The bell on my belt rang when I bent to tighten my bootlace, and the Mimic took it as an invitation to lick my ankle.
"Absolutely not," I said. The tongue was rough, like a wet file. I hopped, smearing chalk dust and shame. "We're not doing that."
The Mimic thumped, offended, then sat again. Or hovered near sitting. Its lid opened a crack and closed. Click. Click. It smelled like it had found religion and the religion was garbage.
A clipboard hit my chest.
"Sign," said a woman who hadn't been there a second ago. She wore a hard hat with more stickers than paint. Her beard-shadow said she shaved when she remembered. Her eyes said she remembered everything else. "Orientation waiver. Injury clause. Memory clause. Teeth clause."
"I already clocked in," I said.
She stared at me like I'd told her gravity was optional. "This is different clock-in. This is liability."
I signed. The pen bit me. Drew a bead of blood. The paper drank it and went warm. The Mimic leaned in and sniffed.
"No," she and I said together.
She nodded toward the Mimic. "Name it yet?"
"I'm not—"
"Good," she said. "Naming makes it harder to reassign."
She flipped the clipboard and walked, expecting me to follow. I did. Thump-thump followed me. The dungeon corridor narrowed into a place where the ceiling scraped your helmet if you forgot to duck. Rusted armor hung on pegs like coats no one came back for. A chalkboard leaned against the wall with WELCOME, NEW HIRES scrawled on it and WELCOME BACK, PROBATION scratched underneath.
"Rules," she said, tapping the board with a knuckle. "Rule one: Don't fight monsters. You're maintenance. If it has a quest icon, you call it in. If it bites you, you call it in louder."
"What if it's—"
"Rule two," she said. "Don't improve things. You fix them to spec. 'Better' gets people hurt."
She stopped at a gravity trap that was pulling a bucket sideways into a wall. The bucket rattled. The trap coughed. She handed me a chalk stick and pointed.
"Your turn."
I knelt. The stone felt colder here. The chalk resisted like before, only more. The line wanted to wander. I pushed. The wrench on my belt clinked against the pry bar. The Mimic sniffed the bucket and tried to eat the handle.
"Don't feed the Mimic," she said, not looking.
"It's the bucket," I said, tugging it away.
"Buckets count."
I finished the line. The trap steadied. The bucket fell, dented. The Mimic licked the dent like it was a story.
She checked the work, nodded once. "Passable. You pressed too hard here." She tapped a spot. "You'll cause echo drift."
"What's that?"
"Later," she said. "Or never, if you're lucky."
We moved on. The Save Points were like tired eyes down the hall, blinking at different speeds. I chalked. Bent. Pushed against the stone's stubbornness. Each fix rang the bell on my belt a little less. My hands went numb in a way that felt earned.
At the end of the corridor was a break nook. A bench. A sign that said Please Keep Moving withEXCEPT HERE! added in smaller letters. She dropped onto the bench and pulled a thermos from her vest.
"You hungry?" she asked.
I thought about the ham sandwich. Or what was left of it. The Mimic made a hopeful noise. "I was."
She poured coffee that smelled like burnt patience. "You'll learn to eat fast. And high. Or sealed."
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Marla," she said. "Supervisor. Sometimes."
"Eli."
She grunted. "Probation lasts six weeks or one incident. Whichever comes first."
The Mimic thumped into the nook and tried to curl around my boots. It shed a scale. It stuck to my sock.
Marla eyed it. "Looks like it picked you."
"I didn't want—"
"None of us did," she said, echoing the other supervisor like it was a joke they shared. "You keep it fed with scraps it finds itself. You don't feed it with your hands. You don't let it chew on the chalk. You ring the bell if it starts talking."
"It talks?"
"It tries," she said. "Mostly mouth noises."
Somewhere, an adventuring party shouted. Metal clanged. A Save Point flared too bright. I stood.
"I'll get it," I said.
Marla watched me go. "Clock's running, Eli. Don't rush."
I hurried anyway. The Mimic followed. Thump-thump. Loyal. Gross. The Save Point fought me harder this time. The chalk squealed. My wrist burned. I leaned into it, feeling the toolbelt pull, the wrench knocking my hip. The light settled.
Behind me, the Mimic wagged its lid. I patted it with my boot.
"Good trash can," I said, and immediately regretted it.
The bell rang.