The team meeting happened in a corridor that pinched at the shoulders and smelled like wet rope. Someone had chalked MEETING POINT on the wall and crossed it out three times, each X angrier than the last.
There were six of us. Maybe seven. It's hard to tell when one guy keeps phasing a little to the left like the dungeon hasn't decided where he belongs.
Marla stood at the front, clipboard out. No thermos this time. That meant business.
"Okay," she said. "Listen up. We've got an uptick in complaints."
A hand went up. A woman with a dented helm and boots that leaked water. "From adventurers or monsters?"
"Yes," Marla said.
The hand went down.
"Save Points are desyncing on the mid-levels. Gravity traps are drifting. And someone"—she looked directly at me "filed an incident report with the phrase 'the trash can tried to help.'"
I raised my hand halfway. "It did, though."
Marla didn't look at me. She flipped a page. "That's not a category."
The Mimic thumped at my side, offended. It had somehow acquired a scrap of banner cloth and was chewing it thoughtfully. I hadn't fed it. I was very clear on that.
"Rule reminder," Marla said. "No feeding Mimics. No naming Mimics. No emotional bonding with Mimics."
The guy who phased scratched his head. "What counts as bonding?"
"If you'd be sad if it got reassigned," Marla said, "that's bonding."
I stared at the wall.
The Mimic leaned against my shin. Thump.
"Next," Marla went on. "We're getting auditors."
A collective groan moved down the corridor like a bad wind.
"From where?" someone asked.
"Above," Marla said. "With clipboards. Clean boots. Questions."
"Questions about what?" the leaking-boot woman asked.
Marla's eyes flicked to the Mimic. "Everything."
The meeting broke the way meetings do: not cleanly. People drifted. Someone argued about chalk allotments. Someone else complained about bell sensitivity. I adjusted my belt and felt the weight settle wrong, like a tooth out of place.
Marla caught my sleeve as I turned to go. "You," she said. "Quick word."
We stepped aside. The Mimic tried to follow. Marla blocked it with her boot.
"Stay," she told it.
It stayed. Barely. The lid quivered.
"You're on probation," Marla said. "Which means I don't like surprises."
"I don't like them either," I said. "I fell over."
She nodded. "You did. You also bent a gravity seam with a wrench."
"I fixed it."
"You bent it and fixed it," she said. "That's worse."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. The dungeon hummed, low and thoughtful.
Marla sighed. "Look. Mimics usually latch onto food handlers. Or hoarders. Or idiots."
"Which one am I?" I asked.
She considered. "New."
The Mimic made a pleased sound at that.
Marla lowered her voice. "Auditors see a Mimic attached to a probationary hire, they'll call it a hazard. They'll reassign it. Or decommission it."
My stomach did the stair-miss thing again. "What does that mean."
"It means it becomes a chest," she said. "Permanently."
I looked at the Mimic. It had stopped chewing and was watching us, lid cracked, teeth quiet.
"Oh," I said.
Marla straightened. "So. You keep your head down. You follow spec. You don't improvise. And you definitely don't teach it tricks."
"I didn't..."
She raised a finger. "Also, there's a flicker near Shaft C. Go chalk it. Take the long way."
"Why the long way?"
She glanced at the ceiling. A pebble drifted sideways, then fell. "Because the short way is acting weird."
"Define weird."
"Later," she said.
I walked. The Mimic followed. Thump-thump. The corridor narrowed, widened, breathed. The flicker ahead pulsed like a bad sign. I pulled the chalk, pressed it to the stone. The resistance felt familiar now. Like a handshake I didn't like but knew how to do.
Behind me, the Mimic sat. Waited. Didn't eat anything.
"Good," I told it, quietly. "That's good."
The Save Point steadied. The bell rang once, soft.
Somewhere above us, clean boots walked.