The Backrooms: Pantheon

Chapter II

Overseer A, Justin Rivers, sat at the head of a long meeting table in M.E.G. Base Beta. Its surface was scarred by coffee rings, knife scores, and the occasional burn mark from someone’s impatience with a faulty lighter. His sister — Overseer B, Katherine Rivers — occupied the seat to his right, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Overseer C, Andrew Donovan, was at the far end, angled slightly away from the table as if ready to leave at any moment. The supervisors filled the remaining chairs in a loose hierarchy that had more to do with tenure than formal rank.

The agenda projected onto the far wall read, in Quonqax’s tidy hand:
ROUTE INITIATIVE — STATUS REVIEW.

Beneath it was a graphic, depicting a topology of connections; lines threaded between nodes, some solid and some dotted, some scored through in red where a route had gone bad.

“—which brings our current operational capacity to approximately eighty-three percent of pre-incident levels,” Jana Cotyledon was saying, her voice measured and precise. She tapped a stylus against the edge of her tablet, pulling up a projection of Level 11’s supply routes. “Base Beta is fully functional. Camp Amber is running at ninety-one percent. Our outposts in Levels 4, 5, and 6 remain stable, though The Snackrooms continues to report intermittent supply shortages.”

“Intermittent meaning what, exactly?” Gavin Mason leaned forward, thick arms folding across his chest. The former military man had little patience for bureaucratic softening.

“Meaning weekly, Supervisor Mason. Sometimes twice weekly.” Jana’s tone remained level, though her stylus tapped faster. “The B.N.T.G. controls the primary distribution nodes in 6.1. Their pricing has become… aggressive.”

“They’re squeezing us.” Mason’s jaw worked beneath his beard. “Told you this would happen when we let them splinter off. Capitalists smell blood in the water, they circle.”

“We didn’t let them do anything,” Justin replied. “The B.N.T.G. made their choice. We’re not in the business of forcing groups to stay under our umbrella.”

“Maybe we should be.”

“Mason.” Kat Rivers didn’t look up from the papers spread before her, but the single word carried enough weight to press Mason back into his seat. Her pen scratched across a form—requisition orders, supply manifests, the ceaseless bureaucracy that kept the M.E.G. functioning. She hadn’t spoken much during the meeting. She rarely did these days.

Gavin sighed with exasperation. “The Ariane Circle refuses to commit Team Thanatos for joint escorts. They cite ‘internal restructuring,’ but we all know they’re hoarding resources. We are bleeding personnel trying to maintain standard supply drops.”

“They’re an autonomous collective, Gavin,” Justin replied. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to inject a note of diplomacy into the stale air of the windowless room. “We can’t force their hand. They share our broad goals. Team Hippocrates still accepts our wounded.”

“Their ‘broad goals’ don’t get the Rosewood shipments out of the Crimson Forest,” Jana Cotyledon interrupted. She slid a thick, heavily stamped requisition folder across the table. “We need those medicinal yields. The seed cultivation project is stalling. But after what happened to Compass Point in the fields… no one wants to brave the Gloom. The path from Bleakshore is practically a graveyard.”

Tomas Verne adjusted his glasses, flipping through a separate stack of incident reports. “And the external factions aren’t our only roadblock. The U.E.C. is expanding their perimeter out of Thebes. Their patrols are trigger-happy. They’re aggravating the local entity populations, which is blowing back on our scouts.”

Gavin nodded. “We’ve lost three supply caravans in the last six weeks. Two to Glowfolk activity on the route between Level 11 and Level 4, one to a Hound pack that found a way through the barricades at Camp Amber.”
“The Glowfolk incident was not unprovoked,” Jana replied. “Those caravans were carrying refined firesalt. Knowing what that does to a Glowfolk’s nervous system, it’s likely the escort didn’t secure the manifest properly.”
Mason’s jaw tightened. “So now it’s the victims’ fault?”
“It’s an objective factor,” Jana replied, refusing to take the bait. “If we’re going to develop safer routes, we need to understand the full picture behind each incident. Not just who died and where.”

Leyland Locke, seated near the far end, gave a small sound of agreement. “The Glowfolk are territorial about their hunting grounds, but not inherently hostile. If we map their active zones and adjust our corridors accordingly, we could reduce incidents by a significant margin. The same applies to Faceling settlements—there’s a growing community in the southeastern sector of Level 11 that’s expressed interest in formal trade agreements. They have access to stockpiles of Royal Rations and Almond Water, which they’re willing to share if we can guarantee non-aggression.”

Gavin crossed his arms. “How are we supposed to guarantee that when they cannot do the same? There have been several recent reports of heightened Faceling aggression.”

Quonqax raised her hands, long fingers moving in rapid, fluid signs. Tomas watched the Faceling supervisor carefully, translating out of habit, though most at the table understood the gestures. ”The Facelings are only mimicking the aggression shown to them,” Quonqax signed, her blank features somehow conveying a stern reprimand. ”Education initiatives are succeeding in controlled environments, but wild variants will defend their child-stages lethally. The U.E.C. shoots first, and the Facelings learn.”

“It goes beyond the Facelings,” Leyland muttered. “The Highborn and Penumbra nations have officially registered complaints regarding U.E.C. incursions into their territories. We’re caught in the middle of a brewing turf war. The Eyes of Argos won’t intervene unless a direct ‘sin’ is committed—and they’re too busy purging Wraiths from the Saline Dunes to care about our trade disputes.”

The Effluvium shifted in his seat. Pale, luminescent wisps darted around his shoulders, whispering in hushed, overlapping tones that made the back of several necks prickle. “Most Chimerae remain isolated in the Hive,” He rasped, his voice layered and echoing, stirring papers on the table. “The Highborn have also sent overtures…through channels I cannot fully disclose, but the message was clear: they are watching our efforts to stabilize trade, and they have expressed interest in cooperation — specifically regarding the Crimson Forest routes.”

Kat Rivers, who had been staring a hole through the map since the meeting began, finally spoke. Her voice was flat, stripped of patience and carrying the heavy weight of chronic exhaustion. “This entire debate is primitive.”
The table quieted.
“We are treating this place like a linear map,” she continued, tapping a single fingernail against the paper. “We are walking through meat-grinders like Level 9.1 to move a crate of pickled eggs, or dodging Glowfolk to swap intel. We’re needlessly losing veteran operatives left and right. It’s a waste.”

Andrew nodded slowly, his hands steepled in front of his face. “Correct, Overseer B. The physical geography is too hostile, and the political landscape is too fractured to negotiate safe passage on foot.”

Justin set his pen down. “We need to reduce caravan losses and establish reliable communication. We need to bypass traditional, established routes through The Backrooms entirely. And there is only one way for us to do that…” He paused for dramatic effect, to which Kat rolled her eyes and Andrew quietly sighed with exasperation. “…The Hub.” He tapped the center of the map, where a cluster of routes converged on a single point. “If we can establish reliable access, the Hub becomes our central transit hub—no more Level 2 corridors, no more Crimson Field crossings. Direct, controlled passage between stable levels.”

“And for that, we need Level Keys.” Kat finally looked up, her dark eyes sweeping the table. “…Which means we need him.”

No one needed to ask who ‘him’ was. Every person at the table understood that The Hub was governed by a force far older and far beyond any mere human group. The Hub and its keys only answered to him alone. Were they truly willing to open that can of worms?

“The Ariane Circle has offered to broker an agreement,” Andrew said carefully. “Their diplomatic corps has experience with—”
“The Ariane Circle…hell, any group for that matter…has no jurisdiction over the Hub.” Kat interrupted. “They don’t control its doors, nor its keys. They control *nothing* that matters in this conversation.”

“Faceling channels might offer an alternative approach.” Quonqax signed. “The Alchemist has demonstrated willingness to negotiate on behalf of Entity communities. If we approach the Keymaster through—”

“The Alchemist speaks for Comprehension, not for the Hub.” The Effluvium’s wisps coiled tighter around his form. “The Keymaster answers to no one’s jurisdiction but his own. This council would do well to remember that.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Somalia leaned forward. “We’ve been circling this for an hour. If we can’t go through the Ariane Circle, and we can’t go through the Facelings, then how do we—”

“Perhaps ask me directly.”

The room fell silent.

Everyone looked towards the shadows in the darkest corner of the room, which detached itself from the wall as The Keymaster stepped forth through a no-clip rift. He had, apparently, been listening in on this entire meeting for the last two hours.

“Your presence honors us,” Justin said, and to his credit, his voice barely wavered.

“Does it?” The Keymaster deadpanned. “Your council has spent considerable time discussing me as though I were a resource to be extracted and exchanged. I find that… reductive.”

Mason’s face reddened. “Now listen here—”

“Gavin.” Kat’s hand landed on Mason’s arm, her grip firm enough to silence him. She rose from her seat, her chair pushing back with a deliberate scrape. “We apologize for any offense. The M.E.G. recognizes your sovereignty over the Hub and the Level Keys. We’re merely asking for your assistance…humbly.”

“We’ve been working to establish better relations with Entity communities across the Backrooms,” Andrew said, standing to join Justin and Kat. “The Facelings, the Penumbras, the Highborn—we’ve made progress. But the Hub remains essential to our transit goals. Without your cooperation, any route network we build is a house of cards.”

“You want my roads.” The Keymaster’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You want to walk through my halls and open my doors and carry your cargo and your people through the spaces between spaces. And in return, you offer… what, exactly?”

“We can offer trade,” Jana offered. “The Hub requires maintenance. Resources. Labor. The M.E.G. has access to materials and personnel that could—”

“I have maintained the Crossroads since before your kind crawled from the sea.” The Keymaster’s voice dropped, the arrogance of Clavis bleeding through his words. He nearly forgot himself, inhaling to regain composure. “…I do not require labor.”

The Effluvium’s wisps whispered among themselves in a susurration of concern. “What do you require, then? The M.E.G. wishes to negotiate in good faith.”

The Keymaster was silent for a long moment. His gaze drifted across the table, across the maps and the reports and the worried faces of the Oversight Council. His head tilted with consideration. “Your kind has changed,” he said finally. “Once, you built temples. You offered prayers and sacrifices and bent your knees before that which you did not understand. Now you attempt to understand by force, through conquest and dissection. A futile effort, truth be told…”

“We’re trying to survive,” Kat said. “That’s all any of us are trying to do.”

The Keymaster studied everyone for a long moment. “…You should consider yourselves lucky that I’ve recently chosen to have a change of heart. I do believe there may be merit to helping you humans…if only to get you out of my hair. You wish to use my roads…very well. I will consider it. But know this—the Hub is not your highway; it is mine. Every door you open, and every key you open them with, is under my will alone. Do you understand?”

“We understand,” Justin said. “And we’re grateful for your consideration.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “In the spirit of good faith, we have something for you. A gesture of our… appreciation.”

He gestured to Verne, who produced a small wooden box from beneath the table. The wood was old, dark with age, its surface carved with symbols that predated any language the M.E.G. had catalogued. Justin took the box and opened it, revealing the contents.

A small carved figurine, roughly hewn from bone-white stone (soot-darkened by offerings), depicting a figure with long hair, a flowing coat with a keyring on one hip and a sheathed sword on the other, and a crown of keys encircling the head. A dried stain of what might have been wine—or blood—marked the base. The craftsmanship was amateur, the proportions all wrong. But someone had made this. Someone had once worshipped this. The statue, of course, depicted himself: Clavis, known then by the title “Gatekeeper”. Carved by hands that had belonged to The Lost, thousands of years before the M.E.G. had existed.

“We recovered it from the ruins near Hoofstad,” Justin said. “Our archaeologists believe it dates to the height of the Lost Era. It’s… we thought you might want it.”

The Keymaster reached out, his long fingers closing around the statue with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a being of his power. He lifted it from the box, turning it slowly, examining every carved line and chiseled feature. His expression remained unreadable. “How… quaint…” he finally muttered.