The trip from the diner to Marigold’s apartment was a blur. Maxwell took in little, aside from a sense of urban decay and general squalor. They had half-jogged down the second length of the escalator and ran at a tear through the Lower Junction, dodging the occasional rat-beast or dour-faced ancient god. Maxwell did not think Marigold fully appreciated how much smaller his legs were than hers. Every step she took was close to three of his. What was to her a brisk pace felt like the last stages of a marathon to Maxwell, or, rather, it felt like what he imagined the last stages of a marathon were like for people who took part in such things.

Marigold lived in an area of the Junction that looked like a fever dream of Dickensian London: dark, smoggy, and full of crumbling warehouses and industrial structures. Her home was a top-floor loft in a long-neglected structure that had once been a pickle factory. It still smelled of it. Maxwell had to breathe through his mouth as they marched through the halls of the briny building, past dilapidated doors and curious onlookers hanging about with nothing to do but stare. It was only when they were finally inside her apartment that he could properly exhale.

He collapsed on an oversized and partially soiled couch, wheezing for several minutes. He felt as if he would never be able to get up again. Marigold removed IT from her bag, placed the robot on the floor, and disappeared into a side room to search through old documents.

Once Maxwell had gasped and coughed his way back to life, he took in his surroundings. Despite her job title, Marigold did little to maintain her apartment. There were piles of clothes balled up in the corner, half-eaten meals scattered throughout the living room, and a suspicious dark spot growing on the ceiling. The dust from the brick wall was left to accumulate on the concrete floor, though Marigold had swept some of it beneath a few tatty rugs that looked as if they had been old twenty years ago.

“Pretty bad, huh?” IT said after surveying the mess.

Maxwell looked around again and was forced to agree.

“You know, I wanted to tell you that I think you’re doing great,” IT said.

“What? Where is this coming from?”

“Marigold. Earlier she was being all hard on you about being a coward, but I don’t think you’re doing so bad.”

“I’m not?”

“Not at all. I mean, here you are, this fragile and tiny mortal creature thrust into a world of gods and monsters, any one of whom could tear your legs off without a second thought, but you’re still standing, still running.”

“I’m mostly just doing what Marigold tells me to do.”

“Exactly. You’ve done everything she’s asked, and she still yells at you.”

“I think she’s just worried.”

“Even so, my records show humans are quite sensitive. There are any number of psychological disorders you could be developing as we speak. Serious conditions that might last a lifetime.”

“What kind of disorders?”

“The point is you’re doing fine. You’re certainly not pathetic.”

“Thank you,” Maxwell said. “You’re not pathetic either.”

“I try my best,” IT replied. “Anyway, you take a break, I’ll see what I can do about this dust.”

IT set to work, and Maxwell closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the forest of mysterious stains that was Marigold’s sofa. He wanted to take a nap, but it wasn’t long before Marigold returned with an ancient tome in hand.

“We have to talk about next steps,” she said.

Maxwell suppressed a groan and sat up in his seat. “I thought you said I could take a break.”

“You just did. That’s what you’ve been doing.”

Maxwell glared at Marigold.

“We don’t have time for breaks,” she said. “They’re looking for us now.”

“Who? Who are we running from now?”

“The triple Æ.”

“The triple what?”

“The Æthereal Ænforcement Ægency. They deal with wayward anomalies like you. They’re the ones that IT overheard.”

This all sounded very scary, but Maxwell was losing context for scary. It didn’t sound scarier than any of the things that had happened to him so far. If anything, an otherworldly police force was preferable to the purple, multi-limbed abomination that had been chasing him just hours ago.

While Marigold explained several more scary-sounding concepts with vague names and absurd acronyms, Maxwell gazed over at a framed picture on the wall. An image of a younger Marigold in front of two frogs in elegant attire. Her parents, presumably. The dad frog was beaming, his arm resting on Marigold’s shoulder, while the mom frog stood with her hands folded neatly in front of her. They were standing in front of a massive estate house surrounded by an elegant and tastefully landscaped garden. It was one of the few things in the apartment that was spotless.

“Maxwell, are you paying attention?” Marigold said.

“What—yes, more things are trying to kill me. Can I ask you a question?”

“What now?”

“Is that your family?” he asked, motioning to the picture.

“What does that have to do with anything?” She looked to the wall and hesitated for a second. “Yes, those are my parents. Is this important for some reason?

“No, I guess not. It’s just a nice picture,” Maxwell said.

“It was taken a long time ago. My family’s . . . complicated.”

“I get it. My mom left shortly after I was born.”

“OK. Sorry, I guess. I don’t know what you think this is Maxwell, but it’s not trauma-sharing time,” Marigold said.

IT rolled out from underneath an armchair. “What about your father?”

“He, um, he wasn’t very good at taking care of himself. He died a few years ago.”

IT came to a stop beside Maxwell. “It must be hard being alone.”

Maxwell nodded and reached down to gently pat the vacuum.

“Focus, focus,” Marigold said, her eyes bulging in disbelief. “We’ve got to figure out what we’re doing next. I went through some of my father’s old things. There are maintenance records and manuals that go back centuries.”

“And?” IT asked.

“And you were right.”

“Of course, I was . . . which part?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“The World Cauldron can tell us what’s wrong with Maxwell. It might even be able to fix things.”

“How’s that?” Maxwell asked.

“According to this book, the flame in the World Cauldron is sentient, or a part of it is. If someone enters communion with the Cauldron, they can request information and favors from the Voice of the Flame. It can observe the faults in reality and adjust them.”

“Like a chatbot?” IT asked.

“No, like a mystical deity that monitors and adjusts reality when needed.”

“Sounds like a chatbot to me,” IT replied smugly.

“If it can fix reality, why hasn’t it done it already?” Maxwell asked.

“Because the Voice can’t do anything on its own,” Marigold replied. “Not since we started building engines and computer programs to automate its functions, but it should still work, it’s a direct conduit to the universe itself. If we get down there, we might still have a hope of getting Maxwell home and fixing this whole mess.

“Not without the demon,” IT said. “Without Walter, there’s no point. None of us can interact with it.”

“We’ve got to try.”

“How? How do you plan to get through the Archive and down to the ground below.”

“Walter said there was an old way.”

“And you believe him?”

“We’ll figure out something,” Marigold said. “I don’t know what, but we can’t stay here, and we can’t leave the Core, so we’ve got exactly one option.”

“You might only be able to think of one option, but my generative abilities are a little more complex than yours.”

“I’m really not interested,” Marigold countered.

For a moment it seemed as if Marigold and IT would fall into yet another argument, but before they could start, there was a knock on the door.

Marigold looked at Maxwell and held a finger to her mouth. She went over and looked through the door’s peephole. As she turned back, she silently mouthed a profanity and then motioned for IT to return to its hiding place under the armchair. She grabbed Maxwell and threw him inside her washroom.

“Don’t come out until I say so,” she whispered and then closed the door.

For quite some time, there was nothing Maxwell to hear and nothing to do but huddle against the massive toilet with an ear to the door.

“Goldie,” a low, gravelly voice called out. “It’s been a while.”

“What are you doing here, Av’enna?” Marigold asked.

“I’m here for work. It’s something us poorer creatures do from time to time.”

“I work.”

“Of course you do.”

Maxwell did not like the tone in the gravelly women’s voice. He wondered if he could escape if it came to it, but there were no windows or hidden vents in sight.

“Did you come here after all these years just to insult my worth ethic?”

Av’enna chuckled. “Of course not, Goldie. I came here because someone not quite right has been running around the Junction.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Someone fleshy.”

“A human? That’s hard to believe.”

“And yet here we are.”

“What does that have to do with me? I don’t know anything about humans.”

Marigold may have been a lot of things, but from the tone of her voice, Maxwell did not think her a convincing liar.

“OK, sure, but the thing is, someone described as amphibious helped him.”

There was a pause, Maxwell pushed his ear harder against the door.

“You can’t mean me?” Marigold said.

“It’s not just the robots saying this either. A drûxin reported a human and frog heading down from the upper levels. His report was corroborated by at least a half dozen others who saw something that might have been human stumbling his way across multiple levels of the Junction. All of them saw the same frog that looked like a Caretaker, black boots and all, bounding after him.”

“And you thought of me,” Marigold said.

“I know. It seems like too big of a coincidence. What are the odds that the investigation would take me to you, but I follow leads when I get them. Of course, there are plenty of other frog-like creatures in the Backend, but how many are Caretakers, and of that small pool, how many could do the things this creature has been seen doing? Probably none, right? So, I got a few of the guys together and came straight down. Out of courtesy, they’re waiting outside. I thought you might have something to tell me you’d rather say in private.”

There was a long pause before Av’enna spoke again.

“C’mon Goldie. This will go a lot easier if you just come clean. I know there’s a lot between us, but I also know you wouldn’t do something like this without a good reason. Why not just tell me what you’re up to?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Av’enna sighed. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I look around, then?”

“You go right ahead,” Marigold said.

A slow grinding sound like shifting rocks leaked through the cracks in the door. It was far off at first but gradually grew louder. Then it stopped and the knob in front of Maxwell began to move. Maxwell had locked it, of course, but it did not seem like a lock that would stand up to the force of what sounded like a walking mountain.

“Why’s the door locked from the inside, Goldie?”

“It just sticks like that sometimes. Let me try.”

Maxwell panicked. He wondered if he could push himself against the door, but he did not have a great deal of confidence in his physical prowess. There was nothing to do, so he decided to do just that. The few moments that passed bore the weight of hours. He imagined being torn out of the restroom and hauled back over to the smiling robots. He imagined being ripped apart and recycled into time. He imagined the universe stopping altogether and spiraling into early entropy, all because of him.

None of these imaginings came to pass. Instead, the door stopped moving, and Maxwell heard Av’enna speaking to someone who was not Marigold.

“Yes sir. You’re sure? Eastern quadrant. Right, of course. We’re on our way.”

“What was that just now?” Marigold asked.

“Look, Goldie. I’m, uh, I’m sorry.”

“It sounds like you made a mistake.”

“The pair were just spotted on the other side of the city.”

“Sounds like a pretty big mistake. You should probably get going. I’ve heard poorer creatures like you do have to work from time to time.”

There was no more talking. A door opened and shut. Maxwell felt a surge of relief at the squeak of Marigold’s rubber boots approaching the washroom door.

“You can come out. She’s gone,” Marigold said.

“What was that just now? Why did she leave?” Maxwell asked.

Marigold just shook her head.

“Cough, cough,” said a voice from the corner of the room. It was not a real cough. It was a voice producing the words. IT wheeled out from under the armchair.

“What did you do?” Marigold asked.

“I just intercepted her radio transmission and replaced it with one of my own.”

“You can do that?” Maxwell said. “That’s amazing.”

“But will the frog thank me?”

Marigold did not, in fact, thank the robot. She was too busy retrieving her bag from a broken coat rack and pushing Maxwell out the front door.

*

They rushed back down the rancid hallway. Maxwell tried to breathe through his mouth this time.

“Who was that?” Maxwell asked in a nasally voice.

“Av’enna? Someone from my school days.”

“She called you her friend.”

“Yes, I suppose she did.”

“She was looking for me?”

“She was.”

Marigold directed Maxwell away from the stairs and opened a window at the end of the hall. She pushed him out onto the roof of the nearby building. The roof was covered in pipes belching smoke into the city’s underbelly. The buildings rose up on all sides, obscuring the white glare of the Backend’s skies. Maxwell tried not to disturb the abandoned cans, garbage bags, and miscellaneous detritus that populated the roof. A skylight looked down on something that looked like a sentient ham sandwich lost in a very thick book.

“I know I’ve asked this a lot,” Maxwell said. “But where—”

“Down,” Marigold said. “We’re going down like I said we would earlier.”

“Why? What are you hoping is going to happen?” IT said from Marigold’s bag.

Marigold ignored the question. She came to the edge of the roof and scampered down a rusted emergency ladder.

Despite Maxwell’s exhaustion, he did not complain as he followed. Back on the street, they marched back past the leering eyes of the Lower Junction’s denizens. Marigold pushed past the desperate and bedraggled crowds. She was looking for something. As soon as they reached an alley, she glanced inside, shook her head, and kept walking. She repeated this several times, picking up speed with each failure. Just when Maxwell could take it no longer and was about to protest, she found what she was looking for. Between two buildings, there was a round hatch. Marigold reached into her bag to produce a key, walked over to it, and unlocked it. She held up the lid and motioned for Maxwell to climb inside.

“What is it?” Maxwell asked.

“It’s a maintenance slide.”

“A slide?”

“It’ll get us out of the Junction unseen. Nobody uses these anymore.”

“How do we get back up?” Maxwell asked.

“We don’t. Not this way.”

Maxwell hesitated as he peered down into the pitch-black. He could see nothing. “So, I just jump,” he said.

“That’s the idea.”

Maxwell nodded and stood in place unmoving. “Is it a long drop?” he asked.

“A few minutes, so in terms of drops, I guess it’s pretty long, yes.”

Maxwell nodded again.

“Ready?” Marigold asked.

“Yep, here I go.”

He continued to stand in place.

“Has he jumped yet?” IT asked.

“Just give me a minute,” Maxwell replied.

He would count to three. That was something people did in situations like this. A simple count of three. He got closer to the edge. Still, he saw nothing. He looked up at Marigold, who was clearly growing impatient. He looked back down at the hole. Right, OK, jump time. One, two—come to think of it, a count of three is not very long. He needed more time, something like a count of five, maybe even more. Was a count of eight a thing? A count of eight seemed doable. It would be enough time to gather his courage. He held his breath and folded his arms over his chest, the way he had done on water slides as a child. One, two, three, four—

A hand reached out from behind him and shoved him hard against the back. He instantly lost balance, and his neatly folded arms splayed out in all directions as he tumbled into the hole. He sped into the darkness, with nothing to check his fall except the slick metal surface at his back.

It was terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. But around the edges of the terror, he couldn’t help feeling something else. Was it fun? Yes, something like fun. Just a smidge, but he could feel genuine enjoyment somewhere beneath the churning pit of panic.