The others showed up a few minutes later, but there was a weird delay between each arrival. When I’d stepped through the doorway, the shift between floors had been instantaneous. Like flipping a switch. Or at least it had felt that way to me. But it took Croc a full three minutes before appearing and Jakob stepped through three minutes after that. The pattern continued, with Temp arriving three minutes later, while Harper came last—three minutes behind Temperance.

  I asked each of them about it as we waited.

  Had something happened back at the Christmas kiosk? Had they purposely delayed stepping through for some reason? Had they experienced a prolonged loss of time between entering and existing the kiosk doorway?

  The answer was no on all accounts.

  Nothing had happened, they’d all stepped through one right after another, and as far as any of them were aware, the trip had been instantaneous—separated by no more than a heartbeat.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant, but for some reason it felt important, so I squirreled that piece of information away for later.

  “Wow, this place is insane,” Harper marveled, turning in a slow circle as her iridescent eyes adjusted to the harsh lightning.

  That caught me a little off guard.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, confused. “You’re a Transmog. You’ve already been to a Research Floor, right? Down on twenty-five?”

  She nodded, her eyes still wide with wonder. “It wasn’t like this, though.”

  I glanced at Jakob. He was a Transmog too, which meant he’d also paid a visit to the VRD lab on the twenty-fifth floor to use the Variant Helix Splicers—giant, futuristic genome editors that could slice and dice DNA, turning run of the mill humans into something more.

  Things with scales and horns and wings.

  Things like Jakob, Harper, or Wraith—the de facto Bull-headed leader of Howler’s Hold.

  “She’s right,” Jakob said, noticing my confusion. “Although the twelfth-fifth floor is technically a laboratory, everything there is more… industrial. Rusty pipes, scorched workbenches, concrete walls. It reminded me of an underground nuclear facility or some sort of apocalyptic doomsday bunker. This…” he trailed off, eyes wide. “This is something else.” He reached over and traced a finger along one of the kiosk pads. “I’m curious to see what we find.”

  Well, that made one of us.

  Now that we’d all made it through, I fixed the next kiosk firmly in my mind and cast Unerring Arrow. A blazing trail of blue light snaked down the right-hand branch of the corridor.

  “This way,” I said, waving for them to follow as I set off at a fast trot.

  We followed Unerring Arrow for almost ten minutes, no one talking, boots clanking loudly on the gangway, as we cautiously made our way down the corridor marked “WING C.” We passed more blinking monitors, most rendered in a language I couldn’t read, and a wide variety of other strange instruments. Bright orange canisters lined one wall beneath a glowing screen labeled BIO FILTRTION – TANK STATUS: EMPTY. DO YOUR PART, PLEASE REFILL!

  We passed several strange rooms as we followed the arrow, most of them locked and inaccessible. Glowing displays hung above each door, though, informing us what lay beyond.

  BISECURITY ZONE 6, one read. CAUTION: DO NOT ENTER. IN THE EVENT OF ENTITY ESCAPE, PLEASE REMAIN CALM WHILE BEING DISSOLVED. THANK YOU!

  There was a small glass window that offered me a view inside.

  The room was rectangular and there were a variety of metallic, coffin-like pods arrayed around the edges of the room, each one with a semi-translucent lid. There were creatures contained within each, though none of them look strictly human. They all had too many limbs or writhing tentacles. A few had shaggy fur while others were covered in bright prismatic boils. In the center of the room stood a gold-plated table shaped like a tongue depressor.

  The entire room glowed with an ominous red light—a warning that everything inside was dangerous in one way or another.

  We wisely kept the door shut.

  The Autopsy Theater, by contrast, was all sharp angles and stainless steel, lit by flickering halogen lights. Tiered observation seats peered down on a meticulously clean central operating table. Beside the table was a glass-topped gurney, covered in sealed vials, empty test tubes, and a wide variety of surgical tools—scalpels and forceps, bone saws and surgical scissors, plus a dozen more gleaming tools I couldn’t put a name too.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what the room was used for, though that didn’t make it any better.

  Onward we trekked, past MedBay C, Storage Bay 9—filled with towering shelves and neatly labeled boxes—and a BioWaste Disposal Chute with a warning label that said BREACH PROTOCOL F: IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SEDATE SOMETHING.

  Eventually, we left the corridor behind and entered into an enormous octagonal chamber, like the hub of a giant wheel. At a glance, it looked like a sparsely furnished breakroom, albeit a very high-tech one.

  A cluster of steel tables sat bolted to the floor in the center, each one surrounded by stools with no backs, no cushions, and no chance of comfort. Along one wall, a recessed alcove housed a bank of vending machines, though the continents within looked like nothing I was remotely familiar with.

  One machine was stocked with oblong, vacuum-sealed packets labeled in blocky, color-coded glyphs—emerald green, sludge brown, and one that was hazard-light red. Another held clear canisters filled with slow-churning fluid that might’ve been a protein source, assuming you were comfortable eating something labeled SYNTH-MEAT: BIOFRACTIONAL, CHEW-READY (GEN2.5) – Now with 23% less emotional residue!

  “Hey, I’ve always wanted to try Biofractional Synth-Meat,” Croc said, openly ogling at the vending machine.

  “What?” I asked. “Since when?”

  “Since I learned about it five seconds ago,” the mimic replied, staring greedily at the machine. “I’ve never had Synth-Meat before, Dan, but I’m always saying my food has way too much emotional residue.”

  “You’ve literally never said that before, ever,” I replied. “And no, we’re not buying Synth-Meat.” I squinted at the machine. “For one, I’m pretty sure it takes something called Bit-Scrip—whatever the hell that is—and, two, we have no idea what that shit is. I’ll probably turn you into some kind of genetic monstrosity.” I paused, lips pursed into a thin line. “More than you already are, I mean.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Don’t be hurtful, Dan,” Croc said. “You know I can’t help my genetic predisposition.”

  Opposite the vending machines was a water station, which hummed quietly, colorful lights blinking erratically. Next to it sat a microwave built like a tank, its digital timer permanently stuck at 00:01. An inspirational poster hung above it with a picture of a cat with seven eyes and a description that said VRD ETHICS COMMITTEE SAYS: “You’re Doing Great!” Then, in parenthesis at the bottom, (Please ignore prior announcements from the VRD Ethics Committee.)

  Connecting to the breakroom were eight additional airlock doors, which each lead different research wings. EGGR Core Stack, Bio-Engineering Replication Bay, FailSafe Control Break – Level 25, Aether Dynamics Lab 5, Nanotech Assembly Sector, Sub-Level Fabrication Yard, Restricted Wing: S-Class Access, Temporal Observation Annex 2.

  I wasn’t sure what any of the various sectors were, but one thing immediately jumped out at me. FailSafe Control Break – Level 25.

  That stopped me cold.

  Though, not necessarily the “FailSafe” part.

  As a former Marine and general contractor, computers weren’t exactly my specialty, but I was a millennial—part of that weird in-between generation that grew up without personal computers, then had to figure them out on the fly before we’d even survived puberty. I knew what a Failsafe was, at least in the conventional sense of the word. It was a built-in mechanism that kicked started when things went to hell, shoving the system into safe mode so it didn’t completely self-destruct.

  Rather, the thing that shocked me was the Floor 25 designation.

  There was a shit ton I still didn’t know about the Backrooms, but there was one thing I was sure of. We were on the 75th Floor. So why the hell was there an airlock connecting to a place that, by all floor signage and logical reasoning, should’ve been fifty levels below us?

  As far as I’d ever understood, the Backrooms didn’t work that way.

  Each floor was a neatly sealed nightmare pocket—self-contained, distinct, and disconnected, like the world’s worst department store levels. Sure, you could travel between levels through very specific thresholds, but this seemed different somehow. Either someone had seriously messed up the signage—unlikely, given the VRD’s terrifying commitment to bureaucratic clarity—or the floors weren’t as disconnected as I’d assumed.

  At least not the Research Levels.

  Which raised all kinds of uncomfortable questions.

  “Incredible,” Jakob whispered breathlessly.

  He looked like a kid in a candy store. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. As a chemist, I knew it was Jakob’s long-term goal to unravel the secrets of the Backrooms then find a way back home, so he could improve the world with the technology here. Cure diseases, fix global warming, use the progenitive capabilities of the Backrooms to solve the hunger crisis.

  He immediately beelined toward the door labeled Bio-Engineering Replication Bay and ran a hand reverently over the surface.

  “I’ve seen this before,” he said, “or one like it down on the 25th Floor, anyway. That’s where they keep the Helix Splicers.” He paused, a thoughtful look flashing across his face. “I know we’re on a rather time sensitive mission, but I don’t think we should pass up a chance like this. The Splicers are only on the Research Floors and getting to them is… challenging.”

  I consider the request for a beat. It was always possible that was the way we were supposed to go anyway, so I cast Unerring Arrow just to see. Blue light zipped out and curved away from the Replication Bay and toward a section marked Restricted Wing: S-Class Access.

  Should’ve figured.

  “Hate to burst your bubble, but we’re headed that way,” I said, pointing to the door marked with a bright red caution triangle. “And the clock’s still ticking.”

  “I know,” Jakob said, “but this could be important. Although the Helix Splicers on twenty-five still work, most of the computer terminals have been damaged beyond repair. We know that there are other races here, but no one knows why. The working theory is that they come from other worlds, or perhaps other dimensions, but no one I’ve ever talked to understands why they’re here or how they got here in the first place. This facility”—he waved a hand at the odd room—“is in far better condition than the one down on the twenty-fifth floor. Perhaps we could find some answers?”

  “It could also benefit the store,” Harper added, almost as an afterthought. “Just think about how many people want to make the trek down to twenty-five but can’t for one reason or another? If you could secure a Helix Splicer for the store, though…”

  She left the rest unsaid, though the silence thundered with implications.

  There were a lot of people who would give there left arm for a shot to undergo the process that transformed someone from a run-of-the-mill human and into a Transmog. Even Temperance had mentioned it a time or two. Personally, I had no desire to give up my humanity for a little extra magical firepower or fortified physical resistance. This place had taken damned near everything from me—my friends, my career, my world—and my humanity was the only thing I had left.

  That and my stupid gear.

  But there were a lot of other people who didn’t have those same reservations, and adding a Helix Splicer would be an incredible draw.

  I sighed. “Yeah, fine. I guess we can go take a quick look. But the second something tries to Cronenberg me, we’re out? Agreed?”

  “Of course,” Jakob said, nodding vigorously. “You won’t regret this.”

  “I already regret it,” I grumbled, gesturing or the Cendral to open the door.

  Jakob didn’t waste time. He pressed his palm against the scanner, and the door’s light flashed green with a cheerful ding.

  The room beyond was sleek, clinical, and almost painfully bright.

  Rows of screens lined the walls, each flickering with streams of genetic data and obscure medical readouts that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. Large glass canisters ran along the floors, each filled with a viscous fluid in a multitude of different hues—red and gold, blue and green, violet, orange, even a muddy brown. Thick cables snaked upward from each canister, disappearing into the ceiling, and across the front were neatly labeled placards with a variety of different names.

  Some I recognized instantly—Cendral, Iride, Ecliputaurs—but there were a wide variety of others that I was sure I’d never seen before. Nymphshades, Celestari, Kobocks, Drekhnaar, Helionites, Mystivores, and Kromalkins. I’d heard there were other races tucked away far below but this confirmed it in a way that idle speculation never could.

  At the center of the room was an enormous computer terminal, sleek steel and white plastic, reaching from floor to ceiling. Arranged around it in a crescent were six smooth, pod-like machines with glass panels and an unsettlingly organic design.

  Each one looked like it had been grown rather than built, all irregular organic curves and translucent resin stretched over something that vaguely resembled bone. Veins of pale violet light pulsed lazily through the shell, thumping like the slowed heartbeat of some slumbering creature. Inside, a thin layer of thick, sludgy fluid clung to the curved walls, reflecting the light with an oily shimmer.

  They reminded me of futuristic butterfly cocoons, which I supposed wasn’t all that far from the truth.

  A human went in and something else came out, transformed.

  “So those are Helix Splicers, huh?” I asked, quirking an unbelieving eyebrow. I couldn’t possibly imagine voluntarily stepping into one of those DNA death coffins. There wasn’t enough money in the world to convince me that thing was safe.

  “Yeah,” Harper confirmed with a nod. “Though these ones look a lot more advanced than the ones I used. Same basic design, though.”

  Jakob wandered through the room, heading over to the far wall, where a variety smaller terminals and additional medical equipment waited. Stainless steel tables covered in syringes, futuristic scanners, and a portable gadget that looked part blender, part photo copier. He stood before one of the computers and without missing a beat, his fingers were flying over the controls—typing in prompts and toggling through various system menus.

  The others circulated around the room, investigating the pods or inspecting the cannisters along the walls, but I only had eyes for the enormous terminal dominating the center of the room. Unlike many of the monitors out in the halls, this one was rendered in a language I could actually read, which was a nice change of pace. I guess the assumption was, if you made it this far into the facility, you had whatever credentials you needed to be here.

  As I approached, a translucent chair with elegant arm rests covered in circular nodes materialized in front of the terminal, almost inviting me to sit. After everything that had happened, I had some well-justified trust issues, but as far as I knew, the VRD were technically the good guys. So, despite a growing knot of anxiety, I slid into the chair.