Joren's grip tightened on the cart's handle as he rolled it down the halls of Building C, the weight of Gus and Bart inside making every squeak of the wheels louder than it needed to be. The folded laundry on top barely concealed the awkward bulge of their bodies, but with some luck and a little optimism, they could just barely pass. Or maybe some good lying, too.
The hall smelled faintly of smoke and humidity, the lack of new ventilation or air conditioning showing for the oldest building on the base. A low hum from the overhead lights filled the silence, broken only by the slow, rhythmic clap of Joren's boots against the tiled floor. The walls were painted a dull cream that seemed to drink in the light instead of reflecting it, making the corners blend in and look like endless corridors.
A pair of soldiers turned into the corridor from the far end, their boots clicking in perfect sync. They were both carrying folders under one arm and moving with the stiff posture of people late for a meeting. One of them gave Joren a quick, curious glance, the kind reserved for things that might be suspicious but weren't worth the paperwork.
"What are you up to, private?" One asked.
Joren didn't break stride. "Basement run," he said flatly, letting his tone carry just enough authority to make it sound like a chore no one wanted to question.
The taller soldier kept pace, frowning. "I feel you, man. Laundry duty can get real boring. At least you can relax a little, haha."
Joren managed the faintest of smirks. "Relaxing's not exactly something we can get away with."
The soldier chuckled, giving the cart a quick once-over. The laundry mound shifted a bit, probably Bart rolling around, but Joren paid it no mind as he steered them past before the men could think twice about it.
"Lucky it's you and not me," the soldier called over his shoulder as they turned into another hall.
Joren didn't answer. He kept the pace steady, letting the echo of their boots fade away. The corridor ahead was one of the final stretches until he came up on the lift to the lower levels. The corridor ahead narrowed, the cream walls turning into unpainted concrete as it bended down toward a short, windowless hall where a metal lift waited like a silent sentinel. A single rusted pipe ran across the top left of the hall.
Joren spotted a padlock cast to the floor that would have been covering the panel obstructing anyone without the key to accessing the lower floors. A smear of rust and old washed out stickers traced down the side of the panels frame where rainwater or condensation had found its way in over decades.
He pulled the cart up close and pressed the lone down button. The button clicked in and out, followed by the deep, mechanical churn of machinery that he had never heard before. Brindlewood also did not have any form of elevators, so it was a mere concept to him. Bart had instructed him on what he would be looking for, so it was a lot easier than wandering around the halls for something he didn't even know.
The air here felt warmer, heavier, and the hum from the lone overhead lightbulb really messed with the eyes, making it feel like it was fluctuating in brightness around him. Shadows barely clung to the corners where the concrete walls met the floor, and even the sound of the cart's wheels seemed muted.
A slowing hum followed by a clunk signaled the lift's arrival. Its doors slid open with a shudder, revealing a spacious interior of brushed steel, modern overhead panels hiding the lighting, and a carpeted floor.
Joren glanced once down the hall behind him, then pushed the cart inside. The cart's wheels bumped over the thin lip of the threshold, the sound swallowed instantly by the soft carpet. The air inside was cooler than the hall outside, carrying that faint metallic tang of enclosed machinery.
The cart's wheels bumped over the thin lip of the threshold, the sound swallowed instantly by the soft carpet. The air inside was cooler than the hall outside, carrying that faint metallic tang of enclosed machinery.
Bart shifted under the pile of laundry with a quiet grunt, and Joren gave the cart a subtle nudge to still it before the doors slid shut with a low hiss. He hoped that would be enough to tell him to knock it off.
There were only two buttons on the panel: Up and Down. Both buttons glowed faintly, waiting for an input. Joren pressed the down button, and the sensation of motion was so smooth it felt almost unreal. At first, he thought that they would freefall, but for about half a second until it smoothed out. There was no rattling or groans, just a deep, steady hum that thrummed through the floor into his legs.
He kept his eyes on the glowing indicator above the door, which displayed the letter M, the knot in his gut drawing tighter with every passing second. Whatever waited for them below, there would be no easy retreat up this lift without being seen.
The lift rattled as it descended, its frame groaning in the narrow shaft. Every few seconds, a muffled clang echoed up from somewhere below, like metal shifting under strain. The faint, sterile light inside flickered once, then steadied. No one spoke.
The overhead indicator shifted its red dots into an L as it lurched to a halt, and when the doors finally opened, a cold draft rolled in from the darkness ahead.
Joren pushed the cart out first, its wheels thumping over the lip and back onto dusty concrete. The brushed steel walls behind him gave way to stone mottled with age, corners rounded by years of scuffs and grime. Most of the foundation had cracks and chipping occurring. Overhead, half the fluorescent tubes were dead, leaving pools of light that made the next stretch of halls and side rooms feel like a horror scene.
He kept his stride measured, the cart's squeaks and the clap of his boots joining the low hum of machinery somewhere deeper in the walls. The place had the kind of stillness that only came from a space meant for work but rarely visited by the people who ran it. Laundry carts stood in crooked clusters. Through a cracked doorway, he caught the rhythmic churn of a washing machine and the faint scent of warm fabric.
The sporadically left out carts and pallets full of supplies made maneuvering the supply bay difficult, so he considered asking the other two if they should hop out.
He steered them toward the narrow service hall with a side room that wasn't occupied as he stopped at the doorway. Inside, he saw a few front loading washers tumbling, but an absence of anyone nearby.
"I think you two can hop out now, it looks pretty dead down here." He said the the cart of towels and shirts.
A little rustling later, the two stood up, a few socks falling off their shoulders. Gus had one stuck to his back, which Bart helped him peel off.
"So… this is where she came through?" Gus asked, glancing down the corridor.
"Maybe," Joren said, though it came out with more doubt than certainty. "This seems to be a huge set of halls and storage bays."
Bartholomew squinted at the machinery in the room. "If she did, she probably didn't stop to appreciate the industrial charm."
Gus snorted. "Too smelly. I wouldn't stick around here, either."
"If she did, she probably didn't stop to appreciate the industrial charm."
Gus snorted. "Too smelly. I wouldn't stick around here, either."
Joren stepped forward, his boots scuffing on the dull tile. The air was scented with cleaning supplies and stale dust. A tangle of exposed pipes ran along the ceiling, leading the eye toward a bend in the passage.
They walked in no particular hurry, checking doorways out of habit. One was a linen closet stacked high with folded sheets, another was a supply room with half-empty shelves and a single mop leaning against the wall like it had been forgotten mid-shift.
"This is all kind of… nothing," Gus murmured, voice low, as if he might disturb something.
"You're right. This place has nothing going on..." Joren said as his thoughts trailed off.
Another side room was lined with dented cabinets and rows of low shelves. Dust had gathered in thick, uneven ridges along the edges of the floor, disturbed only by their footprints.
Joren brushed his fingers along one cabinet handle; it left a clean streak through the gray film. "Feels like this hasn't been touched in years," he murmured.
Gus crouched to peer under a shelf, pressing his hands into it. "Wood's soft on the bottom. Might've had water down here at some point."
Bartholomew wandered ahead, pausing to poke through a crate of cracked ceramic mugs. "The valuable treasures of the Department of Defense," he said dryly, holding one up before setting it back with a clink.
They moved on, weaving between stacks of forgotten equipment left randomly in the hallways and corridors. Some halls narrowed until they had to walk single file, the walls bowed inward by years of settling. Pale strips of paint curled away from the stone beneath, exposing patches the color of ash. A broken lamp lay against one wall, its cord coiled like a shed snakeskin.
The further they went, the less the space felt like it belonged to anyone. It wasn't padded with dust like that side room, but it had nothing going on. It was just a cluttered mess.
Gus checked a few tags stuck to boxes on some pallets, then shook his head. "Most of these are twenty years out of date. Nobody's touched 'em since."
Bartholomew, half-hidden behind a leaning stack of chairs, muttered, "Bet they'd still charge us for them if we asked for a few." Then a stack of eight tipped over, Bart looking a little surprised. "Oops..."
They rounded a corner into another corridor where the overhead lights flickered, one tube casting a faint yellow wash over the floor. A square of metal broke the monotony of the wall ahead, its front a white, peeling mess. The metal underside exposed through patches, with one large section looking fairly fresh.
"Is this a ventilation shaft?" Gus asked, already stepping up to it.
Joren looked it over. It was set into the wall, but a notch on the corner drew his attention.
This must be some sort of handle, I bet we could open it.
Joren ran his fingers along the cool edge, then pulled. The panel resisted for a second before groaning open, hinges squealing from neglect. A stale draft rolled out, but they could see lights off in the distance of the hall. This was no ventilation duct.
"Not ventilation," Joren said quietly. "Looks more like a service hall or something."
Gus peered in. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Joren gave a small nod. "She probably found this, too. Let's hope she's still near it."
They started down the narrow corridor, their footsteps softened by thin fabric layering the floor. The hum of pipes faded as they went deeper towards the bright lights.
Joren eased forward, shoulders narrowed, every breath sounding too loud in the padded hush.
They passed an open doorway on the right. What should have been an abandoned maintenance bay looked anything but: polished tables, shelves tight with freshly labeled binders, and a half-played card game waiting in the corner . The cards had chips stacked next to them, two hands fanned and face-down, as if the players had stood up mid-argument and never came back. It looked better than half of the base above them. It was like a bunker for the king when a war would break out.
Bart leaned in, voice a murmur. "Secret clubhouse vibes. Do you think they have some snacks?"
"Keep moving." Joren said, scanning the trim work around the ceiling lamps. The lamps had decorative metal collars that didn't belong in a utility wing.
Beyond the card room, Willow had gone straight deeper into the wing. Joren cut right instead, leading the three to a different hallway that had paintings lining the walls.
Landscapes, cityscapes, a few abstract swirls of muted colors—none were labeled, none quite matching the cold military tone of the base. The carpet here was thicker underfoot, muffling even Gus's heavier steps.
Bart slowed, tilting his head at one painting of a jagged coastline. "I think we stumbled into someone's grandma's hallway.
"Stay sharp," Joren said without looking back. His eyes tracked each intersection and door, noting how this section felt purpose-built for comfort rather than storage or operations. "Willow definitely found this, too."
The air had a faint polish-and-wood scent, completely at odds with the dusty bays they'd passed earlier.
Gus kept glancing around. "This is all wrong for a basement. You could host a dinner party down here."
At the far end of the hall, the paintings gave way to a plain wall with a single sign stenciled in black: SOUTH ANNEX — HOLDING. The arrow beneath pointed them deeper, toward a narrower passage with warmer light pooling ahead. If Willow did make it down here, she probably ended up in the holding area. The thought of her getting captured set Joren into an internal frenzy.
Gus shifted his weight, eyes darting between the sign and Joren. "If she's in there, we're getting her out."
Joren gave a short nod, but didn't slow. "Let's go."
They moved forward, each step dull against the thicker carpet. Somewhere ahead, faint voices carried through the still air of the holding area.