My name's Eli Barrow, and the first thing I learned about the Gaping Maw Dungeon was that it smells like wet pennies and old bread.
The second thing was that the time clock bites.
"Don't touch it with bare hands," the supervisor said, already lighting a cigarette that tasted like rules being ignored. He had a vest with the Union sigil stitched on crooked and a face that had given up around the eyes. "Use the stylus. Or you'll lose a fingertip. Or a memory. Depends what mood it's in."
The clock was a slab of stone bolted to the cave mouth, veins of dull blue light pulsing like it had a headache. A row of names was scratched into it, some crossed out, some circled, one burned away entirely. I used the stylus. It buzzed. The stone sucked the sound up and spat out a stamp of light next to my name. ELI BARROW – PROBATIONARY.
"Toolbelt," the supervisor said, jerking his chin toward a crate.
The crate was labeled BELTS ((RUSTED)) in charcoal. Inside were loops of leather stiff as old jerky, buckles furred with orange rust. Mine had a wrench, a pry bar, a bundle of chalk sticks wrapped in oilcloth, and a little brass bell that rang when I moved wrong. Everything weighed more than it looked like it should. The belt dragged my pants down. I cinched it and felt the pull in my lower back immediately. Good morning.
"And," the supervisor added, flicking ash into the cave, "don't feed the Mimic."
I looked at the trash can next to the crate. Dent on the side. Lid half open. Someone had drawn a smiley face on it that had been scratched out and redrawn so many times it looked like a rash.
"Got it," I said. "No feeding."
He laughed like his lungs hated him. "They all say that."
I took my lunch out of my bag—cheap ham sandwich, bread sweating through the wax paper. I was hungry already. The cave air does that. Makes your stomach think it's a hole. I turned to stuff the wrapper back in the bag and the sandwich slipped. One corner tore. A slice of ham slid out and hit the stone with a sad little sound.
The trash can moved.
The lid snapped open and a tongue—thick, gray, studded with teeth like bottle caps—shot out and slapped the ham off the ground. The can made a pleased noise. A wet, satisfied gulp. The lid closed. The dent shifted like a shoulder settling.
"Oh come on," I said.
The supervisor didn't even look. "That's feeding."
"It fell."
"Gravity feeds too," he said. "You just gave it a taste."
The trash can—Mimic—shuffled closer. Thump. Thump. Each step sounded like a boot pulled out of mud. A string of drool hung from the lip of the lid and slapped the stone when it walked. It smelled like moldy bread and iron.
"Shoo," I told it. I nudged it with my boot. The can leaned into it like a dog. Thump-thump. It followed.
The supervisor finally glanced over. "Congratulations," he said. "You got yourself a tail."
"I didn't want—"
"None of us did," he said. "Clock-in's done. First job's inside. Save Point on the left corridor's flickering. Chalk it or we'll have adventurers stacking up like carts at a bad supermarket."
He walked away, cigarette ember bobbing. The cave swallowed him.
I stepped into the Gaping Maw. The light dropped ten degrees. Moss slicked the walls. Water dripped with a rhythm that felt like someone tapping their watch. My boots stuck and peeled free. Thump-thump behind me. Loyal. Gross.
The Save Point was a circle scratched into the stone floor, lines worn thin by boots and bad luck. It glowed, then didn't. Glowed, then sagged like a tired eye. A gravity trap nearby was doing the same, pulling dust sideways in little coughs.
"Okay," I said to nobody. "Chalk."
I pulled a stick from the oilcloth. It was heavier than classroom chalk, veined with metal. When I pressed it to the stone, it resisted. Not like writing. Like pushing a shopping cart with a bad wheel. The chalk squealed. Metal on rock. My wrist buzzed. I traced the circle, thickening the line, filling cracks with white grit that smelled sharp.
The Save Point flared too bright, then settled. The gravity trap hiccupped and pulled a pebble down where it belonged.
Behind me, the Mimic sniffed the chalk dust and sneezed. Teeth clicked. It wagged its lid. Thump-thump.
"Don't," I told it, pointing the chalk like a warning. "This isn't food."
It sat. Or tried to. The can tipped, corrected, dent popping in and out. A string of drool hit my boot.
I wiped my hands on my pants and leaned on the wrench, feeling the cold through the rust. My back already hurt. The bell on my belt gave a tiny ring like it was laughing.
Somewhere deeper in the dungeon, something roared. It sounded annoyed. I checked the chalk lines again, pressed harder where the stone fought me, and took a breath that tasted like damp moss and metal.
First day. Clocked in. And the trash can loved me.