Dry.

Dry was how Dagmar liked his terrain, dry open fields of long red grass or sloping tundra mountains with vast expanses of scratching undergrowth. The tunnels Dagmar drudged through currently were wet and unpleasant, the dark he could deal with however. He had been walking for some time when he realized he'd lost his orientation, he knew if he turned back he would be doubly lost, so he kept his right foot in front of his left and the vice versa.

Upon arrival on the station, he had noted how the grain of most streets ran into the city center, they must have been put down from the outside in. He could tell by touching the slimy ceiling that he was heading to the outer rims, but he needed to get above ground, he couldn't take this shit anymore - literally, the shit was unbearable.

The first ladder his strained eyes came across on his next turn, he would take, he decided. On his next turn he took a left, and was instantly confronted by the steel bars of a metal ladder. It would seem fate was easing up on him, but he had been at the eye of many storms, and this felt a lot like those.

Gripping the cold but secure ladder, Dagmar climbed slowly, taking the time to keep his feet steady. When he reached the top of the ladder he pushed his forearm up above his head and drove his legs up. The latch clicked, and the top receded.