Backrooms 3: Kiosk Kingdom - Chapter 54 - 56

Hey everyone! So here are three more chapters -- the final lull before the storm, so to speak. The rest of the chapters for book 3 are finished. I can post them tomorrow, if y'all want, but the catch is that once I post those, it'll probably be a few weeks before I post anything else, Discount Dan related.

I've got some ideas percolating for book 4, but I need to write a rough outline which usually takes at least a week. And then at least another week to get the first chapter or two done (especially since I'm also going to be working on the 5th and final Vigil Bound book). So I can wait until next week to release the final chapters (less down time between releases), or I can publish them tomorrow, but then more downtime. Let me know what you want in the comments.

Chapter Fifty-Four – Glorious Rewards

On top of the tickets we’d earned, we got a bonus 10,000 Experience Points apiece between clearing the game, killing one of the Hippos, and earning a new Research Achievement called Pearl Jammer, which was just enough to push me up to level 62.

You willing spent a Gem-grade Loot Token to enter a murder arena filled with prehistoric bone-plated hippos and, after taking one look at the scoreboard, you and your party collectively agreed that survival was negotiable but 20,000 tickets and a shot at scoreboard glory were not. Some might call that bravery. A clinical psychologist would call it a pathology with extreme suicidal tendencies.

This time the gamble paid off, but what a cost! You dodged sinkholes, shredded vine goalies, gladly cosigned Horrors to their deaths—feeding their corpses to the ever-hungering pit—and even managed to slam home the winning pearl in the final seconds. First try. High score. New initials etched in history. Eat your heart out, CRM! That isn’t just reckless. That’s the kind of twisted sickness arcade machines were built to exploit. And you proved you’re the perfect mark. Congratulations on being a total rube, I guess?

Reward: 10,000 Experience Points, 5 x Silver Delver Loot Tokens, 1 x Gold Gambler Loot Token

Title: Pearl Jammer – You killed for tickets, and the machine remembers. Gain 10% Damage against all Arcade enemies and 15% more Ticket Payout from Arcade-based challenges.

Tickets in hand, we slogged back to the prize counter to cash out.

After splitting the haul four ways, we each walked away with 6,625 tickets, though Croc happily shoved its stack into my pile, bumping me up to 13,250. More than enough to grab all three prizes I’d been drooling over. I carefully fed the tickets into the counter, adding them to my player profile, then selected Internal Microwave Cannon, Army of One, and the Arcane Exoskeleton Sigil as my rewards.

I still had 750 Tickets left, which was enough to buy one other item, dangling from the wall and partially tucked away behind a suit of plate armor.

Blue jeans. Rare-grade, Artifact blue jeans.

It was like spotting a majestic unicorn in the wild.

The jeans had two empty effect slots and one active Sigil ability called Calf Cannons. Every time I sprinted, my movement speed was reduced by 1%, but that extra power was stored in the pants as a Kinetic Charge, which could be activated at will, releasing a concussive shockwave capable of knocking down or even stunning nearby enemies. The more Kinetic Charge I stored up, the more powerful the end result would be.

The pants were a massive upgrade from my Daisy Dukes, finally giving me something that offered more protection than a glorified denim speedo. Plus, I’d look a little less like a wandering hobo, which was the real win here. Sure, I’d probably be stuck with my ass-ugly bathrobe until the day some Eldritch nightmare peeled it off my corpse, but this was one change I could definitely get behind.

I added the Arcane Exoskeleton Sigil to my new jeans, then slipped them on while the others weren’t looking.

Well, except for Croc.

Croc was always looking, which was as unsettling as it was adorable. At this point, though, I’d come to accept it as an inevitable fact of life.

Once everyone had claimed their respective prizes, I planted my VIP Doorway Anchor on a nearby utility closet, and we headed back to the store to make some final preparations and get a little shut eye before tackling the Franchisor.

***

My first stop was over at the Spin Cycle to drop off my drenched and disgusting clothes for cleaning.

I noticed something strange as soon as I got there, though.

The line of Delvers, usually cued up out front, patiently waiting their turn for a chance to do laundry, was nowhere to be seen. That was a giant red flag, since there was always a line.

Maybe Ajax really had managed to streamline the process?

At least, that’s what I thought until I pushed my way through the doors and found out what was really going on.

Turned out, the Laundry Mat was temporarily closed for “Religious Observances.” Staying true to my commandments, the Brownies had set up an elaborate racetrack, which snaked its way down aisles then zigged and zagged between the bulky washers and driers. Spectators had assembled along the course, cheering madly as miniature cars zipped by in a loop. 

I didn’t have an issue with the racetrack, per say. It was everything else that was the problem. Although the Brownies had technically followed the letter of my commandments, what they’d created looked like a deleted scene from Mad Max: Fury Road, but in miniature.

The Brownies had heavily modified the remote-control cars, each one custom painted in lurid flames or tribal stripes, their plastic bodies bolted together with duct tape and bubble gum. The roar of their tiny electric motors was drowned out by the Brownies themselves, screaming war cries at the top of their lungs as they clung to their rigs.

The car mods weren’t just for show, either.

They’d been retrofitted with miniature weapons. Crude harpoons made from bent plastic forks jutted out the sides. Toothpick swords, sharpened to splinters and wrapped in bits of electrical tape, were brandished like cavalry sabers. I even saw one RC car with a can of hairspray mounted on the top, attached to a barbeque lighter.

The insane little bastards had built a mini flame-thrower.

The road-warrior Brownies had dressed for the part.

Every last one wore a miniature red bathrobe—the sacred uniform of my idiotic cult—flapping heroically in the wind as they tore around the track. Underneath, they sported armor cobbled together from whatever junk they’d scavenged. Beer cans hammered flat into breastplates. Soda tabs strung together into rattling chainmail skirts. One self-styled warlord thundered past in a monster-truck RC, brandishing a spear tipped with a jagged shard of polished glass.

Two of the cars collided head-on in a shower of sparks and Brownie curses.

Their drivers immediately leapt from the wreckage, toothpick swords flashing, red robes whipping as they hacked and parried with all the ferocity of half-drunk gladiators. The crowd went insane, chanting and stamping their tiny feet, tossing handfuls of dryer lint into the air.

“What in the actual fuck,” I muttered, watching a Brownie in a tricked-out RC dune buggy leap off the top of a dryer and land on another car, skewering its driver with what I swear to God was a sharpened spork. “Whelp, this is what I get for trying to be responsible.”

The roar of tiny engines dulled as the nearest Brownies finally noticed me standing there—an outsider who didn’t belong. A hush rippled through the crowd. Toothpick swords lowered. RC motors idled to silence. A hundred pairs of wide, glittering eyes turned toward me with the same guilty expressions as parishioners caught in the middle of an orgy.

Bertrim, presiding over the race from the top of a washing machine like a Roman Emperor, stood from an upcycled throne made from a laundry detergent bottle and abruptly cleared his throat.

“Chosen One,” he squeaked, voice high and earnest. “We welcome you to the Spin Cycle on this holiest of days as we honor your sacred commandment of Discount Dan sanctioned NASCAR races.”

“You turned the laundromat into Thunderdome,” I said flatly.

“Yes,” Bertrim replied solemnly, as though the accusation had been a benediction instead.

I scrubbed a hand down my face. “I said you could do races,” I growled. “I didn’t say you could duct-tape improvised flamethrowers to the cars.”

Bertrim cocked his head. “The flamethrowers make the cars go faster.”

“They really don’t,” I replied, though I already knew there was no putting this particular genie back into the bottle. As batshit crazy as this all was, I saw exactly how happy the Brownies were. They’d finally found the purpose they’d been so earnestly searching for.

“Have… Have we done something to displease you, Chosen One,” Bertirm said, dry washing his hands nervously.

“No,” I said quickly, not wanting to crush their spirits. “Although, I am a little worried about potential casualties…”

The High Priest brightened. “Never fear, Chosen One,” he said. “We would never do anything to endanger the laundromat’s functionality. As the commandments say, ‘thou shalt not murder’ and ‘thou shalt work hard to make sure the laundry is clean in a timely manner.’ In keeping with these holy decrees, we strive to ensure there are no deaths. So far only one participant has perished, after someone attached Roman Candles to one of the cars.”

Bertrim glared at one of the racers below—a hulking Brownie, decked out in a full suit of beer can armor, with motor oil war paint smeared across his face.

“But I can assure you, it won’t happen again. And all the participants are promptly healed after the race ends.”

I wanted to argue with him—because this was legitimately insane—but I wasn’t sure what to say. I was the one who had told them to hold NASCAR races, after all, and even though this wasn’t exactly what’d I’d originally had in mind… They were clearly happy. As long as the laundry was getting done on time and they weren’t actively performing Brownie sacrifices, did it really matter what they chose to do in their off time?

Besides, once I got over the shock, I had to admit, it looked pretty entertaining and extremely badass. I idly wondered whether or not it was immoral to gamble on Brownie Thunderdome races.

  “So, just to be clear,” I asked, shaking the thought away, “everyone here is okay with… all of this?” I gestured at the death track.

“All is as it should be,” Bertrim replied, dipping his head reverently. “And you were most right about these Discount Dan sanctioned NASCAR races. I was skeptical at first, but your wisdom is true, and it has become the highlight of our week. It has also had the added benefit of drastically increasing productivity. Those who work hardest during the regular laundry services are rewarded with an opportunity to participate in the races each week. It is considered the highest of honors.”

I grimaced, more confused than ever. Nothing in the Backrooms made a lick of sense, but in the grand scheme of things, this seemed relatively harmless. Insane, sure, but still harmless.

“Okay,” I said with a shrug. “My only real questions is whether you have some time to work on my laundry?”

“For you, Chosen One,” Bertrim replied, nearly folding himself in half, “always.”

“Cool, cool,” I said, dropping my gear in a nearby bin. “Then, uh, carry on I guess?”

The Brownies cheered in a triumphant roar as the race car engines revved to life once again. I just shook my head, and left the Spin Cycle behind, every part of me sticky with sweat, covered in dried gore, and filled with the kind of bone-weary exhaustion that was impossible to shake off without sleeping for a good twelve hours.

I should’ve gone straight up to my room, collapsed into bed, and let the nightmares do the worst. But I didn’t. Instead, my feet carried me to the Arcade-turned-bar-and-grill.

Call it curiosity.

Or maybe just the overwhelming need to make sure everything was running smoothly in my absence. I mean, I’d left the Brownies to their own devices for a week, and they’d turned the laundromat into the Purge: Road Warriors edition. I was just praying that things were going more smoothly for Ajax.

The Arcade was alive with the sound of music, the clink of glasses, and the low rumble of voices, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

Howlers and 49ners filled the space, not snarling or clashing, but drinking together like old friends, gnawing on burgers and stakes, yelling at arcade cabinets when they lost too many Loot Tokens to claw machines and grumbling when they earned shit-tier items from the Gashapon machines. Booths and tables were full of half-drunk bar goers tearing into pasta plates and pitchers of ale, while the bar itself was packed—Delvers pressed in tightly as they ordered drinks and chatted amicably like this was just another Friday night.

It seemed so… normal.

Well, aside from the fact that everyone looked like they’d just wandered in from a Viking-themed Ren Faire or a full-blown Furry convention. But for the Backrooms, that was about as close to normal as it ever got.

Behind the counter Sinclair was firmly in his element, the TV-headed Golem mixing multiple drinks at once, a cheery electric smile never leaving his face as he talked with the crowd.

I carved my way through the press of bodies and angled toward one of the rare open spots near the bar. The second the Golem saw me he zipped over already preparing me a drink. He slid the glass in front of me as I collapsed with a groan onto the empty bar stool, smoky tendrils curling up from the rim.

“I hope I’m not being presumptive,” he said, “but you seem like you could use a good, stiff drink.”

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, though I thankfully accepted the glass. It was an old-fashioned—bourbon and bitters, perfectly balanced with a whisper of orange zest to cut through the weight of the drink.

“In my experience, sir,” Sinclair said smoothly, “everyone here needs a stiff drink.” He paused, his electric smile curling into a thin frown. “Still, you look like you need it more than most. I gather it’s been a tough few days?”

“The worst,” I muttered before taking a sip. The warmth hit me immediately, loosening muscles I hadn’t even realized were clenched tight. “But this almost makes up for it,” I added, tipping the glass at the Golem.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to talk about it?” the golem asked.

“Not sure what there is to talk about,” I replied with a shrug. “Besides, you’re busy. You don’t have time to listen to me bitch and moan about things I can’t change.”

“I’m a bartender, sir,” he replied dryly. “Listening to people ‘bitch and moan,’ is what I do best. I’m even better at that than I am at mixing drinks—and I am very good at mixing drinks.”

I swirled the old-fashioned, watching the orange peel catch the light. My throat tightened, and for a second, I thought about brushing it off, just like I always did. But the truth was, I did want to talk to someone.

“I guess there is something,” I said, voice low.

Sinclair leaned in slightly, his glass screen flickering with a cool blue light. “Go on, sir. Best not to keep it locked inside. Corrosion starts on the inside before it eats its way out.”

I huffed out a humorless laugh. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

“Sometimes fortune cookies can be useful,” he replied.

I stared into my drink. “It’s Jakob. Things feel… off between us.”

I briefly filled the Golem in about what had happened in the 10,000 Acre Wood. Hunting and killing Aspirants by the bucketload. Wading through oceans of gore and death.

“He went along with it,” I continued, “but I could tell he hated every second of it. He doesn’t want blood on his hands. Doesn’t matter if the Aspirants were monsters, or if it was necessary. He hates it. And I can’t blame him.”

Sinclair tilted his head, static buzzing faintly. “And yet you went ahead with your plan anyway?”

“Yeah.” I downed another sip, grimacing at the burn. “Because we don’t have a choice. There’s going to be more killing. More death. I know it. I’ve already made peace with it. But Jakob hasn’t. And I don’t know how to balance that. He’s one of the few people I’d actually call a friend down here. If I lose that…”

I trailed off, clenching the glass tighter than I should have.

Sinclair let the silence linger for a beat before replying, his voice soft, deliberate. “If you want my read, sir… Jakob doesn’t hate you—if that were the case, he never would’ve followed you in the first place. I suspect that he hates the necessity. There’s a difference. He knows you’re doing what you think you must. He simply wishes the world didn’t demand it of you. Or of any of us.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, welcome to the Backrooms. Demanding’s what it does best.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re powerless,” Sinclair countered, gentle but firm. “Maybe you can’t scrub away the blood, but you can make sure he doesn’t feel like he’s wading through it alone. The violence itself isn’t always the worst part—it’s how easily some people treat it. They act as though life itself is a cheap, disposable thing. I could be wrong, but I believe it is the callousness that bothers Jakob the most. But clearly, the killing bothers you too, so let him see that. Let him see what it costs you.”

I stared at the Golem, trying not to dwell too long on the words, because the cut too close to the truth. “So what? Just tell him I feel bad, too? That I hate it?”

“I’ve found that the truth is often sufficient,” he replied in a confiding whisper. “Vulnerability is a powerful thing. You might be surprised how much admitting you don’t have all the answers would mean for someone like him. He doesn’t need a perfect commander, sir. He needs a friend who isn’t afraid to bare their soul from time to time.”

I grunted in reply, turning his words over in my head. Could it really be that simple?

“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?” Sinclair asked.

I killed the drink. “Yeah, just one more thing. I’m looking for Ajax. He around?”

“He hasn’t left in days, sir,” the golem replied. “I’ll fetch him for you—it will be just a moment.”

Chapter Fifty-Five – New Hires

The golem zipped off toward the kitchen, leaving me with an empty glass and a gut full of churning self-doubt.

A minute later, Ajax emerged, looking as smug as ever, though this time, I couldn’t begrudge him for it. His smugness was well earned. The bar was packed to the rafters, the food smelled great, the patrons were happy, and—miracle of miracles—no was actively trying to murder anyone else. That was a huge success in my books.

Ajax’s lips split into a toothy grin as soon as he spotted me. “Daniel, darling!” he crowed, practically bounding forward. “Come, come. You have to meet the new hires. You’ll simply die.”

Before I could protest, he hooked his arm through mine and swept me through the bar and into the kitchen. The smells hit me first—charred beef, garlic butter, something frying in oil that made my stomach growl. Heat rolled off the flat tops in waves, wrapping the room in a shimmering haze. Steam hissed from a pot on the back burner, clouding the air with the sharp tang of tomato and herbs. Plates clattered and pots rattled.

Inside, Ajax gestured toward a Chinese man working the line. He was stocky and broad-shouldered—a human boulder with arms like pistons. “Daniel, allow me to introduce our new chef!”

The man straightened, wiping his hands on a towel, and gave me a grin. “So this is the man, the myth, the legend,” he said, the words rolling out with a rough-around-the-edges French lilt. He extended one hand, thick with calluses and covered in fine scars.

“Dan,” I said, shaking his hand in return.

“Enzo,” he replied, “and mon dieu, it is a fuckin’ blessing to be workin’ in a proper kitchen again, eh? Last ten years I been chokin’ down dog food out of tins, every bite like a little murder on my soul. But this”—he jerked a thumb toward the sizzling line behind him, broad shoulders flexing—“this is paradise, mon frère. Smells like home instead of chemical piss.”

“We’re you a cook, before Noclipping?” I asked.

“Chef,” he said with a crooked little smirk. “Born in Guangzhou, raised in Toulouse, learned to burn my fingers at Ecole Ducasse in Paris, eh? Spent ten years after that feedin’ Howlers knockoff Chef Boyardee out of dented tins between raids. Canned ravioli, mon frère—it is a crime against humanity.” He clapped his hands together, eyes lighting up. “But no more. Non. Finally, I am back in a real kitchen!”

“Smells like you’ve already improved the place,” I said, my mouth watering.

“Eh, just you fuckin’ wait till you taste it,” he replied with a wink. “Like little angels tap dancing across your tongue. Amanda,” he barked to the other person in the kitchen—a slim, middle-aged woman with a mess of blond curls. “Bring over that bordelaise, eh? Let him have a taste. See if he doesn’t have an out of body experience.”

“Don’t you snap at me like that, Froggie,” she called over one shoulder, though there was no malice in the words. Even from the brief interaction, it was clear they were close to one another. “I work for him”—she waved at me—“not you.”

Still, despite her protests, she dipped a spoon into a thick red and brown sauce and offered it to me with a bright smile. “Careful, darlin’, it’s hot.”

The bordelaise sauce hit with a sucker punch of rich flavor—savory and buttery with accents of red wine, onion, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. It would be absolutely killer served over a steak or smothered on some mashed potatoes.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” I said, smacking my lips appreciatively.

Ajax beamed. “It’s perfect, right? Tell me it’s perfect.” He slung a hand across the woman’s shoulder.

She promptly shrugged it off and brandished a knife at him. “Don’t get handsy with me, Ajax, or I’ll do to you what Temperance did to Jackson.”

Ajax took it in stride, though he did move a few paces away from the woman.

“Amanda here,” he said, “is Enzo’s wife and sous chef.”

“Charmed,” she said, batting her eyes at me.

“Are you from France, too?” I asked.

Enzo snorted and rolled his eyes. “She’s from fuckin’ Alabama, eh? I doubt she could even find France on a map if you stapled it to her forehead.”

The woman glared at him, her eyes little more than angry slits. “Don’t think I won’t cut you, just because we’re married.”

I idly wondered if Amanda and Temperance were friends, because they certainly seemed like kindred spirits.

“But you are a chef?” I asked.

“Not like Enzo,” she replied, “with his fancy French cooking. But I sure as shit know my way around a griddle. I worked as a waitress and a line cook for Waffle House for eight years before I wound up in this dump.”

“Mon amour, she is too humble,” Enzo said while Amanda went back to the saucepan. “True, maybe she can’t point to France on a map, but put a spatula in her hand and she is fuckin’ Mozart. Best breakfast you’ll ever eat. And she has a certain gift for keeping asshole customers in line.”

The woman snorted. “Well, that much is true, I suppose. Those hooligans out there aren’t half as dangerous as a bunch of Waffle House drunks on a Saturday night.”

As someone who’d spent many a Saturday night in a Waffle House, working off a raging hangover over a plate of eggs and grits, I had to agree.

“Like I said, they are just perfect,” Ajax gushed, clasping his hands together. “I still need another shift lead, but I’ve already got my eye on a few of those burly 49ers. Once we bring another cook on staff, we’ll be able to stay open longer—maybe even run around-the-clock service.”

“That’s great to hear,” I said honestly.

Ajax preened, straightening his apron. “And that’s not all. I’ve been busy while you were off gallivanting around, playing warlord—”

“I don’t think that’s exactly how I’d put it,” I grumbled, but Ajax wasn’t listening. He just pushed through without even pausing.

“—I’ve also hired two attendants for the spa, added three Delvers to work the concession stand and the checkout counters. The staff is still small, but we’re humming along nicely. Schedules are set two weeks in advance, and those two college girls of yours, Taylor and Stephnie, finally have a few days off.”

Then his voice dipped, the preening replaced with calculation. “But there are few other issues we should discuss.” His eyes darted toward Enzo and Amanda. “In private.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to follow him into his office.

“Of course there are,” I muttered.

Once we were inside, Ajax shut the door and took a seat behind his desk.

“The first issue isn’t sensitive, but it’s worth bringing up,” he said, launching right into things without so much as a pause. “We need more living quarters. We’re already maxed out as it is. Even doubling up beds, running hot racks, we’re at capacity. And more than a few of the Delvers from the 49th have expressed interest in moving in permanently. We’ve had so many applicants that I’ve had to start a waiting list. Don’t get me wrong, Dainel, it’s a good problem to have—but we’re leaving money on the table.”

I probably should’ve seen that coming. “I’ll add it to the list of shit to do,” I said. “Just give me a few more days, then I’ll see about tacking on some extra rooms.”

“Excellent,” Ajax said. “The second issue is a bit more… sensitive.” He leaned forward. “Jackson. Thanks to your ban, he hasn’t been able to get back into the store, but he’s been a busy little bee. Skulking around the Hold, stirring up trouble with what’s left of his fan club. And he still has more than a few supports, despite the internal coup within the Room Keepers. I’ve tried to stamp out his budding rebellion, but he is a resourceful shit. And he’s made some new friends.”

“Aspirants?” I asked, feeling the hairs rise along the back of my neck.

“Thankfully, he isn’t that desperate—yet,” Ajax replied. “But he has been talking with recruiters from the Black Harbor Syndicate, and from what I understand they want your head on a pike almost as much as the Flayed Monarch. Whatever you’ve been up to has rubbed the Syndicate the wrong way, and there are whispers that the Lord of Coin might be mobilizing. I don’t want to tell you how to run your business, Daniel—you made it crystal clear that you are the boss, and I respect strong leadership—but that could turn into a very real problem if you’re not careful.”

I wasn’t at all surprised.

According to the Director, the Franchisor was a close ally with the Lord of Coin—one of the other Sovereigns who ruled the lower floors—so he was bound to be pissed. He had a lot to lose if we actually managed to take the Franchisor out. But having another pissed off Sovereign out for blood wasn’t a headache I needed. Especially if the Lord of Coin decided to throw in with the Flayed Monarch. But there was no stopping this train and nothing I could do about any of that.

Jackson, on the other hand, was close enough that I could reach out and touch him. And if I gave the word, I had no doubt that Temperance would be only to happy to serve him to me bound and gagged on a silver platter.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I said, pushing back from the chair. “But let’s be real, this whole place is a powder keg. Jackson’s a nuisance, but he’s not my priority right now. The Franchisor is. If we take him down, then we’ll have some real leverage to work with. Until then? We’re just bailing water and trying to keep the ship from going under.”

Ajax folded his hands, long fingers steepled. “As you say, Daniel. Just know—my ears are everywhere. And if Jackson makes his move, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Good,” I muttered. “Last thing I need is that asshole showing up on my doorstep with a Syndicate raiding party in tow. Now, unless you have anything else for me, I’ve got a pillow with my name on it.”

“Nothing else at the moment,” Ajax purred. The Furry gave me a mock salute as I stepped out, his voice carrying after me. “Sweet dreams, Daniel. Don’t let the Aspirants bite.”

I didn’t bother answering. I was too tired to trade quips—too drained to think about anything but the scalding hot shower that was calling my name. I said brief goodbyes to both Enzo and Amanda, then slipped out of the Arcade and trudged up to my room.

After getting cleaned up, I took a few minutes to divvy out all the stat points I’d earned over the past week—all 35 of ’em. I dropped 15 points into Resonance, bringing it up to 162, fervently hoping I’d unlock another threshold ability, but was sadly disappointed. It increased my Mana Optimization to 34%, but I didn’t get any shiny new secondary abilities to add to my arsenal.

Tough break, though I probably should’ve seen it coming.

The truth was, I still didn’t really understand how the VIRUS interface worked, or what rules it played by. Hell, I wasn’t even sure there was a secondary threshold. That was just a stab in the dark, based on my gut intuition. Either way, I’d keep dumping in stat points until I found out one way or the other.

As for the rest of the points, I had a pretty good idea of how to spend them.

With my new Arcane Exoskeleton in place, I wasn’t nearly as worried about increasing my Toughness, so I decided to divvy up the remaining twenty points between Grit, Perception, Athleticism, and Preservation—dropping five into each. I still had a ways to go before any of my other core stats crossed over the first 75 point threshold, but little by little I was making progress.

I also had my titles to consider.

My new Pearl Jammer title was excellent, but since I didn’t intend to pay another visit to the Loot Arcade anytime soon, I decided to leave it unequip. I also opted to swap out my newly upgraded Serial Killer In-Training Title for Overkill Overlord, feeling a small wave of relief as I made the switch. But there was still more work to be done.

Like Relics, Titles with enough overlapping synergy could be mashed together to make something new and even better than the sum of their parts.

Currently, I had Dog Fighter active, increasing evasiveness while airborne, but I had two other aerial based titles, just sitting there waiting to be used. You Can’t Outrun the Sky decreased fall damage, but came with an unfortunate side effect—I’d draw aggro from all flying Dwellers like flies to shit. The downside wasn’t worth it, but if I combined Dog Fighter and You Can’t Outrun the Sky with another title I’d earned called Human Cannonball, I might be able to forge them into something worthwhile.

I selected the three and ran an Analysis, giving me a glimpse at the combined effect.

The new title was called Death from Above, which increased the damage of all spells cast while airborne by 25% and reduced all impact damage by 90% whenever I decided to use my body as a projectile weapon. It was hard to see a scenario where something like that would be useful, but the added spell damage was worth it.

A prompt asked if I wanted to proceed, and I selected ‘Yes,’ merging the three together before equipping the new title. I took one final look at my updated SBR before exiting the screen and pulling my hand from the monolith touchpad.

Dan Woodridge

Specimen Biotag ID #03A-01-B00R7T569C

Variant Assimilation Level: 62

Race: Human, Archetypal

Current Experience: 832,250

Next Level: 874,000

Personal Enhancement Points: 0

__ __ __

Health: 221

Health-Regen/Hour: 17.85

__ __ __

Stamina Reserve: 131

Stamina-Regen/Minute: 13.25

__ __ __

Mana Pool: 374

Mana-Regen/Minute: 35.5

Individual Adaptative Stats

Grit: 98 (89 + 9 Enhanced)

Athleticism: 43

Toughness: 45

Perception: 57

Resonance: 162 (155 + 7 Enhanced)

Preservation: 26

Spatial Core - Active

(R) Runic Glyph Array – Level 15

(F) Hydro Fracking Blast – Level 15

(F) Hydrokinesis (Fully Tempered) – Level 15

(F) Frostfang Spire – Level 5 (Fully Tempered)

(F) Eldritch Taxidermist – Level 15 (Fully Tempered)

(F) Echoed Aura – Level 5 (Fully Tempered)

(F) Neural Slipstream – Level 12 (Fully Tempered)

(F) StainSlayer Maelstrom – Level 10 (Fully Tempered)

(F) Psychic Sovereignty – Level 10 (Fully Tempered)

(ME) Compass of the Catacomber (Fully Tempered)

!!! Current Titles – Passive !!!

Punch-Out!! Champion, Marked for Death, Legend in the Making, Overkill Overlord, Great White in a Barrel (E), Profane Purifier, Domino Rally, Kaiju Slayer, Death from Above, HR Horror Show

Chapter Fifty-Six – Tome of the Swarm Herald

I still had a shit load of preparations to make before we had our final showdown with the Franchisor, but I felt wrung out and exhausted on an almost cellular level. Tromping through the Gluttonarium had drained my soul in ways I couldn’t quite articulate, and the battle against the Hungry Hippos had been more than just physically taxing. So, instead of being productive, I decided to veg out on the couch with an entire pizza and a six pack of ice-cold brews.

Croc joined me, curling up on one end of the sofa while I turned on an episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, season 3 on DVD. The mimic wanted to watch New Moon for the gajillionith time, but for the sake of my mental health, we’d agreed to take turns picking the show. At some point, I passed out and woke up hours later with a sore neck, pizza crumbs sprinkled across my chest, and a half-eaten slice of za still in one hand.

The rest of the pizza was gone, the empty box discarded on the floor near Croc’s slumbering form.

The TV had turned to a patch of white static, and I quietly turned it off, before making a quick pit stop to brush my teeth and splash a little water across my face.

I was still drained, but when I slid into my bed, sleep refused to come. An incessant onslaught of worries and fears spun through my mind and whenever I got close to passing out, the faces of dead Aspirants would float to the surface of my thoughts, startling me awake. Sometimes I saw Natasha, other times it was the nameless shitheads I’d burned alive back in the bog. After an hour without any success, I finally stopped trying.

I left Croc snoring on the couch, slipped out of the room, and made my way down to the Soul Forge. I half expected to find Jakob puttering around, but the place was blessedly empty, which was great because I had work to do and didn’t need any distractions.

Despite Sinclair’s advice, I really didn’t feel like talking through things with Jakob just yet. What we’d done in the 10,000 Acre Wood had been necessary—no matter what the Cendral thought. Eventually, he and I would need to have a real come to Jesus meeting about everything that had happened, but for now I pushed my feelings away and focused on the task at hand.

The first thing I needed to do was spend a little time leveling my core Relics, including Frostfang Spire—which was still only at level 5—Neural Slipstream at level 12, and Physic Sovereignty, which was stuck at 10.

Using the Ponzi Scheme Essence Transference Circle, I quickly pushed Frostfang up to level 10, unlocking a new secondary ability called Arctic Feedback Loop. Whenever an enemy shattered one of my conjured ice spikes, it would release a blast of freezing air, dealing a flat 25 points of frost damage and instantly adding a stack of Frostbite Foreplay.

The final capstone ability for Physic Sovereignty damn near left me drooling.

I wanted to kick my own ass for not unlocking it sooner. Monarch of Momentum worked off the same principle as the Bowling Ball of Rolling Momentum—except applied to literally everything. Once activated, anything I hurled with Psychic Sovereignty just kept accelerating, building speed the longer it stayed in motion. Given enough time and distance and I could turn my hammer into a railgun, or my demolition screwdriver into a javelin missile.

Instead of having one Bowling Ball of Rolling Momentum, I could have as many as I wanted, all in different shapes and sizes. A skill like that would scale as I progressed and could exponentially increase the damage my tools could do.

As for the last, maxing out Neural Slipstream unlocked yet another passive Capstone ability called Slip Sync. It was an active secondary ability that allowed me to extend the effects of Neural Slipstream to a single ally within a ten-meter radius. The ally would gain all the same benefits I did, and there were no obvious downsides. At least none I could spot, which meant it had the potential to be either a game-breaking godsend or the quickest way to make a teammate vomit themselves inside out.

Either way, it could be a lifesaver when things went sideways.

With that all squared away, I finally turned to the next big project on my to-do list: forging the Tome of the Swarm Herald Emblem.

A small part of me still wanted to wait. Once I pulled the trigger, there was no undoing it, and odds were pretty damn good that someone called the Franchisor had a Relic tied to summoning. But killing the Franchisor wasn’t going to be easy, and if I kept holding out, waiting for the perfect setup, I’d end up dead. Or worse—one of my friends would, all because I’d been too greedy or chickenshit to do what needed doing.

Perfect was the enemy of good, I reminded myself, and good would just have to be good enough.

I’d already systematically maxed out the core components needed to craft the Emblem, though there was one final adjustment I wanted to make first. Swarm Tactics was a powerful Rare-grade Relic that boosted Athleticism, Toughness, and Health Regeneration for each additional creature I summoned to the battlefield, while Army of One did exactly the same thing, except for the summoner. I figured there had to be a way to smash those two together.

The problem was, the two Relics were essentially opposites of one another.

I needed a way to link them—a conduit, to get the best of both worlds. And I thought there might be a way to pull that off.

Back down on the 75th floor, I’d looted an Uncommon Relic called Hive Link, which allowed Drekhnaar Drones within 50 meters of one another to share a quarter of their total Health and Mana Pools. And when one Drone died, the surviving members of the Link gained a stack of Hive Frenzy, increasing Attack and Movement Speed by 15% for 30 seconds. When I added Hive Link into the mix, the overall synergy levels shot up from 54% to 87%, finally making the Relic viable.

E Pluribus Unum

Rare Relic – Level 5 (Fully Tempered)

Range: 50 Meters

They say there is strength in numbers, and hol-ee shit did you take that literally.

When more than two creatures are summoned within fifty meters of one another, every single one of them, including you, gains a 5% boost to Athleticism, Toughness, and Health Regeneration, plus a fat, juicy stack of Collective Outrage. And that is only the beginning. Every extra minion you drag kicking and screaming onto the battlefield piles on another 2% boost and one more stack of Collective Outrage, pumping their fetid veins full of rage-fueled murder juice.

The result is a snowballing, many-limbed nightmare of synchronized violence. A legion of teeth and steel, frothing at the mouth and looking for something, anything, to eviscerate. And whenever one of your summoned beasties bites the dust within line of sight, you automatically heal for 10% of Max Health. Great news for you. Terrible news for your minions. Each death also adds on another Stack of Collective Outrage, pushing your Swarm that much closer to losing their shit.

Just be warned, when Collective Outrage gets too high—relative to your Grit—the Swarm stops giving a shit about little things like “friend” and “foe.” They’ll happily chew through you, your allies, your mom, your pet goldfish, and anything else that happens to be standing nearby. So go ahead—summon big, summon fast, summon often. Just don’t be surprised if the thing that ends up killing you is your own unstoppable army.

This Relic enables Mana usage.

It was almost perfect, though once again I reminded myself that perfect was the enemy of good. It did everything I wanted, but still had the same drawback as Swarm Tactics.

Collective Outrage was a double-edged sword that could kill us all if I wasn’t careful. But the risk would be offset by adding the Will of Iron Relic into the Emblem, which granted the user absolute control over all summoned minions or enthralled creatures, regardless of any Afflictions or Debuffs that might otherwise interfere.

I had to figure that included things like Collective Outrage.

Overall, I was happy with the outcome. But instead of forging the three right away, I leveled up Army of One and Hive Link first, pushing one to seven and the other to eight. The logic was simple—when Relics fused, their respective levels averaged out, and it was way cheaper to pump them up at the lower tiers. When I finally forged all three, my shiny new E Pluribus Unum automatically started at level 10.

It didn’t take long to max the new Relic out, and then all that was left to do was forge the Emblem.

Resonant Mana Signature Detected!

Would you like to Forge Eldritch Taxidermist (Fabled, Fully Tempered – Level 15), Sleepwalker (Fabled – Level 15), E Pluribus Unum (Fabled, Fully Tempered – Level 15), Will of Iron (Rare – Level 15), Form FleshTron, Go! (Rare – Level 15), Collective Consciousness (Rare – Level 15), Drone Zone (Rare – Level 15), and Voodoo Doppelbanger (Rare – Level 15) into a new Emblem?*

Yes/No?

My heart raced as I pulled up the research report, praying that I’d done enough to ensure success.

Researcher’s Codex Compatibility Analysis

Based on historic data sets and extensive Forging models, the Codex Analytics Model predicts that attempting to combine the designated Relics into a unifying Emblem has an 89% chance of success, meaning the number of possible Emblem Iterations is Low. The most probable outcome is Tome of the Swarm Herald (Fabled Emblem) or a closely adjacent derivative. Would you like to proceed?

Yes/No?

I breathed a sigh of relief. There were no warnings about underpowered configurations or unstable Relics—as far as I could tell, it was green lights across the board.

This had been a long time in the making, and I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff, staring down at a fathomless darkness below. Once I did this, the Emblem would be locked. No going back. It was a tremendous risk, but I also knew it was a stepping stone to real power. The Flayed Monarch probably had an entire Spatial Core filled with Mythic or Fabled Emblems, and if I wanted to compete on that level, I needed to follow suit.

Hands shaking, I selected Yes.

When forging most Relics, there was a flash of light and heat.

This was different.

This was a supernova of metaphysical power.

Blinding light and an oppressive wave of blistering energy washed through the room. The walls groaned and the floor trembled as if the Backrooms themselves were struggling to contain the raw power of my new creation.

The light swelled until it felt like my skull was full of molten glass. Every nerve ending lit up, buzzing in manic harmony as the Relics melted together. A swirling vortex of mana raged around me, before collapsing inward like a dying star, forming into something denser, sharper, hungrier.

A sound rose with the terrible whirlwind of light and heat—buzzing at first, then building into a full chorus. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was inside me. The voices of every Horror, Doppelbanger, Drone, and stitched-together nightmare I’d ever conjured, all vibrating inside my bones like a tuning fork. For a terrible moment, I felt myself dissolving, the line between creator and creation blurring, until it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the light guttered and died, taking the heat with it as the legion of screaming voices fell silent. The light collapsed fully, and where an amalgamation of Relics had been before, only a single item remained.

With a name like Tome of the Swarm Herald, I half expected the new Emblem to look like some cursed grimoire, bound in stitched flesh and inked with runes that bled.

Instead, what I got was a laminated, double-sided diner menu—the exact kind you’d find at a greasy spoon off I-75 at three in the morning. Only the entrées weren’t Flapjacks and Omelets, Biscuits and Burgers. No, this one listed out all my Relics with some dinner appropriate titles: The Eldritch Horror Hot Plate, The Drone Zone Special, The Will of Iron Gut Busting Burger.

Tome of the Swarm Herald
Mythic Emblem

The Backrooms are filled with broken things. Broken people, broken machines, broken flesh. Most walk past it. The Swarm Herald doesn’t. To them, every scrap is potential. Every corpse is a chassis. Every nightmare is a spare part waiting to be bolted on.

Part necromancer, part grease-stained mechanic, the Swarm Herald is less a summoner and more a foreman presiding over a never-ending factory of meat and metal. Every claw, every cog, every stitched-together jaw is another limb of their growing war machine. When the swarm moves, it moves as one. When it kills, it kills as one. And when it dies, it is repurposed, reforged, and returned to the fight.

The true power of the Swarm Herald isn’t in any single summoned creature, it is the strength of the collective. One Horror is disposable. Ten are dangerous. A hundred are unstoppable.

The more the Swarm Herald summons, the stronger they become. Their army is their armor. The swarm is their salvation. Each body fortifies their defenses, amplifies their strength, and deepens their reach until the battlefield itself trembles in terror. If you hear the grinding of gears, the buzz of drones, or the shuffle of mismatched feet in the dark—pray it isn’t coming your way. Because once the swarm sets eyes on you, you’re not an enemy.

You’re inventory.

I grinned as I added it to my Spatial Core and felt a wave of searing power surge through me. I knew I still couldn’t go toe to toe with the Flayed Monarch or any of the other Sovereigns, but I was one step closer. And with this in my arsenal, the Franchisor was gonna have a very bad day.

The last thing on my list was topping off my spell cards and rebuilding my roster of Horrors.

The battle with the Hungry, Hungry Hippos had certainly taken a hefty toll, but all of my Necromarshalls had survived the encounter, and I still had tons of corpses filling the freezer. I spent a few hours mix-and-matching body parts, replacing arms and legs, molding flesh like clay, all while adding in tech salvaged from the VRD labs on the 75th floor. 

By the time I was finished, I had five Doorway Sentinels, the three members of my Rat Pack, a full dozen Sunnysiders—an equal mix of Kevins and Kathys—eight Kannibal Kids, ten Yetis, two War Dogs, and a full complement of Necromarshalls to command the swarm.

All that was left to do now was kill the Franchisor, though I had a feeling that was going to be a hell of a lot easier said than done.