Right then. Alistair Finch's little diary was… well, it was a bit much, wasn't it? Proper harrowing stuff. Made my own jaunt through the early Levels feel like a ruddy package holiday, comparatively speaking. While his unvarnished terror was a potent reminder of why this Library is nectar and ambrosia (and blessedly solid flooring), reading about raw panic and wet socks gets a bit draining on the old psyche. All that heavy philosophy from Proteus and the Observers, piled on top of Finch's misery… I needed a palate cleanser. Something, if not exactly light – this being the Backrooms, where 'light' usually means 'inexplicably bioluminescent and probably wants to eat your face' – then at least attempting a different tone.
The idea of a travel guide, half-jokingly considered before, now seemed just the ticket. A guidebook to a place designed to defy guidance? The sheer absurdity was appealing. Plus, Finch's mention of Level Fun (the dodgy carnival one, likely the Fandom flavour) did make me curious about different interpretations of Levels. But diving headfirst into the schism between Wikidot steadfastness and Fandom fluidity felt like choosing between two equally baffling insurance policies. Maybe later. For now, familiar territory seemed safer. Level 11. My old stomping ground for that bizarre, sunless year before I stumbled in here. Surely someone must have tried to map its perpetually rearranging backside?
Off to the GVs – Recreation, Leisure, Travel Guides. Navigating past "Advanced Chess Strategies Against Sentient Fungus" and "Extreme Croquet: Navigating Temporal Loops and Mallet-Based Entities", I eventually located a shelf optimistically labelled "Urban Exploration & Leisure Walking." And there it was, practically beaming with misplaced cheerfulness. Call Number: GV1469.62 .B3 B4 2010. Its title, embossed in slightly peeling gold letters on a surprisingly bright blue cover depicting a stylized, smiling wanderer jauntily stepping over a crack in the pavement that seemed to contain nebulae: "Best Foot Forward: A Perambulator's Guide to Peculiar Pavements & Promenades (Mostly Level 11 Edition)."
The author was listed as "Barnaby Button," a name so irrepressibly cheerful it felt suspicious. The publisher: "The Ever-Shifting Press (Reasonably Reliable Editions)." A Backrooms Book, no doubt about it, but one aiming for the 'Keep Calm and Carry On Wandering' market segment. It felt reassuringly solid, pages thick but not ancient, like a well-used A-Z guide that had seen one too many inexplicable detours. It smelled faintly of boot polish, ozone, and maybe… optimism? Or possibly disinfectant. Hard to tell.
Settling into my usual spot – the pot plant seemed to approve, or at least remain impassively verdant – I cracked open Barnaby's guide. The tone, from the very first sentence, was relentlessly upbeat, bordering on manic. Imagine a cheery BBC presenter trying to describe eldritch horrors as quaint local colour.
Introduction: Putting the 'Amble' in 'Shamble'!
"Greetings, fellow travellers!" Barnaby began, practically bouncing off the page. "Feeling a bit lost? Streets rearranging themselves faster than you can say 'existential crisis'? Worry not! While the unique spatio-temporal characteristics of our current environs can seem daunting, they also offer unparalleled opportunities for delightful discovery! This guide focuses primarily on the vibrant, interconnected cityscape often designated 'Level 11,' a marvellous hub of activity where one can procure essential sundries, engage in fascinating people-watching, and enjoy invigorating constitutional strolls that are guaranteed to be… memorable! We'll help you navigate its charmingly unpredictable avenues, point out noteworthy (and occasionally shifting) landmarks, and offer tips for making the most of your indefinite stay. Chin up, lace up those boots, and let's explore!"
Right off the bat, Barnaby acknowledged the chaos but framed it as whimsy. "Charming unpredictability" was certainly one way to describe turning a corner and finding the café you were heading for replaced by a solid brick wall humming ominously.
Chapter 1: Getting Your Bearings (Sort Of)
This chapter attempted the impossible: mapping Level 11. Barnaby cheerfully admitted traditional maps were "more suggestion than scripture here, bless their cotton socks." Instead, he offered navigational strategies based on landmarks known for relative persistence. "Think of the 'Azure Plaza' with its perpetually malfunctioning fountain," he wrote, "or the 'Gherkin Tower' (no relation to the London one, though just as pointy and architecturally questionable) as 'anchor points.' They might drift a bit, mind you, maybe swap districts overnight, but they tend to stay within the Level 11 matrix. Usually."
He included several hand-drawn maps, labelled with delightful vagueness like "Approximate Layout, Tuesday-ish Cycle." Streets were drawn with dotted lines and question marks. Key locations had notes like "(May currently be a shoe shop)" or "(Frequently replaced by identical office block B)." Reading this felt strangely validating. My own experience of Level 11 was exactly this constant low-level confusion, the gaslighting-by-geography.
Interestingly, Barnaby subtly hinted at the Wikidot/Fandom divergence without explicitly naming them. He mentioned "persistent reports from some quarters" of Level 11 being a finite, looping city block (Wikidot style), but dismissed them gently. "While comforting, this static view doesn't quite capture the full, dynamic tapestry, does it? Our observations suggest a more… fluid arrangement, with new sectors occasionally budding off and certain districts exhibiting frankly baffling entity populations not typically associated with core Level 11 territory." He even included a small footnote: "See Appendix C: 'Dealing Politely with Feral Hounds in Unexpected Coffee Shops' – Advanced Wandering topic, perhaps skip if easily flustered." This lean towards a more dynamic, potentially Fandom-adjacent view felt closer to my own memories of surprising shifts and occasional entity scares, even in 'safe' 11.
Chapter 2: A Stroll Through the Districts (Subject to Availability)
Barnaby tried to categorize Level 11's shifting urban sprawl into 'districts,' each with its own flavour:
The Retail Maze: Described as "a shopper's paradise, provided you enjoy mild existential dread with your bargain hunting." Endless streets lined with shops—some functional, selling salvaged goods or M.E.G. standard issue supplies; others utterly bizarre ("The Left-Handed Glove Emporium," "A Shop Selling Only Empty Jars"). Barnaby warned cheerfully about shops that might be fronts for less savoury entities or simply vanish mid-browse. "Best practice? If the shopkeeper has too many elbows or the merchandise seems to be vibrating softly, perhaps browse elsewhere, eh?" His tip for finding useful stores: "Follow the clusters of vaguely purposeful-looking wanderers, but don't look too interested, or the prices go up." Solid advice, actually.
The Office Labyrinth: Miles of identical corridors, cubicle farms, and deserted meeting rooms. Barnaby called it "an atmospheric zone perfect for meditative walks, though do try not to get hypnotised by the flickering fluorescent lights." He mentioned the occasional rumour of hostile "Office Drones" but downplayed it: "Mostly just beige boredom, old chap! Though perhaps avoid opening filing cabinets labelled 'Personnel Files – Highly Reactive'." He recommended it for scavenging basic supplies like paperclips and slightly stale biscuits.
Residential Roulette: Areas resembling apartment blocks, suburban houses, even incongruous Victorian terraces. "Always fascinating to see what architectural style the Level fancies today!" Barnaby enthused. He warned against entering seemingly empty homes without caution ("Squatters' rights are fiercely contested, sometimes by things without discernible limbs") but noted these areas were good for finding makeshift shelters or occasionally bumping into established communities.
The Concrete Gardens: Peculiar park-like areas with grey concrete trees, Astroturf lawns, and benches bolted directly into pavement cracks. "A lovely spot for a picnic, if you don't mind the lack of actual nature!" Barnaby suggested. He did add a small caveat: "Best avoid the 'statues,' as some have been known to exhibit… unexpected mobility. Especially after dusk. Which, granted, never technically arrives, but you know the feeling."
Chapter 3: Points of Interest (and Mild Peril)
This was my favourite part. Barnaby listed landmarks with the breathless enthusiasm of a tour guide showing off Big Ben, except these were things like:
The Whispering Intersection: "A truly unique auditory experience! Stand in the exact centre, and you'll hear faint whispers seeming to emanate from the very air! Content varies – sometimes snippets of forgotten languages, occasionally just aggressive complaining about the weather. Marvellous!" (I remembered avoiding that place – the whispers gave me the creeps).
The Fountain of Slightly-Off Almond Water: Located in the aforementioned Azure Plaza. "Looks like standard Almond Water, tastes almost like it, but leaves a peculiar metallic aftertaste and may cause vivid, non-Euclidean dreams. Recommended for adventurous palates only!"
Murphy's Diner (Variable Location): "A legendary establishment! Famous for its 'Probability Pancakes' – guaranteed to land butter-side down 99% of the time. Finding it is half the fun! Look for the flickering neon sign that reads 'INER' (the 'D' is famously unreliable)."
The Building That Isn't There: "A fascinating spatial anomaly! Several reliable wanderers report seeing a specific, ornate clock tower at the end of Veridian Avenue, but only when viewed peripherally. Attempting to look directly at it or approach causes it to vanish instantly. Excellent for practising your averted gaze techniques!"
His descriptions were peppered with "Safety Ratings" ranging from "Quite Harmless (Probably)" to "Approach with Extreme Niggle" and "Best Admired from Several Blocks Away, Preferably While Jogging."
Chapter 4: Social Niceties and Getting Along
Barnaby offered tips on interacting with fellow wanderers and established groups like M.E.G. "A cheerful nod goes a long way!" he advised. "Offer to share your Nutri-Joy bar – it builds goodwill, even if it tastes like pulverized carpet." He strongly recommended against asking overly personal questions about people's Frontroom past ("Bit déclassé, old bean, and often triggers weeping") or challenging established group hierarchies ("Best not to argue with the chap holding the biggest wrench, eh?"). He even included a phrasebook section with helpful Backrooms slang, like "Saw a Smiler, legged it sharpish!" and "Fancy a brew of lukewarm Almond Water?"
Conclusion: Keep Exploring!
Barnaby ended on a note of relentless positivity. "Level 11 is a city of endless possibilities, constant surprises, and remarkably resilient plumbing! Embrace the chaos, keep a song in your heart (but perhaps not too loud, attracts attention), and remember: every wrong turn is just the start of a new adventure! Toodle-pip!"
I closed "Best Foot Forward" with a bemused smile. It was utterly ridiculous, of course. A guidebook trying to impose jolly order on fundamentally chaotic geography. Yet, Barnaby's sheer, unwavering optimism, even filtered through layers of Backrooms absurdity, was weirdly infectious. It was like K.M.'s existential dread turned inside out and painted bright blue. It also served as a stark reminder of how different Level 11 (and presumably other Levels) could feel depending on your perspective, your luck, and maybe which version of the Backrooms' operating system you were running – the stable Wikidot release or the more experimental, feature-rich but bug-prone Fandom build. Barnaby seemed to be navigating a slightly wobbly version somewhere in between.
Right, grub time. The usual ritual. Almond Water – still faintly suspicious after Barnaby's mention of the 'slightly-off' fountain, but this batch tasted blessedly normal. Protein bar – 'Original Flavour,' which apparently translates to 'Existential Neutrality.' As I munched, I watched the quiet ballet of the Library. A Librarian glided past, effortlessly reshelving books telekinetically. The genealogist was packing up his notes for the cycle. A couple of newcomers were huddled together near the entrance, looking overwhelmed – Finch V.2 and V.3 perhaps. This place, this ordered silence, felt like the ultimate anchor Barnaby was searching for amidst Level 11's chaos.
Tidying up brought me back to the GV shelf. I slid Barnaby's cheerful blue guide back into place. Right next to it sat a starkly contrasting Frontroom Book: "Lonely Planet: Tokyo (2019 Edition)." Flicking through its glossy pages filled with crisp photos, reliable maps, and predictable opening hours felt like peering into another universe entirely. One where streets stayed put and the biggest travel hazard was rush hour on the Yamanote Line, not accidentally stepping into a dimension populated by grinning mannequins. The contrast made Barnaby's efforts seem both heroic and utterly potty.
My brief foray into Backrooms travel writing left me pondering stability and change. Barnaby's guide, trying to pin down the shifting landscape of Level 11, highlighted the fluidity I'd experienced. It made me wonder about the history of these places. Do Levels evolve? Are there records of what Level 11 was like, say, 50 subjective years ago? Or chronicles of other Levels known for their relative stability, or notorious instability? Perhaps a history book? Not Frontroom history, obviously, but a Backrooms Book attempting to chronicle the un-chronicleable? Something from the D section (World History)? Or maybe focusing on specific, influential groups like M.E.G.? A history of their explorations and findings? That felt like a solid next step – moving from personal accounts and guidebooks to the broader sweep of this weird reality's recorded (or fabricated) past. History, Backrooms style. Ought to be… interesting.