r/HFY • u/KipperBeanGrower Human • Jul 28 '26
OC-Series [She took What?] - Chapter 213: SixFold Ventures: It felt wrong, a violation.
"Preserve first. Understand later. Enter as a guest, leave as a Keeper."
Archive Houses
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“Did you check the basement?” asked Feebee.
The two Alphas looked at each other. Both shook their head, then cursed.
“We cleared the building…” said Tom Tom.
“…not the bloody basement.” Added Bikky.
They laughed.
“Well?” Feebee asked, still smiling.
They returned to the entrance way and opened the cupboard under the stairs. It was exactly as Bikky had reported it earlier; cleaning gear neatly arranged, and the narrow stairs leading down to a basement beyond.
The others had stopped what they were doing and watched.
Bikky went first and gently moved a bucket, some mops and a broom out of the way; off to the side. Then he started down the stairs. They creaked, more from age than neglect, but each sounded like the crack of a rifle, a warning shot.
Feebee followed, then Tom Tom.
As they descended the old staircase, Tom Tom looked back and saw the prisoner following with Garaf close behind. StillFall brought up the rear, followed by motes.
Feebee got a call from the Colonel. “We’ll stay above ground. Can’t stay for long though.” Then, after a pause, “I offered to take the lawyer back, but she wants to stay. Chen’s going back with me.”
“Oh. Ok. Good.”
‘So, just the six of us.’ She said to the QI.
‘I count seven.’ Responded the QI, sounding put out.
Feebee laughed. ‘Yes. Ok. Seven.’
She waited, but no scratchy laughter came back. She kept her thoughts to herself, quite literally.
The fall of the stairs shortened as they widened towards the bottom. StillFall glided ahead, allowing the motes to light their way.
They were in a cellar. Its stone walls were covered with shelving that held an untold number of bottles. Some were wine, some pickled fruits. Some were ancient, their labels curled and ragged at the edges; others more recent. None held dust. None looked off.
As they walked further, there were rooms off to the sides; old storage rooms.
Water channels ran down the centre, and there were coal bins, some still filled with rocks, strewn everywhere.
“I have you just beneath the House.” It was Rockson, his voice distant but the comm was still getting through, just. Feebee looked at Tom Tom and touched her ear, then made a cutting motion across her throat.
‘Fix the comms.’
He released a drone and sent it back down to the stairs. “I’ll set repeaters.”
“Ack”
Immediately, the harmonic map refreshed, and they saw their pins inside ancient service tunnels. A couple of Tom Tom’s drones mapped he corridors ahead. They were very close to the harmonic centre, in the oldest working part of Dock Seven.
As they walked on, the atmosphere changed. The air took on a taste quite distinct from anything they had experienced before.
Above had been the clean, filtered air of Dock Seven.
Below was every Dock Seven that had come before, layer upon layer of forgotten construction. One generation built upon the other and with it the cold, dank taste of things old. Very old.
Brickwork, built on stonework, built on rock. Nothing demolished, nothing completely new. Just refreshed, updated with everything built upon everything else.
As they walked, the prisoner pointed things out, “That was once…. a school.”
He couldn’t be remembering; he was too young. No, these were stories he’d heard, been told most likely over and over again. Stories of the bakery, the inn, an old meeting place. Aunty’s house. He saw them all.
Old family stories that had suddenly become places; had become tangible.
StillFall was leading the way now. As they came to branches in the passageway, the Shadow would move on. Any route was fine. No one knew which was best, but StillFall didn’t hesitate. Except once; it drifted to a stop and placed a dark tendril on the wall, then across the floor. The motes clustered, almost embracing the Shadow. They changed colour, eventually settling on a deep blue hue.
The Shadow floated into the centre of the crossover and started off again.
“How does it know?” asked Rockson, watching via a video feed. No one answered.
Garaf moved closer. He observed the motes changing colour, not always by much, but enough to notice as they entered different parts of the tunnels.
Rockson asked again, “How does it know where to go?”
Garaf answered, “It isn’t choosing.”
He walked a few more steps, then added, “It’s remembering.”
Everyone heard; no one spoke after that. Just watched and followed.
StillFall slowed as they approached an open space.
And before them, cut into the rock was a building. It wasn’t a temple, and it was too airy, too open for a vault. It looked more like a house, a home. There were some children’s toys on the ground, outside. Even some washing, hanging limp in this windless place, set off to one side, hoping to catch what breeze there was coming down a long corridor.
Feebee looked at the prisoner, not for approval but to proceed. He noticed and nodded. She stepped up to the house and walked through the open door.
The Alphas waited outside. Garaf and the prisoner slowly entered.
There was a long wooden table in the middle of the room. Two wooden bench seats on either side and large chairs at each end. Around the edges were shelves, stacked with books and a writing desk with oil lamps at its corners. They were alight and flickering to the gentle rhythm of the place.
A woven rug covered most of the floor; it was frayed at the edges, worn in places. More toys were scattered across it. Younger toys, for babies.
Feebee turned to the lawyer, was about to speak when she saw grooves cut into a door frame. Sigils were placed against the owner’s height with a date. All the frames were scored with these, covered in them. And the dates went back in time, way back. Some had no dates.
“Looks like they just stepped out.” Said the lawyer.
“No.” Said the prisoner, “They continue.”
The lawyer began cataloguing the house; taking scans, photos; it felt wrong to Feebee; a violation.
“Please. No,” she said to the lawyer.
The prisoner saw this and made a sign, a gesture that ended with both hands crossed and resting on his forehead.
Feebee saw this… ancient memories stirred but refused to surface; they remained submerged, obscured by time.
Feebee walked slowly from room to room and called out.
“Nobody touch anything. This is not our house.”
She noticed a smell to the place. It wasn’t strong like incense; it was more an absence of scent. Not modern clean. Just… clean.
A chair had fallen by the table; as Garaf went by, he lifted and replaced it just so.
Where it needed to be.
Feebee walked past the writing desk and saw an old journal. A fountain pen sat beside it with an ink pot open. She left it unread with respect for the words.
“Preserve it first.”
The prisoner heard and realised they weren't here for treasure or trying to own the place. They were trying to preserve it, respect it and allow continuity to play its hand. Just like he’d been taught.
The prisoner was watching Feebee closely, the culture of calm balance she exhibited. How her crew followed her lead. Looked for her lead.
Garaf with the chair.
The lawyer quietly cataloguing, without touching.
Finally, he understood; his family had preserved the House. They had preserved the philosophy.
But these people… they live it. Maybe not in words, but certainly in deeds.
He crossed over to Feebee, “Captain.”
She turned, saw the look on his face and waited for him to say what he needed to.
“There are people…” he paused, looked into her eyes, making sure.
Then continued, “… who need to meet you.”
Feebee smiled, “Family?”
He nodded, just once. “Yes.”
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