The click of the closing door was the sound of a choice being locked into place. The cool, familiar dangers of Level 1 were gone, replaced by a suffocating, alien hostility. The immediate sensation was one of being boiled alive. The air in this new place was a physical presence, a thick, wet blanket of heat that clung to his skin and filled his lungs. It was a humid, oppressive warmth that made the dry heat of a desert seem like a pleasant daydream. Sweat bloomed instantly on his forehead and the back of his neck, and his clothes, already damp from the general miasma of the Backrooms, began to feel like a second, sodden skin.
He stood in a small, cramped pocket of space, a tiny island in a sea of metal. Pipes were everywhere. They were the walls, the ceiling, and in some places, the floor. They ranged in size from thin, finger-width conduits to massive, cylindrical behemoths that he couldn't have wrapped his arms around. They were a chaotic, three-dimensional web, all coated in a layer of weeping condensation and a deep, reddish-brown crust of rust that flaked off like diseased skin. The smell was overpowering: the sharp, metallic tang of rust, the thick, mineral scent of hard water, and the oppressive, damp odor of industrial decay.
The soundscape was a chaotic symphony of plumbing gone mad. The steady, predictable hum of Level 1 was a distant memory. Here, there was the constant, high-pitched hiss of steam escaping from a thousand unseen vents. A low, guttural groan emanated from the larger pipes, the sound of immense pressure and fluid moving through ancient, strained metal. Every few seconds, a loud, percussive clank would echo through the labyrinth, a sound like a giant striking an anvil with a hammer, its source impossible to pinpoint. It was a nervous, unpredictable environment, where every sound was a potential threat, a sign of imminent failure.
The light was a sickly, jaundiced yellow, emanating from caged, grime-caked bulbs bolted directly to the larger pipes. The light was weak, barely penetrating the thick clouds of steam that drifted and eddied through the corridors, creating a shifting, disorienting fog. Visibility was a claustrophobic ten feet in any direction. Beyond that, the pipe-jungle dissolved into a misty, indeterminate gloom.
This was Level 2. He knew it with an instinctual certainty, the name surfacing from the murky depths of his memory of Leo's journal. Pipe Dreams. The name was cruelly ironic. This was no dream; it was a waking nightmare of scalding steam and crushing confinement.
Panic, a familiar but unwelcome visitor, began to prick at the edges of his newfound resolve. The open, albeit dangerous, spaces of Level 1 felt like a sprawling prairie compared to this. Here, the walls were always touching him. The ceiling was always just above his head. He felt like a rat in a cage, a bug in a machine. The urge to turn back, to slam his shoulder against the oak door and pray it would open, was immense.
But he knew it wouldn't. That was not how this place worked. The only way was forward.
He took a moment to acclimate, to force his mind to work through the sensory assault. He leaned against a large, cool pipe—a small mercy, as many of the others radiated a dangerous heat—and took a slow, deliberate sip of the plain water he had collected. The cool liquid was a shocking contrast to the hot air he was breathing.
He had to move. Staying in one place felt like an invitation for the ceiling to collapse or a pipe to burst. He looked at the narrow, cramped corridor of pipes stretching before him. It was the only clear path. The floor was a narrow catwalk of rusted iron mesh that ran alongside a colossal, sweating pipe. Below the catwalk, there was only a dark, bottomless-looking chasm from which the loudest groans seemed to emanate.
He took his first step onto the catwalk, his muffled boot making a soft, metallic thud on the mesh. He tested his weight. It held. Leaning heavily on his pipe-crutch, he began to shuffle forward into the steam and shadows.
The journey was a slow, terrifying ordeal. The catwalk was barely two feet wide, and the pain in his hip made balancing a precarious act. He kept one hand pressed against the cool surface of the giant pipe beside him, using it as a guide rail. The steam swirled around him, sometimes thinning to reveal a longer stretch of the corridor, sometimes thickening to a complete whiteout, forcing him to stop and wait for it to pass. In those moments of blindness, the hissing and clanking of the level seemed to amplify, his imagination populating the fog with unseen horrors.
He soon discovered that the level itself was an active threat. As he passed under a junction of smaller, verdigris-coated pipes, one of them let out a sudden, violent hiss. A jet of scalding, white steam erupted downwards, missing his head by inches. He yelped and threw himself forward, the sudden movement sending a jolt of agony through his body. He landed hard on his good knee, his pipe-crutch clattering on the mesh. The sound was deafening. He froze, listening, his heart hammering, but there was no answering skitter. The only sounds were the groans and hisses of the pipes. The level itself was the only monster here. So far.
He got to his feet, trembling, his shoulder and back damp from the steam blast. A new layer of fear was added to his paranoia. Not only did he have to watch where he was going, but he also had to watch what was above him, beside him, and below him. Every joint, every valve, every rusty seam was a potential steam cannon waiting to boil him alive.
He continued on, his progress even slower now, his eyes scanning every pipe he passed for signs of weakness, for the tell-tale shimmer of a leak. He learned to read the environment. The pipes that radiated intense heat were to be avoided at all costs. The ones coated in a cold condensation were safe to touch, to lean on. He was learning the rules of a new, even more hostile ecosystem.
The tunnels were a disorienting, repeating maze. Every corridor looked identical to the last. A catwalk, a giant pipe, a web of smaller conduits, and a shroud of steam. He would follow a path for what felt like half an hour, only to come to a T-junction that offered two more identical-looking corridors. It was Level 0's psychological warfare with an added layer of physical danger.
After what felt like an eternity, he came to a larger, more open chamber. It was a junction room, where several of the massive pipes converged into a single, terrifyingly large manifold that pulsed with a deep, rhythmic thrum. The heat in this room was intense, and the air was thick with the smell of hot oil. In the center of the room, bolted to the floor, was a small, rusted control station—a panel of dead gauges, frozen dials, and a large, red wheel valve.
And on the floor next to the panel was a sign of life. A discarded battery. A single, corroded D-cell, its copper top dull and green.
Alex hobbled over to it, his hope surging. He picked it up. It was heavy, spent. But it was another artifact. Another sign that he was on the right path. Someone had been here. Someone with a flashlight, or a radio, or some other piece of technology from their world. Was it Leo? Or the ragged wanderer? Or someone else entirely?
The discovery gave him the strength to push on. He chose one of the three corridors leading out of the manifold room and plunged back into the steamy maze. He was tired. His body was a symphony of pain. The constant heat was leeching his energy, and his water supply was dwindling faster than he would have liked.
He found himself thinking about the nature of this place. Level 0 was the lobby, the entry point. Level 1 was the hub, the sprawling factory floor. What was this? The boiler room? The guts of the machine? Was he moving deeper into the system, closer to its core? Or was he just lost in an endless, meaningless utility tunnel?
He passed a section where the catwalk had rusted through, leaving a gaping hole over the dark chasm below. He had to press himself flat against the main pipe, his face scraping against the cold, weeping rust, and inch his way around the gap. One slip, one moment of lost balance, and he would have plunged into the darkness, his fall punctuated only by the groans of the machinery below.
He made it across, his body shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion. He slumped against the pipe on the other side, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged, steamy gasps. This place was designed to kill you through attrition. It would wear you down, exhaust your resources, and then punish a single, tired mistake with a swift and brutal death.
He didn't know how much longer he could last. The hope of finding Leo was the only thing that kept him moving, the only thing that kept him from sitting down on the rusty catwalk and simply giving up. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the Zippo in his pocket, the initials L.R. He had to keep going.
With a groan that was lost in the hissing of the steam, he pushed himself up and took another step forward, deeper into the suffocating, mechanical heart of Pipe Dreams. The only way out was through.