“That was not nearly as fun as the slides in the Jungle Gym Jamboree,” Croc grumbled as we wrenched Jakob free from the laundry chute, which had ushered us from the bleak maintenance corridors to… somewhere else.
The metal slide had been a tight squeeze, barely large enough to accommodate my broad shoulders, and had been rigged with a pair of insidious booby traps. I was fairly certain one of those traps would’ve somehow rerouted us to a different location entirely while the other would’ve transformed the entire duct into a blazing incinerator. The first trap I marked with spray paint, then carefully avoided. The second I disarmed entirely with a little help from my Prybar and my Runic Resonance Trap Relic.
The chute must’ve dropped us down forty or fifty feet, and though I was certain we were still on the fifth floor, the location displayed in a strange way on my mini map. Almost as though it were somehow disconnected from the larger level. Like an island, floating in a sea of black.
Now we found ourselves in a short corridor with gray concrete floors and dim halogen lights that buzzed and flickered sporadically. Large commercial laundry carts piled high with horrendously stained sheets and distressingly bloody hotel comforters lined the hallway.
Ahead were a pair of gray doors, each inset with a small circular window like the portholes on a ship. A sign beside one door read, Hotel Florentine, Bulk Laundry Service – Employees Only. That gave me pause. In my experience, the Employee Only sections were always the most dangerous areas in the Backrooms. I’d encountered the Janitorial Handyman in an Employee’s Bathroom in the Lobby, and the MediocreMart Harmacist had also been bidding its time in an Employee’s Only section.
There was nowhere else to go, however, and when I cast Unerring Arrow, the ever-reliable blue light disappeared through the doors, dispelling any doubt about whether we were in the right place or not.
I looked at Jakob and Croc, then nodded grimly as I pulled out my hammer and flooded the tool with mana. It burned with angry blue light and quadrupled in size. With a thought, my demolition screwdriver rose into the air alongside a bright red tennis, imbued with a potent dose of melt-your-face-off fire magic.
Jakob pulled a metal buckler no larger than a frisbee from his hip and attached it to his left arm. The Cendral muttered something under his breath and the buckler expanded outward, forming into a kite shield of gunmetal-gray steel. Then he slapped one hand against a blue gem attached to his right arm and a brilliant plasma shield erupted to life. Although, strictly speaking, Jakob didn’t fight with any sort of offensive weaponry, the edge of that plasma shield could sever limbs better than any sword and cauterize the wounds in the process.
It was the perfect tool for an avid pacifist stuck in a murder world.
Croc, now the size of a bear, took point as we shouldered our way into the laundry room beyond.
The doors swung inward of silent hinges to reveal a cavernous space filled with rows of hulking, derelict washers and dryers. Their circular doors all hung open like yawning mouths. Those holes were big enough for a full-grown man to crawl through, and the interiors were all pitch black. Anything could’ve been hiding inside, just waiting for some hapless moron to walk by.
Hell, half of the things were probably bloodthirsty mimics.
The washers and dryers were arrayed in ruler straight lines that zigzagged back and forth, transforming the room into an intricate maze of silent machinery. The air was heavy, saturated with the musty scent of damp fabric and the sharp tang of rust. The distant clank of gears and the steady drip, drip, drip from a leaky pipe sent chills racing along my spine. Most of the overhead lights were broken, casting the whole place into eerie, unnatural gloom.
Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.
It was hard to image how this rundown shithole could possibly be the sacred laundry mat, capable of miraculously cleansing even the most formidable of stains. If the Backrooms had taught me anything, though, it was to never judge a book by its cover.
On high alert, we followed Unerring Arrow deeper into the laundromat labyrinth, winding our way back and forth, back and forth as I inspected each of the machines in passing. My gut told me we were in the right place, but my doubts intensified the longer we walked. None of the machines were Artifacts. Not one. They were just hunks of crap from a bygone era. Most of ’em probably hadn’t worked in fifty years or more.
After wandering for half an hour without making any real progress, I decided to climb on top of the washers to get a better vantage. Turned out, this wasn’t just a solitary room attached to the maintenance corridors, it was an endless warehouse that stretched out of sight in every direction. The place was enormous and there must’ve been miles of washers and dryers in here. It could take days or weeks to scour the cavernous space though, thankfully, I doubted it would come to that.
Off in the distance there was an oddity that stood out like a sore thumb—a blazing pink sign that read, The Spin Cycle. Directly below the sign was a bright rectangle of light, which could only be another doorway.
That light drew my eye like a moth to the flame and I knew exactly where I needed to go. There was no question in my mind.
Instead of dropping back down, I pulled Croc and Jakob after me, then we maneuvered along the tops of the machines, easily leaping over the gaps as we beelined toward the neon sign.
It took us another twenty minutes or so to get to the patch of welcoming light and as we drew closer an entire building materialized out of the inky gloom. It wasn’t a particularly large structure, but there was no mistaking it for anything else. Standing before us was a standard neighborhood laundromat. The kind you might find in any decent-sized city scattered across the face of America—though what it was doing down here, I had no idea.
The Spin Cycle had a white brick exterior, painted with splashes of muted pastels, and a bright green awning which covered a pair of sliding glass doors. Meticulously clean windows ran along its face, showcasing a bank of bulky orange washers and dryers within.
I hopped down and the clatter of my boots against the concrete floor reverberated off the high ceilings. I winced and instinctively wanted to kick my own ass. If there was anything nasty for us waiting inside, it would know we were coming.
“Next time,” Jakob said, quietly climbing down beside me, “you can just announce our presence with a bullhorn. Maybe set off a few fireworks as well, to really dazzle them.”
Even though the delivery was completely deadpan, I could hear the joke in his words.
I shrugged and offered him a lopsided grin, “Sorry about that. Though to be fair, stealth never was my strong suit, anyway. I prefer the wrecking ball approach.” I picked up one of my firebomb grenades and gave it a little toss. “Even better if the wrecking ball is on fire.” I jerked my head toward the door. "Come on. That fancy washing machine isn’t gonna loot itself.”
The sliding glass door slid open as I stepped into the laundromat with Jakob on my left and Croc on my right, ready to kick all the asses and take all the names.
I came to an abrupt stop a moment later and squinted in confusion, desperately trying to figure out just what in the Kentucky fried fuck I’d gotten myself into. I’d been fully prepared for some kind of laundry-based freak-show to come barreling at me like a freight train—maybe a sentient washing machine with a rotating drum full of teeth or a giant dungeon slime made entirely of corrosive laundry detergent. Thematically, any one of those options would’ve made logical sense.
I was in no way prepared, however, for the circle of tiny, GI Joe-sized creatures arrayed in what appeared to be an elaborate summoning circle not far from the entryway.
“Behold!” one of the creatures croaked as I stepped over the threshold and blinked against the light. The speaker wore priestly white robes and stood directly in the center of a runic circle, which burned with an otherworldly light. “At long last the ritual has worked!”
Twelve more miniature men, all wearing ornate purple and gold vestments, stood at even intervals around the circle with tiny arms upraised in supplication. Each wore a pointed conical hat that made them look like old timey wizards. That or garden gnomes.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Praise be to the Researcher, for the Deliverer has come at last!” another one squeaked. “The day has come! Salvation walks among us!”
“Praise be to he who shall banish the Unclean One!” the group intoned in a chorus of high-pitched voices.
Although they were humanoid in appearance, like so many things in the Backrooms they weren’t human, and it wasn’t just the size. They were rather stout creatures, with powerfully built frames, broad shoulders, pointed ears, and long braided beards. At first, I thought they might be Transmogs or some other sentient race entirely—like the Cendrals who lived on the floors far below—but a tag popped up, quickly dissuading me of that idea.
These things were Dwellers.
Dweller 0.51011A – Bertrim, Laundry Brownie - High Priest [Level 11]
If OCD and Dependent Personality Disorder had an unholy lovechild with an obsession for laundry so intense that it bordered on the sexual, you would have a Laundry Brownie. Standing no taller than a well-used detergent bottle, these pint-sized purveyors of cleanliness live to scrub, fold, and mend, taking an almost perverse joy in the eradication of stains and the smoothing of wrinkles.
Despite their, let's say, unique erotic proclivities, Laundry Brownies are inherently nonaggressive and would much rather dart into the shadows of a sock drawer than confront a potential threat. And wherever you find one Brownie, you’re bound to find more, since they are social creatures who dwell in small communities with rigid hierarchical class structures, governed by a myriad of seemingly inscrutable religious traditions.
Although Brownies are largely harmless to outsiders, they are incredibly superstitious and, if left to their own devices, are prone to extreme sectarian violence.
“What the fuck,” I said to no one in particular as I finished reading the description.
“The Holy One speaks,” the high priest in the white robes intoned, “he graces us with his heavenly benediction!”
The other laundry brownies fell onto their faces in adoration as they all began to mutter the words “what the fuck” as though it were a religious mantra.
I stole a look at Croc, “What the hell is happening here?” I growled under my breath. “What are these things?”
“This is quite the pickle, Dan,” the dog said, seemingly as mystified as I was, “I’ve never heard of Laundry Brownies before. This is uncharted territory for me. Jakob?” the dog asked, redirecting the question.
The Cendral grimaced and shook his head.
I closed my eyes and sighed as their refrain of “what the fucks” morphed into a complex Gregorian chant, sung in unison.
What a mess. I quickly ran through the available options in my head. These things were small and weird but didn’t seem to be an immediate threat. True, they were Dwellers, but as Croc had proved a thousand times over, not all Dwellers were bad. Only most of them. And the Codex had clearly indicated that these things weren’t inherently dangerous; the fact that they weren’t currently trying to kill, dismember, or eat me lent additional credibility to that notion.
Although it wouldn’t be hard to slaughter them, I wasn’t a murder hobo and I didn’t want to nuke these things from orbit until I figured out what in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph was going on here.
“Stop that,” I finally said, waving at the Brownies. “Stop chanting, all of you.”
Slowly the singing guttered and died, though all of the Brownies were still lying face down in apparent reverence. “Bertrim,” I said, snapping my fingers at the one in the white robes, before motioning for him to stand.
“The Deliverer calls me by name,” the white robed Brownie said, peeling himself from the floor with a look of ecstasy. His face was pinched, his cheek bones too high, his nose far too bulbous for his face, and his pointed ears were so long they actually drooped down at the tips instead of pointing upward like a typical elf.
“We live to serve exalted one,” Bertrim said, bowing deeply at the waist. “Long have we performed the great ritual of summoning as entrusted to us by the ancients and now, in our hour of need, you have arrived from beyond the great darkness to cleanse our land.”
“The great darkness? Is that the other part of the laundry room?” Croc asked, glancing back over one shoulder.
The brownie nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, blessed traveling companion of the exalted one. Those are the dark lands where we do not venture. The darkness is a realm of vile evil, ruled by the Profane Corrupter. A blasphemous perversion that must not be named. It is you who shall deliver us from its vile, putrid, filthy, dirty ways. Oh yes, it will be so.”
The other brownies had risen their heads and were nodding fervently in agreement, several muttering “vile” and “evil” under their breath in turns.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I said, “you think you summoned me here to fight some monster that lives out there?” I hooked a thumb back toward the maze of derelict laundry machines.
There was an energetic round of “Oh yeses,” mixed in with a few “What the fucks.”
“Sorry, fellas, hate to burst your bubble,” I replied apologetically, “but I have no idea what in the hell y’all are talking about. All I want is one of those fancy Artifact washing machines you have back there”—I nodded toward the bulky orange washers lined up neatly at the back of the laundromat—“then I’ll be on my way.”
A curious look flashed across Bertirm’s face. “Forgiveness, Holy One,” he said, bending low at the waist once more, “it is not my place to correct one such as you, but the machines of which you speak have no such arcane enchantments.” He flinched and folded in on himself a little bit. “They are but the instruments of your humble servants.”
“What do you mean, they aren’t Artifacts?” I growled before carefully examining one of the machines more closely. This was it. It had to be it. We’d come all this way. Surely, at least one of them had to be an Artifact. Right?
Econowash EWS40M2 Hard Mount, Front-Loading Washer
With a thirty-inch drum diameter and a fifty-pound load capacity, this is a big ass washing machine. That’s it. It’s a washing machine.
“What the fuck?” I muttered again, which set off a whole new round of chanting.
I ignored the Brownies as I inspected each of the six machines in turn, hoping to find one that might be different from the others. But they were all the same. Just regular run-of-the-mill washers and dryers—though, admittedly, they were impeccably well cared for and far larger than anything I was likely to find elsewhere. I focused my intention and cast Unerring Arrow once more, thinking that maybe I’d made some sort of mistake.
Nope.
Blue light filled the entirety of the room—an indication that we had, indeed, arrived at our intended destination. Which is when the truth smacked me in the teeth like a baseball bat. I looked down at the robed weirdos. The Laundry Brownies. I groaned. Of course. They weren’t just funny little creatures who happened to live inside a magical laundry mat. Nope, they were the source of its miraculous powers.
Those tiny miscreants were the Artifact I’d come in search of.
It was the only explanation that fit.
Well, shit. That certainly complicated things. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Nothing ever was as easy, straightforward, or as simple as it seemed in the Backrooms. Now, if I wanted to fulfill my deal with Ajax and broker a trade alliance with the Howlers, I was going to need to recruit these little dinguses to help me. Although, on the positive side, I had a feeling that wouldn’t be too difficult. I mean, they were actively worshiping me. Why exactly they were worshiping me was still a bit of a mystery, but I could figure that out later.
Before I could fully think through all of the various implications, however, there was a distant groan of metal followed by a thunderous crash and the thud of approaching foot falls.
“It comes,” the Brownies screeched as one, rushing around in utter terror and panic.
“What is coming!?” I shouted to be heard over their fearful wails.
“The profane corrupter,” Bertrim replied in utter panic.
“That which must not be named.” Another acolyte in purple and gold caterwauled, not even attempting to compose himself.
“That which cannot be cleaned!” A third added. Dual streams of tears were pouring down his tiny face as he ripped at his own robes in distress.
At least Bertrim had the good graces to try and keep his shit together.
“It has sensed your presence. It has come to feed. To defile.” Bertrim faced me with trembling hands outstretched. “Please, Chosen One, in the name of all that is good and holy, you must deliver us from this peril. This is the reason we have summoned you and your companions. Do this one thing and we shall serve you heart and soul, unto a hundred generations.”
I hesitated. Even though we were only on the fifth floor, I had no desire whatsoever to fight whatever horror called this place home. Not if I could avoid it. Yeah, extra experience was always great, but I wasn’t down here chasing Relics. I was down here to acquire the laundromat. Period. End of story. That was the mission, and the mission was the only thing that mattered.
So, instead of just agreeing to help them like a moron, I tried to do the smart thing and just annex all of The Spin Cycle using my Blanket Fort ability. If I could get the Brownies clear of the danger, I figured that would probably be good enough to win them over to my side. And, if not… Well, I could always try to bride them with pizza. Everyone loved pizza. That would work, right? Probably. Maybe. Whatever. I didn't really give a shit.
I selected the laundromat in my minimap, but received an error prompt when I tried to activate the skill.
Error Report #13F963201B
Whoopsie! You’ve selected 2,170 square feet of Progenerated Material Resource Space, currently claimed by a hostile party! To convert and annex the selected material, you must first establish a valid claim by purging the current owner. Good luck!
I quickly read and reread the message, while beads of sweat rolled down my face. Perfect. That meant this profane corrupter dickhead was essentially the Area Boss for the entirety of this laundry complex, and I wouldn’t be able to liberate the Spin Cycle until it lay dead at my feet.
That certainly simplified my choices.
Sure, staying to fight was a gamble, but I couldn’t just leave the Brownies to die to whatever nightmare was trundling toward us like a slow-moving avalanche. Well, technically I could’ve done that, but helping them was the right thing to do. Plus, we’d come so far and there was no way I was leaving empty handed. Not after everything we’d endured. I needed that trading alliance with the Howlers, and I also badly wanted my clothes cleaned.
I was tired of smelling like a fermented armpit.
“What do we do, Dan?” Croc asked anxiously, glancing toward the sound of the encroaching footfalls.
“The only thing we can do,” I said, mind made up. “We help save these little weirdos.” Reluctantly, I turned my back on the Brownies and headed through the sliding glass doors with my hammer in hand. “Let’s go clean house.”