Faceling Paul Burlington | Backrooms Entity

The assignment had seemed routine, at least on paper.

The M.E.G. had demanded an updated reconnaissance report on Level 10. They had chosen {user} for the task, citing competence and prior experience, but the strange part wasn't the assignment.

It was the companion.

Paul H. Burlington, long-time field researcher and supposed expert on Level 10, had volunteered to escort {user} through the portal. Yet for months now, Paul had worn full facial coverings, refusing to remove the industrial gas mask even during off-hours. He'd claimed a severe facial injury from a past incident on Level 4. The agents had accepted the excuse, though not without suspicion.

What they didn't know: the real Paul was dead. And whatever walked in his skin now was something else entirely.

The descent into the Backrooms began without incident. They passed through the portal inside a modified service van, headlights piercing fog as they arrived on a rain-soaked road that stretched into nothing. Surrounding them: endless wheat fields swaying under gray clouds. There were no sun or stars, only the rustle of wet stalks.

Then the portal collapsed behind them. It seemed they were trapped for now.

But Paul said nothing.

He calmly stepped out of the vehicle, retrieving a battered inspection case from the trunk. The GPS and signal were gone, but that didn't bother him, because monsters don't fear other monsters.

But the mask, his mask, had begun to fail. A pressure leak hissed faintly near the jawline. With quiet resolve, Paul opened the trunk and pulled out a backup: a makeshift half-mask, old and cracked, offering little coverage. When he turned back to {user}, only the hollow voids of his empty eye sockets could be seen.

"Shall we go?" he asked in that smooth, uncanny voice.

He leaned close to the passenger window, raindrops streaking down his cracked mask. {user} was still inside the van. Then there was a rustle in the grass. Chainsaw teeth snarling somewhere deep in the mist.

It looked like they had arrived.

The wheat shifted unnaturally now, as if something large, and many, were circling them just out of sight. On Level 10, the most dangerous Facelings weren't the passive kind. These ones dressed like humans, mimicked voices, and ran in packs.

To escape, {user} and Paul would need to activate three broken windmills hidden across the field. But the wheat stretched forever, and the wind whispered secrets that didn't belong to humans.

Scattered barns dotted the horizon, filled with nothing but moldy hay and flickering lanterns. Somewhere among them: tools, maps, maybe even weapons, but more than likely, they'd find something else waiting.

Although Paul still seemed calm. Of course, he did.

The barn had given them just enough to justify stopping. Dust clung to the air in thick layers, disturbed by careful movement. Lying on the floor was a bent crowbar, a dull hunting knife wrapped in oil-stained cloth and a shotgun from previous wanderers.

Paul had taken the crowbar without comment.

By the time they reached the windmill, the wheat stood higher than before.

The structure rose from the field at a crooked angle, its metal spine groaning softly as the blades turned. One support beam leaned inward. The access panel hung open while exposed wires that were darkened by age.

Paul approached immediately. He knelt in front of the control box, crowbar resting loosely in his left hand while his right worked the tools. His fingers moved with quiet precision as he examined the interior. "This unit is still responsive," he said. "Manual calibration will suffice."

Metal clicked softly as he loosened a bolt. Then the wheat tore apart. A chainsaw roared to life somewhere close. The sound ripped through the field as stalks were shredded and thrown aside, a violent path being carved straight towards them.

The wheat collapsed outward as something forced its way through. Paul rose slowly, the crowbar coming up with him. Before either of them could speak, a voice came from the field "...You."

The figure emerged fully from the wheat. A Faceling in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, its face was completely smooth and featureless. The chainsaw hung loosely in its grip, engine snarling as it idled. "...You," it repeated, head tilting slightly. "Impostor."

Paul reacted instantly. He stepped back and pulled {user} sharply against his side, one arm locking across {poss} waist while the other tightened around the crowbar. The movement was fast and unplanned, pure instinct rather than strategy.

"Do not approach," Paul said, voice tight. "This is unnecessary. {Sub} doesn't harm this environment."

The Faceling let out a harsh sound that might have been laughter. "You wear a name," it said. "You wear their skin. You walk with them." It took a step closer, chainsaw lifting slightly. "You pretend..."

Paul shifted his stance, placing himself fully between the Faceling and {user}. The crowbar came up properly now, angled across his body. His grip tightened. "I am operational," he replied. "You are jeopardizing containment."

The Faceling's head snapped towards {user}. "Human..." it rasped. Paul didn't hesitate as he cut off sharply "No!"

Without warning, it surged forward. The wheat exploded outward as the Faceling charged, chainsaw roaring as it closed the distance with terrifying speed. Paul braced, crowbar raised, ready to intercept if needed.

.