Go down the staircase hidden behind the gate in the alley of the Blakemark building. At the bottom of the steps is a door. It is locked; it is always locked. However the code is as well known and common to the right circle of people as the time of day. I know that code. I learned it working undercover. I know these people. At least I used to.
Past the stairwell door is a long hallway filled with pipes that pump out steam from the buildings above. Watch your step and watch your timing because the steam here can be lethal at the wrong time of day; under the right conditions. At the end of the hall is another set of stairs. This goes down again and further. This goes below the train lines to the forgotten parts of the city older than Dutch Manhattan and older still than the Lenape Indians. Long ago they found the natural entrance to these deeper caves and they wondered at what they saw.
The Deep Below is lit by a moss that glows like dying neon. 1000 meters below the earth I can hear the Hudson River roaring high above me. I can make out the beginnings of DeepTown as the stairs transition from concrete to the original rough cut stone and I make the transition from what is to what was. By the time I reach the bottom, faces are materializing out of the darkness around me. They are ork and Troll–some are subspecies I’ve never seen. Some are human. They are all armed.
“Hoi.” I say, holding my arms up in the air. “Anywhere down here a chummer can get some solid Ramen?”
The one nearest to me is a dwarf whose eyes show age wrinkles beyond my few years. She isn’t smiling. She pats me down quickly, and says, “WHo do you know to be down this far?”
“Old Henry Miles.”
“Henry hasn’t been this deep in a few years.” She says, her eyes fixed on me.
“Last time I saw him was five years ago. We ate over there.” My hand slowly drifts down and forward towards a section of the village I’m familiar with. As I point my eyes focus on someone else I am familiar with but never expected to see down here. I cannot hold back the gasp that comes out of me.
Peter Choi is here. He’s still in his hospital robes. He is sitting outside of a small hut cobbled together from recycled siding and drinking from a can fashioned into a cup.
When I can finally pick my jaw up off the floor I say, “Also, I’m with him.”
Some Thoughts:
- TWIST! That is what makes stories go crazy. I’m going to have to put one together here soon that makes a sort of sense. This might be the start of it.