B’doom moved through the decaying streets of The City of Cities, his heavy staff thudding against fractured cobblestones, each step echoing as he walked. Buildings loomed on either side, their facades cracked and blistered, windows shattered and hollow like the sockets of forgotten skeletons. Moss crept up stone walls where ivy had once grown, now dried into brittle curls. The air was heavy and damp, thick with the faint metallic scent of rust and the slow rot of a city that had forgotten how to live.
He paused beneath a crumbling overpass, where fractured vines hung like limp threads, their roots exposed and withered. A cold wind whispered through the alleys, carrying with it dust, dead leaves, and something older—memories embedded in the bones of the city. B’doom could feel it beneath his boots, in the cracked stone and buried soil—the cycle of growth and decay, interrupted but not broken.
He moved on, the streets widening as he neared the outskirts, where the gardens had once been a beacon of life. Now they sat on the edge of ruin, swallowed by the city’s neglect. Once a sanctuary for nature’s resilience, the gardens had been repurposed, renamed, and eventually abandoned. What had once been a living tapestry of mycelium and wild growth was now a hollowed-out relic—another forgotten corner of a city that no longer remembered its roots.
The gates of the garden loomed ahead, their iron bars twisted with rust and draped in dry, crumbling ivy. The grand archway—once painted in vibrant colors—had long since peeled down to blistered wood, the hand-painted letters barely legible: The Shroom Zoo – A Living Fungal Experience!
B’doom stood still for a moment, heavy staff in hand, tusks angled down in thought. The air here was thick—damp with the smell of rot and something older beneath it. Forgotten spores, perhaps, still lingering in the dirt. He could feel it in his bones. Life didn’t die here—it waited.
He pushed the gate open. It creaked like an old rib cage.
The zoo stretched out in a labyrinth of collapsed walkways, cracked glass domes, and skeletal remains of fungal exhibits. The central biodome, once the heart of the zoo, sagged inward, its panes fogged with grime. Paths that had once guided crowds were now covered in moss and graffiti—scrawled slogans like “SPORE-GET-ME-NOT” and “FUN GUY, DEAD CITY”.
B’doom moved deeper, boots soft against the moss, when a small figure emerged from behind a toppled information kiosk.
“Ah! Visitor!”
The voice was thin but eager. From the shadows waddled a squat myconid, a mushroom-person, barely three feet tall. His cap, once likely broad and smooth, had curled inward over time, dry and frayed around the edges, resembling an old, shriveled chanterelle. Pale, dusty spores clung to his frame like cobwebs. His wide, glassy eyes blinked up at B’doom with startling sincerity.
“I’m Spib!” he announced, as if this was the most important thing B’doom would hear all day. “Caretaker. Tour guide. Security. Gift shop attendant. Last of the staff.”
B’doom regarded him silently, then offered a slow nod. “I am B’doom.”
“Ah, of course! Right this way!” Spib flapped a stubby arm, turning with surprising enthusiasm toward a broken pathway. “Welcome to the Shroom Zoo! Founded… uh… quite some time ago, this esteemed institution once housed the largest collection of curated fungal lifeforms in the City of Cities! And here—” he gestured to a withered clump of gray mold “—you’ll see what remains of the Glowing Slimecap Exhibit. Used to shimmer all pretty-like in the evenings. Now it’s, uh… mostly dust. But good dust!”
B’doom followed as Spib waddled ahead, his voice bright despite the decay. The tour was at first charming in its awkwardness. Spib pointed out cracked enclosures, each with faded placards: “The Singing Sporespire”, “The Whispering Mycelium”, “Fungus Among Us – The Interactive Exhibit”. Each one long dead or buried under moss.
“And here,” Spib continued, barely pausing for breath, “is the Grand Sporesphere! Used to release a coordinated spore cloud every solstice. Big hit with school groups. Of course, the mechanism jammed decades ago—oh! And this! This was my favorite—the Rainbow Puff Grove. Puffed colorful clouds on the hour. Haven’t seen a rainbow puff in… oh, must be fifty years now. But sometimes the dust kinda shifts in the breeze if you squint!”
The myconid didn’t notice B’doom’s silence deepening. Spib’s voice grew increasingly dry, the details more granular and dull. He now recounted visitor numbers from long-past years and the exact length of the zoo’s longest spore trail.
“—and of course, in the year 10707, we saw record rainfall, which led to an unexpected bloom of the Mudcap Swell! Had to reroute the whole east wing for safety. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
B’doom grunted, slowing his steps. Spib, still chattering, didn’t notice.
The zoo wasn’t just dead—it had been held in place by Spib’s devotion, like a corpse kept from decay. And yet, beneath B’doom’s feet, he could still feel it—the faintest pulse in the soil. The network hadn’t died. It had gone quiet. Waiting.
Spib pointed to a broken vending machine. “Used to sell glow-in-the-dark spore plushies here. Never got one myself. Always meant to.”
B’doom set his staff down, the butt of it thudding against soft earth. “Spib.”
The myconid turned, mid-ramble.
“This was a garden once,” B’doom rumbled. “Not a zoo.”
Spib tilted his cap in confusion, but B’doom wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on the cracked earth, the buried threads of life still sleeping below.
“Let’s wake it up.”
B’doom’s staff glowed faintly as he pressed it into the ground, the wood humming in response to the buried network of roots and threads still alive beneath the surface. He closed his eyes, feeling the faint, brittle tendrils deep in the soil, a dormant memory of the garden’s former life.
With a low, guttural chant, the earth responded. Moss brightened, creeping across broken paths, and skeletal mushroom stalks pulsed with a sluggish but growing light. The air thickened as spores lifted in lazy clouds, drifting upward like ash. Where rot had crusted over the soil, it now split, releasing fresh shoots and tiny sprouting caps.
Spib stood frozen, wide-eyed. “You—you can talk to them?”
B’doom didn’t answer right away. His connection ran deeper than language. He felt the fungi stir, recognizing his presence like an old friend’s return. His fingers traced a broken path until they brushed against something solid—cool stone buried beneath layers of detritus.
He cleared the debris with steady hands, revealing a weathered stone marker. Its surface was etched with ancient druidic runes that glowed faintly as the light of his staff touched them. The symbol at its center—a swirling spiral framed by four branching lines—was instantly familiar.
“Spore stones,” B’doom murmured, more to himself than to Spib.
Spib shuffled closer, spores puffing out nervously. “What… what are those?”
“They’re anchors,” B’doom explained, running a calloused thumb over the grooves. “I planted them long before this became a zoo. Each stone holds a principle—growth, decay, renewal, and memory. Together, they bind the garden’s life cycle, guiding it, letting it flourish even when left alone.”
He stood, his tusks low in thought. “But they’ve been buried. Forgotten. The cycle stalled.”
B’doom moved deeper into the garden, his staff humming as he traced the network underground. One by one, he uncovered more spore stones—each nestled where key fungal clusters had once thrived. The stone of Growth was cracked but still pulsing faintly beneath a mound of moss. The stone of Decay was nearly swallowed by black rot, its edges brittle. Renewal lay half-buried under collapsed debris, its spiral worn thin by time. Memory—the last—sat at the garden’s heart, untouched, its surface still smooth.
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As each stone was unearthed, the garden stirred. Mushrooms that had been gray and brittle blushed with new colors, their caps lifting as though waking from a long sleep. Mycelium threads thickened, their web-like networks growing stronger.
Spib knelt beside the stone of Renewal, tracing its spiral with a trembling finger. “I thought this place was just… a zoo. A display.”
B’doom’s deep voice rumbled in response. “It was never meant to be a spectacle. It was meant to live—to grow and decay as it needed. To remind the city that balance isn’t something you force. It’s something you tend.”
Spib was silent for a long moment, spores drifting gently from his cap. “And we forgot.”
B’doom placed a heavy hand on the myconid’s cap. “But forgetting isn’t the end. So long as someone remembers.”
The garden pulsed again—deeper this time—as if in agreement. The spore stones, reconnected, hummed with buried strength. Threads of mycelium crawled toward them, weaving the network back together. In the distance, collapsed domes creaked as vines and moss began reclaiming the glass.
B’doom stepped back, taking in the view as color and life returned in slow, deliberate waves. “The cycle’s mending itself now.”
Spib’s spores puffed bright yellow in excitement. “We can fix it?”
B’doom smiled—a slow, tusked grin. “It’s already fixing itself. We’re just giving it a push.”
Above them, clouds of spores drifted into the sky, catching the sunlight in a glittering haze. The garden, long dormant, was awake again—guided by ancient rhythms and the hands that remembered them.
As the fungi spread, vibrant and wild, B’doom noticed a subtle deviation in the mycelium’s path. Certain threads twisted in peculiar, deliberate patterns—networks that didn’t align with his original design.
He crouched low, brushing away moss until he found the source—clusters of fungi that had adapted in the zoo’s absence. They had formed intricate, city-like lattice structures beneath the soil, mimicking the streets outside.
“These weren’t planted,” B’doom murmured, tracing the latticework with a heavy finger. “They grew this way… on their own.”
Spib peered over his shoulder, spores drifting in a nervous cloud. “They… copied the city?”
B’doom nodded slowly. “The fungi adapted to what they knew. They mirrored the life around them—the movement, the networks, the flow.”
The realization hit hard: the garden hadn’t just survived; it had evolved, creating a microcosm of the city it had been forgotten within. The mycelium had mapped it, recorded it, and in some ways, preserved its essence better than the city itself had.
B’doom followed the network deeper into the garden’s heart, where a massive fungal bloom had formed—a towering spire of tangled caps and thick, veined stalks. It pulsed faintly, like a heart.
“It remembers everything,” B’doom whispered.
He reached out, pressing his palm against the spire. Visions flickered across his mind—images of the city’s past, its growth, its decay, all stored within the fungal memory. The garden had become a living archive.
Spib, wide-eyed, whispered, “It’s been watching us the whole time.”
B’doom pulled his hand away. “Not watching. Becoming.”
The garden hadn’t just survived its neglect—it had become something new. Something aware.
B’doom turned to Spib, his tusks low in contemplation. “We can’t control this place anymore. It’s beyond that. But we can still care for it.”
Spib’s spores flared bright in agreement. “Then let’s help it grow.”
The two stood beneath the towering spire, the garden breathing around them, alive in ways neither had expected, its secrets laid bare—and still growing.
B’doom sat beneath the fungal spire, its towering caps casting a dappled shade across the rejuvenated garden. Around him, Shroom Zoo no longer resembled its decayed past. Vivid clusters of mushrooms thrived where broken glass once lay, and new paths of moss snaked between the resurrected exhibits, weaving the garden back into a living tapestry.
Spib sat nearby, his cap glistening with fresh spores, quietly arranging a pile of colorful stones into a spiraling pattern. His earlier nervousness had faded, replaced by a calm sense of purpose.
“This place feels... different now,” Spib mused, watching a group of bioluminescent caps flicker in rhythm, like a quiet heartbeat. “Like it’s breathing again.”
He let out a slow puff of spores, his cap drooping slightly. “Used to be... busier, though. Back when there were more of us. Other myconids. We had a whole team, you know? Took shifts tending to the exhibits, polishing the observation domes, running the gift shop. We even had a Spore Chef who made the finest fermented lichen pies.”
Spib chuckled, the sound a hollow rasp. “Old Piv was the best at organizing spore clouds for the solstice festivals. Always got the colors right—deep violets, bright oranges. Visitors loved it. We even won an award once. ‘Best Fungal Display in the City.’ Got a plaque and everything.”
His glassy eyes dimmed for a moment. “But... they all left when the crowds stopped coming. Some faded, others went looking for other gardens. I stayed. Someone had to. Couldn’t just let it all go.”
B’doom was silent, the weight of Spib’s memories heavy between them. Finally, he rumbled, “You kept it alive, even if it was only barely breathing.”
Spib’s spores flared a faint blue. “Did my best. But it’s good... seeing it wake up again. Feels less lonely.”
B’doom nodded, his tusks low in thought. “It always could. It just needed to remember how.”
He traced a claw through the dirt, sketching a spiral—a symbol of endless cycles. Growth. Decay. Renewal. The city had forgotten these cycles, burying them beneath stone and steel. But here, in this garden, the balance remained.
A distant wind stirred, carrying a cascade of spores into the sky. They drifted upward, pale motes against the towering skyline of the City of Cities, before disappearing into the haze.
“This place could be more than it ever was,” B’doom said quietly. “Not just a zoo. Not just a garden. But a sanctuary.”
Spib brightened. “For the fungi?”
“For the city,” B’doom corrected. “For anyone who needs it.”
Spib tilted his head, spores puffing in a puzzled cloud. “You talk like... like you’re someone important. Are you even real? Or did I inhale some kind of hallucinogenic spores again?”
B’doom let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “I’m real enough. I’m B’doom—founder of this garden. Long before it became a zoo.”
Spib blinked, his wide, glassy eyes reflecting the soft glow of the revitalized fungi. “Founder? That’s... that’s big. I thought this place just... appeared. Like all gardens do.”
“I was part of The Number,” B’doom added, tapping his staff into the soft soil.
Spib tilted his cap further, his glassy eyes wide. “The Number? Never heard of it.”
B’doom chuckled softly, the sound deep and earthy. “Doesn’t surprise me. We haven’t been around for a long time. But back then… we were something. A gathering of the finest mages, scholars, and thinkers. Wizards who could move mountains, bend rivers, shape the very weave of magic.”
He grew quiet for a moment, lost in the swell of old memories. “We weren’t a formal order—more of a family. Each of us brought something different. There was Utopianna, who could see beyond sight, reading fate like it was an open book. Krungus, brilliant and mad in equal measure, built wonders and nightmares alike. And Sharrzaman… clever, powerful, but slippery as an eel. Not all of us saw eye-to-eye, but together? We were unstoppable.”
Spib sat forward, spores puffing in slow, fascinated bursts. “Sounds... impressive. Like some kind of legendary hero squad.”
B’doom’s tusks curved into a bittersweet smile. “Maybe. Or maybe we were just fools who thought we could outlast time itself.” He traced a claw through the moss, sketching the rough outline of a spiral—The Number’s emblem. “We built cities, reshaped landscapes, crafted relics meant to endure. But time… it eats everything eventually.”
Spib tilted his head. “So what happened?”
B’doom let out a heavy breath. “We scattered. Fractured under the weight of our own ambition. Some of us died. Some disappeared. And me?” He tapped the soft soil again with his staff. “I chose things like this. Places that could grow without us—without anyone. I wanted something that didn’t need a mage’s hand to keep it alive. Something that would thrive on its own.”
Spib was quiet, spores swirling gently around him. “Guess it kinda worked. Even after all this time, this place was still here. Waiting.”
B’doom nodded. “Waiting for someone to remember.”
Spib’s spores flared a faint blue. “Well, I’m glad you did. Even if I’m still not totally sure you’re not a spore-induced hallucination.”
B’doom let out a rumbling laugh. “Real enough, Spib. Real enough.”
Spib shrugged, his spores puffing in gentle amusement. “Still sounds impressive. You got the ‘wise ancient druid’ thing going strong, at least.”
B’doom grunted in approval. “I’ll take that.”
Spib sat down heavily on a mossy stone, his cap drooping slightly. “Guess it makes sense now. Why the garden listened to you. Why it’s awake again.”
“Because it remembers,” B’doom agreed. “And now, so do you.”
The idea settled between them, heavy with promise. The Shroom Zoo, long forgotten and decayed, could become something new—an anchor point of life in a city that too often chose ruin.
B’doom stood, gripping his staff. “But it won’t happen on its own. It’ll need caretakers.”
Spib puffed a small cloud of spores in pride. “I’m good at that.”
B’doom smiled—a slow, tusked grin. “You’re better than you know.”
As they worked through the rest of the day, clearing debris and planting new spores, the garden’s pulse deepened. It had been forgotten, yes—but now, it was remembered. And in that remembering, it would thrive.
When B’doom finally left, the gates of the Shroom Zoo no longer creaked with the sound of a forgotten ruin. Instead, they opened with purpose, the spores riding the wind.
