James A. Hunter
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Backrooms 3: Kiosk Kingdom - Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2025-02-18 16:13:25 +0000 UTCAlright everyone, we're back at it with Discount Dan Book 3, Chapter 1. Sorry, I haven't posted before this. Starting a new book, especially in new book in a series is always hard for me. I've tried about six different openings and hated them all. This one I hate the least and think it could work, but please let me know what you think.
Just a couple of things to keep in mind as you read these first couple of chapters. 1. A few days have pasted since the ending of the last book--not A LOT of time, but some time. 2. Some of the material might feel repetitive ("Hey didn't I just read that skill in Chapter 54? What gives?"), and that's because it is repetitive. This is new material but also a "soft recap" since a lot of the people who read this series won't be reading them back-to-back.
With that out of the way, let's get into it and please let me know what you think. Do we like this or hate this?
Chapter One – Search and Rescue
I held up the hand-drawn sketch for the hundredth time, studying the rough portrait of the man who called himself Fenrir. Like most of the residents of Howlers Hold, he was a furry. A wolf with blue and gray fur, a black mohawk jutting up from the top of his fur-suit. Fenrir and the other four members of his raiding party were all missing. Normally, that wouldn’t have been my problem. I wasn’t anyone’s babysitter, and the Backrooms were a nightmare labyrinth—a place with a thousand ways to die and even more ways to disappear.
This time it was different, though.
They were missing because of me. They hadn’t returned from their raid because I’d unwittingly taken the doorway they’d used to access the floor. I hadn’t done it on purpose, of course. Or with malicious intent. But I'd done it all the same.
Three days ago, I’d found myself in a life-or-death battle with the Overseer of the 24th Floor—an enormous kaiju called the HOA, stitched together from suburban houses and the corpses of its former residents. The thing had been twenty levels higher than me. It should’ve buried me without even breaking a sweat. Probably would have, if not for the fact that I was tougher than I looked and had a penchant for fighting dirtier than “Iron Mike Tyson,” loaded to the gills with Cocaine and Bath Salts.
In a final ditch effort to save myself and my friends, I’d used a wildly unstable, break-glass-in-case-of-emergency type Relic called Form Flesh Tron, Go! In one moment of magic and mayhem, it transformed my entire army of Taxidermied Horrors into a giant Voltron-style meat mech that I could pilot into battle. Gross? Absolutely. Badass? Also yes. The brutal reality was, without it, I wouldn’t have stood a snowball’s chance against the kaiju. The Overseer had been too far out of my league.
Form Flesh Tron, Go! had leveled the playing field, making the impossible possible, but it had also come with a steep price tag.
The transformation had taken a devastating toll on my Horrors, gutting their bodies and overclocking the Relics that powered them, burning each to smoldering ash. Even worse, five of the Horrors I’d used in the macabre ritual had been Doorway Sentinels—living monsters that served as mobile entryways for my store. I’d managed to recover the doorway anchor plates, but that didn’t fix the bigger issue: losing five doors all at once had stranded over thirty Delvers on hostile levels, just like this one, cutting them off from the safety of my store.
So far, most had made it back in one piece.
But Fenrir’s team was still missing.
Honestly, I hadn’t thought through all the potential fallout when I’d activated Form Flesh Tron, Go! The HOA had backed me into a corner, and I’d done what I had to do to survive. Period. End of story. Except, it wasn’t the end of the story and, intentional or not, I’d hurt a lot of people. It was a stark reminder that every choice and every mistake I made rippled out and affected far more people than I could imagine. Like it or not, I was now at the center of something much bigger than myself.
Although I had shit to do, places to be, for the past three days, I’d been cleaning up my mess. And that was why I was out here, scouring the vast, yawning emptiness of the fourth floor.
Though not just the fourth floor.
After recovering from the battle with the HOA, Croc and I had spent every waking moment grinding nonstop, combing through floor after floor on a search-and-rescue mission for lost shoppers. It was my responsibility and the least I could do, considering the circumstances. And any spare time not spent searching for survivors had gone into upgrading the store, trying to ensure something like this never happened again. If we could just find Fenrir and his team, I could finally get a full night of uninterrupted sleep.
Hopefully one not troubled by terrible nightmares.
I refocused on the sketch in my hand, locking onto the image of the wolf furry, then cast Unerring Arrow. He was my target, and Unerring Arrow would take me straight to him… eventually. Though, eventually was the operative phrase. The problem was that each floor was massive, disorienting, and prone to change. And the fourth floor, Concourse Null, was worse than most. It had already shifted not once but twice in the relatively short time Croc and I had been here. I hadn’t spent much time on this level, but I was already starting to loathe it.
The never-ending airport terminal was easily the most confusing and convoluted floor I’d encountered so far. Even with my Relics, navigating it was frustrating as hell. True, it was also one of the safer floors with the fewest number of hostile Dwellers, but the tradeoff was its constant reconfiguration. The Delvers who regularly explored the level jokingly called the abrupt shifts “Gate Changes,” even though there was nothing funny about them, especially since I was actively trying to track someone down.
Then there were the terminal gates, themselves.
They served as spatial gateways—step through one, and you’d find yourself in a completely different section of Concourse Null. Sometimes miles away. Sometimes in a different Quadrant entirely. And just because you went back through the same gate didn’t mean it would take you where you started. It was infuriating. Even the Lobby, with its endless twists, turns, and dead-end hallways, wasn’t this damn convoluted.
Still, there were few threats and plenty of little stands, shops, vending machines, and kiosks. Everything a traveler needed, though nothing they really wanted. Which is why it was no surprise that so many new Delvers ended up using the fourth floor as their base of operations.
Blue light erupted from my chest as my spell finished, heading straight for several hundred feet before snaking left and disappearing around a corner marked by an airport newsstand called Voyager News & Books.
“Come on, bud,” I said tiredly, waving toward the dog who was currently examining a little trinket shop filled with shot glasses, overpriced stuffed animals, and T-shirts that said things like “Concourse Null: Fly Never, Arrive Nowhere!”, “All Gates Lead to More Gates!”, and my personal favorite, “I Got Stranded in an Interdimensional Airport and All I Got was this Lousy T-Shirt!”
“Hey. Dan,” Croc said, padding over with a magazine held in an extra arm jutting out of its back. “Have you ever read this?” the mimic asked, flapping a glossy magazine with the words Liminal Living Digest across the front along side a picture of a strangely empty parking garage.
“Pretty sure that’s not a real magazine,” I replied as we plodded along, my work boots thumping against the tiles in the strangely silent terminal as we followed the trail of blue light. “I think it’s probably based on a real magazine called Home and Garden, though, which I have read if it makes any difference.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of interior design,” the dog said.
“Eh, fan might be a bit of a stretch,” I said with a lopsided shrug. “I think the only time I ever willing read Home and Garden was while waiting in the dentist’s office. But I’m now I’m curious—why exactly are you asking?”
“Well, there’s this great recipe in the back and I was thinking I might try it out when we get back to the store. Assuming you’re okay with me using the kitchen in your hotel room. I mean, I guess I could try to cook it using the microwave in the breakroom, but I feel like that might not be quite the same. Plus, I think Temperance and Jakob might frown on me microwaving body parts using a communal appliance.”
I grimaced at the thought.
Back in my Marine Corps days, I’d shared a room with a Marine named Hoyt. They guy was a gung-ho, body builder-type who ate salmon three times a week and would always microwave it in our room—especially when he was drunk and didn’t want to order food. I was pretty sure being stuck in a room where someone had recently microwaved fish was the second level of hell, so I could only imagine how bad reheated corpse parts would be.
“Gotta be honest,” I said, “I also don’t love the idea of you using my kitchen to cook your ‘food.’” I used air quotes. “Seems unsanitary. And disgusting. Besides, why do you want to cook anyway? You’ve never exactly been a picky eater.”
“Well yeah,” Croc said, “but that’s because I didn’t realize there were options. But this magazine has a list of 50 different ways to prepare corpse meat for maximum flavor. I mean, corpses are good, but can you imagine how much better they’d be if I sauteed them in a pan with a little salt and rosemary? I think it could really elevate my dining experience.”
“What if you tried cooking non corpses?” I asked.
“What like vegetables and stuff?” Croc asked, wrinkling its nose in clear distaste. “Because I am staunchly anti-vegetable. We mimics adhere to a strictly carnivore diet.”
“Okay, first off, I know that’s not accurate,” I replied. “I’ve literally seen you eat more Froyo than should be physically possible, and second I’m not talking about only vegetables. You could also try cooking things like chicken or beef,” I suggested. “Hell, I’m sure we could find some fresh fish to fry in a pan instead.”
Croc chuckled. “Dan, maybe you didn’t realize this, but all of those are just corpses, too. They try to disguise it a little by calling them beef or pork instead of cow and pig, but they don’t even try to hide it with chicken. It’s right there in the name.”
“Really wish you hadn’t phrased it like that,” I said, suddenly feeling a little nauseous. “I mean, you’re not technically wrong, but also that only makes it worse, not better. I’ll probably never look at a chicken wing the same way again.”
“Would it make you feel better if I called it something else, like they do with beef?” Croc asked. “I could call it Mystery Meat or Repurposed Protein if that would help?”
“Nope, not even a little,” I replied absently.
I trailed off as we rounded another corner, and the trail of blue light disappeared through a set of tinted glass sliding doors. The Apex Reserve Lounge – For those who rule the skies and the world. Though I didn’t see any immediate danger, the entire place burned with a hazy red aura that told me there was something dangerous here.
“Oh fiddlesticks,” Croc said, suddenly looking nervous. “Don’t tell me that’s where we’re going, is it, Dan?”
“Got it in one,” I replied, while studying the entryway. “Why?”
“This is a hatchery,” the mimic said with absolutely certainty. “Just like the swarmlings from the Tinytots Preschool.”
I shuddered at the memory.
The baby-faced spiderlings of the Sunnyside Tinytots Preschool still haunted my dreams most nights. Their bulbous, pale bodies. Their scuttling arachnoid legs. The eerie lullaby they sang as they attacked in waves.
“Somehow I doubt whatever’s in their will be even close to as bad as what we faced in the Preschool,” I replied, silently praying that wasn’t just wishful thinking..
“Well, they won’t be as strong,” Croc admitted, “this is only the fourth floor, after all. But conceptually, it’s the same. This is a mimic breeding ground, and the inside of that place is going to be swarming with hatchlings. Probably only level two or three, but I reckon there could be a hundred of them in there. There’s also bound to be an Overseer or a Brood Matriarch.” Croc faltered. “I hate to say this, Dan, but if Fenrir and his team went in there, chances are they’re already dead.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, sounding more defensive than I intended. “And even if you’re right, I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t at least look. Worst case scenario, they’re dead and we can bring their bodies back so their friends and family can have a little closure.”
“No,” Croc said, shaking its head, “worse case scenario, they’re already dead and the hatchlings have drained them like juice boxes. I’ve seen what’s left after a feeding and trust me, taking back a desiccated piles of skin isn’t going to be much comfort to anyone. I guess, maybe, they could turn the skin pile into some sort of memory quilt? But, again, I’m not sure how comforting that would really be. I’ve found grieving to be a very strange and unpredictable process for you humans. Still, I think it’s better that we just go.”
“If it was me in there, would you feel the same way?” I asked.
Croc thought about the question for a long beat before finally sighing and shaking its rubbery blue head. “No, I suppose not. I’d want you back even if something terrible happened. You’re my best friend, so I’d need to avenge you, obviously, but you also promised that I could eat you if you ever died. That way I’d always have a little piece of you with me.”
“Exactly,” I said, ignoring all the extremely disturbing things Croc had said toward the end there. “The point is, friends don’t leave friends behind,” I said resolutely. “Not even if they might be dead and especially not if it’s your fault that they might be dead. Now, get your game face on, we’ve got some ass kicking to do.”
I thrust one hand forward and summoned several of my newly upgraded minions. A trio of black slits appeared in the air like hazy black holes and three monstrosities shambled out. After the final battle with the HOA, my minions had been in terrible shape—their bodies badly damaged, the Relics that powered them burnt to smoldering, useless husks. Thankfully, without the HOA and its corrupting spores, the residents of the 24th floor were now fair game for harvesting.
Or, as Croc called it, “playing with your food.”
Drumbo Chumbo came first. The former Pachyderm Percussionist of Funtime Frank’s Jungle Gym Jamboree barely resembled what he once was. Only his head remained truly recognizable—elephant-like with pebbled gray skin, massive flapping ears, oddly human eyes, and curling tusks. Well, that and his animatronic frame, now buried beneath a grotesque patchwork of repurposed monster parts.
His torso bristled with the underside of a lawn mower, while his thick limbs had been harvested from a Level 31 Kevin. One fist was entombed in iron—a brutal hunk of metal called the Gauntlet of Fist-Shaped Problems—while the other had been swapped for an industrial-grade angle grinder. His shoulders and thighs were armored in segmented plates of orange and purple exoskeleton, salvaged from a giant hermit crab. Thanks to my newly upgraded Eldritch Taxidermist Relic, he was faster, stronger, and even smarter—plus, with a rudimentary spatial core, he could wield a single Relic.
As my tank and melee specialist, Drumbo carried the Bare-Knuckle Brawler Relic, which let him unleash devastating blows capable of stunning or outright incapacitating enemies. Combined with the Gauntlet of Fist-Shaped Problems, which boosted his melee damage by 250%, he was a walking shitstorm of destruction.
Synthia came next. The former keytar player’s feline head now sat atop the athletic frame of a Sunnysider Kathy—no doubt forged through countless hours of Pilates and hot yoga. A writhing mass of tentacles flowed from her scalp, while her chest burned with the golden light of the Charbroiled Inferno Relic, allowing her to unleash face-melting torrents of raw flame. Though she could hold her own in a brawl, Synthia was my ranged specialist. Death from a distance.
The last minion was a fresh addition.
Standing nearly eight feet tall but whip-thin, he was a reanimated Kannibal Kid fused with kitchen appliances and riot gear. His stomach housed an industrial meat grinder, while the fingers on his left-hand had been replaced with razor-sharp kitchen knives. Reinforced shin guards covered his legs, and massive, spike-studded shoulder pads protected his upper body. Little Timmy, as I liked to call him, observed the world through a pair of glowing red eyes embedded in the bleached skull of a wolf, crowned with massive deer antlers.
He was nightmare fuel, and he was all mine.
With my three new minions spread out in front of me like a military vanguard, and Croc protecting my six, we headed through the sliding glass doors and into the Reserved Lounge.
A plush receiving area waited for us on the other side; an enormous mahogany desk stretched along the opposite wall while a huge backlit sign that read Apex Reserve Lounge was mounted behind the desk. There was an elevator to the left and a hallway that branched off to the right, leading deeper into the luxurious lounge for the businessman on the go. Waiting patiently behind the desk was a lanky figure in a pressed black suit, its head an Arrival and Departure monitor, its fingers steepled together in expectation.
Dweller 0.4312B – Apex Reserve Lounge Service Representative [Level 12]
Standing guard over Concourse Null’s most exclusive Member’s Only Sky Club, the Apex Reserve Lounge Service Representative is a towering, perfectly groomed nightmare in a flawless black suit. It greets every guest with cold, corporate indifference, voice smooth as glass as it utters the most important words of your life: “Please present your Reserve Card.”
Don’t have one? Bad news, you piece of plebeian gutter trash.
You’re about to experience the most professional evisceration in history. With razor-edged fingers and unnatural speed, it removes unauthorized “Poors” from the premises with extreme prejudice. Without the vaunted Reserve Card, you’ll find your guts on the floor, neatly arranged like an hors d’oeuvre platter. Remember, at the Apex Reserve Lounge, status is everything and if you don’t have it, you don’t matter. And neither does your life.
Even a few months ago, the sight of this monster would’ve damn-near scared me shitless. But I was level forty-two now and I’d personally witnessed eldritch horrors beyond the scope of human imagination. It was hard to be scared of a dude with a TV for a head after squaring off against a humanoid centaur with his torso fused to a golfcart. Besides, this thing was a full thirty levels lower than me and about as dangerous as toothless, geriatric pug.
“This is a members-only club, sir,” the Dweller said again in a slick, professional voice. “Please present your Apex Reserve Member’s Card or face immediate expulsion.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and stop you right there,” I said, lifting a hand to forestall the Dweller. Then, before it could respond, I pointed my finger at the monster and activated Hydro Fracking Blast.
Comments
Chyre
This is good!
Moon Winchester
We like a lot
