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Viennese Sunday
Description
Description
An endless, quasi-replica of Vienna’s historical center perpetually fixed in the daytime, Level 23 features the city's recognizable cobbled streets lined with neoclassical architecture, baroque facades, and wrought iron balconies. All structures erected after the onset of World War II, including flak towers, along with underground features like metro systems, Roman ruins, and sewers, are conspicuously absent. This does not imply the level is restricted to a particular historical era, however, as advanced modern architecture and technology—especially surveillance equipment—can commonly be found concealed in specific spots. Notably, mobile phones operate despite the lack of cell towers.
The indoor environment contains a superficial anomaly that causes certain deaths when entering buildings. Some windows lead to seemingly endless voids, doors open to inescapable non-Euclidean spaces, and precarious heavy objects, such as sculptures, musical instruments, and broken pillars, often cause fatal collapses indoors. Wanderers may simply climb atop roofs from the buildings' cornices and ledges to seek refuge or evade entities. The ornate structures, domed palaces, grand cathedrals, and imperial courtyards that extend indefinitely in all directions provide numerous options for temporary residential areas on their balconies.
Despite the abundance of cafés and restaurants with uneaten dishes still on their tables, Level 23 lacks any sustainable source of food or water. Leftovers spoil within hours, and the drinking fountains common in Vienna are completely absent in this level. While the environment remains at a constant spring-like climate of 10–27°C with high humidity and fog, there is no precipitation to collect water from. Exiting the level is exceedingly difficult as well, and so wanderers are often forced to carry large amounts provisions while running risks of being pursued by fast, hostile entities. Consequently, starvation is the leading cause of death in Level 23, although no corpses of any kind have ever been found. There are, however, remnants of human presence scattered throughout the streets, though their age and any identifying features, such as DNA, personal belongings, documents, or other markers of identity, remain untraceable.
Because all entrants to the level are segregated upon entry, it precludes the establishment of communities and support groups. Encountering another person is made impossible also due to Level 23's homogenous layout that obscures the potential for map creation. However, potentially attributable to the isolation and the scarce spy gadgets, most wanderers develop a sense of paranoia heightened more than in other levels. Reports of auditory hallucinations, including the sounds of beeping, footsteps, and "television static"; windows "watching" every move that is made; and faint whispers or indistinct voices emanating from unseen sources are common.
Predictions
Predictions
Infamous for its ability to prognosticate upcoming historical events in the Frontrooms through printed media—primarily newspapers—Level 23 is often haunted by insiders from major Backrooms groups. Whether the level's predictive abilities extend beyond the confines of the Backrooms remains uncertain, although unsubstantiated rumors persist. Furthermore, most wanderers who venture into Level 23 report no recollection of encountering newspapers that foretell future events, likely due to the extreme scarcity of these kiosks disseminating these publications, or simply the inherent limitations of the level’s anomalous properties.
Documented instances of these predictions remain scarce and predominantly involve lesser events that foreshadow more significant historical developments. One of the earliest recorded incidents involved announcements of World War I's conclusion on what would have been the date of Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination, discovered retrospectively in September 1929, well after both events had transpired.
Curiously, despite the level's strong resemblance to Vienna, the events it predicts are not exclusively tied to the city, nor do they necessarily have a direct or indirect impact on it. The newspapers encountered within Level 23 are also not exclusively Austrian in origin. Publications from various international sources appear, often written in the native or fluent languages of the wanderers who discover them. That said, because all recorded predictions have exclusively pertained to historical and geopolitical events, magazine publications, like Wienerin, Falstaff, and Vogue, have never been found.
Below is a table outlining these events alongside the purported publication dates of the newspapers that predicted them and the year they were discovered:
| Event | Newspaper's Prediction Publication Date | Year Found |
|---|---|---|
| Signing of the Treaty of Versailles | 28 June 1914 | 1939 |
| Stock Market Crash of 1929 | 28 June 1919 | 1984 |
| Start of Nanjing Massacre | 27 February 1932 | 2001 |
| Death of Adolf Hitler | 20 February 1920 | 1947 |
| Establishment of Communist China | 12 February 1912 | 1967 |
| Height of Cuban Missile Crisis | 2 September 1945 | 1993 |
| Assassination of Indira Gandhi | 15 August 1947 | 2002 |
| Nelson Mandela's 1990 Speech | 26 August 1966 | 2009 |
| Asian Financial Crisis | 8 August 1967 | 2009 |
| September 11 attacks | 27 February 1993 | 2023 |
| Event | Newspaper's Prediction Publication Date | Year Found |
|---|---|---|
| Signing of the Treaty of Versailles | 28 June 1914 | 1939 |
| Stock Market Crash of 1929 | 28 June 1919 | 1984 |
| Start of Nanjing Massacre | 27 February 1932 | 2001 |
| Death of Adolf Hitler | 20 February 1920 | 1947 |
| Establishment of Communist China | 12 February 1912 | 1967 |
| Height of Cuban Missile Crisis | 2 September 1945 | 1993 |
| Assassination of Indira Gandhi | 15 August 1947 | 2002 |
| Nelson Mandela's 1990 Speech | 26 August 1966 | 2009 |
| Asian Financial Crisis | 8 August 1967 | 2009 |
| September 11 attacks | 27 February 1993 | 2023 |
Suspicion
Suspicion
Since 1947, 8 years after the level’s discovery, a phenomenon involving inconspicuous vehicles throughout Level 23 has emerged. Despite the absence of infrastructure designed for them, these vehicles inexplicably appear, often stationed near private residences but conspicuously absent from public or tourist areas. Most appear as inspection vehicles typically deployed by GIS (Gebühren Info Service) agents, ostensibly assessing whether homeowners have fulfilled their payment obligations.
From approaching these vehicles, numerous individuals have described an unsettling sensation, as if they were being observed from various angles. Strangely, prolonged proximity to these areas has led many to develop disorders such as paranoia, schizophrenia, and even PTSD. The origins of these effects remain ambiguous, as the vehicles exhibit a seemingly normal appearance; nonetheless, they are capable of inducing such phenomena. Comprehensive investigations into this occurrence have not been undertaken due to prevailing circumstances. However, some theorists postulate that the source may lie in enigmatic radio waves emitted by these vehicles, as several are equipped with antennas.
Entering any of the spaces may result in one being trapped also, as Level 23's geometric anomaly still applies to these structures. The exteriors of these structures additionally lack apparent functionality; in most instances, they are either empty or unveil featureless white voids. Nevertheless, there have been rumors circulating among wanderers who claim to have discovered spaces replete with advanced military equipment, seemingly amassed without much consideration. Likewise, according to these reports, the apartment rooms was housing hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhythgrvfecdwxsaz
The Prophet
Getting a job promotion always seemed as impossible as traveling to another universe. Turns out, I wasn’t far off.
They had a person from one of our other bases send the letter to the one I was residing. He caught me in the middle of my breakfast, but my annoyance turned to shallow commiseration when he told me he was chased by an entity mid journey. I’ve only beginning to adapt to these practices ever since I was let go of my guarding job ‘cause someone signed a peace treaty. In my current line of work, which takes place in an entirely different realm, there are, unsurprisingly, some differences from jobs back at home—like how our meal breaks are scheduled at completely different times. And, even if an entity tears off every limb of mine, there’s no point hoping for a salary raise, ‘cause the only thing increasing is the number of responsibilities that can be handled, and maybe they’ll offer more food, or in this level, a specific Treasure.
While I sat following this person’s movements, I finished my meal and kept the used, plastic plate for later use. He looked disgusted so I told him that, since he caught me off guard, I didn’t have time to clean everything. He was sweating profusely, but what was my position to question him? I looked behind to notice my gun still on the tabletop. Maybe that was why he was sweating. I felt his presence was a coincidental threat than a joyful anomaly.
He calmed down when I turned to him again and put my hands in my pockets, though. He then informed me the people there needed me for a mining operation, and that he was taking over my duty here. I assumed it had to do something with the Treasure. I couldn’t respond. He kept looking around as if he was sightseeing the Alps and said, “You can go now, Sir,” but with how unnecessarily polite he was, it was likely a superficial attempt at telling me to get the hell out of there. I ditched the idea of not having time and went to make myself some pork sandwiches for lunch later. I wasn’t mad—I was merely indifferent. Though superficially it was like a minion giving orders to a boss, I decided to tell him my plans anyway, grabbed the gun as he looked stunned like firearms are a treasure of themselves in these areas, and subsequently left. It didn’t matter if I went or stayed—he had the higher-ups behind him. Refusal would just mean being dragged into the uncharted hotels. There is an illusion of choice: one can run from the twelve-legged, spherical creature oozing poison more potent than any other, feeling your feet strike the ground, more alive than ever when life is most fragile. Or one can stay and be mauled, but it won’t matter so long as they’re still trapped.
I decided it wasn’t worth debating with myself and headed to the door. I checked our truck first parked beside, and the surveillance devices appeared to be working except for a few blank screens. It was a problem, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. When I stepped out and trotted further away, it became more apparent that, though the sky was empty and white, it felt as if the sun had claimed it entirely. Usually, the clouds reigned supreme but today seemed to mark a time for change. I walked along the faded line where paint once separated the lanes, the place where cars would pass. Even though no cars existed here—or at least none I’d seen—the thought of inaction and the fact I’d not be hit, even when I stood at one spot for a million years, still compelled me to avoid the superficial residences. Maybe I’d been away from home for so long that I unconsciously chose the middle of the street as my sidewalk. I glanced at the buildings standing silently at the side, and the sidewalk separating them from me looked even more hazardous. The windows, though pitch-black as if tightly shuttered, felt strangely blank. It wasn’t like the darkness of closed eyes, but more like trying to see out of my elbow.
The air, though clear unlike the windows before, turned foul as I turned left and passed an open manhole. It reeked like a shitting pig wallowing in mud, then gutted and left to rot on the spot. With mining operations, I knew they had to be residing in the sewers, but it wasn’t designated or anything. I shut my mouth and nose, checking whatever lay there to familiarize myself with how it’d look when I arrived at the mining base. Oh, yes, nothing out of the ordinary. Just discarded, mangled corpses. A blend of dead entities and humans. But I’d say the layout inside was distinguishing enough that it’d take a second look to see that it was wider than a normal sewer. Someone had excavated it a long time ago, and this area had probably run out of this Treasure judging from its cross-shape (the hallways were short), and, judging from the badges and clothes of some of the corpses there, they belonged to M.E.G., Aurielle, and Kauer. They had the most distinguishing colors anyway. I realized there wasn’t any reason to long about them and I continued.
My footsteps sounded stacked, as if each of my legs produced two steps at once. The sound of wood creaking—twitching almost, like a sentient twig. I reached over to the walls and there were only bricks. I looked behind in case the dead M.E.G. dolls had returned from the dead and were coming for me. The air felt thinner, however. A strange feeling of absence. Nothing but the street, stretching over to the right while the building’s facades hide its infinity. I looked away again, bored, but curious... with a mix of fear. The windows had dimples now. There wasn’t a sense of blankness behind them anymore; I could see the texture.
Abruptly a loud, gnarly shriek echoed from the window beside me. It sounded more jarring than the screams I’d sometimes hear under the floorboards of our base. It was as if a beast who’d not eaten for a thousand years had seen its lunch. Maybe it was the same creature the person earlier had encountered?
I quickly hurried my way. Check for crooks. Anything. Houses separated by mere cracks. Oh, please. As long as my head can fit, as long as my heart won’t get squished enough to burst. It’d be a pleasure for me to hide there until it turns nighttime. The stench returned, sharp and sour, curling in the air. The entity emerged with its thousand writhing arms veiling its core, like a sea urchin. It dragged itself across the sidewalk, each limb bending unnaturally, scraping the ground. It looked like it was once human but now condemned. Its existence was barely naught, and it was shaped like a zero, but with its arms, it could kill. I realized how similar we were. The half-eaten pulled pork sandwich in my bag was proof of my killing. I had a pig slaughtered for my meal, and then its flesh packed into a metal can. Oddly I just didn’t care if it noticed me. I preferred this over another human encounter. Humans, in their purest form, terrify me. Sometimes I feel indifferent, however. And yet, I am one of them. I am a dismemberer. But the entity is an imitation of one. It is lifeless and thoughtless. I can pry it open with a sword, and it’d still shriek and try to control its exposed nerves to grab me and tear off my leg.
I had dropped fear itself, forgotten in the moment the entity appeared. Unzipping my bag, I reached for the sandwich, ignoring my gun. The sound caught its attention—thoughtless, predictable like a parody of life in a universe meant to hold infinite possibilities. Shooting it would be a pathetic act, like shooting up into the thin air to make a statement. What an incompetent weakling would one have to be to do so? And why should I become that by harming such a useless bag of flesh and hands? Watching it crawl to lap up grains of meat from the ground, all while trying to detect me by smell, was harder to bear than the fear itself. I couldn’t reach for my fear when it was right at my feet, honestly. It wasn’t boring. It was pathetic. We were in our little pocket of hell surrounded by more hell, but only masked by a cultural center, wherever it may be didn’t matter, and yet here it was, fighting itself, as though the battle meant anything. I could just shoot it, but I’d keep it for another day.
Once it moved far enough away, I walked on. The only discomfort, the only danger now, was my own hunger—and the knowledge that I’d have to pack another pork sandwich at the mining base. Oh, what an absurdity! I walked further. And further. The area became more familiar. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard of such mining operations since I was once tasked to guard the manholes and shoot and depose everyone—no matter if they were in uniform or mosquito-attracting tank tops—who came close. Sometimes we’d take their backpacks too, and of course the ones in uniforms always had sandwiches. Survival reduced to the fleeting promise of stale bread and potentially rotten, canned meat. The absence of only those two things extended my existence here beyond a few more days. It made me chuckle a little. Then I stepped on a manhole I hadn’t gotten myself to notice.
“Well, I am pretty sure our new intern has arrived,” the manhole said. “He was a guard who used to patrol these areas when we were at war,” it continued, as if it was telling it to someone else. “You can go to your bunkers now. Everything is safe.”
I looked down to see whether it was a new entity I had just discovered. A speaking manhole. How ridiculous. I’d frankly feel the same if I were an astronaut deep in space and discovered a new species outside my window. Imagine being so pathetic that one must hide from a monster—humans who are only flesh and ego—and disguise one’s self from them. But when I looked down, I realized it was more interesting than I had initially thought. There was text embossed on the manhole’s surface. Even when I was supposedly in the heart of Vienna, it suggested that it belonged to a town [near] Vienna. One peculiar thing is that, if I was in that town, I’d be far enough from Vienna that an astronaut could notice the distance between them from space. Had I walked that far and not noticed?
“Come on down, kid,” the manhole spoke, its voice low and echoing, like it was trapped underwater. I froze. The words didn’t match its appearance’s metallic lifelessness.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” I asked, voice steady. “Those days, I was told I shouldn’t trust anyone.”
“Yes, that is very correct,” it replied, the sound hollow, reverberating into the quiet street. “We need you to come down.”
“For what?” I stepped closer, shuffling my backpack so when it’d attack, I could easily grab the sandwich and lure it. Everything extraterrestrial I’ve seen were pathetic, I thought. It could just go for the smaller flesh. The hole remained shut, however. No signs of movement.
“Open the lid and come down. You have new responsibilities,” it urged, ignoring my question.
I scanned the area and found the path that’d led me to the alleyway I was in before. “If I can come down there, why don’t you open the lid then?” I shot back, voice sharper now.
A pause. Then it chuckled. “Oh, grow up. You’re not a child anymore.”
The ground beneath me vibrated faintly, and the manhole lid began to shift. I imagined its rim was lined with canine teeth jutting out like the bristles of an inside-out hairbrush. Then the sound of machinery and pumping came. They were powering something, and it sounded familiar from my days of having to stand outside and similarly watch the manhole out. I took off my leg and immediately the manhole jolted open.
“You look bigger and older than I thought.” A clean-shaven man, no more in his 50s, came out the hole. There was a sort of eeriness in him. Maybe his overly long jawline ruined his bare chin. But I could tell his real age was in the three digits.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m turning 90 in a few years.”
“You look fairly young for a senior citizen. Are you fresh out of college?”
“I was in the Kennedy administration.”
“Oh, well, come on in, then. We’ve got work your youthful body needs to keep it going. You’ve ought to shoot it sharp like Oswald did. So don’t mess up anything, especially the machines we have.” He then took a big step forward and stood still in front of me, then facing me. “Don’t mess with the guards.”
“Alright, if you say that. Where’s my pickaxe, then?”
“We don’t use them here. Every building here seems to be lighter than air. The underground is basically all wet soil. Now, follow me.”
We exited the vestibule and onto the main door appearing when we turned. The ray of light from behind disappeared as he slightly pushed me further. I had gone so distracted I hadn’t noticed how opaque the air was. I wasn’t intimidated by the thought I had been promoted, though—since it didn’t matter if I did—but by his foreboding playfulness. He unlocked the door, and we subsequently went in. The warm air and the accent lights dotted throughout the walls. It hung below the coffins. Everything warm is supposed to be comforting, but not a pillow, and with the coffins supposedly put here to appease the New Viene Conventions, or whatever it was called a long time ago, it was a poor attempt at it. I assumed they had previously dumped everyone who had battled here in a hole they dug, but with the Conventions, we’d need to make the corpses more alleviating to see. It was a pure mockery of this dimension, even for a boring one, in the sense that it goes completely against everything about the plainness and ruthlessness of infinity. I wouldn’t be the one to judge, however, I do think it was merely to mask violations, such as failing to give found bodies proper burials. Coffins presented as art exhibits in a museum’s hallway don’t, in my opinion, constitute proper burials.
“Would you like to guess what’s coming?” He interrupted my thought.
I responded to him, with an ambiguous tone that’d be impossible for him to tell even if we were in a planetary-sized echo chamber, “Not sure.”
“Let me tell you. It is simply amazing. They’re water jets, kid. We use them to soften the soil.”
“You sure it’s all soil?” I replied.
He gave me a swift look as if I didn’t know what I was saying. “Not really, until humans came here and constructed these structures.” The tone made it sound like he despised humanity more than anything here like the entities weren’t enough to disgust him. He had dropped his accent, and it had slipped through the crevices of even the smooth tiles.
“Anything I should expect then?”
“You talk funny. I must assure you, that the war ended decades ago. Don’t be too afraid of opposition. But we still need to be wary of betrayers inside our inner circle.” I decided to shut up now or else I’d have to open the coffin, shove this guy’s head into it, and repeatedly smash the lid up and down. It didn’t matter if I did anyway, ‘cause either way, he won’t say anything important about this job promotion of mine.
We turned again, now to the right, over to the actual operations, and the door could only open halfway. It was a spiral staircase. When we climbed and reached the top, possibly the same height as the sewer hole we climbed in before, A dark room devoid of people. There were faint sounds of what sounded like an entire ocean crashing into the sidewalls. A single light appeared at the top. It was a box television, no more advanced than the one they produced around a hundred years ago. Now advances had gotten boring. No more smooth tiles. The ground was as rough as the aftermath of war. The officer walked over and switched on the serendipitous lights. I was convinced he enjoyed the pleasure of the pain of stepping over shattered glass and tiles as sharp as a dulled atom. The lights turned on a few seconds later, slower than a person. It was a theatre out of all places. One of the most dangerous places to be in here.
“Wait, we’re inside a building?”
“Have you not been inside before, kid?”
“No, definitely not in these buildings.”
He ignored me and trotted to the control section with a myriad of screens. All thinner than the scattered plywood on the floor. I walked over despite his protest, which, to keep in mind, I was lower rank than him. He told me to take off my backpack. I put it on the chair furthest away so it wouldn’t disturb him. I’d rather not think of the pork sandwich more than anything, but I couldn’t. It had reminded me how pathetic the creature was, and it disgusted me right to the core I had to hide it away, desperately, behind the chair’s thin backrest. I tried to put my backpack down but the officer told me I needed it.
“Take a look at the screen first.” Now he was referring to me as a low-level soldier, as if escaping a slightly more decrepit meatball was the same as a battlefield.
“Okay.”
“It’s our room here. Look at the top. There’s a camera there on the ceiling where the curtains are.”
“Uh-huh.” I proceeded not to and instead focused on the screen.
“On the other side is where the activities are. They’re behind there.” He pointed at the curtains. With how large it is, it was probably designed to suffocate people if it fell down.
I turned toward the screen he had told me to before since I’d gotten bored. A green plus sign hovered on the dark curtains, hiding whatever lay behind—some mining operation, perhaps. I looked back to see it was even more blank, but not as blank as the windows previously. I could feel the presence of normality behind them, and I was enticed in a way. I wanted the officer to tell me to follow him behind. I knew I was going to anyway, but that was the only excitement I’d experienced today. The person who delivered me mail before didn’t come close.
The officer appeared on the screen and finally called for me to follow him. Oddly, though, he lowered his body and kneeled once he reached downstage, then went up to the curtain. Was he about to meet another ‘Sir,’ or should I call them ‘Sir, Sir’? I repeated it in my mind, and it sounded like “Shoo, shoo...” when the words became stutter.
“You might get decapitated by the water pressure if you kneel too high,” he said as if it was as normal as getting a shower.
I didn’t kneel as there wasn’t any noise other than that of steps echoing through a metal structure. Then there was talking. I was frightened again. I felt as if transported to the Appalachians. How could men wield a machine that vaporized a person with water—as if they hadn’t existed, poof, gone! —and sound like Dallasite rednecks who’d only done construction jobs in their life?
“I told you to kneel. Or you can bow, but I do think that that’s more uncomfortable for you.”
“I’m alright. No worries, Sir.” My tongue almost slipped and made me say “Shoo... shoo...”
“Well, you’ve got to here. You must adapt.”
“What was I tasked for again, Sir?”
“All right, I need you to supervise these folks.”
“Am I the same rank as them?”
“Yes, but you just watch over.”
I knew it was doublespeak for me being a foolish intern. The brightly-hat-wearing men’s expressions hinted at it, with their feminine gossip and spontaneous stares. Just as I was about to sit down while they worked on powering up the machine (they more of machine starters switchers than excavators, honestly), the officer returned. He leaned diagonally such that he looked like he was floating as it appeared on the door frame.
“Watch out, especially for the person on the computers.”
“The what—”
“Hm? What’s with what?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh, yes, ‘fore I leave, I’ve got something for you.” Why was he so formal all of a sudden? My questions intensified rather than fulfilled. He gave me a cardboard box, large enough to fit a book, with “EMERGENCY” written in cursive. And then he left.
I turned, in desperation, toward the workers. Their eyes took their graze off me and onto the wall behind me. Another door also opened. Reddish lights were coming out of there, but its glow seemed to be from screens. Maybe I’d spent so much time here staring at a screen that I’ve now gotten used to it. It’d been a long time since I had a pocket screen small enough to fit on my palm, ever since we found analog technology’s harder to detect here. A wonderful idea only a sharp-shooter in thinking can ever conceive.
“Keep an eye on that intern fella,” someone said from behind.
“What’d you say to me?”
“I’m talking to you, man. Someone’s messin’ with the computers. Go watch ‘em, not us.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’re as good as dead if we screw up anyhow.”
I paced sideways like a crab over to the door frame and watched them the last time in a good minute. Only I was missing my claws and the ones of twisted metal that could burst vaporizing water jets which I didn’t control. Powerless, walked away, pathetic... in the name of supervision.
“What’re you doing here?” a voice asked behind.
I said, still gazing over at the workers, “No idea. Was told to be here.” I wanted to keep what was inside a room for the surprise for a few seconds longer.
“Turn around. You’re ugly or what? No need to be that insecure in these rooms.”
I turned to him, slowly, as I lowered my backpack down to the floor but still hanging onto it. The entire wall was covered with screens as if they had ran out of concrete and plaster, substituting it for television screens instead. I just said what was in my mind, “Humans find me ugly. People don’t.” It sounded unnatural, but what’s natural about this place anyway, even when it was built by humans?
“God damn this windbag...” he whispered to himself. “Alright, fine. Just don’t go tryin’ to spook me with that moonshine. I’ve seen folks drunker than you in my day. I need you to look over my stuff—that’s it. Go on and check what I’ve been workin’ on.”
He told me to sit on his right side even though the chairs were on the left. So, I pulled one of them onto where he wanted it to be, just a little closer than he had thought. I finally let go of my backpack once I sat down, our thighs almost touching each other but only my eyes at his face, while he uncomfortably scuffled his desk to order his “messy” things though it wasn’t enough to make me notice earlier. However, I was still nervous, even though the backpack was arms-reach. The gun was in the backpack. Would it fire if I moved wrong? But it didn’t matter. I told myself it didn’t. It simply... didn’t matter. The light changed from red to white, with a couple of randomized blobs of light swiping up and down. I turned toward him. He was scrolling. “The Database,” it said on the top left. What were we using it for? Was he trying to get us found and killed?
“Why’re you using the Database?”
He looked like he wanted to condemn me, tsk-tsking, but he knew I was staring at him, so he immediately switched to smirking instead. “A yuppie looking-ass guy like you never used it?” he said.
“Not here. Everyone uses it.”
“And everyone can find us.”
“Nah, jackass. This level’s just one big ol’ internet provider. Ain’t nobody messin’ with the system. Unless you’re H.K., you ain’t gettin’ thru”
“You don’t have control over it?”
He shook his back and forth to signal a no. Had I been lied to since I’d been here? Do I trust him? Southerners, Kennedy conspiracies, all of it... Too many lies to count. My belief stoned in my heart. No convincing could shatter it anymore. It’s ridiculousness to keep that information away from anyone, especially from me. Were they scared that I’d find this mining operation earlier? How great of an irony is that?
“You best help me out, or your boss ain’t gonna be happy.”
“You don’t have control over them... Is that right?”
“If you’ve been drinking moonshine you better give me that shit. Whatever you’re drinking, man...” His words dissipated away like thin air. It transported me back to the moment I heard the entity before. Pathetic. Ridiculous. I looked back at the backpack. Then I turned toward the man. Then the backpack again. Then the man. Disgust. I had to look over to his screen, suggesting that I was interested in what he was typing out, to make the expression I was going to help him. I’d rather do it than see his contemptible face again—
“What you starin’ at, you louse? That’s a backpack of yours? Hand it over.” It seemed to me they had lied about this “louse” being an intern.
It’d be a pleasure to have my gun closer to the gun so when it moves the wrong way. It didn’t matter where it shot at, ‘cause it’d hit him nonetheless from how close he was.
“Open it.”
I knew he was stupid enough to say that, so I plunged my hands inside. I wasn’t ready to grab the gun yet. The wrapped sandwich seemed more fitting. It was feed for a pathetic entity, and now this man wanted it wholeheartedly. Although they were all powerless, there is a difference between them. One was born and destined to be pathetic, in its mannerisms and how it breathes, walks, runs, chases, and lives; but the other chose it willingly. His fate was sealed like the manhole cover from above once he took the pork sandwich and unwrapped it to gobble it down.
“You made this? It’s damn good. Alright, I’ll leave it here on the desk for ya to munch on later...” As he spoke, I reached inside the backpack again, grabbed it by its handle with my other hand, and ambled to a spot right behind where he was sitting. He continued to speak but noticed my movement. “What’re you doin’, man?”
“Grabbing a pen,” I whispered. If I were to talk just a little louder, he would’ve heard my disgust from the way I spoke.
“Why the heck you need a pen for...?”
The machine’s noise grew, the metal echo swallowing everything. A burning desire—or fear—gripped my chest. My fingers tremble as if they had already turned the machine on. “One... two... three...” I heard in the background. The echoing sound of the engines running, presumably in the area where the manhole was. One, two, three. One, two, three. I repeated it in my mind. The room felt a thousand times heavier. The screens dimmed as my eyes itched from my sweat. My fingers trembled. My arms numbed. The hands handling the backpack’s polyester insides possessed sentience. And I let it be. The man spoke, unintelligible until my ears amplified it to become shrieks of pathetic entities. His chair squeaked like a hopeless pig about to get slaughtered. If there were a sun, it’d be the screens. They covered the whole wall. His screen stood out. Everything was either pitch blank, as blank as the windows from earlier, or were CCTV footage. His screen, yes. Red outlines. Black text over white. Image loading. Was housing... what? What house? Facades? Gothic facades? Facades on houses are different from facades on humans. He was guilty of that. Portentousness. And the sky from earlier burned me from underground when it was least visible. It felt as if it’d split into flames. The computer screens were going to explode into explosions. Short-circuiting. The overarching sun dominates the skies. It held my hand. I couldn’t feel my fingers any longer. I reached down. The soft, wooden handle of the gun. Its rays shining through the opaque air extended, forming arms that tightened my grip. The air thin and clear. The bullet would go through easily like those rays. So does my arm. I feel the surface of the backpack’s bottom. The butt of the gun, with its two nails tightening it close, ensured it’d be a sharp shot. The curve of the trigger softened my fingers until its tremble reduced. The brightness and the invisible sun took over. I was now in the perspective of the gun’s front sight. I wasn’t a human. I was in the third-person perspective. Person. The sun embraced me and... a snap. Then snap again. One-two-three. One-two-three. The man, reduced to a ball of hair, like hands trying to escape his scalp to avoid the gun. Entity. Pathetic. Then the gun fired and the sun temporarily abandoned my hand. His head—now a bloody ball of mess—slumped to the screen. His body followed.
I felt the water jet spray had drowned on me, but the harsh blood spilled on the floor was a knock of realization for me.
The sun gained control again as I looked at the chamber. Five casings and an empty one. But on my own intuition, I realized nobody was coming yet, and I still had time. I dragged the corpse’s head away from the keyboard and it fell onto the floor. The final paragraph. A mess. Like the floor—scraps of text scattered. I closed the tab so it wouldn’t save the progress. It could just be a splatter of lies everywhere. But then it said “Autosaving...” The sun gripped me again. The screen turned a bright white, blinding my eye. Then it cut to an image he had been uploading. It was corrupted beyond saving. It was enough for me. I had made two things broken beyond salvageable. Now I must increase that number, unmistakably, ‘cause... What am I thinking anyway? I’d done shot someone.
I walked out the doorframe and my shoulders felt lighter than ever before. I felt like I was floating, even more so on my hands. The curve of the trigger now less soft. My fingers pulsating. I shot them now that they were all grounded, not anymore on the machine. The engines roared louder and louder and nobody seemed to notice. They all looked at me and tried to run away. A few escaped. A few were on the ground. I looked at the chambers and there was one bullet left.
“What in the Partygoer shit’s going on in there? What is happening?” the officer from earlier shouted. He appeared on the doorframe not long after.
He gave me a deep stare, chewing his wrinkled lips, trying to soften his tone. Now I regained my control again. He was nothing but a mere footnote. I fired the last shot at his chest. The water jet machine was turned off. They had cut the power. I heard shouting from there and footsteps of what sounded like a military parade. I tottered toward the door and peeked. Assault rifle-carrying masked men in uniforms. May the Lord be with me, for I am now an archangel of retribution. Amen!
- Great War Newspaper Image (CC0 / Public Domain), edited by the Sole Author: "The Great War Ends" published by the Chicago Tribune, clipped by staff_reporter.
- State Service Flag of the Federal State of Vienna (CC0 / Public Domain), edited by the Sole Author: "Landesdienstflagge des Bundeslandes Wien" by idk; go ask a historian.
- First Header Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "vienna schonbrunn fog" by Ulbrecht Hopper.
- First Description Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "City sleeping yet more" by Domas Mituzas.
- Second Description Image (CC BY-SA 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Restaurant for spirits" by Guy Freeman.
- Second Header Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "City sleeping" by Domas Mituzas.
- Third Description Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "The 9/11 Grauniad September 12th 2001, price fifty english pence" by dullhunk.
- First Slideshow Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Santa Ana Register front page, Oct 28, 1929" by Orange Country Archives.
- Second Slideshow Image (CC0 / Public Domain in the United States of America, CC BY-SA 3.0 DE in other countries), edited by the Sole Author: "A headline in the U.S. Army newspaper Stars and Stripes announcing Hitler's death" published by The Stars & Stripes, uploaded most recently by UpdateNerd.
- Third Slideshow Image(CC0 / Public domain in countries with copyright laws where works enter the public domain 50 years or less after creation, including the People's Republic of China), edited by the Sole Author: "1949年10月1日，中华人民共和国建国时的《人民日报》头版" published by the People' Daily, uploaded most recently by Tomchen1989.
- Fourth Slideshow Image (Creative Commons), edited by the Sole Author: "On 11 February 1990 Mandela made his first public speech, after 27 years in jail, to a crowd of 100 000 gathered on the Grand Parade in Cape Town. There was “no option” but that struggle against apartheid continue until the system was dismantled, he said. 'But we express the hope that a climate conducive to a negotiated settlement will be created soon, so that there may no longer be any need for the armed struggle to continue.'" published by The Star.
- Blood Splatter Image (CC BY-SA 4.0), edited by the Sole Author: "bloood" by Luis Moraga 17.
- Fourth Description Image (CC BY-SA 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Company... fire?" by mendhak.
- Third Header Image(s) (CC BY-SA 3.0 and CC BY 2.0, respectively), edited by the Sole Author: "Vienna buildings" by Хомелка, and "glitch - 2010 09 17" by Chris Dlugosz
- First "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY-SA 3.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Vienna buildings 14" by Хомелка.
- Second "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY-SA 3.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Vienna buildings 21" by Хомелка.
- Third "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Kanaldeckel in Baden bei Wien" by Martin Hufnagl.
- Fourth "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY-SA 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Austria-00835 - Casket Room" by Dennis Jarvis.
- Fifth "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "ghostmach5" by drtel.
- Sixth "The Prophet" Story Image (CC BY 2.0), edited by the Sole Author: "Blood splatter in a hotel bathroom floor" by Eco Bear Biohazard Cleaning Company. [CONTENT WARNING]
| Canons | Winter's Butterfly |
|---|---|
| Levels | Megalophobia │ A Child's Abnormality │ White Torture │ Roads to Abyss │ Haphazard Remnants │ Saturation │ Terror Basins │ Innocent Ball Pit │ Day Zero │ Vitrum Madness │ The Last Snow │ The Unit │ Antiquated Perpetuity │ Indigence │ Niagara of Iron(ic) Fists: The Contra-Pulp Fiction Theme, Vol. I & Vol. II │ Ain't All Blood Red │ Pipe Dreams │ The Worm in the Fruit │ Vienesse Sunday │ Old Mister Staircase │ Thalassophobia │ Toko Kelontong
|
| Entities | Mandela Disease │ The Death Locomotive │ Rainbows │ Count the Stars! │ The Thing on Level 7 |
| Tales | The Temporal Yellow │ The Ladybug Heart of a Génocidaire |
| Joke | Em Dash Island │ Meggies |