Locked, cocked, and ready to rock, the party left the store behind and returned to the Loot Arcade down on the 99th floor.

  “Everyone feeling good about this?” I asked as we wandered through the vast sprawl of blinking game cabinets and clanging jingles, the air thick with the aroma of burnt popcorn and syrupy soda so sweet it made my teeth ache.

  “I’ve never been more ready,” Croc said in all seriousness. “I even have my game face on.” The dog turned to me, and I realized there were a pair of thick, angry eyebrows that looked like they’d been drawn on with a Sharpie right above the googly eyes.

  I snorted involuntarily and Croc frowned.

  “Well, that’s not the reaction I was hoping for. Do they make me look silly, Dan? Because I was going for serious. All business, you know? War paint. At least that’s what Temperance calls it.”

  “Angry eyebrows are not war paint, and you do look ridiculous,” Temperance said.

  “Don’t listen to her, bud,” I replied, waving away her disparaging comment. “I, for one, am extremely intimidated.”

  “Hopefully not too intimidated, Dan,” Croc said with real concern. “I want to scare the Franchisor, but not my friends.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Harper said, leaning down to ruffle the dog’s head. “You look positively fierce, but we know you’d never hurt us. Friends don’t try to kill, eat, or dismember each other. That’s rule number one.”

  The dog perked up at the praise, though it faltered after a second. “I hate to be that dog,” Croc replied, “but that’s actually rule number two. Rule number one is to assume everything, everywhere, all the time is both lying to you and trying to murder you. Rule three is to never trust anything with more than ten legs.”

  “I still don’t think that’s a real rule,” Harper groused.

  “Have you ever met anything with more than ten legs that wasn’t trying to actively murder you?” Croc asked.

  Harper sighed. “No, I guess not.”

  “Well, then,” Croc said, “I rest my case. Never trust anything with over ten legs.”

  “How about you, Jakob?” I asked, stealing a sidelong glance at the Cendral. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  “I am fine,” he said, stoic as a stone. “We Germans have an expression—Vor dem Donner kommt die Stille. It means before the thunder comes the silence. I am just mentally preparing myself for whatever we might find when we finally reach the Franchisor. We have done everything we could to prepare ourselves, including several rather morally questionable acts”—he shot a pointed look in my direction—“and yet I can’t help but feel that we are still somehow unprepared.”

  “It’ll be alright,” Pooh said, patting Jakob soothingly with his tiny paw. “We are together, after all, and in the end, I should think that will be enough.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Jakob replied, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But despite Croc’s insistence that friendship can solve any problem, I’ve found that overwhelming violence is more often than not the eventual outcome.”

  “Overwhelming violence,” Temperance said. “Now you’re finally speaking my language.”

  “But you don’t like violence,” Croc said.

  “No, I don’t,” Jakob replied. “But I’m a realist and that seems to be the nature of things, regardless of my feelings.”

  Letting Unerring Arrow guide us, we finally found ourselves in front of a service door near the back of the Arcade, which—if James Graham’s notes were correct—would drop us directly into the Franchisor’s lair, bypassing the rest of the formidable security of Castle Everafter. I just hoped he was right, or we’d likely find ourselves elbow deep in murderous dwarves and whatever other nightmares Steamboat Studios had on the menu.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said, mentally bracing myself.

  We stepped through the door and emerged from an unbroken wall of gray granite, the stone stretching upward until it met the ceiling high above.

  Behind us, the secret passageway had vanished. No seam, no hinge, no trace that a door had ever existed at all.

  The only other visible way in or out of the room was off to the right through a set of massive red and gold double doors—the wood chipped, the paint peeling in ragged curls, the rivets rusting in crimson splotches. Chances were good, there were guards posted up on the other side. Not that it really mattered. An enormous iron portcullis barred the way, and from the look of it, the thing had been built less to keep intruders out than to keep prisoners in.

  Set high up in the walls were arched stained-glass windows, but instead of saints or scripture, each one depicted one of Steamboat Studios’ corporate sponsors.

  In the center of the room, the cracked marble floor bore a mosaic of Steamboat Willie, grinning wide in eternal corporate cheer, except time and bootheels had chipped away his face until one wide eye was missing, leaving him looking deranged and half-blind. Seven massive pillars formed a ring encircling the mosaic of Willie, each one sculpted into the likeness of a dwarf frozen in eternal strain, arms raised to hold a golden dome overhead.

  The effect wasn’t regal so much as oppressive—like the dome would come crashing down if one of the stone dwarves decided to call for a union strike.

  Tattered banners sagged from the rafters, their faded colors fluttering faintly in some stale, sourceless breeze. To our left, all the way at the end of the hall, where I expected to find the Franchisor seated on his throne, loomed a gigantic, metal face jutting from the wall like a tumor. Its massive eyes flared with sterile white light, and its metal mouth creaked open in a smile that promised nothing but pain.

  Dweller 0.991067A – Oz the Terrible, Franchisor of the Kiosk Network [Level 67]

  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. There is nothing to see here, except a giant, leering mechanical head bolted into the wall, voice booming with hollow authority, breath stinking of rust and oil. Oz the Terrible is the corporate overlord of Steamboat Studios and the undisputed ruler of the Kiosk Network, stretching across the floors like a bargain bin QVC selling everything from Relics and Artifacts, to cheap rubber flip-flops and stale Doritos.

  Physically, he’s pathetic. He can’t chase you down, can’t swing a fist, can’t even move from his wall-mounted throne. What he can do, however, is vomit endless swarms of flying monkeys from his cavernous mouth, each one shrieking slogans while they claw the meat from your bones. And more importantly, he commands the Franchise Code Enforcer—a monstrous creature stitched together from the corporate sponsors of Steamboat Studios, each one more brand-hungry and blood-soaked than the last.

  Don’t bother trying to hit him. Oz is invulnerable, his polished steel hide a mockery of armor plating. He is the brand incarnate, and like a lich, his soul isn’t here. It’s squirreled away in a patchwork of phylacteries scattered throughout his throne room, each one humming with malignant energy. Until every last one is destroyed, Oz will keep grinning, keep sneering, keep selling you death one unit at a time, because the sales pipeline must endure.

  And you? You’re just another revenue stream…

  Gears whined faintly inside the mechanical face and the mouth creaked open. When Oz spoke, the voice carried through the corporate cathedral. But the words weren’t lofty proclamations. They were weary. Almost apologetic.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “I knew you’d find your way here sooner or later,” the Franchisor said, his voice filled with a hint of regret. “The Monarch told me you were stubborn. Tougher than old boot leather. I was hoping he was wrong about you.” He sighed. “I guess not. And now you’re here, which means it’s too late to stop what’s about to happen.”

  The statement caught me off guard. I’d been bracing for a knock-down-drag-out with the living embodiment of corporate greed—not a reluctant warlord filled with regret. I wanted to capture the Kiosk Network, but if we could resolve this peacefully that was the better option by far, especially considering how powerful Oz was.

  “And what’s about to happen?” I asked, uncertain.

  “Your deaths,” Oz said flatly. “Painful ones. That’s the only way this goes.”

  There wasn’t even a hint of doubt in his voice. He expected this to go one way, and it ended with us in metaphorical body bags.

  “But does it have to?” I asked. “Maybe we can find another way.”

  Oz laughed, the sound cold and harsh. “I wish there was another way, but this confrontation was always destined to end in bloodshed. For people like us—people forged for terrible greatness—violence is the only answer. And now that you’re here, I can’t let you leave,” he said in resignation.

  “But why?” I asked. “Maybe I’m wrong, but you don’t strike me as the zealot type. Our war isn’t with you—it’s with the Flayed Monarch. His empire is falling apart and ours is rising from its ashes. You don’t need to die for some dickhead who legitimately doesn’t give two shits about whether you live or not. Why not cut ties with him and work with us instead? Let’s make a deal and then we can all walk away from this shitshow in one piece.”

  “No, I’m afraid you don’t understand, young man,” the Franchisor replied. “The world doesn’t work like that, much as we might like it to.” His metal jaws creaked wider. “There is no turning back. Not for you. Not for me. The Monarch’s power is the only thing keeping me alive. Without him, I’ll unravel. Lose myself completely. Maybe I already have,” he mused. “But there’s still enough left of me to hold the floor together.

  “Without me, this place will eat itself alive and I can’t let that happen. There’s too much at stake. Too many people depend on me. I have no doubt that you think you’re doing the right thing, but so am I. Many people think I’m cruel, but that cruelty keeps people fed and puts Relics in their hands so they can live to fight another day. I am an evil, but a necessary one. Every compromise I’ve made was the cost of survival. For me and for those I care about.”

  The mechanical eyes turned, this time fixing on the small bear sitting on Croc’s back, still clutching that Polaroid in one fuzzy paw.

  “I’ve missed you, Pooh bear,” he said. “Leaving you behind will always be my greatest regret, even though it needed to be done for both our sakes. For what it’s worth, though, I never wanted things to turn out like this. But this place doesn’t give you choices. It just… keeps asking what you’re willing to trade away. Bit by bit. Until one day you look in a mirror and don’t see a man anymore. Just the things you gave up. The terrible things you were willing to do to help the ones you love.”

  Pooh froze, his head canted curiously to one side. He slipped from Croc’s back and padded forward as though in a daze.

  “Christopher?” he asked, the words laced with uncertainty. “Christopher Robin?”

  Pooh’s words landed like a punch to the gut as things started to click into place. The journal we’d dug up in that underground bunker had made it clear James Graham had gone after the Franchisor, but it had never once crossed my mind that he might’ve actually pulled it off.

  “Holy shit,” I said, breath catching in my throat. “You’re James Graham.”

  The mechanical eyes turned away. “Once upon a time, maybe,” he agreed. “But not anymore. There is little left of the man I once was. I tried to fight it at first. Tried to hold onto who I was. But you can only watch so many people die—friends, strangers, children—before you realize there’s no winning. Only surviving. I might not have the power to fix everything that’s wrong with this world, but I have the power to protect Pooh, and in the end, I suppose that is enough for me.”

  “Oh Christopher…” the bear said, creeping closer. “What happened to you?”

  “What happens to everyone who endures the Backrooms for long enough,” he said. “Now step aside, little bear.” His massive eyes burned like searchlights as they turned on me. “I promise, this will all be over soon, and then we can be together again. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I mean, these others, they don’t mean anything, do they? Give it a little time and you’ll forget them, just like everything else in this rotten place.”

  Pooh’s ears drooped and he shook his head slowly, the tiny stuffed frame trembling. “But they do matter, Christopher. These are my friends. Just like you were my friend, once. And friends don’t kill each other…” He faltered for a moment. “They don’t abandon them either.”

  A faint whine rose in Oz’s gears. “You always were a good bear. The best of us, really. And that’s why you need to live on. So that there is a little good left in this awful place. As for the rest of you, I am sorry, but there’s no deal to be made. No way out. One of us has to die and it won’t be me. Not yet.”

  Light bloomed from behind the Franchisor’s eyes like miniature suns and the floor cracked, splitting down the middle of Steamboat Willie’s deranged mosaic face. With a groan of breaking stone, something enormous clawed its way up from the depths below.

  A massive serpentine body, plated in grimy yellow scales, heaved itself into the chamber. Leathery wings unfurled from its sides, obscuring the grinning face of Oz, and a long, coiling neck rose above us. Instead of a dragon’s head, Steamboat Willie stared down at us, his cartoon face rendered in stark black and white, his captain’s hat emblazoned with a skull and crossbones.

  Dweller 0.990870A – Franchise Code Enforcer [Level 70]

  Every brand needs a mascot. Every tyrant needs an executioner. The Franchisor has both, welded into one obscene body. Born from a cursed licensing deal gone septic, the Franchise Code Enforcer wears the grinning face of the world’s most beloved rodent. His whistle echoes through eternity, summoning nostalgia, lawsuits, and despair in equal measure, proving the one immutable law of the universe…

  No one fucks with the mouse.

  When it moves, the ground shakes like an amusement park ride about to fly off the rails. When it feeds, the air fills with the stink of grease, sugar, and burning flesh. The Enforcer doesn’t fight like an animal—it enforces policy with the brutal efficiency of a team of corporate lawyers. It slams, tramples, and bites not because it’s hungry, but because the ledger demands balance, and you’re nothing more than an overdue account.

  Killing it is a pipe dream fit only for the insane. The Enforcer doesn’t die because it isn’t truly alive—it’s a brand, a franchise, a legally binding contract written in gore and clothed with scales. Its life force is tethered to Oz the Terrible, and Oz is no more mortal than the logos he represents. So long as his four phylacteries remain intact, the Enforcer rises again and again, snapping jaws and spilling blood, the company line made flesh.

  The dragon shook itself free of the cracked floor, fetid water and rancid grease sluicing off its scales. I felt a wave of fear ripple through me and form a knot in my stomach. Though the dragon wasn’t nearly as large as the HOA we’d fought on the 24th, it was definitely operating in kaiju territory—big enough that “run” wasn’t really an option.

  It was also level 70 and, according to the Codex entry, damned near indestructible.

  We’d planned for this. Trained. Prepped Relics and Elixirs, even sold a slice of our humanity to be ready. But now, staring at the cartoon-faced abomination, I wasn’t sure we’d done nearly enough. Didn’t matter, though. There was no turning back now.

  This was one of those sink or swim moments, and I wasn’t about to drown.

  “Dan,” Croc whispered softly from beside me, “in case anything happens to me, I want you to know that my expansive Twilight book and merchandising collection is tucked away in your room closet. Promise me you’ll take care of my stuff—and make sure that Ponypuff doesn’t get any of my books. I’m pretty sure she’s been trying to steal them for the altar she’s building.”

  The dog paused, googly eyes darting toward me.

  “Also, since this might be the last time we ever talk,” Croc continued, “I need to tell you that I’ve been secretly eating the meat-flavored ice cream from your fridge when you take showers. I know you said it was only for special occasions, but it’s just so good that I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, Dan. I didn’t mean to betray your trust like that and if we survive this, I won’t do it again. Probably. Unless I get really hungry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, bud,” I said, eyes still locked on the dragon. “No mimic could possibly resist meat-flavored Neapolitan Swirl. Once we kill this son of a bitch, you can have an entire bucket as a reward.”

  The dragon reared back, and its wings buffeted us with gale-force winds that sent everyone but Jakob sliding back across the floor. Pooh—who weighed about as much as a wet mop—went cartwheeling into the portcullis, smashing into the metal barrier before flopping to the floor like a limp pool noodle.

  “Everyone spread out!” I thundered while conjuring walls of jagged ice with Frostfang Spire, momentarily pinning the dragon in place. Not that it would last long—this thing was a fucking behemoth.

  I lurched into the air, suspended on threads of psychic power, and summoned my army of Horrors. They trundled through black rifts in space, one after the other—Sunnysiders, Kannibal Kids, Yetis, and cobbled together War Dogs—all advancing in a wall of reanimated meat as my Necromarshals formed up behind them like commanding generals.

  With each new addition, I felt my strength grow as I received a boost to Athleticism, Toughness, and Health Regeneration, thanks to E Pluribus Unum.

  I sent a dozen Dopplebanger spell cards spinning out, my mishappen clones forming in a rough horseshoe along the front line. With that many clones in play, they would effectively absorb any damage dealt directly to me over the next minute, but they’d also double as bullet catchers that the others could take cover behind.

  Without even waiting for the order, my Horrors attacked as one, rushing forward in an onslaught of mutilated bodies, driven to the edge of madness by Collective Outrage, but held in check with Will of Iron.

  Steamboat Willie didn’t even flinch as he stared down my army.

  The dread rodent roared, and a grainy, monochromatic beam exploded from his mouth, sweeping across the room in a wide arc of utter devastation.