The Flooded Basements

  “You’re up next,” said a voice from behind. “This is going to get you to the Golden Tapir Awards.”

  Roa found himself sitting on a tiny, swiveling chair—a look of utter confusion on his face. People hurried past him, moving quickly around him—colorful clowns practicing their laughter, a doctor talking with a nurse, and a woman in a dramatic pose, repeating something while she corrected herself. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn; a cacophony of footsteps and chatter echoing through the space.

  "Ready up, the next scene starts in three, two, one..." announced a petite woman with large red glasses, her voice high-pitched and demanding as she stood from atop a tall ladder.

  The giant curtains rose as the lights blinded the two Jumpers. Their squinting eyes darted around at the rows of spectators munching on snacks, pointing and smiling in their direction. The others began to flutter about, dancing and singing while the confused explorers remained stuck to their chairs, unsure of what to do.

  The music stopped, and the spotlight landed on them.

  "Doctor, doctor—tell me the truth! What is it?" a young woman on a hospital bed asked, her voice melodramatic, hand delicately resting on her forehead, her eyes pleading upward.

  The boy’s pulse quickened. He looked at his friend seated beside him in his white lab coat, who shrugged with a raised brow. He gestured him to speak.

  "Let’s see," the boy looked down at the clipboard in his hands. A blank piece of paper reflected the light from above. "It’s a boy! Congratulations, you’re pregnant," he said, smiling and sweating profusely.

  The audience gasped, the director's mouth dropped, and the actress laid there struck, confusion and anger in her eyes.

  "Cancer—it's cancer!" whispered the director behind the scenes, shoving her face in her hands. “The play is called ‘Surprise: It’s Cancer,” she said pulling her hair.

  "Oh, I mean—you’re not pregnant, obviously," he cleared his throat "but—you’ll make it?" said Roa, not a hint of confidence in his tone.

  The audience stared back, bewildered, until someone shouted: "hey, that's not how this play goes. What the hell is this? I paid good money for this seat."

  To make matters worse, in the fray of escaping from the musical spirit of the previous world, the traveler had forgotten to hold his breath as Looria had instructed. The vomit shot from his mouth, the projectile splattering well over the stage with a sickening squelch, landing next to the feet of those with front row tickets. A collective inhale filled the room. The silence stretched for a moment, until a piece of fruit splattered on Rosso's face, followed by a barrage of other soft and squishy stuff. The sound of squelching and clattering echoed through the hall as both Jumpers leapt from their chairs, dodging the flying debris. Boos erupted from the crowd. With no time to lose, they scrambled past rows of surprised patrons, bolting through the main doorway of the theatre.

  As they stumbled out, the harsh stage lights faded, replaced by a symphony of noises and smells. The scent of street food—sizzling meats, roasted nuts, and sweet pastries—mingled with the earthy aroma of wet soil and fresh plants. The sound of chatter, laughter, and distant music buzzed around them, creating a constant hum. Before them lay a grand hall, its marble walls reflecting the light from its many gorgeous chandeliers. Statues lined the walls, their marble faces solemn, as the gilded trim shimmered with opulence. It felt like a place fit for royalty, yet something gave the whole scene a strange, surreal atmosphere: it was completely flooded.

  "The Palace!" said Roa, scanning the place with his mouth open.

  “Look at all this water! I’ve never seen so much before,” said his friend filling up his animal skin out of habit.

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  The ornate marble floors were covered in water up to their ankles. The boy was jolted when a painting on the wall began speaking to him.

  "Don't get so close or you'll ruin my paint!" it said with a high-pitched yet stern tone.

  "Oh—sorry. I didn't mean to," he stumbled backward, his feet splashing clumsily in the water as he struggled to regain his balance.

  "Damn tourists."

  After a moment of hesitation, Roa asked what this place was called, and if the chatty piece of art knew of an establishment by the name of ‘Simmering Waters.’ The painting let out a dramatic sigh.

  "Do I look like a tour guide? This is Cheesecake Village of Blueberry Hall West. I don't know of any Sparkling Waters—so stop bothering me. I am trying to look my best so that a customer with fine taste might buy me, and finally put me in their home. Maybe placed above the mantle of a fireplace, as the centerpiece of the room. Or perhaps..." it continued to ramble on, its words becoming a blur as the two travelers walked away in silence.

  Their mouths went dry as they waded through the majestic, flooded hall, the scene growing stranger as they made their way deeper. The place was packed. Performers on stilts danced through the crowd, their legs stretching impossibly high into the air. Four women with glass cups on their heads danced in slow motion, while the audience attempted to throw ping-pong balls their way; the participant had serious looks in their eyes, as if involved in some kind of very important competition. A rock band of penguins strummed on instruments; the rhythm offbeat but somehow fueling the rage of a mosh pit in the crowd.

  "What's going on?" Roa asked some passerby.

  "We're celebrating tonight," the woman replied with a smile, her voice high and cheerful as she skipped past.

  The scene grew stranger with each wet step. A polar bear wearing an apron stood behind a stall, steaming buns. A young lady with a flag marched a gaggle of geese like a tour guide. A little girl with a massive rhinoceros on a pink leash passed by, as the travelers stared incredulously. Roa rubbed his eyes, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him.

  "Hey, did you see that talking—" the boy turned around, scanning the crowd.

  His friend was gone.

  “Rosso?” he said, a wave of panic flooding through him, his breath quickening as he searched in a panic.

  "Hey, where are you going? Want a bun?" said his friend, appearing out of nowhere with some food, as the boy let out a sigh of relief.

  They noticed that the market stalls were elevated off the ground, standing precariously on rickety stilts and platforms, as though they had been lifted and shifted several times in the past.

  "What's with all of the water?" they asked a shopkeeper.

  Her forehead wrinkled, and the heavy bags beneath her eyes creased as she closed them.

  "Every year it gets worse. Last year, I lost half of my goods because our storage flooded. Had to throw much of it away—what a waste," she took a deep, defeated sigh.

  Their heads turned. People began to scream as the crowd parted, revealing a wave that was rolling towards them. It carried chairs, trees, and all sorts of goods it had picked up along the way. The explorers grabbed hold of the wooden stilts, their bodies jerking with the force of the current.

  “What’s causing it?”

  “I guess, it just—is what it is,” she shrugged, her weary eyes barely lifting to meet their gaze.

  A man on a compact but tall street sweeper made its way through the crowd, as the bristles made lazy swishes in the liquid, without cleaning a thing.

  "Excuse me sir—you look like staff. Could you tell us if this is the Palace?"

  The man, a grizzled figure in a faded uniform, didn’t answer as he glanced down. He let out a long, tired exhale, then turned back to his task, leaving the two travelers in the wake of his indifference, and the tiny waves his machine left behind. Despite their confusion, the blueprints seemed to be correct, recognizing various landmarks along the way.

  “The statue of the hippopotamus eating a watermelon,” Rosso’s finger pointing past the crowd, “and there’s the large painting of a duck wearing a monocle—there should be a carousel soon, somewhere,” he explained, lifting his head over the large map.

  They kept moving, the scene unfolding like a fever dream. The water continued to deepen, ankle-deep, then knee-deep, the sound of waves lapping against the ornate walls as the halls went on forever.

  "Don't look up,” Roa warned suddenly in a serious tone, his gaze frozen forward, as if avoiding something. “Above, where the wall meets the ceiling, there is a man—tall, cloaked in black, its white mask staring down at us.

  "Who is it?"

  "I'm not sure. I think it’s a Shadow. He looks like the ones who used to appear in my dreams, back in my old life—like the one who tried to keep me from leaving that day."

  The boy tried to keep his gaze away, but his curiosity got the better of him. His stomach twisted when the eyes behind the mask met his. He looked away, his head jerking back with a swift motion. However, the dark figure had already noticed him. By the time Roa looked up again, the figure was gone.

  "We need to go," he said with a hurried tone, pulling his friend’s arm.

  They picked up their pace, the crowd around them thickening. His breath quickened as he turned his head, scanning the sea of faces for the masked figure.

  X1.3.3 - Follow the Blueprints