For the next several hours, Croc and I worked tirelessly, righting tipped-over shelving racks, mopping up spills and blood, and disposing of bodies. There were a shocking number of bodies, though taking care of those mostly fell under Croc’s jurisdiction. The mimic enthusiastically insisted on it, actually. The dog explained that the Backrooms would eventually absorb the “physical material”—its exact words—but that it was much easier and quicker to just consume the corpses.
After watching Croc unhinge its jaw and swallow the first dead Tech like a starving anaconda, I decided to leave the mimic to it. I already had enough nightmare fuel to last me several lifetimes.
I took several breaks to read through my new operations manual, which was chockfull of useful information. Although it looked like a three-ring binder, stuffed to the brim with sheaves of loose-leaf papers, it was actually my Blanket Fort Interface, serving much the same function as the Progenitor Monolith—except for my Personal Safe Space. By simply opening the binder, I could view a staggeringly long list of available resource materials and useable square footage.
The interface portal even granted me access to a set of interactive 3D schematics, which allowed me to manipulate and even reconfigure the space as I deemed fit. I couldn’t use the manual to instantly fix all the broken shit lying all over the place, but I could change the location configuration of the various rooms as well as arm, disarm, and rearrange all of the traps inside the store, which was a damned nice perk.
On top of the traps, the store had several other security features and passive benefits.
Turned out, the building had a rudimentary Spatial Core, though it was called a Progenitor Nexus Relay, and within that core were several unique Relics, though they were labeled as “Bindings.” Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find a way to remove those Bindings—not that I really wanted to—but it seemed possible that I could add compatible Bindings to the Nexus Relay, granting the space some portion of their powers.
The first Binding was a Healing Skill similar to my newly acquired Pharmacist’s Scales, but way better. It was like Pharmacist’s Scales on steroids and applied on an industrial level. The space had its own Health Pool and Mana reserve, and the Unyielding Foundation Binding passively restored and mended all damage dealt to the structural property itself at a rate of 100 Health per hour—which was insane, until I realized that the store had 14,200 Health, which perfectly matched the overall square footage.
At that rate, it would take one hundred and forty-two hours, or just under six days, to totally repair the store from catastrophic damage, which was significantly longer than it would take to bring me back to full health, even from the edge of death.
On top of Unyielding Foundation, the store had four active abilities—Cornucopia of Plenty, Stasis Halo, Ban Hammer, and Cannon Fodder—all of which were fueled by the store’s rather impressive Mana reserve.
Although Unyielding Foundation only regenerated the physical structure itself and not the items contained within the store, Cornucopia of Plenty did. It would only work for items that came with the store and not additional materials brought in later—like Relics or Artifacts—but still… For the rest of my time in the Backrooms, I’d never have to worry about food, Mountain Dew—well, Peak Dew, technically—or finding a toothbrush ever again.
Even better, that also meant that once the pharmacy recovered from the firebombing, the Health, Mana, and Stamina potions would regenerate as well.
Which meant I now had a near-infinite supply of life-saving medicine, which I’d be able to mark up and sell at a steep profit to intrepid Delvers. I say near-infinite because there was one small catch. Unlike Unyielding Foundation, which passively regenerated the store’s Health over time, Cornucopia of Plenty was an active ability that required a small degree of oversight. Inside the Blanket Fort Interface Manual was a comprehensive list of every single item that came stock with the store—including total item quantity, the Mana regeneration cost, and the regeneration respawn time.
I would have to actively manage my inventory and “reorder” items as they “sold.” Thankfully, regenerating the items drew from the store’s Mana Pool and not my own, but the store had a limited Mana reserve to work with, even if it was vastly larger than my own. The more magically or materially complex the item, the more Mana it cost to make. I could generate a bottle of water for as little as two Mana, while a Beefy Man frozen TV dinner cost around ten.
The Health, Mana, and Stamina Elixirs cost the most by a country mile, at 200 Mana a pop. The store had a total Mana Pool of 7,100, which meant, in theory, I could manufacture thirty-five elixirs a day. Doing so would completely drain the magical reserves, however, which I needed to power all of the store’s other abilities. There was one other significant catch. Each item in the store inventory also had a “Max Stock Value” listed in the binder, and I could never generate more of any given item than that value at any one time.
In the case of elixirs, that number was twenty apiece.
The Max Stock limitation quickly deflated my dream of an endless surplus of cheap potions, but as long as I stayed on top of the store’s inventory management system, I’d be golden.
Stasis Halo’s effect was rather straightforward and didn’t require any forethought or oversight. As the owner of the Superspace, the store was built to protect me at all costs while I was within the confines of its walls. Anyone inside the store who was stupid enough to launch an attack against me—whether it be physical or magical in nature—would instantly be trapped within a temporary stasis field, which would petrify and immobilize them for an entire minute, simultaneously nullifying any hostile magical effects in play.
That was more than enough time to kill them or throw them out on their asses, depending on what mood I was in at the moment. The only drawback was that the spell burned through an epic amount of energy, which meant that it could only be used about three times before the store’s entire Mana reserve dwindled to zero. It was a solid protective measure, but the system could be overwhelmed and eventually overloaded if enough people decided to launch an attack on me all at once.
Of the four active abilities, Ban Hammer was the most complicated and basically served as a moderation tool. I could create a series of rules for the space—no attacking others, for example—and anyone who performed that action would instantly be teleported to a random location on a random floor that the space was connected to, via a Doorway Anchor. I could create any number of rules that the store would passively monitor and enforce, restricting things like stealing, damaging property, or even cussing.
Not that I’d ban anyone for cussing.
I fucking loved to cuss.
Honestly, people often criticized me for my “colorful” language, saying that it demonstrated “a lack of articulation and imagination”—that was a direct quote from my youth pastor—but to my mind, there were few words as flexible or versatile as shit, ass, and fuck. The innumerable ways they could be twisted and strung together to form complicated and nuanced expressions were like poetry when wielded by a true master.
Chucklefuck. Assface. Douchewaffle. Shitstick. Cockwomble.
A work of art, each and every one. Though I made it a point not to take the Lord’s name in vain. My parents raised me Christian and although my dad had a mouth like a drunk sailor, he’d paint my ass black, blue, and red if he ever heard me blasphemy.
As cool as those Bindings were, however, none of ’em even came close to the last and greatest Binding of all, Cannon Fodder.
Cannon Fodder
Uncommon Binding
Cost: 1 x Relic (Common Grade or Better)
Meet your new best friend: a disposable Cannon Fodder minion. These things are cobbled together from whatever random bullshit you have lying around—whether it’s a discarded pizza box, moldy socks, or the rotting remains of your vanquished enemies—then empowered by a single Relic, Common grade or better.
You can conjure one of these unholy, Frankenstein murder-machines for every 5,000 sq ft of Blanket Fort you lay claim to. Cannon Fodder Golems will exist indefinitely until they are either destroyed or banished by their creator. The Relic you use to empower the creature will largely shape its personality but—generally speaking—understanding simple commands are the height of their intellectual prowess.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Their vitality is directly linked to the Health of your Blanket Fort, with each Golem sporting a robust 1% of the Fort’s total Health capacity. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but believe you me, it’ll take more than a few love taps to turn these lumbering morons back into the debris from whence they came. But, because their Health is directly tied to the Fort, they cannot leave without falling apart.
These haphazard doofuses might not be great conversationalists, but when you’re knee-deep in dickheads doing their absolute best to fuck you, you’ll be glad to have ’em around.
Remember, if you’re desperate enough, everything is fodder for your Cannon Fodder.
I wanted to cackle manically like an evil supervillain.
I had minions. I couldn’t think of anything more badass.
After reading over the Binding description, I grabbed a bunch of random garbage from my storage space along with some of the destroyed products still strewn about the store from our battle. I tossed the bloody and broken plague doctor mask from the corpse of the Harmacist in just for good measure. The description didn’t mention how much material I needed to use, and I got the distinct impression that I could make the golems as big or as small as I wanted, depending on what material I used.
Once I had a roughly human amount of material piled up, I rooted through my available Relics, looking for something that I wouldn’t be too sad to part with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t spoiled for options. I had a bunch of Molotov Cocktails, but those I intended to use or sell, which left me with one Tinfoil Hat of Mind Shielding, two Basic Camo Kits, and two of the Roid Gremlin jockstraps. None of those seemed like great options, but I had two jockstraps, and that seemed like an item that would be hard to sell, even at bargain-bin prices.
I tossed the musty nut cup on top of the heap, then focused on the pile with intention, which conjured a floating prompt.
Would you like to transform the selected material into a Cannon Fodder Golem? Doing so will destroy the Common Relic, Gremlin’s Groin Guardian. Proceed? Yes/No?
I mentally selected “Yes” and the floor immediately began to rumble while the lights flickered frantically for a few seconds.
When the shaking finally stopped and the overhead fluorescents stabilized, the previous pile of junk pulled itself upright onto a pair of bulky legs, made from a combination of twisted metal and random items pilfered from the shelves.
It vaguely resembled a bodybuilder and had a bulky torso made predominately of cereal boxes, medical bandages, and cleaning supplies, all held together by strings of barely visible white energy. Its arms, by contrast, were composed entirely of melted and badly disfigured baby dolls that I’d raided from the toy aisle. A basketball sat on the creature’s shoulders, and plastered to the front was the cracked and scorched plague doctor mask.
“What. The. Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath, more statement than question.
I instinctively took a step back, but the creature mirrored my movements, its huge feet whispering across the tiles as it moved toward me.
“Whoa there, boy”—I raised a hand, palm out—“that’s close enough. In fact, why don’t you go ahead and take a couple of steps back. Give me a little breathing room.”
Green light flared behind the cracked steampunk goggles, but then the creature complied.
“You understand what I’m saying, right?”
The creature nodded, though it had to bend most of its upper body to do so, since the golem didn’t have a proper neck to speak of.
“Can you talk?”
“Can talk,” it confirmed in a gravelly voice that sounded less like a human being and more like a cement mixer brought to life.
“What should I call you?” I asked. “Or does it matter?”
The creature tapped its broad chest with a plastic hand composed of dozens of smaller baby hands. “Me Cannon Fodder.”
I casually waved away the words. “Yeah, yeah, I know that’s what you are, but I’m gonna make another one of you and I don’t want to have to call out for Cannon Fodder One and Cannon Fodder Two—that’ll get real old, real quick.” I considered the creature and rubbed at my chin while I thought. “How’s about we call you Baby Hands,” I said after a minute, “on account of your tiny, rubber baby hands. Does that work for you?”
Baby Hands nodded its body again, apparently indifferent to my naming conventions.
“Perfect. Now why don’t you go help Croc clean up the store while I find enough stuff for another one of you.”
“Baby Hands lives to serve,” the creature grumbled.
“That’s the spirit,” I said, clapping the trash monster on the shoulder.
The golem shuffled away, moving with an uneven gait, then began to pick up and sort items with a surprising degree of efficiency and dexterity. I’d only known Baby Hands for approximately ten seconds, but I could already tell that he was a harder worker than ninety percent of the new hires who would occasionally apply for my contracting crew. Clearly, he was dumber than a box of wet hammers, but that didn’t matter so long as he followed orders.
While Baby Hands lumbered out of view, I headed back over to the toy aisle and raided a bunch of crap to make a second golem. Of all the stuff inside the former MediocreMart, the toys were the least useful of the lot and took up valuable shelf space, which could be used for more important items. I already had plans to create some basic Delver survival kits that I could give out, free of charge, to any of the new arrivals who managed to make it to the shop.
The toy aisle would serve perfectly well for that.
I scooped shit off the shelves with one arm and carelessly plucked items off the racks with the other, tossing all of them into one big heap of useless packaging and cheaply manufactured plastic. The toys themselves were stupid beyond belief, but left me smiling all the same. There was Arachno-Lad, The BULK, Green Lamp Lighter, and everyone’s favorite, the Streak. Beside them was Hare Devil—a mutated giant rabbit with a taste for danger—and Cat Woman’s distant cousin, Jenifer—“She’s just a normal lady that really likes cats!”
Jenifer came with a bagful of accessory cats.
There were also several disturbingly realistic Carbie Dolls, which were all anatomically correct according to the packaging, and came with a wide range of miniature low-carb food products. Even worse were the My Tiny Trotters, and the instantly recognizable Might Morphin’ Force Rangers, which seemed just legally distinct enough to pass muster. The whole lot of them went into the pile, with no plans to regenerate any of those particular items.
I decided to add a bunch of crap from the beauty product aisle because nail polish and eyeliner weren’t likely to be bestsellers anytime soon either.
As for the Relic, I decided to go with the Tin Foil Hat of Mind Shielding.
Although I had another Gremlin Jockstrap to get rid of, ol’ Baby Hands could barely talk, and I really wanted a minion that could do a little more than mop floors or move heavy boxes. Ideally, I wanted something that could work the register in my absence. The Cannon Fodder description mentioned that the Relic empowering the Golem determined its personality, so I was hoping a Relic that was Mind focused might give this little guy a modest intelligence boost.
I activated the Cannon Fodder skill again, selecting yes when prompted, then sat back and watched the magic of the Backrooms do its wonderous work.
The end result was a gloriously distressing creature that stood about four and a half feet tall, which was only about half the size of ol’ Baby Hands. The golem was thin, almost waifish in appearance, and most closely resembled a Might Morphin’ Megazord. Except its arms and legs were made of Carbie dolls and counterfeit Superhero action figures, while its torso looked like a robot, and its head was that of a bright pink pony with a majestic mane of silver hair. A sheen of dazzling glitter covered everything, and the pony had impossibly long eyelashes.
It was worse than anything I possibly could’ve imagined...
Then it opened its mouth and spoke in a sweet, childlike voice. “Morphin’ is magic, and the power of our unholy friendship will outlast your pitiful flesh.”
I shuddered and considered dispelling the creature on the spot then starting over from scratch.
Baby Hands was one thing, but this? This was an abomination. This was a sin against the natural order. The kind of thing so profane it risked calling down the wrath of the Almighty. The problem was, I’d just burned one of the few remaining Relics I had to my name, and if I destroyed the creature there was no guarantee I’d get the Relic back. I couldn’t be throwing Relics away all willy-nilly, just because this thing made me a little squeamish.
“You’re a bit more talkative than the other one,” I observed, folding my arms across my chest as I regarded the Pony-Zord.
The golem giggled, which was worse than any other response it possibly could’ve given.
I sighed. “Well, let’s just hope you have the same work ethic.” I reached into my storage space and retrieved thirty backpacks, all in varying shapes, colors, and designs, along with bunches of shirts and black athletic socks I’d looted from Style-for-Less. “We’re going to make some basic Delver kits,” I said, gesturing to the backpacks and clothes. “Every pack is going to get a shirt and two pairs of socks, but we’ll also need to gather a few extra items from around here.”
I stuck a finger into the air. “Toothbrush and toothpaste.” Another finger joined the first. “Baby wipes.” I added more fingers as I continued to list items. “One of the first aid kits that are back by the pharmacy. Three bottles of water, two protein bars, and a bag of beef jerky. Make sure to get a flashlight from the hardware aisle… Oh, and grab some pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those little Exacto knives from aisle 22.” I looked at the pony, who was staring at me with dead black eyes as deep, ominous, and unknowable as the heart of the ocean.
By the time I was done, I’d run out of fingers.
“You got all that?” I asked.
“We serve perfectly.” The pony giggled again. It was the sound of windchimes blowing next to a graveyard. “We remember all.”
“Why are you speaking in the third person?” I asked, squinting at the pony in suspicion. “Is that like the royal we? Please, god, tell me it’s like the royal we.”
The pony shook her head, mane fluttering majestically. “It is because we are Legion, the devourer of worlds, though you may call us Princess Ponypuff.”
Not only did her answer have a myriad of disturbing implications, but I’d attended enough Sunday services to be keenly aware of the overt demonic connotations of that particular response. Whatever. As long as Princess Ponypuff, devourer of worlds, did as it was told it was all gravy.
“Cool. Well, don’t just stand there, Ponypuff,” I said, making a little shooing motion with one hand. “Pitter-patter, let’s get at er. These basic Delver packs ain’t gonna make themselves...”