The cool night air brushes against my face, my boots crunching on the gravel beneath my feet as Jordan and I approach the dilapidated entrance of the Dobson Textile Factory. The wrought-iron sign hanging overhead creaks softly in the breeze, hinting at the age of this place. The moonlight casts eerie, long shadows, reflecting off shards of broken glass that used to be windows. In the stillness of the night, the place looks more like a monument to forgotten dreams than the industrial powerhouse it once was. On this edge of sundown, the bricks take on a particularly creepy hue, their dark red turned into a sludge brown, and only the fluorescent yellow of old streetlights nearby to give any further definition. It makes them look like they're sick, like the building itself is alive and hateful, full of mold and spite.
Safeguard's costume is the same as it was on that fateful day in a Walgreens, albeit with a few minor improvements. We met up here, so I didn't get to see Jordan put it on - not that I wanted to -, but I do get a glimpse of it without the billowing cloak, layers of thin, wispy black material strapped down with velcro. Just like me, they're wearing thorough padding where it matters, elbows, knees, hands, but the tips of their gloves have been cut off, and I had to convince them via text to wear shinguards, which look jammed uncomfortably underneath their signature-to-me boots. With the opportunity to get a close look at it, it's easy to see the helmet now for what it is, just a full-face motorcycle helmet spray painted white and then covered in a shiny primer. The visor itself hasn't been spray painted, but a layer of white cloth on the inside, wrapped around Jordan's upper face, completes the illusion.
In the darkness, it's basically impossible to see their silhouette. The helmet is just too distracting, it draws the eye, making them look like a floating head.
My costume is the same as it was, the spare duplicate of it I carry with me, with the main one still shoved in a locker at the Young Defenders HQ. Gossamer was nice enough to provide me with several copies of it in the middle of August, which is definitely useful now, and the black, brown, and red accents makes me surprisingly difficult to make out along the brick walls. My hair is tied up in a ponytail, and I've gotten used to temporary hair dye in the form of spray as a means of safeguarding my identity - today, it's a combination of black and red, because I'm feeling edgy.
"Remember the layout," I mutter to myself, recalling the schematics of the factory we'd both studied. The factory is supposed to have a large main floor, with rows upon rows of long-abandoned looms and machinery. On the right, there's a manager's office, with the walls probably stained with the grime of countless workdays and negotiations. To the left, there's a smaller storage room, which would've once held raw materials, now home to only dust and spiders. This is, of course, assuming that the factory didn't shapeshift before we managed to get inside, or have any major updates since when it closed and now. I think that's a fair bet to make.
We push through the factory's main door, which groans in protest. Inside, it's colder than I'd anticipated, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your clothes feel just useless. The echoes of long-gone workers seem to hang in the air, overshadowed only by the remnants of machinery left behind. Rusted looms, giant and haunting, stand as still as tombstones, each one a monument to the hands that once operated it. You can almost hear the rhythmic clatter they would have made in their prime.
I wonder to myself how they managed to get all those machines in here in the first place. Do you just drag them into the front door or through those cargo bays some places have in the back? Or were they brought in, bit by bit, and assembled on-site? I let the thought distract me for a moment before shaking it out of my head, my jaws clacking quietly.
Refocusing, I notice the aged wooden beams overhead, crisscrossed with old wiring, the kind that probably predates any form of safety standards. The wooden floor beneath is warped and worn, every step threatening a creak or groan. Here and there, the ground is strewn with discarded bolts of fabric, each one telling tales of patterns and fashions long out of vogue. Gears and other assorted bits of detritus (that means, like, scraps and stuff) from disused machines make each step a little perilous, as my cleats try to catch on them. Today, I'm only wearing the rubber cleats - the big metal spikes would be a nightmare on any metallic surface.
"Hey, Safeguard, if we need to like... hide or something, can you get that helmet off you fast? Like, in case a police officer shows up or something," I ask as we gently navigate our way through, using our phone flashlights to sweep a path in the darkness.
Jordan glances at me and lifts a hood up on their cloak, immediately submerging their entire frame in black except for a narrow sliver of white across the eyes. Then, they wordlessly put the hood back down. "Got it," I mutter.
Jordan moves ahead, scouting the manager's office. I find myself drawn to the storage room. The door hangs off its hinges, and I push it open carefully, half-expecting it to fall off completely. Inside, the shelves are mostly bare, save for a few remnants of materials, moth-eaten and deteriorating. The scent of decay and old textiles assaults my senses, a mixture of mold and what I imagine is the scent of being forgotten. I wonder to myself why anyone would possibly abandon all of this - couldn't they have repurposed the machinery, or recycled the materials? It seems like such a waste. You could at least clear out the real estate and do something with the building's space itself, I know the Electric Factory used to be an abandoned something or other.
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As I stand there, lost in thought, Safeguard re-emerges from the manager's office, their face hidden behind their helmet. "The office is clear," they say, their voice whisper-quiet. "Just some old paperwork and a couple of rats."
"Are they cute rats?" I ask, trying to keep the mood light, although I'm not sure if it's for me or if it's for Jordan.
"No," Jordan replies. I exaggerate a frown.
The vast entrance doors creak open, revealing a cavernous main room. To my immediate left and right, there are staircases, aged and worn, leading up to the second floor. The steps, some broken, are covered in a fine layer of dust, and each has a familiar echoing thud as I test its sturdiness. Every footstep brings with it a cloud of memories, each particle holding a tale of a time when this place was buzzing with activity.
The ground floor is an open space littered with ancient machinery. Looms stand tall, their wooden frames showing signs of rot, long abandoned and left to decay. Massive belts dangle, disconnected from the wheels they once powered. Rust has overtaken most of the metal parts, and the factory's once vibrant colors are now lost beneath the grime of years. The smells are a mix of dampness, mildew, and rusted iron. With every inhale, I feel... terror, a looming sense of wrongness. I shouldn't be here. My heartbeat accelerates, and I chalk it up to mold inhalation.
Further into the space, large beams stretch from floor to ceiling, offering skeletal remnants of what used to be partitioned work zones. Tucked between these zones are workstations - wooden tables, benches, and stools, all worn out and discarded. Strewn papers, yellowed with age, are scattered around, remnants of patterns and designs long forgotten, their ink warped beyond recognition with the rainwater that's leaked in through patchy holes in the roof.
The windows are tall and grand, stretching nearly from the floor to the ceiling, though most are now broken or cracked. They're boarded up, but slivers of light penetrate through the gaps, casting eerie beams onto the factory floor. The shattered fragments sparkle in the moonlight, laying on the interior of the windows, broken by wayward stones and vandals and casting a silent glimmer throughout the outdoors-proximate areas, one that shifts with the clouds passing over and in front of the moon.
I venture up the staircase on the left, hand skimming the banister, feeling the rough texture of peeling paint under my fingers. The second floor seems to be more administrative. Here, there are partitioned rooms: offices with broken desks, rotting chairs, and old-fashioned typewriters left behind. One door is slightly ajar, revealing a small break room with a rusted kettle on a stove, and an old calendar hanging on the wall, its pages stuck on a date more than 70, 80 years old. I reach out to touch it with my fingertips, on impulse, and the paper crumbles to dust in my grip, breaking apart into flakes. Any records kept in this place have disintegrated, totally useless even for archeological purposes.
Jordan takes the right staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vastness of the factory. We occasionally catch each other's gaze across the gap, sharing unspoken thoughts. As I move, I stumble upon a series of storage rooms. Large spools of thread, now dull and colorless, are piled haphazardly. There are boxes of needles, buttons, and zippers, most of them scavenged years ago, leaving only the bent and broken ones behind.
Towards the back, there's a large loading bay with a set of huge double doors, probably for trucks that once transported finished textiles. The tracks of a previous rail system are buried in layers of dirt, leading out to where the trucks would have once stood, waiting for their cargo.
By the time we converge back on the ground floor, we have mapped out every conceivable nook, corner, and cranny of the Dobson Textile Factory. My senses are overwhelmed by the details, the sights, sounds, and smells. I do, in fact, feel a bit like a dog in a new place, unsure of what to do with myself.
After what feels like hours, but probably is only a few more minutes, we find ourselves back at the factory's entrance, ready for the next phase of our plan. The moonlight spills through the broken windows, casting a silvery glow over the entire scene.
I turn to Jordan, absorbing the environment one last time before we gear up for our impending showdown. Every shadow, every whisper of wind through the broken windows, serves as a reminder of the weight of what we're about to do. They break the silence first. "Alex, my friend, is like a safe half a mile away, ready for the signal. Their drone's got cell reception and a big, big range. Just need to say the word and it'll be here in a couple of minutes."
I nod my head and gulp quietly, swallowing thick spit that's been accumulating at the back of my teeth. The gentle rustling of the night wind fills my ears as I suddenly feel a pulse. It's faint, irregular - a heartbeat. My enhanced senses detect a metallic tang in the air - the unmistakable scent of blood. But it isn't either of our blood. I freeze, my every muscle tensing.
"Jordan," I hiss, "someone's coming."
Jordan's eyes go wide beneath their helmet. Their head darts to the entrance, the moonlight reflecting off their visor. "What? How do you know?"
"I can... sense it," I whisper, trying to pinpoint the location. There it is again, the irregular beat, punctuated by the distinct smell of fresh blood, and I feel the shape and the contours. Bleeding into tissues - a nosebleed. But more than that, from the mouth, too. I feel the bruises, spread out into the skin. Whoever's coming has been beaten up bad. "Blood smell."
We need a plan, and quickly. "We need to hide, now," I instruct.
Jordan's eyes dart around, quickly scanning our surroundings, processing possible escape routes and hiding places. Their gaze finally settles on a section of the upper floor. "Upstairs, on the catwalks. We'll be out of sight and have a good view of what's happening below."
Without hesitation, we bound up the nearest set of stairs, moving with an urgency neither of us has felt in a while. I can only assume, at least, since I, for one, feel like I'm literally about to die. My muscles are all tension and torque and my heart is going harder than it has any right to, like I can almost feel it colliding with the inside of my ribs. We duck beneath the catwalk's railing, peering down through the gaps, and I try to still my breath as much as possible. Jordan puts their hood up, and pulls on two drawstrings to pull it as tight as possible.