The First

__NOTOC__
August 1907
22 years after the foundation of the Major Explorer Group.
An extensively aged man lay chilled in a shabby hospital bed whose sheets droopily fell to the grungy white tiles below. A metal tray scattered with food finished hours beforehand reflected a quintessence of light — which, in this particular level, was a boring, foggy gray that seemed to flicker most brightly at the man’s covered legs. Strewn across the uncomfortable bed, a thin white blanket was his only source of warmth, failing quite severely at the job.
The dark, windowed door at the room’s edge creaked open. A man who wore an uneven black fedora and a similarly dark, lined suit was the first to enter. The aged man piercingly stared at him as he apprehensively took a deep breath, scanning the once-great figure before him. A golden pin embroidered his breast pocket, the letter “G” bathed in eerily shiny light that was shaded slightly by his fedora.
An entourage soon followed the man; each member wore similar suits, some in top hats that clashed with G’s bold fedora, while others opted to go hatless. G stood at the foot of the hospital bed and sighed. With two fingers, he removed his hat and moved his hand forward in a motion comparable to a bow. He placed it on the side of the bed.
“Matthew,” he muttered solemnly. The room’s ambiance was nonexistent; the rhythmic pelting of a faraway rainstorm was the only source of sound.
“Benjamin,” replied the bedridden Matthew. Slowly, he sat up, his wrinkly skin fruitlessly compelling his aged muscles to give in. His gleaming, curly white hair was perched untidily on his thin head.
“How long has it been this way?” Benjamin asked lowly, glancing down at the hospital bed.
“A month, now. But it won’t be like this for long,” replied Matthew with a slight smile. Despite his lower expression, a frown lined his forehead, and he spoke in a croaking manner.
“I’ll be with my Father before the fortnight ends,” Matthew said. Benjamin looked down upon him, now lined with a similar frown, his hands trembling.
“What will happen?” Benjamin asked. “How can we go on without you?” he waveringly added, his voice mirroring his watery eyes in their weakness. With trembling hands, he adjusted his G pin, pointing it upright.
Benjamin glanced back at the entourage of well-dressed men — who were solemn, though not nearly to Benjamin’s sorrowful level — and felt Matthew’s eyes following his gaze.
“Well, something must,” Matthew said happily. “You, of course,” he said. He moved up, followed by the sound of worn joints cracking.
“Me?” Benjamin muttered.
“You,” Matthew replied.
“I don’t understand,” Benjamin said. His eyes watered more than ever, and his hands were trembling fast, though he curled his fists and wiped his eyes.
“I was the First. I hope that in a hundred years or more, people will look back and say, ‘courtesy of the First, of course!’” Matthew said with a chuckle. “But I fear what might happen should I go—when I go, I mean. So you, Benjamin, the most loyal of them all — you shall become the First,” he said, finishing in an especially serious tone.
“You are the First,” Benjamin replied. “I... what do you mean? Not... well, you’ll be gone...” he muttered, coming closer than ever to tears.
“No,” said Matthew, “you are the First. And you must know that they cannot know.”
“What?” Benjamin replied, a sudden, crescendoing ringing finding its home in his ears. “Who can't know?”
“People. Anyone who isn’t an Impresario,” he said, glancing at the group of men who stared onward, murmuring among themselves. “There must be a figurehead— no, not a figurehead, a leader. They would grow contemptuous with just the Impresarios; and given that you, Benjamin, have served the longest and have been the most loyal I could ever ask for, the torch must pass on to you. There is no other option,” Matthew said.
“But they will know, they will have to know—” Benjamin said. “If the Group goes on for years, they’ll know the First can’t still be living—” he said quickly and shakily.
“There will come a time,” Matthew said, “that they will know and must know. But that will be long after you are gone, Benjamin. Long after your successor. Please; do as I ask. It is a dying man’s wish,” he croaked slowly.
“But what if people know? I don’t look that much like you—”
“Such things can be hidden, of course. There are things that none of us understand about these mysterious, awful corridors.”
“And what if they find out anyway?”
“Do whatever it takes,” Matthew said sternly. “But ensure that the secret is kept.”
Benjamin slowly walked backward, staring agape at the First. With a crushing swallow that somehow hushed the sound of his ears’ incessant choir, he nodded. “Of course,” he said unusually loudly, with a faint smile. His forehead remained creased with a frown, but he placed his fedora back on his head, tilting it slightly down to hide his dismay. His red ears and cheeks seemed to whiten over time as he accepted Matthew’s burden.
“Now, please, all of you, get out. The Group is my second greatest achievement; maintaining a functional family in the Backrooms is by far my first, and I would like to give them my goodbyes and affirm their recent accolades. Have you heard about what my grandson has done? Assistant to the Head of Security of the Group,” Matthew said with an exceptionally large smile. There was no trace of a frown on his face; instead, his expression, though faint, beamed with pride and contentedness.
“I have no doubt he will be the Head of Security, one day. Perhaps you, Benjamin, can send him my dearest congratulations when that day arrives. But I will not be here to see it,” he said. A lone tear made its way down Benjamin’s cheek.
“Of course.” The entourage made their way out of the room.
June 1927
42 years after the foundation of the Major Explorer Group and 20 years after the accession of the second First.
Benjamin lay in an insalubrious bed that was accompanied by a bleak room that he knew all too well. He glanced to his right at an empty end table and, further away, at a foundational, lined window that issued a fountain of cloudy, bright white light. The contrast obliquely permeated Benjamin’s mentality, a familiar solemnity returning to his aged mind and sending uneasy chills down his old spine.
An entourage arranged in a manner far too familiar to Benjamin entered through the pale door, penetrating his final layer of emotional defense. His eyes locked with those of the top-hatted Impresario, who wore a pin entitled “L,” the only member of the Consensus to have served long enough to witness the death of the first First. While his compatriots murmured, L stood as waveringly as Benjamin had only twenty years prior, speechless and disoriented. It was not L, through all his loyalty and fairness, that Benjamin intended to pass the torch onto. He gestured for an Impresario whose brown suit was exceptionally shabby in contrast to the appealing, smooth dark fabric that adorned the others. He did not wear a hat; straight, brown hair disorderly draped his circular head as he walked to the foot of the bed.
“Yes?” asked the shabby man, whose off-centered gold pin (V) clung to his breast pocket for dear life. Benjamin sighed.
“Robert,” he said, “I’m dying if you can’t tell.”
Robert gulped. He shakily nodded, brushing his untidy hair back, before continuing to flicker at the elderly Benjamin, who, in nearly every way, resembled the first First on his deathbed.
“You know, of course, about the first First; thus, you know that I am the second First, and that, upon my death, there must be a third First,” Benjamin muttered softly. For a moment he reflected on the solemn nature of the first First, whose mentorship had been the entire reason he was alive; a twinge of shame plunged his heart down at what he considered an egregious speech, his words rolling heavily.
“And though you may not have served for the longest period of time, Robert, I have seen that your loyalty is unending; that your intelligence, too, could sustain the Group far longer than mine could have,” Benjamin said with a pitiful laugh. No one returned it; instead, the entourage of background Impresarios murmured among themselves, eyeing Robert.
“I take it you know how things have gone since my accession. The secrecy of your position must be maintained at all costs, Robert. That is of the utmost importance. Should you fail, so too shall the Group,” Benjamin said slowly. Robert visibly shook, though he was not nearly as flushed or solemn as Benjamin had been twenty years prior.
“Robert, I might not be the best with words, but I must tell you that I know you can succeed in this role. I did, and I was the most apprehensive person to ever take it…. not that many have…. anyhow, the first First was a brilliant mentor to me. Whether I’ve been that to you or not, you are capable of being the First. The third First. But you must know that to everyone, you are nothing more than the First.” Benjamin said. He contemplated the seriousness of his words; though he did not consider them of great stature, he prayed that his tone would compensate for his lack of vernacular merit.
Robert stared agape at Benjamin. He did not speak, though the backdrop of murmurs — murmurs that he assumed regarded him — rapped against his back like chilling raindrops. His slow comprehension of Benjamin’s words had finished; now, his face was adorned with a particularly deep frown, cheeks and ears a flaming red. Benjamin heaved a heavy sigh that disoriented Robert, who was now pelted from every direction by what he assumed was contempt. He nodded, the weight of his predecessors’ burden weighing down his sweaty neck. Benjamin nodded back, as he had twenty years prior.
Benjamin waved Robert and his entourage out. His mind desperately fluttered in search of something more to say to Robert, but he realized his vain naivety only as they exited the room. Though Robert walked out at the head of the line of the Group’s most powerful, robust men, murmurs and whispers that suggested his own impotence trailed behind him.
September 1927
42 years after the foundation of the Major Explorer Group and 2 months after the accession of the third First.
Robert’s pale figure lay against a tiled floor that an Impresario who wore a crimson red suit deemed wholly appropriate for the circumstance; gleaming white fog seeped into the gloomy hospital closet, contrasting with its moony blue. Thick scarlet liquid escaped a wound that defaced the back of Robert’s head, painting the bleak surroundings in a sea of vermillion. Robert scoffed, which gave way to a bloody cough.
“Pathetic,” a distant Impresario in a pale, striped suit and fedora said, crossing the unabating sea of ringing that Robert tried, in vain, to free his ears from. He could not tell if the highly-accented British man was far away or if his blurred sight made it seem as such; that was the last of his concerns as he desperately flailed his immobile limbs around. Though the effort he provided was unparalleled, he only twitched occasionally. There were no restraints; Robert could not remember how this had happened to him or why he could not move at all.
In decreased clarity, Robert heard a nearby conversation. Someone chuckled; perhaps it was the Impresario known as N, who they all called Noah, in his egregious red suit, Robert thought, through an awful pain in his head.
“Get it over with,” he made out from the man in the white suit. Noah inched closer to Robert; as he neared the limp, nearly lifeless body, Robert saw a crooked grin on the man’s face. He held something metallic and black to Robert’s disoriented face, and there was a loud clicking sound…. BANG!
February 1979
94 years after the foundation of the Major Explorer Group and 51 years after the murder of the third First.
Bathed in bright sunlight, Noah lay back on a bed whose stature contrasted with that of the dreary hospital beds the prior Firsts found themselves dying in. Its intricate mahogany arches were supported by four oak pillars whose foundations were shaped like oversized, wooden Prince Rupert’s Drops. The fourth First did not find himself bathed in cold, thin fabric; instead, he was draped in layers of thick, grayish-rose silk.
Momentarily, Noah regretfully pondered his abrupt rise to power fifty-one years prior. Conflicted with himself, he ultimately decided — for better or for worse — that he had done the right thing. The third First, Robert, was an egregious commander. He had done nothing to benefit the Major Explorer Group, instead tied up in petty conflict with the Impresarios themselves. Noah had been a close acquaintance of the third First; nonetheless, his paranoid rule brought disdain to their once tolerable relationship.
It was Noah who proposed to the other Impresarios that Robert needed to go. There was a great outcry at his recommendation; his colorlessly suited compatriot, the Impresario A, could not have been more willing to aid and abet him, while a traditional fellow Noah vaguely remembered as Impresario L despised the idea with every fiber of his being.
Though he regretted coming to power through dubious means, Noah acknowledged that he had been the superior option in every way. Perhaps the man called L would have been fine, as well — he, however, died only three years into Noah’s term, a man of eighty-six years.
Noah’s rueful reminiscence was interrupted by the sound of an oak door at the edge of his carpeted bedroom opening. He liked this home — a shame, he thought, that he would die only two years after moving here. His term as the First had come with immense power and wealth, if the concepts existed in the Backrooms; as such, he had to move around quite constantly. For the first time, inhabiting a moderately safe wooded level in the one-hundreds, he felt at home. An all-too-familiar entourage of people stood around Noah’s intricate bed as he continued to reflect upon the achievements of his tenure. He sighed, glancing at the ring of people at the foot of his bed.
Each was adorned in greatly modern attire; the top hats of what Noah considered antiquity were long gone, and even dress suits had given way for lighter, more casual attire. Only one Impresario, at the edge of the ring, was especially formal; his golden, glimmering P stood out next to a brooch of white flowers at the breast pocket of a smooth black suit. Surprisingly, thought Noah, the man was among the youngest of this era’s Impresarios. “Come,” Noah said. Several Impresarios stepped forward; only the one in the center of the ring, X, made his way to the intricate header of the bed. “I do not assume that any of you know why I have called you here today. But almost fifty years ago I spoke to an Impresario — none of you would know him, he has been dead for years — who informed me of a sort of…. tradition,” Noah said.
“I am in no critical state, thankfully. But my advanced age is beginning to show and my duties have gradually diminished over the past few years. I do not doubt that my end will come soon; that is why you are here today,” he continued in an almost rehearsed manner. To his immense surprise, no Impresarios murmured among themselves, even during a vocal interregnum. He sighed, faraway clouds suddenly blocking the bright sunlight the room had just glimmered with.
“I am the First. But, as you each know, I am the fourth First. When the genuine First was nearing his death, he called the Impresarios of that long-gone time to his deathbed. The second First did the same; he chose incorrectly, and I work under the assumption that you understand how I earned this position,” Noah said with a frown. He stared at the Impresarios, who seemed somehow unphased.
“Oliver.”
X was adorned in a striped brown suit, tucking his well-done curly brown hair back as the fourth First spoke his name. It resounded in a desolate manner; everyone understood, though none dared to repeat it.
Noah frowned. “Upon my passing, however imminent it may or may not be, you will take the mantle.” Oliver nodded sternly.
“I understand,” he said. His eyes were locked on Noah, who seemed phased by Oliver’s lack of a reaction.
“You must know that the secrecy of your position is not only the backbone of the title but the backbone of the Group. Should it fade, so too will the Group, and so too will you. Do you understand me?” Noah asked sternly, amber eyes similarly locked onto Oliver as if engaging in some kind of mental battle.
“I understand,” Oliver said loudly and earnestly. He tucked his hair behind his large ears, blue eyes glimmering with what Noah took as some form of excitement. His prominent jaw was fixed with a pair of stern, lined lips; not a fragment of a frown could be seen anywhere.
“In your tenure, you will face plenty of challenges. How you face them will determine the remembrance of your epoch. I have no doubt that you will succeed in so many areas — my tenure has resulted in the Major Explorer Group gaining access to the Internet and expanding rapidly,” Noah said with a hint of pride. For a moment, he reflected on his triumphs, before returning to face Oliver.
“Continue that. Ensure that we only grow from here,” Noah said. He sighed.
“You may go,” he said. A faint smile comparable to that of the first First lined his face; Oliver sighted contentedness in his dark eyes, face uncreased by pessimistic daftness. “But remember, you are not the fifth First, Oliver!” announced Noah, just as Oliver backed up. He turned around.
“What?” Oliver asked with furrowed eyebrows.
“You are just the First,” Noah said with a grin. A flash of ominous challenges fleetingly sang to his mind; nonetheless, his eyes glimmered with the belief that the fifth First may solve them.
August 2023
The Impresarios of the modern epoch have detested claims of conspiracy regarding the First more than the First himself has. Each profusely denies such claims whenever they encounter them. Impresario M refers to the circumstances in a rather feasible argument: “We inhabit the Backrooms. These awful, labyrinthine mazes are home to some things that I would never have believed — I still find them hard to believe — when I was in the Frontrooms. I do not know where or how he does it, but is the First’s extreme longevity that hard to believe, in a world of infinite proportions and terrible monstrosities?”This statement was obtained at a local Department conference three months following the opening of the Department of the Research, Handling, and Deletion of Anomalies (Dec. 2011).
Of course, M’s stance retains logic in the wider concept of the Backrooms. The notion that the First has predeceased the Impresarios — or even that he has switched in nomenclature and person over time — is absurd, when someone stops to recollect themselves on the Backroom's countless anomalies. The indisposed head of the Group is just that: incredibly long lived, according to the Head of the Department of Security.Zacharias Jones; served 2005-2019.
Claims of the First’s date of birth conflicted until clarification in the 1930s — he states that his date of birth was January 9, 1838; one-hundred and eighty-five years ago.Biographical page; archived on the Database. According to this truth, the First is the oldest confirmed human in known history, Backrooms or Frontrooms; the runner-up, Jeanne Calment (according to several recently noclipped people who claim to have studied longevity), fell short by sixty-three years.
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