Lunch breaks in the Gaping Maw Dungeon don't happen so much as they occur. Like cave-ins. Or weather.
I was halfway through re-chalking a Save Point that had started doing a nervous blink—on, off, on like it couldn't remember if it existed when my stomach made a noise loud enough to echo. The Mimic lifted its lid in concern.
"No," I told it. "That's me. Not you."
It thumped anyway. Sympathetic. Gross.
I checked the clock etched into the wall. It said 12:03 and NO, which felt personal. I rang the bell once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing. The adventuring party down the hall was arguing about loot weight and whether ropes counted as weapons. Someone dropped a shield. It rang forever.
I gave up and sat on my toolbox.
The break nook was technically back the way we came, but my legs felt like someone had replaced the bones with wet rope. I pulled my bag around, unzipped it, and stared at the crime scene. Half a ham sandwich. One bite missing, like a mouse had visited with standards.
I took a bite. The bread stuck to my teeth. The ham tasted like salt and regret.
The Mimic inched closer. Thump. Thump. Its lid cracked open, teeth clicking softly, hopeful.
"No," I said, chewing. "You already had your chance."
It sat. Or hovered. A string of drool hit the stone between us.
I took another bite. A pebble crunched. I spit. "Of course."
The Save Point flickered brighter, annoyed by my presence. I wiped my hands on my pants and grabbed the chalk. The stone resisted. Always. Like it was testing me. I pressed, feeling the grit bite back, the chalk vibrating up my arm. The circle steadied.
Behind me, the Mimic sneezed again and headbutted my bag. Thump.
"Hey," I said. "Personal space."
It backed up a step, then nudged the bag again, gentler. Thump.
I opened the bag and pulled out an apple. Bruised. Soft on one side. I turned it, considering. The Mimic watched, unblinking.
Marla's voice floated down the corridor. "Don't."
I hadn't seen her. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, thermos steaming. "That's feeding."
"It's fruit," I said.
"Buckets count," she said. "Apples definitely count."
The Mimic made a small, sad sound. I put the apple back. It licked the bag.
Marla nodded toward the Save Point. "You done?"
"Mostly."
She stepped closer, inspected the chalk line, pressed a thumb into it. "You're getting lighter. That's good. Or bad. Depends."
"On?"
"On whether you remember to eat," she said. She handed me a wrapped bar from her vest. The wrapper said PROTEIN (BEEF?!?).
I hesitated.
"Union-approved," she said. "For humans."
I tore it open and ate. It tasted like smoke and glue. It stayed down. Barely.
The Mimic watched with the focus of a creature who had learned disappointment.
We sat in the nook. The Please Keep Moving sign stared at us. Water dripped. The dungeon hummed like it was thinking.
"Why does it follow me?" I asked.
Marla shrugged. "Mimics pick. Smell, maybe. Or guilt."
"I don't feel guilty."
She snorted. "Give it time."
A bell rang somewhere else. Not mine. Marla stood. "Break's over."
I stood too, adjusted the belt. The Mimic rose and shook, dent popping, drool flying.
As we walked, I felt the weight settle into a rhythm. Toolbelt. Chalk. Wrench. Bell. Thump-thump behind me.
I wasn't less tired. But the dungeon felt… predictable. In pieces. Like a job.
And jobs, I knew how to do.