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 willingly 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 shock wave 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 heading to Castle Everafter to battle 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 queued 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 laundromat 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 dryers. 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 se. 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 flamethrower.

  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. “Welp, 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.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  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?” Bertrim 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 I’d 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 question 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 their 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 49ers filled the space, not snarling or clashing, but drinking together like old friends, gnawing on burgers and steaks, 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 bargoers 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 they 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 to 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.”