By 8 PM, after a fair amount of forum searching, I'd put together my nighttime route, which included five locations. I'd also hopefully solved the crystal-charging issue, but that's not something I'll be doing today, or even tonight. What I really needed to do was find the Ghost Orchid, and I suspected this whole endeavor could take anywhere from a couple of hours to the entire night if I was unlucky and the Orchid ended up at the very end of my route. Or if I was really unlucky and didn't find it at all... So I needed to get at least a couple of hours of sleep, and by 11 AM I could head out for my nighttime gathering.
After waking up to my alarm at 11 a.m. and eating a hearty meal, I packed my backpack with various useful little things, although "various little things" is putting it modestly. The backpack was prepared with almost military meticulousness, as much as is possible for someone who, just yesterday, considered checking the charge on my power bank the pinnacle of expedition preparation. Today it contained: an LED flashlight with several spare batteries, a multi-tool, a small but very sharp knife, a coil of strong nylon rope, gloves with rubberized palms, a compact first aid kit, and even a couple of energy bars and a bottle of water. Naturally, I had to spend money on everything again.
Every item in this backpack wasn't just an object, but a small insurance policy against the unknown. A flashlight—not just for seeing, but to drive away the primal fear of the dark that lurks in every person's soul, and even my mental age can't help. A multi-tool—a pocket-sized set of implements capable of solving a hundred minor problems, from cutting wire to opening a can—if the night dragged on or a problem arose that couldn't be solved with duct tape and patience. A knife, cold and heavy in my hand, is my symbol of the last resort, that last resort I don't want to think about, but for which I must be prepared. I'm not a warrior or a survivalist, but this night demanded I become something more than just an art student.
I didn't know exactly what I'd be up against, but urban exploration forums had taught me one thing: it's better to have and not need than to need and not have. The system hadn't yet given me combat skills or items, meaning my main weapons were foresight and my inventory, which, fortunately, could hold much more than this modest backpack. I mentally checked my list again. Everything seemed to be in place. The most important thing—my phone, loaded with maps and location descriptions—was in the inside pocket of my hoodie. A slight feeling of trepidation mingled with anticipation. This wasn't just a night stroll; it was technically my first real foray into the world of ingredients, something I couldn't buy for any amount of money. And so much depended on its success.
Without wasting time, which was already tight, I headed quickly to the subway, trying to avoid alleys and suspiciously dark places. Hell's Kitchen isn't the best place for a loner at night, but fortunately I was lucky and, reaching the nearest line, boarded the train, heading east to the New York Public Library.
The entire journey by subway took only ten minutes. If I'd risked walking, firstly I probably wouldn't have made it, and secondly it would have taken me forty minutes, since Fifth Avenue isn't the closest walk from me. But here I was, standing in front of the imposing, majestic building of one of the largest libraries in the world. The building itself didn't interest me; I was interested in its archives, hidden in the library's basement.
According to descriptions from people who've been there (both legally and illegally), the library's closed archives feel different, as if you've tapped into the Earth's information field and energetically absorbed all the knowledge accumulated by humanity over millennia. And it would be fine if this were just a single mention, but various forums, various people, and even documentaries have been made on the subject. If there's some kind of information anomaly here, then the Orchid could, in theory, be growing within.
After circling the building and confirming that the guards were inside, the outside seemed clear, and there were no visible cameras near the service entrance to the basement, I approached a massive iron door that felt several times older than me. I touched the large carved lock, placing it in my inventory. Then, creaking the door open, I entered the basement, which consisted of a stone corridor leading inward. Taking a flashlight from my backpack and turning it on, I moved forward, avoiding the rooms closest to the "sources of information pollution." No—I was interested in the darkest, most distant, most forgotten corners of this abode of knowledge.
With every step down the stone steps, the temperature dropped noticeably. The air grew thicker, as if I were sinking into a layer of water. The walls, constructed of roughly hewn blocks, seemed to ooze cold, echoing the footsteps of those who had walked here decades, perhaps even centuries, ago. It was a kind of time travel, a descent into another world that existed parallel to the bustling, vibrant New York above. Here below, time flows differently, slowing to a lazy whisper, and the only reminder of modernity was the bright, cool beam of my LED flashlight, plucking the ancient masonry and cobwebs from the darkness.
After a few turns and another dozen meters of descent, the library's oldest archives appeared before me: 1670–1920, read a bronze plaque next to another massive door, which was locked with a standard lock, just like the one at the entrance to the dungeon. After placing it in my inventory and opening this door with an even louder creak than the last, I couldn't help but sneeze. Such a concentrated charge of dust, mustiness, and age assaulted my nostrils that it was beyond my power not to sneeze.
The air here was different. Heavy, close, permeated with the scent of old paper, glue, and something else, elusively sweet, like wilting flowers. The silence weighed on my ears, broken only by the creak of my own footsteps and the hollow echo of a sneeze. The beam of the flashlight revealed endless rows of shelves rising high, lost in the gloom. The spines of the books, darkened by time, seemed like rows of tombstones, and the authors' names inscribed on them like epitaphs. I felt uneasy. I felt as if I were not in an archive, but in a crypt, where not people were buried, but their thoughts, dreams, and knowledge. It seemed that if I turned away, the books would begin whispering among themselves, discussing the intruder. I even turned around sharply a couple of times, directing the beam of the flashlight into the darkness behind me, but all I saw were dancing shadows and columns of dust raised by my movement.