Osamaru Ta
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(WLTK) B1: Chapter 31 - "Blending In."
🕑 Added 2025-04-27 00:09:57 +0000 UTCBeyond the checkpoint, the hallway stretched onward, dim and stagnant, the cracked tile floor crunching faintly beneath Jeremiah’s cautious steps. He pressed his body tight against the wall, ears straining for the slightest hint of movement beyond the rasp of his own breath. The hall bent sharply to the right, and he moved with it, keeping low to the ground, muscles coiled and ready.
Rounding the corner, the deep shadows thinned, giving way to a stretch lit by harsh, jury-rigged lamps. Here, the crew had torn down part of the wall, creating a makeshift bridge between the buildings. Sheets of rusting metal and bolted planks.
At the far end, the crew’s lift groaned and shuddered on its chains — a crude platform that creaked with every gust of wind. Occasionally it would lurch, rattling against the anchor points hammered into the concrete like a wounded beast.
Jeremiah grimaced. The walkway was wide open, fully exposed, and worse, faint voices drifted up from the street below. Now and then, a figure would stroll into view, stepping onto the lift before it clanked noisily downward toward the ground.
No way I’m getting across without being seen.
His eyes swept the hallway again, mind racing for alternatives. If the bridge wouldn’t work...
He caught sight of a rusted steel door to his left, half-swallowed by the crumbling wall, its paint flaking like dead skin. Above it, a battered metal sign barely clung to its frame.
ROOF ACCESS.
A grin tugged at the corner of Jeremiah’s mouth. “Perfect,” he whispered.
In a few swift strides, he crossed the hall, fingertips brushing lightly over the corroded doorknob. It resisted at first — years of grime sealing it shut — but with a careful shove, it creaked open just wide enough for him to slip through.
Inside, the stairwell stank of mold and wet stone, the narrow space choked with dust and fallen debris. The walls pressed close, cold and damp, against his arms as he moved. He spared one last glance over his shoulder — at the exposed walkway, the lift, and the shadowy figures drifting below — then melted into the stairwell’s gloom, the door whispering shut behind him.
Drawing a small pocket flashlight from his pouch, Jeremiah swept the beam over the interior. Decaying stairs climbed to his right toward a heavy metal door he guessed led to the roof; to his left, the stairwell spiraled downward, likely into some forgotten maintenance shaft.
He hesitated, weighing his options, then pulled his hammer and a pair of long nails from his pouch. Working quickly, he drove the nails into the doorframe, each muffled tap echoing dully in the confined space. It wasn’t elegant, but it would jam the door well enough.
If things went south and he needed to retreat, anyone following would either have to double back through the lower floors or waste precious time smashing through the barricade — time Jeremiah intended to use well.
With the stairwell door secured, Jeremiah ascended the narrow steps toward the roof, his footsteps muffled against the thick coat of dust. He stopped at the top, facing a heavy metal door that loomed in the dim beam of his flashlight.
Like the one leading into the stairwell, this door was buried under a thick crust of rust, the surface pitted and scarred from years of exposure. Jeremiah squinted, needing a moment to spot the sliding bar lock nearly fused into place by grime and time.
He gave it a few tentative tugs, but the lock barely shifted, even under his enhanced strength. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Jeremiah drew his hammer and delivered a series of sharp, measured blows along the mechanism.
The impacts rang hollow against the metal, and flecks of rust rained down like brittle snow. After a few more strikes, the lock finally shuddered and broke free, screeching in protest as Jeremiah forced it aside.
Jeremiah winced at the screech of the rusted door and froze, ears straining. When no shouts or hurried footsteps followed, he let out a slow breath and tugged the door open the rest of the way, its hinges groaning in protest.
He stepped out onto the rooftop, blinking rapidly as the cool predawn air kissed his face. The first hints of morning stretched across the far horizon, painting the sky in faint shades of blue and gray. It would still be a few more hours before Jeremiah had to worry about losing the cover of darkness, yet stepping out of claustrophobic stairwell to the open rooftop made him squint against the faint light.
As his eyes adjusted, Jeremiah took a cautious survey of the rooftop. It was clear someone — or several someones — frequented the area. Empty beer bottles littered the cracked concrete, and in one corner, a battered folding chair sat beneath a leaning parasol. A grimy cooler rested beside it, a weathered paperback tossed casually on top. Taped to the back of the chair was a hand-scrawled note:
Touch my stuff, and I’ll break BOTH your legs — Big Ben.
Jeremiah smirked and turned his gaze to the real prize, the lift brace.
Just as the dossier had described, the lifts were anchored directly into the surrounding structures, forming narrow maintenance walkways that stretched between the buildings. Bolted sheets of rusted metal and scrap wood formed makeshift bridges, sagging under their own weight.
Better still, according to his research, the crew rarely patrolled these upper walkways. Too dangerous, too out of the way, and no real reason to bother unless something broke.
But perfect for someone who wanted to slip in unnoticed.
The only hitch was the platform itself. Even from a distance, Jeremiah could see it sway with each gust of wind, creaking and groaning like an old ship. Crossing it would be risky.
If he sprinted, the vibrations would rattle the structure and likely catch unwanted attention. If he crept too slowly, sharp-eyed watchers below might spot him against the dim light of dawn.
Jeremiah lingered at the edge of the rooftop for nearly ten minutes, studying the flow of movement below as he wracked his brain for a solution. People came and went, stepping onto the lift as it groaned its way down to the street and back up again.
Finally, he made up his mind.
“I need to move when the lift’s in motion,” he muttered under his breath.
The swaying and clatter of the lift machinery might be enough to mask his own passage. But he grimaced as he eyed the tangle of pulleys and gears he’d have to pass dangerously close to. One slip, one misstep near those grinding mechanisms, and he’d be lucky to lose only a hand.
Jeremiah drew in a slow, steadying breath and anchored his nerves. Crouching low, muscles taut and ready, he waited.
Time dragged, every second stretching painfully tight in his chest. Then, after what felt like an eternity, his moment came. At street level, two young women stepped into the lift. The platform shuddered, chains creaking as it began its slow ascent.
Now!
Jeremiah burst forward, boots skimming silently across the rooftop. He reached the edge and, without hesitation, stepped onto the swaying platform. The metal groaned under his weight, dipping precariously. Gritting his teeth, he moved quickly but with care, knees bent to ride the unstable sway.
Each step sent tremors through the rusted bridge, rattling bolts and joints. Jeremiah kept his breath slow and measured, moving with the bridge’s rhythm rather than against it. He fixed his gaze forward, refusing to look down at the dizzying drop below — or at the twisting mass of cables and gears grinding within arm’s reach.
Halfway across, a gust of wind slammed into him, tugging at his hood and setting the platform rocking violently. Jeremiah dropped into a crouch, one hand splayed against the cold, corroded metal for balance. He froze, heart hammering, until the wind passed.
The lift clanged loudly as it reached the top, its rattling masking the groan of the platform beneath Jeremiah’s next few steps. He pressed on, every nerve screaming, the far side of the walkway creeping closer with agonizing slowness.
Almost there.
With a final burst, he lunged forward, seizing the handrail and hauling himself up and over. He landed in a low roll, coming to a crouch behind the shelter of the retaining wall
Below him, a young woman’s voice floated up, sharp against the morning air. “Sally, you coming?”
Another voice, exasperated: “Yeah, yeah, just… give me a second. You know I hate these bloody lifts. I swear, they get wobblier every time.”
The first girl clicked her tongue. “Tell me about it. Ralph’s been trying to get someone to fix ‘em for weeks. But you know how stubborn he gets.”
Both girls giggled, their footsteps eventually fading into the distance.
Despite the furious beat of his heart, Jeremiah allowed himself a quick, feral grin. One obstacle down.
But the hard part was still ahead.
Pressing himself flat against the low retaining wall, Jeremiah peered up at the rooftop. Beyond this point lay the heart of the crew’s stronghold.
Now that he was inside, Jeremiah knew he was in the home stretch. He’d chosen this approach for one simple reason — this lift was the closest to Jonny and Nic’s rooms.
He rose and crossed to a nearby window. Peering through the grimy glass, he spotted what looked like a communal shower room, littered with rusting lockers and peeling tiles. Perfect.
Using the same trick he had with the alleyway window, Jeremiah quickly unlatched it and slid inside.
Once in, he paused to scan the room. A few broken benches sagged against the walls, but what caught his eye was a basket of clean towels tucked into the corner. Grinning, he weaved his way between the lockers, tugging off his ski mask as he went and brushing at the dust clinging stubbornly to his clothes.
Reaching the basket, he grabbed a towel and turned on one of the ancient shower stalls. Water sputtered, then ran in a steady stream, quickly filling the air with thick, warm mist.
Jeremiah wet his hair and scrubbed down any exposed skin with the towel, careful to erase every trace of grime.
For a moment, he considered rifling through the decrepit lockers for a change of clothes, but a quick glance at their rotting doors told him all he needed to know. Even if anything usable was inside, the odds of finding something in his size were laughable.
A look in the cracked mirror confirmed he no longer looked like a guy who had been sneaking through abandoned ruins. Good enough.
He moved to the door.
Getting into the crew’s base had been the hard part; once inside, Jeremiah figured, no one would question a guy emerging from the showers. Or at least, he hoped not.
Still, he played it safe. Draping one of the towels over his head like he was drying off, he let it hang low enough to obscure most of his face. With a final breath, he pushed the door open and slipped into the hallway.
Luck stayed with him. The corridor was deserted.
The hallway, surprisingly well-maintained, stretched ahead, lit by dim bulbs that hummed quietly overhead. Clearly, the crew had a generator running somewhere — something Jeremiah realized he probably should have guessed, given the hot water. Jeremiah highly doubted that any of Prima’s utility companies operated out here.
Not for the first time, Jeremiah found himself grudgingly impressed. This place was more than a ragtag hideout; it was a fortress built and maintained out of necessity. Honestly, it was far more than he would typically expect from a group of young adults and teenagers.
Then again, if Ulrick’s information was right, this base predated Jonny’s crew by decades.
Despite Jeremiah thinking of it as ‘Jonny’s crew’ the truth was more complicated than that. The base — and by extension, the crew itself — had existed for generations, a haven passed down from “boss” to “boss” as the older ones moved on or grew out of it. Jonny was just the latest name added to a long list.
He paused at the doorway, checking his mental map, then turned right and began making his way down the hall. He’d barely taken a few steps before nearly colliding with a young man stepping out of a nearby room.
“Yo! Watch it!” the man barked, shoving Jeremiah back with a sharp hand to the shoulder. Jeremiah stumbled, dodging sideways and hastily rubbing the towel over his head to obscure his face.
“Sorry...” he muttered, keeping his voice low.
The guy clicked his tongue in annoyance but, after a glance, turned and headed toward the showers. Jeremiah wasted no time, pivoting and walking in the opposite direction.
“Hold up!” the man called suddenly.
Jeremiah froze, heart hammering against his ribs.
“Any hot water left?” the man shouted from down the hall.
For a beat, Jeremiah stayed still, then without looking back, raised a thumb in the air.
“Sweet!” the guy answered, before swinging open the shower room door and disappearing inside.
Jeremiah lingered a moment, then threw his voice casually over his shoulder. “You seen Nic or Jonny today?”
There was a short pause. “Think I saw Jonny in the mess hall. It’s Nic’s turn to teach the pipsqueaks, so she’s probably on the roof or in the classroom.”
“Thanks,” Jeremiah said, relief softening the edge of his voice.
The man gave no reply, just let the door thud closed behind him.
Jeremiah released a slow, careful breath.
That had been too close.
He glanced down the hall toward where Jonny’s room should be, according to the map burned into his memory.
He had to move — and fast.
