The descent was not graceful. Barnaby, a teddy bear of considerable vintage and even more considerable grumpiness, did not tumble with the cinematic elegance of a falling star. Instead, he hit every jagged concrete lip of the storm drain like a plush pinball before plunging into the churning, chocolate colored soup of the city's underbelly. The water was cold enough to make his polyester heart shudder, if he had one. As it was, his stuffing simply began to drink.
"Fantastic," Barnaby muttered, his voice a muffled rasp of damp cotton. "Absolutely stellar. I survive three toddlers, an overenthusiastic Golden Retriever, and a literal house fire, only to be taken out by a slippery gutter and a lack of municipal maintenance."
He bobbed to the surface, his one remaining glass eye spinning wildly as he tried to orient himself. The world above was a receding rectangle of grey sky, quickly vanished behind a heavy iron grate. Below, the air smelled of wet pennies and ancient laundry. He paddled his stubby, waterlogged arms with a dignity that was entirely undermined by the fact that he was currently floating past a discarded fast food wrapper.
"Don't look at me like that," he snapped at the wrapper. "I am a collector's item. You are a grease stain with aspirations."
The current pulled him deeper into the dark. The roar of the rain faded, replaced by the rhythmic, hollow dripping of the tunnels. Barnaby felt his weight doubling as the sewage soaked into his seams. If he didn't find dry ground soon, he would sink to the bottom and become a permanent resident of the silt, a fate he found personally insulting. He managed to snag his plastic claw on a protruding rusted pipe and hauled himself onto a narrow concrete ledge. He sat there for a moment, dripping and pathetic, squeezing his own stomach to wring out the filth.
"Well," he sighed, looking down at his flattened belly. "At least the diet is working."
Barnaby had been trekking through the gloom for what felt like hours, his damp fur making a squelching sound with every step. He was busy composing a scathing review of the city's drainage system in his head when he heard it: the sound of rhythmic, high pitched sobbing. It was coming from a side alcove illuminated by a flickering, dying emergency light.
He rounded the corner and stopped dead. It was a circle of toys. They were sat upon a discarded pizza box like knights of a very sad round table. There was a headless ballerina, a plastic dinosaur with a melted tail, and a wind up monkey that appeared to be missing its cymbals.
"And then," the ballerina was saying, her voice vibrating from somewhere in her chest cavity, "the girl simply... she simply let go of my hand. The wind took me. I am a leaf on the wind, forever lost to the abyss."
"Welcome, brother," the monkey chirped, its glass eyes fixed on Barnaby. "Join us. We are the Fellowship of the Forgotten. We are currently discussing the Five Stages of Abandonment. We are all on stage four: Profound Melancholy."
Barnaby stared at them, his one eye narrowing. "I'm on stage six: Getting Out of Here. Does anyone know where the nearest manhole cover is, or are we just going to sit here and wait for the mold to claim our souls?"
The dinosaur let out a long, wheezing sigh. "There is no escape, newcomer. The Great Loss is absolute. Once you pass through the iron gates, you are no longer a toy. You are a statistic. A cautionary tale about why children should wear mittens."
"You lot are a real riot," Barnaby said, wringing out his ear. "I've got a kid waiting for me. Well, a kid who dropped me, but I'm sure she's currently crying her eyes out and ruining the carpet. I have a purpose. I am a source of comfort, even if I find the job demeaning. Now, point me toward the surface or I'll start using your stuffing to patch my holes."
The ballerina stood up, her porcelain limbs clicking. "If you seek the Upward Path, you must face the Maw. It is a grate of iron and despair, guarded by the Great Rat King. But why bother? Here, we have community. We have a half eaten granola bar we found on Tuesday. We have... each other."
"I'd rather be a dog's chew toy," Barnaby said firmly.
To his surprise, the wind up monkey hopped down from the pizza box. "I will show you. The others have grown fond of their misery. It's a comfortable blanket, misery. But I remember the sound of a key turning in my back. I remember the music."
They set off together, a soggy bear and a cymbal-less monkey. The tunnels grew narrower, the water deeper. Barnaby found himself wading through a sludge that felt suspiciously like oatmeal.
"So," Barnaby said, trying to distract himself from the smell. "What's the deal with the Rat King? Is he a literal king, or just a rodent with a superiority complex?"
"He is a collection," the monkey whispered. "A tangle of tails and fur. He doesn't like intruders. He thinks all things that fall from above are his tithes."
"I'm nobody's tithe," Barnaby growled. He felt a strange sensation in his side. A tickle. He looked down and saw a patch of green fuzz spreading across his side. Mold. The Great Rot was setting in. He didn't have much time before his structural integrity became a mere suggestion.
They reached a massive iron grate that slanted upward toward a sliver of street light. It was clogged with debris: plastic bottles, tangled hairbrushes, and a mountain of grey fur. The mountain moved. Dozens of glowing red eyes blinked open in the dark. The Rat King was not one giant rat, but a writhing mass of dozens, their tails knotted together in a horrific, squeaking knot of biology.
"A bear," the mass hissed in a thousand tiny voices. "A soft, absorbent bear. You will make an excellent bed for our young."
Barnaby didn't hesitate. He wasn't a hero, but he was incredibly spiteful, and spite is a powerful fuel. "Listen here, you overgrown carpet remnants!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the damp walls. "I have survived a washing machine on the heavy duty cycle! I have been sat upon by a grandfather who weighed as much as a small moon! You do not scare me!"
He lunged forward, not with a sword, but with his own damp, heavy body. He swung his arm, the sodden weight of his waterlogged stuffing turning his limb into a mace. He smacked the lead rat across the snout with a wet 'thwack' that sounded like a steak hitting a floor.
"The monkey!" Barnaby yelled. "Start your gears! Make some noise!"
The monkey began to whir. Without his cymbals, his metal arms clapped against his hollow chest, creating a frantic, metallic drumming. The rats, sensitive to the vibration and the sudden aggression of a bear who should have been cowering, began to scatter. The knot of tails tightened, causing a cacophony of pained squeaks as they tripped over one another.
Barnaby scrambled over the writhing mass, using the Rat King as a bridge. He grabbed the iron bars of the upward grate. They were slick with slime, but he jammed his stubby legs into the gaps.
"Come on, you metal primate!" he barked.
The monkey hesitated. He looked back at the dark, comfortable misery of the tunnels, then up at the harsh, beautiful light of the street lamp above. He reached out a hand, and Barnaby hauled him up. Together, they squeezed through the narrow gap between the bars and the concrete.
They popped out onto the pavement like corks from a bottle. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Barnaby lay on his back on the cold asphalt, staring up at the neon sign of a nearby bodega. He was covered in filth, he was missing an eye, and he smelled like a wet basement, but he was above ground.
"Well," Barnaby said, watching the monkey try to stand on the uneven sidewalk. "That was harrowing. I think I'm going to retire after this. Maybe find a nice shelf in a library."
He looked down the street and saw a familiar sight: a small girl in a yellow raincoat, peering into a puddle and sobbing.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Barnaby muttered, though his stuffing felt a little warmer. "Here we go again."
He rolled himself into the middle of the sidewalk and struck his most 'lost but hopeful' pose. The monkey sat down beside him, a silent partner in the grand, ridiculous comedy of being a toy. Being lost was a tragedy for some, but for Barnaby, it was just the prologue to the next annoying adventure.
