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Page by PrismaticMoose for Duelcon2025
Original A.E.A. reboot concept by DrAkimoto
Critique helpfully given by
Yesserning,
InspectingCritters,
Solomon Sam, and
LiminalDoctor
extra code help from
Abdallah Amr
Moved out of submissions by
ReyDay
04/06/24
Mister March woke up in his own bed, in his own apartment.
This was good from a comparative perspective, considering more than once he had woken up in a different bed, building, or even a whole different level.
As such, Mr. March was always thankful for the good luck of awakening in the same place he had gone to sleep.
What wasn't so lucky was that Rain did not have his long arms curled up around him.
Rain often got up early to go and get supplies from various safe areas in and around Level 11, and avoided disturbing Mr. March's beauty sleep.
He didn't particularly mind this kind of proactive behaviour, although it was hard to deny that he felt a pang of loss for the first few moments, noticing he was gone.
He wondered how early it actually was.
Mr. March painfully rolled himself to a position to see the digital clock on the bedside table.
":26," it said. That didn't seem right.
His eyes adjusted to the dark and he realized that there was an object of some sort obscuring one of the numbers.
He picked up the mug of lukewarm Earl Grey tea, and tested the temperature of the liquid.
Mr. March teared up slightly. It was perfect drinking warmth, just as it always was.
He sipped the warm tea and checked the time again.
"10:27," said the digital display. That seemed more realistic.
While his job didn't require early rising, he had to get up at some point, so Mr. March swung his legs off the fabric of the bed.
Mr. March was a Month. It was an unusual position that combined Secret Agent, Hitman, Thief, and a pinch of just about every secretive career into one highly-paid package.
The Months all worked for the Akmē Espionage Agency, usually abbreviated to the A.E.A., a clandestine organization that did all kinds of dangerous jobs for whoever can foot the exorbitant sums they charged.
Mr. March strolled across the bedroom, occasionally sipping his tea as he made his meandering way into the lounge. He called it a lounge despite the fact that it had a kitchenette and was more of a general purpose room, considering it was the only room except for the bedroom and the bathroom; but it apparently felt better for Rain compared with "front room" or "sitting room," so Mr. March stuck with it for him.
He proceeded further into the aforementioned bathroom and examined his own reflection in the mirror.
It looked about normal. A deathly pale face, appearing late-20s, angular and bony, slightly feminine yet still mainly masculine.
No major skin blemishes. That was good.
Light grey hair, bound into a curling ponytail — it didn't seem too ruined by a night of sleep.
He pulled the spiral of hair back and looked at his neck. There was a complex tattoo there, a bleeding hand being stabbed clean through by a short dagger — the symbol of the Agency.
12 drops of blood on the tattoo corresponded with the 12 months. He had to make sure it was completely clear, as it was sometimes used for identification within the group.
Everything seemed mostly in order. There was not much to do except a quick shave and get dressed.
A few minutes later he walked back through into the bedroom, leaving the empty mug in the kitchenette.
Mr. March's work uniform wasn't particularly uniform to the rest of the organization — meaning it wasn't really a uniform, except in his own head. While most of the other months wore lawyery suits, he preferred a zesty diamond patterned black waistcoat on top of a grey dress shirt above standard black formal trousers.
He carefully fastened his black and white tartan necktie with a dagger tiepin and slipped on his black velvet gloves.
It might seem strange to most people for a secret agent to wear such unique apparel, but Mr. March's experience at MI5 — which he still refused to speak about, since secrecy rules still applied in anomalous spaces — had taught him that being too nonchalant in your dress can be almost as noticeable as being too brash.
As such, Mr. March tried to wear things that were individual, but not enough to raise suspicion.
He picked up his briefcase, feeling the ergonomic handle through his soft gloves.
It was a rectangular leather thing, as black and sleek as the rest of the A.E.A.'s equipment, with their symbol in the centre of the lid.
It was issued by The Benefactor, and was perfectly designed for it's job. Strong exterior, handy interior pockets, modular dividers, every part of it was immaculately conceived.
Now suitably dressed and equipped, Mr. March sauntered out of the door.
10: 52 AM
With the eternal sunshine warming his pale skin, Mr. March seemed to brighten.
He strode through the streets in the capital and entered a library after a few minutes of feigned meandering. While he looked to be wandering randomly, that was simply an facade to avoid being followed.
The head librarian gave him a curt nod of understanding as he approached the front desk of the library.
'Did you find it?' he asked, although the words were as false as most of his actions in public. Mr. March was really asking; "did any orders come in for me?"
'I think the book you are looking for is 11/22/63, by Stephen King,' she replied, giving him a hint as to where his orders were, 'It'll be in the alternate history section somewhere.'
'Thank you Jessica,' he said brightly, 'Did anything else come in for me?'
'We eventually managed to find a copy of The Happy Highwayman in the storage,' she replied, sliding the worn volume across the desk, 'Be careful with it. It's the '63 edition.'
'I'll try.'
'Renting for a week, as always?' asked Jessica.
'You know me,' he said, opening his briefcase and pulling out a handful of B.N.T.G. presses.
He slid a few of the little blue coins under the plastic divider along with a few books to return, also brought from the deceptively large attaché case.
The librarian signed the old book out and Mr. March examined it for a moment before slipping it away into the case.
The book was not faded — unlike most that you found in libraries from it's time — as it had been kept in the dark for so long. On one corner of the cover was the price "2'6", meaning two shillings and sixpence. That showed how old it was — where could you buy a book for thirty pence these days?
On the cover was a stylized representation of the main character — looking like his calling card, a stick figure with a halo — Simon Templar, AKA The Saint. He went around humbling thieves and conmen along with taking their money and giving it to charity, while still maintaining a respectable social life outside his vigilante one.
It reminded Mr. March a lot of his own life, except that he was on the side of organized crime.
'Oh, and also, how is your wife?' he asked, gently closing the clasps on his satchel.
'Yuki is fine, thanks for asking,' replied Jessica, 'Came down with a mild flu last week but it's getting better now.'
'Well, good luck with that,' said Mr. March, before sauntering away among the shelves.
He proceeded through the halls of bookshelves and soon found the right section near the back of the huge room. He dragged around a tall ladder and climbed up to the top shelf.
Mr. March picked out the book and took an envelope out of the inside of the cover. He slid back down to ground level before opening it.
He scanned the thin file inside for only a moment before opening his briefcase and tucking it into one of the interior pockets.
He stared at the blurb of the book it had been in, too.
It seemed reasonably interesting to him. Stephen King wasn't usually his thing, but this alternate history business seemed like it could make for a good read.
He decided to check it out at the front desk as he proceeded towards the exit.
After a quick check-out of the book, he promptly walked out of the building and into the crowds outside — maintaining his jovial indifference the whole time — and prepared for the mission ahead.
Mission Briefing
| Operative | Date | Client | Location | Type | Payment |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 03 - March | 04/06/25 | Internal | Level 11 | Damage Control | To Be Determined |
Dear 03;
We have always made a point of serving any groups that can pay our fees.
This means that often we serve groups with competing interests.
Therefore, some groups would want to know exactly who our clients are.
The Major Explorer Group has recently breached our online security, and while the loophole they used was quickly fixed, they managed to escape with some very incriminating internal data.
All attempts to delete this information remotely has been fruitless, they appear to have it in a heavily secured server.
If the Agency is compromised by this data being shared further, all the Months will be at risk including you.
Please break into Base Beta and expunge all instances of internal A.E.A. documents from their intranet.
Endeavor to remain undetected in doing so, the intention is for them to forget the data ever existed. Being caught would draw attention to it.
Godspeed;
— 09.
PS: there is also some mandatory paperwork to fill out. If you could return them at the pick-up, that would be appreciated.
1:30 PM
Mr. March walked into Base Beta via the staff entrance.
This might not seem like a very good way of breaking in, but at 13:30 shifts changed from the late morning to the early afternoon groups.
The former generally liked to get to their lunch as soon as possible, and the latter was consistently late to their post.
This meant there was a few minutes where the side reception was completely empty.
Mr. March strode in quickly and checked the opening in the wall to the office beyond.
There was nobody beyond, but a large sheet of transparent plastic stopped anyone from climbing through.
There was a circular hole in it for passing through IDs, which offered a good weakness for him to exploit.
He opened his briefcase, and with an expression of complete seriousness, pulled out a dino grabber.
An unusual toy contrivance that combined a cheap plastic grabbing tool with a similarly cheap plastic dinosaur head. Both sections seemed to be in a close competition in how low-quality their material was.
Mr. March gradually eased the brittle T-Rex head through the pass hole and painstakingly pivoted it sideways, ensuring at all times that it did not touch the edges of the hole.
He gently pulled the trigger of the grabber and the Dino's jaws clacked around the big keyring on it's hook. The plastic teeth bounced off the ring, making it wobble.
A bead of sweat ran down Mr. March's forehead as he moved the head closer again and pulled the trigger.
This time, the teeth bit, and he twisted the grabber to hold the ring more effectively.
He dragged the tool slowly back, and grabbed the keys as soon as they were close enough to the hole.
Mr. March wiped the perspiration from his brow and unlocked one of the doors into the rest of the building.
He locked the dinosaur grabber back in his briefcase along with the rest of his accoutrements, before proceeding forwards into the corridors beyond.
1:37 PM
Preston Holloway was bored.
Guarding the server room was probably the worst jobs in Base Beta.
Unlike every other guard patrol, it wasn't really a patrol and more of a sit-in. The job was simply to sit on an uncomfortable plastic chair for hours at a time, and check people's IDs once or twice for entry.
You were not allowed to get up from the chair unless something of importance cropped up, and muscle atrophy apparently did not count under that.
Holloway was slowly shifting his thighs around to maintain motion, and staring at the wall aimlessly, when a sudden metallic sound caught his attention.
A large silvery coin had dropped into the middle of the corridor from seemingly nowhere.
This seemed like reasonable suspicion to leave his post.
Holloway stood up, legs in agony from the sudden movement.
He staggered forwards, feeling a mix of relief and pain, and stopped sharply in front of the disc.
He edged around it, staring at the metal circle lying on the ground.
Holloway reached down slowly and picked up the coin.
It wasn't silver as he had first assumed, but steel. It had a strange logo Holloway didn't recognize of a hand being stabbed through by a dagger. On the other side, it had a few lines of words.
He tried to focus his strained eyes on the tiny letters. It eventually read "Extra-loud Distraction Coin."
He was so engrossed with this that he didn't notice a man creeping up behind him until a rubber fish hit him on the ear with the force of a speeding swordfish.
When Holloway woke up back in his chair a few hours later, he put the strange experience down to a dream. Fortunately, nobody had noticed him sleeping, so he relaxed into waiting again.
The pain in the side of his head was also easily explained away as dehydration.
1:41 PM
Mr. March creeped through the server room.
It was unlikely anyone was around, but he was still taking every precaution.
Every time he reached a corner, he would crouch as close to the edge as possible, and roll softly across to reduce detection.
No alarms had been tripped yet, so he thought he was doing pretty well.
After a few minutes of searching, he located an object of interest.
One of the servers was almost completely unlit. A quick inspection showed that while there were still processes running, it was not plugged into any of the surrounding servers.
That explained the impossibility of destroying the files remotely. This was a sort of dead server, not connected to any sort of internet or intranet.
It was a surprisingly good system. You could still get data in and out by using thumb drives or plugging in laptops and it was practically impervious to remote manipulation.
Its only weakness was that you could only access it locally, although that could be called a strength too.
Mr. March placed his case down on the ground and lifted a laptop from inside.
A regular sized laptop would not have fitted in his case — not with all the random junk also crammed in — but fortunately this device had no such weaknesses.
It was a miniaturized laptop that only barely resembled the inefficient noisy things available back in the real world. It was tiny, only about the size of an average book, and filled to the brim with top-of-the-line technology.
It was completely silent, and ran on a custom distro designed specifically for file manipulation and hacking.
He placed the robust rectangle on the floor and flipped it open.
It would probably be impossible to get through the robust security on the server simply by plugging the laptop in. There was a quite simple but hard to break through system checked the type of computer at the other end of the signal. If it wasn't on the M.E.G.'s list of allowed computers, it had the connection barred.
Mr. March picked out another electronic contrivance from the still-open case.
It was some kind of speaking toy thingy — he couldn't recall the brand name — that resembled an owl and spoke mostly gibberish.
It tried to say something, but Mr. March quickly brought out a screwdriver from a pocket and removed the batteries.
He proceeded to open up the fur-coated plastic casing and tear out most of its electronic viscera.
It was mostly wiring for the speakers and buttons, but there was one piece he could use.
He took out a miniature soldering iron and a handful of random pieces from the briefcase.
He proceeded to remove the main microchip and solder it to a couple of USB connectors with some wire offcuts.
The electronic conglomerate was duly plugged into both the server and the laptop.
This may seem like an odd thing to do — considering all this contraption did was transfer a signal through the microchip — but there was a genuine reason to do it.
The M.E.G.'s system for keeping unapproved devices out of their dead server wasn't very well designed. It was running on a blacklist, not a whitelist, and so if you plugged in a system it didn't recognize, it couldn't do a thing to stop you.
That was what the wiring mishmash was for — it made the computer think the signal was coming from the toy, which was a type of processor it could not see properly.
The laptop screen winked into life. Mr. March sat down on the floor and began to type.
There were many layers of less arduous protection that he had to go through manually.
Lines of code and complex exploits wheeled across his mind to be swiftly followed by a flurry of typing, translating thought into memory.
While it wasn't hard to bypass the various layers, it required perfect concentration to remember all the right steps.
His focus barely wavered, his mind being wholly taken up by the holy code.
It was a perfect moment, not having to think about yourself, just about the purely logical sequences in front of you.
Something new appeared.
The whirring and dancing of text stopped with an almost audible jolt.
Mr. March stared at the login screen that had jarred him out of nerdvana.
"Please enter the daily code. Available at the IT desk for authorized personnel."
He smiled in the gloom. The day was not going to be as humdrum as he thought.
They seemed to have upgraded security since he had last broken in here.
That was good, if you took the view that he would actually have to solve a problem to get in.
Mr. March flipped out his phone and looked through the leaked M.E.G. emails he had marked as being important for later study.
He quickly found what he was looking for. An internal email between a couple of technicians about how annoying it was to keep telling people the daily codes.
It seemed that after an hour of back-and-forth it was agreed that the codes would be set to the date, so that the few people who regularly accessed the dead server could get in without asking.
It was a completely stupid system, and about as secure as a padlock made of jelly, but it did mean Mr. March could get in.
He knelt back down and entered the date into the box.
040624
The message had specifically stated Day/Month/Year and no spaces or characters between the numbers, so that was what he entered.
The login page vanished, and he finally had access to the server proper.
He probably didn't have much time, so he quickly accessed the folder for investigations. Then the one for groups.
The folder for the A.E.A. was there, which he quickly deleted completely, without it passing through any of the archives.
An alarm was tripped somewhere. Maybe there was a one-way connection out of the server that checked with the technicians whether the person currently in the servers was allowed to be there. That was the most likely explanation.
It didn't really matter. What did matter, was that Mr. March had completed his objective, and now should leave as soon as possible.
He was starting to enjoy this.
2:03 PM
Mr. March continued through Base Beta.
While the building was roused, it was unlikely he would be caught.
The guards were looking in all the wrong places, and he was good at evading them.
A more pressing concern was that the security cameras had recorded him entering the building.
There was an easy way of dealing with that, of course.
He made his careful way to the security office.
There were no guards in the office, surprisingly.
It was protocol to leave at least one around. They must be short staffed.
It was the work of a moment to delete the security footage for the past forty minutes.
As an afterthought he set it to not record the next five minutes.
Now to leave the building.
There were bars across the window, but they were designed to keep people out, so they could be unlocked with a bar on the inside.
He opened the window and leant out.
There was a thick bundle of cabling that angled down to the building opposite, connecting on the ground floor. That seemed like a good escape route.
He picked up an umbrella, then stared at it in confusion.
Why was there an umbrella stand in a security room on the second floor?
Mr. March ignored the question for now.
There would be time for philosophy as it applied to umbrellas later.
He reached out of the window and hooked onto the mess of wires.
He slid out of the window — holding the umbrella in one hand and his briefcase in the other — carried down by gravity and forward by the cabling.
The bundle sagged as he moved along it, the weight distributing.
It was at times like this that Mr. March thought of Rain.
Flying precariously, only barely stopped from hitting the ground by some bits of plastic, while being actively hunted in a hostile zone, it may not seem like the best time, but to him it was perfect.
He had to think about what he was missing, because it drove him to complete missions faster and better.
By now Rain would have finished shopping.
If Mr. March was with him they would go on a long walk to some of the outer areas of The Capital and through various parks and gardens, just chatting about life.
Then they might go back to their flat and play a video game, maybe a board game. Sometimes they would just sit around together, just enjoying each other's company.
Nothing too taxing, but it was better than any amount of death-defying escapades or clever solutions.
That was one reason why he had taken the contract with the A.E.A. in the first place, since he would be free 3-4 days a week. It gave him lots of time to be with Rain.
He pulled back to the purely physical world.
The wall ahead was approaching. This seemed like a good time to get off.
He let go just above the ground, and hit the concrete with barely a sound.
Dusting himself off, Mr. March vanished back into the crowds.
4:35 PM
Mr. March walked through a park by himself.
Mr. April always met him here.
It wasn't particularly secretive — considering there could be watchers from any direction — but it was apparently traditional for secret agents to meet in parks.
Swindlebirds called in the background, mixing with the gentle treading sounds of of hundreds of Facelings.
He proceeded to a bench by the lake, and sat down to wait.
It was only a few minutes before a tall figure in a suit, carrying a familiar briefcase sat down on the wooden seat beside him.
'How is the M.E.G.'s investigation going?' asked Mr. April.
'They may find it tricky to continue with all their data gone,' replied Mr. March.
'Good. Were you seen?'
'No,' replied Mr. March, 'There was some CCTV footage, but I deleted that before I left.'
'Capital,' said Mr. April, 'You have done well.'
'How much am I getting paid?' asked Mr. March.
'Take a look,' said Mr. April, sliding over his briefcase.
Mr. March opened the clasps on the case and lifted the lid.
The interior was filled with carefully crafted partitions.
In one half there were rows of B.N.T.G. presses in efficient racks.
In the other there were grey and blue bottles of Almond Water in clink-free holders.
It represented a reasonable value but not as high as many missions he had undertaken. This was an internal mission, so it did not pay as much.
'You got the blue almond water?' asked Mr. March.
'As you requested,' replied Mr. April.
'Very good,' he said, passing over a sheaf of papers, 'I completed the paperwork too.'
Mr. April flicked through the thick pile, checking for obvious errors.
Mr. March got up to leave, but Mr. April held up a finger so he sat down again.
'Hold on a moment,' he said, 'There is a mandatory mental health check to do. Orders from the benefactor.'
'Okay,' replied Mr. March, 'I hope it doesn't take too long.'
'It shouldn't do,' said Mr. April, taking out a small note from a pocket, 'It's only a handful of questions.'
'Well, get started then.'
'Question one: "How do you feel about your initial experience with The Backrooms?"'
Mr. March thought for a while, staring at the green and grey scenery ahead.
'I don't think I feel particularly good about it,' he began, 'It was terrible, being dragged away from Her Majesty's Security Service by some damn yellow hallways, although I think I adapted well, all things considered. I thought it would be panicked flight forever, but now I see how foolish that surmise was.'
'Generally bad then,' mumbled Mr. April — more to himself than to his coworker — as he scratched his pen into the thin paper.
'Question Two:' he read, 'How do you feel about your current life?'
'Not really much to say…' said Mr. March.
He trailed off, and gazed at the scenery again.
'I've got a decent flat, a loving partner, and a stable job that actually uses my mind properly. How I live now is better than I've ever been before I came here. I mean I suppose that's notable for Wanderers, but it's the minimum back in the Frontrooms.'
He paused again, trying to think of a way to end his statement.
'I hoped that I would be able to live at least a semi-normal life down here when I realized there was no way out, but I never expected this much happiness.'
'I'll put that down as relatively enjoyable experience then, shall I?' asked Mr. April.
'I think that would be satisfactory,' replied Mr. March, bemused that such a heartful speech was reduced so much to fit on paper.
'Last one: How do you feel about the future of humanity in The Backrooms?'
Yet again there was a long pause.
'This is quite hard to describe, so bear with me here,' Mr. March slowly, 'I've been thinking about how I live, and seeing how others live as well. I think I see the good in it. People can have normal lives with normal jobs living in normal places, more or less. We're not a society of wanderers — vaguely traveling from place to place — anymore. There's now a society spanning many different Levels where anyone can get a job and a safe home among others. There's a niche for everything: Education, Exploration, Acquisition…'
He stopped and looked Mr. April in the eye.
'Even organized crime,' he continued, 'But my point is, it's not hopeless. We've carved out a little haven in The Backrooms where anyone can live, and it makes me think that there may be hope that one day the whole Backrooms will be as safe as 11.'
'Generally hopeful outlook,' mumbled Mr. April.
Mr. March stood up as Mr. April finished scribbling in the various boxes.
'Is that all?' he asked.
'Yes March,' said Mr. April, 'You may go.'
Mr. March hurried away again, proceeding back into the endless city.
5:03 PM
The apartment door clicked quietly as Mr. March unlocked it.
He locked it behind him and placed the briefcase quickly down on the table in the lounge.
The clicking sounds seemed abnormally loud.
He sighed, part of the weight of the day leaving him.
'Hey dear!' said Rain, sauntering out of the bedroom.
Rain's unique smell was the thing that Mr. March always perceived first.
It was an unusual mix of citrus perfume, almond water, and his own earthy boysmell.
Bergamot infused with sweat to create an attractive yet individual scent.
The young man was wearing his cutest clothes: A short-sleeved tie-dye shirt that shifted between colours in a rainbow spiral; pale blue formal trousers, similar to his partner's; and cream loafers.
A rather random set of clothing, but Rain was anything but consistent in their apparel.
Rain continued further, but stopped when he noticed the fatigue in Mr. March's face.
'Hard day?' he asked.
Mr. March ran up and cuddled him, saying nothing.
Rain gently lifted up his chin and they kissed for a moment.
'It's okay Lucius,' said Rain, using Mr. March's given name, 'You're with me now. It's all going to be alright.'
He gently piloted him over to the sofa and they sat down, never letting go of each other.
It was not a comfortable sofa by any means — the foam had mostly disintegrated — but a stone slab was better than any artisanal bed for these two if they were together.
Rain gently stroked Lucius's hair, and felt him slowly stop moving as he drifted off to sleep.
He felt like a nap too.
Rain dropped into unconsciousness too.
Two souls bound together, inexplicably at peace in a dimension of horror.
Fin.
