Runic Resonance Trap

Uncommon Relic – Level 1

Range: On Contact

Cost: 15 Mana

Cast Time: 20 Seconds

Duration: Until Activated

Material Component: 1 x Runic Engraver’s Awl (Artifact), 1 x Compatible Surface

If you’ve been in the Backrooms for longer than two minutes, you’ve likely stumbled across, or been irreparably maimed by, one of these bad boys. This is the most versatile of the three Basic-Bitch Backroom traps: runes, tripwires, and pitfalls. Nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done. Some moron blunders along and BAM! It’s raining men!

Well, pieces of men, anyway. Or women. Or monsters. Or you! This thing doesn’t discriminate.

Use a Trapsmith’s awl to inscribe an invisible conductor rune onto any compatible material surface and imbue said rune with a Mana-based effect. You must cast the spell to store it; all Mana spell costs remain the same, but the stored spell effect is reduced by 50%. That’s called Mana Leakage for you technical sorts. How much Mana any given Rune can contain depends upon the Relic Level.

This Relic enables Mana usage.

Learning how to effectively use the new Relic would take some time, patience, and practice, but once I did, nothing would be safe.

Not a Single. Damned. Thing.

Flayed Monarch included.

EPILOGUE—BEER AND PIZZA

Prizes in hand and exhausted to the bone, the four of us slowly navigated our way out of the colossal Loot Arcade.

Thankfully, leaving ended up being significantly easier than getting in. One enormous slide, completely free of traps, tripwires, and monsters, deposited us back near the very front of the Arcade. There weren’t even Ball Pit Barrys waiting for us with vicious insults at the bottom. Croc was like a little kid on Christmas morning, over the moon by the sheer thrill of the ride.

Temperance was understandably eager to get back to Howlers Hold, but I wasn’t quite ready to jump in with both feet. Not just yet. I’d leveled up twice, thanks to Frank and his merry band of psychos, and had Personal Enhancement Points to burn. I wasn’t just going to sit on those points, especially since we were stepping into unknown territory. Jakob and Temperance had both saved my ass more than once, and though I trusted them, that trust wasn’t ironclad.

Like Croc said time and again, assume that everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to kill you.

Temp was fun but clearly unstable, and I got the sense that Jakob was still keeping things from me—though what exactly, I wasn’t sure. True, both were friends, and, sure, both said the Howlers could be trusted and were generally welcoming to outsiders, but with so many enemies gunning for me, it paid to be cautious. Maybe the Howlers would welcome me with open arms, or maybe they’d been infiltrated by the Skinless Court and were just waiting for a chance to turn me into meat paste.

Maybe I was being a little paranoid. But was it actually paranoia if someone really was out to get me? Or was it just being smart?

I wasn’t sure, but either way, playing things close to the vest had kept me alive so far, and I figured the age-old axiom “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” probably applied to this situation.

Besides, it would be better to meet the Howlers on my own turf, assuming I could swing it.

At level twenty-two, I had access to a grand total of eleven doorway anchors—not counting my personal VIP doorway—and I’d only planted nine so far. Three in the Lobby, one on the first floor, two on the third, and one more apiece on the fourth, fifth, and seventh floors. I hadn’t planted one on six, because it wasn’t technically a level at all, and I’d also purposely avoided putting one on the second floor, The Devil’s Asshole, because fuck that whole, inhospitable level on general principle.

No one willingly visited the second floor and anyone unlucky enough to wind up there was probably already dead. Planting a door there would be like adding extra deckchairs to the Titanic: Pointless.

But with three additional anchors at my disposal, I could afford to plant one here. It was both close to the Loot Arcade and in the same sector as Howlers Hold, which meant that even if the floor shifted, we’d still be able to make it to the Hold without much trouble, and vice versa. Long term, I wanted to place one smack-dab inside the Hold itself, but this would work for now.

And now was all that mattered. All that other shit—the Howlers, the Monarch, the Syndicate—were worries for tomorrow.

I took a deep breath and felt a palpable weight lift off my shoulders as we stepped through the freshly planted door and into the heart of my own personal paradise.

I spotted Baby Hands mopping up a spill in the condiment aisle and heard an earsplitting goat-like squeal, which could only belong to Princess Ponypuff. Instead of being annoyed, I found myself grinning from ear to ear like a doofus. Seeing this place again felt like coming home, which was a genuinely surreal experience. A little more than a month ago, I’d woken up with the worst hangover of my life, certain I was going to get disemboweled by an Eldritch horror from the deepest reaches of hell.

I’d never wanted to go home more. Now I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to leave.

Were the Backrooms a living nightmare? Yeah, obviously. Could they kill you in a heartbeat? Without a doubt. But as I looked at my friends and at the strange kingdom I’d painstakingly carved out for myself, I realized I was happier than I’d been in a long time. Maybe happier than I’d ever been. I had purpose. Comradery. Adventure. All the free beer I could ask for.

What more could a guy want?

Plus, I was building something here. Something important. Something worth fighting for. Maybe even something worth dying for. There was no doubt this was a truly fucked-up place, but we were doing our part to unfuck it and helping a lot of people in the process. We’d already saved dozens of lives, maybe more, and by the time we were through it could be hundreds or even thousands. If things went according to plan, we might even have a chance to kill that cockwomble who lived on the 999th floor.

That had to be worth something.

But again, those were worries for tomorrow. For Future me.

All Present me wanted to do was celebrate with friends, and we had every reason to.

Against all odds, we’d not only killed Frank and his crew, we’d made out like bandits and did it all without losing anyone. If that wasn’t a good enough reason to get blackout drunk and badly sing karaoke, there’d never be one.

I made my way to the front of the store and clambered onto the checkout counter.

“Attention, shoppers!” I called out, cupping one hand around my mouth. “This is your friendly neighborhood shopkeeper, Discount Dan.”

The store fell quiet, and an unsettling pressure seeped into the air like an angry storm cloud taking shape. It was fear. I could see it in their faces and read it in their eyes. Fear of the unknown. Fear of starvation. Of death. Of me. Every inch of the Backrooms was stained with fear, but this place could be different. This was a place built on hope.

“I know we’re all far from home,” I continued, scanning each of the faces staring up at me. “Scared out of our minds, wondering if we’ll ever see our friends or our families again. Wondering whether we’ll live to see another day at all. I wish I had answers for you, but I don’t. Truth is, we might all die—ripped apart, bludgeoned to death, or skinned alive. But not tonight. Not right now.

“Right now, we’re alive, we’re safe, and we’re together. We all come from different places and backgrounds. Some of us don’t even speak the same language, and some of us dress up in animal costumes for reasons I’ll probably never understand.” I glanced pointedly at Temperance in her skintight bunny suit. “But none of that matters. What matters is that we’re a community and tonight we’re gonna celebrate like one.”

I reached through space-time and pulled out a frosty beer. I cracked the top with one nimble finger then hoisted the can into the air.

“Tonight, we drink. Tonight, we celebrate. Tonight, beer and pizza are on me!”

THE END

Discount Dan

Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains Book 1

Dan’s adventure continues in Backroom Barron. Get it here!

Get this novel FREE and start this 6 book series by clicking here.

“You keep what you kill. That’s one law everybody out here respects.”

Twenty years ago, the Merge brought armies of monsters flooding into the West Coast.

Dungeons popped up in shopping malls, airports, and Starbucks. Walls were built to contain the spread, but the promise of priceless loot dropped by the creatures inspired a new type of gold rush. Magical weapons, powerful gear, potions to cure every ill… If you survive long enough to kill the mob, whatever they drop belongs to you.

Clay Jaeger has nothing left outside the walls. Civilization took everything he worked for, chewed it up, and spat it out. Now Clay, his wife Alex, and his beer-loving, chainsaw-toting brother Joe are going west to try their hand at monster killing.

The loot from the low-level mobs is enticing, but it isn’t the real reason they risked the Infested Zone. They need to kill a Dungeon Lord. Only one in ten thousand hunters pull it off. The rest become fertilizer for the wasteland. But the few who beat the odds gain riches, glory, and most importantly, the Dungeon Lord’s magical powers.

They have nothing left to lose, and everything to gain. If they survive.

THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES…

… in Backroom Barron.

Welcome back, Bargain Hunters! Stock up. Lock down. And brace yourself for the sale of a lifetime.

With the shadow of the Flayed Monarch looming ever closer, Dan must prepare the store and himself for the battle to come. To stand a chance, he’ll need to expand his operations, broker a precarious trade deal with the Delvers of Howlers Hold, and transform his stash of relics into an arsenal of magical war crimes.

But first, he’ll need to carve a bloody path through the heart of the 24th floor—Eternal Suburbia. A hellish, never-ending labyrinth of tidy lawns, cookie-cutter houses, and homicidal homeowners. Few survive the lawnmower men, the feral Karens, the ever-ravenous Kannibal Kids, or the tyrannical HOA, which reigns supreme with an iron fist of petty rules and bloodstained bylaws.

With a gaggle of increasingly untrustworthy allies, and dangers lurking behind every perfectly trimmed hedge, Dan will need to do the impossible if he wants to beat the system and live to fight another day.

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James A. Hunter is a full-time inkslinger and the bestselling author of Viridian Gate Online, Rogue Dungeon, Bibliomancer, Shadowcroft Academy, and Vigil Bound! In addition to writing, James is also the creative director and acquisitions editor for Shadow Alley Press, an industry leader in Fantasy, Science Fiction, and LitRPG books.

James is a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). He’s also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s totally a real thing. And a spaceship captain, can’t forget that. Okay … the last one probably isn’t true. When not writing or spending time with family, James occasionally finds time to eat and sleep.

Discount Dan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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