James A. Hunter
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Backrooms: Delvers and Dwellers - Chapter 37
🕑 Added 2023-10-05 19:06:19 +0000 UTCThirty-Seven – 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, filled with rows of lockers, slick, mildew-covered tiled floors, and wooden benches that had probably endured more psychological trauma than I could ever even begin to imagine. Just thinking of all the wrinkly nutsacks those benches had witnessed gave me full body chills.
The gentle pitter patter of water hitting the floors 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.
Croc and I slipped up and ducked behind a set of lockers, that concealed us 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-stubbed 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 one-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 - B00IJMHAXQ – Human, Archetypal [Level 19]
She wore a skin-tight pink body suit 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 fur-covered 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 also had an eclectic assortment of additional armor strapped on over the body suit 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, which hung down to midthigh. A leather belt riding just above the chainmail skirt, 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—had 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 cammo pants and hockey pads studded with razorblades. 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 - B00IJMHAXQ – 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, douchenozzel 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 over-exaggerated, 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,” 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 that 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 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 course 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 yard 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 even 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 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 order 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 bat-shit 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 post-apocalyptic 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 mother fuckers. But don’t worry, they’re the bad ones…”
