There were no doors in the hallways, job sites, and quarters back near our clux or in any part of the Outskirts I’d been to. No signs of former doors, either. The medblocks and food rooms had automatic doors, but they slid into the walls or the ceiling. The door at the entrance to this hall, however, had a manual lock, judging by the faint marks on the wall nearby. Whoever lived here long ago could open and close it, lock and unlock it freely.
Was that a minor detail?
No. It was crucial — I just had no way to use this information yet. The only thing I knew for sure was that it was a long, long time ago, and was there for a long time until someone changed everything, depriving the goblins of their right to open and close doors.
Something moved far ahead of us. It was a blurred movement, fast and quiet, right at a corner about a hundred yards from us. I halted and held out a hand behind me. Yorka, bumped into it and looked at me in surprise. She quickly figured out what was going on and had the sense not to talk, just mouthing, “What?”
I raised my hand, put a finger to my lips, and motioned for to her to copy me. I took off my sandals and tucked them into my belt bag, then moved closer to the wall and walked forward, treading softly on the cold and warm tiles of the steel floor, wincing each time my feet touched the metal grates. Each time I felt a pang of superstitious fear, imagining slender claws or fangs piercing my bare feet from below the grating, and the satisfied, guttural growl of a monster slurping and feasting on my blood. It was silly — and it wasn’t like the thin rubber of my sandals would’ve made a difference. But the way the grates seemed to breathe still unnerved me. I walked hesitantly, legs shaking, ready to spring away from the imaginary danger.
Was it really imaginary, though? I had already learned that the Outskirts were fraught with real dangers. I wasn’t about to dismiss my own groundless fears, but I also wasn’t going to let them distract me. I kept moving forward, leading Yorka along, eyes ahead but still watching my back every now and then.
When I reached the turn where I had seen movement, I paused for a moment, listening. Disappointment hit me — there were too many background noises, what with all the machines clanking, air streams hissing, and liquids gurgling… It was almost impossible to pick up the subtle sound of footsteps or breathing.
I peered around the corner. There was no one there.
The brightly lit hallway widened a little, stretching ahead of us. There were more grates on the floor, and on the walls, too. I noticed a few on the ceiling, and thought of Yorka’s bone-chilling stories about the unlucky bastards who got showered in acid, boiling water, or other harmful liquids. Those ceiling grates looked like something really bad could come pouring onto our heads from them. It didn’t even have to be liquid — a whistling jet of high-pressure steam from a leaky pipe would be enough to instantly turn us into boiled corpses.
I thought of the rubberized coats and jackets I’d seen the halflings wearing. They had hoods. If you got hit by a steam jet from above with one of those on, you’d still have a chance to jump back before you got burned. Life in the Outskirts wasn’t a video game, but your gear was still a major part of surviving here. I considered going back on my decision and staying for a while, if just to get Yorka and myself properly outfitted in the shortest amount of time.
As we made our cautious way around the next corner, I stopped abruptly. Yorka looked over my shoulder after almost bumping into me. I froze, staring with increasing surprise at the man walking determinedly down the hallway. Was he an orc or a goblin? He looked like something in between. He wore shorts, sneakers, a baseball cap, and a t-shirt that was too big for his skinny body — he was whip-thin and looked no older than twenty. But he moved freely, softly, silently and very… unusually.
He kept to the left wall and took five confident steps along it, brushing it with his fingers the whole time. Then he froze for a brief moment before taking ten more steps, moving rapidly away from us. He stopped again, tilting his head in an odd fashion, like he was listening for something. He kept moving, but when he got to one of the grates, he squatted and held his hand over the upcoming stream, leaning forward and… sniffing the air? Once he confirmed whatever he was trying to figure out, he got up, stood still for a minute, then continued on, reaching the turnoff to a narrow path in seven steps. His hand found the corner and he turned down the path after a brief glance back in our direction. I thought he would notice us and raise his head, revealing the face hidden by the brim of his hat. It would have been impossible for him not to notice us — we were only thirty steps away.
