The bell rang because I tripped.
Not a heroic trip. Not a cinematic one. My boot caught a lip in the stone where a floor plate had sunk half an inch, and I went forward like a sack of damp laundry. The wrench bit my hip. The pry bar jabbed a rib. Chalk scattered like I'd dropped a box of teeth.
The Mimic tried to catch me.
It failed. But it tried. The lid snapped open, tongue out, teeth clicking in a way that suggested effort. We both hit the floor. Thump. Clang. Wet slap.
"Stay," I told it, face-down. My cheek was cold stone and old moss. I could taste metal. "I said stay."
It stayed. Mostly. Its lid hovered an inch above my hair, breathing on me. The smell was… affectionate.
I rolled over and sat up. The corridor sloped here, subtle enough to pretend it wasn't a problem. Water ran along the edge, collecting chalk dust into a paste that looked like bad toothpaste. The floor plate had a rune seam around it, thin and tired. A gravity assist panel. Meant to help carts. Not people. Definitely not people with toolbelts.
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
I rang the bell once, light. Nobody came. Somewhere deeper, something roared again, closer this time. It sounded like paperwork being torn.
I pulled the chalk and pressed it to the seam. The stone pushed back hard, like it resented being told what to do. The chalk squealed. My wrist screamed. The line jittered. I steadied my breathing and leaned, feeling the belt drag, the bell tick. The gravity tugged sideways, then down. My stomach lurched like I'd missed a step on stairs.
Behind me, the Mimic crept closer. Thump-thump. It sniffed the chalk paste and sneezed, spraying drool that glued a chalk stick to the floor.
"Don't," I said, reaching for it.
The Mimic ate the chalk.
There was a sound like biting into a lightbulb wrapped in bread. White dust puffed. The Mimic gagged, lid snapping open and closed. Click. Click. It spat. A tooth clattered across the stone and stopped at my knee. It was already regrowing. Little nubs like popcorn.
"Oh no," I said. "No no no."
The gravity panel flared. Too bright. The seam hummed. The floor plate shuddered.
I grabbed the wrench. The metal was cold, reassuring in a way magic never is. I jammed it into the seam and twisted. The resistance fought me like a rusted bolt that knew it was load-bearing. My shoulder burned. The wrench clinked. The panel screamed. A note, high and angry.
"Hey!" someone shouted down the corridor. "Maintenance!"
"On it," I shouted back, because what else do you say.
The Mimic retreated a step, offended by the noise. Thump. It whined. The lid wobbled.
I twisted again. Harder. The wrench slipped, skinned my knuckle. Blood dotted the chalk paste. The rune flickered, then dimmed. The gravity tug eased. The floor plate settled with a tired thunk.
I leaned back, panting. The bell on my belt rang like it was judging me.
"Don't eat the chalk," I told the Mimic, holding the stick up like a lecture.
It looked at the stick. Looked at me. Licked the floor where the chalk paste had been. Slurp.
Footsteps approached. Marla appeared, thermos in hand, eyes already narrowed.
"What happened," she said, not a question.
"I tripped," I said. "Then the chalk—"
She saw the tooth. The blood. The wrench jammed into the seam. She sighed the kind of sigh that comes from filling out forms in advance.
"Incident," she said. "You rang?"
"Light," I said. "Then it escalated."
"It always does," she said. She crouched, tapped the seam with her knuckle. "You bent it."
"I fixed it."
"You bent it," she repeated. "Different box."
She stood and looked at the Mimic. "Did you feed it?"
"No," I said, fast. "It ate the chalk."
Marla closed her eyes. Opened them. "Chalk counts."
The Mimic thumped and wagged its lid, chalk dust puffing from its mouth like it was proud.
Marla pulled a pad from her vest and started writing. The paper scratched. "Name?"
"Eli Barrow."
"Mimic involvement?"
"It tried to help."
She paused. "That's new."
"I didn't ask it to."
"Still new." She wrote more. "Damage?"
"Floor plate scuffed. One tooth. My knuckle."
She glanced at my hand. "Get a bandage at the nook. Don't bleed on the runes. They get ideas."
The adventurers arrived then. Three of them. Shiny armor. Clean boots. They stared at the Mimic, at the chalk mess, at me sitting on the floor like a problem.
"Is it safe?" one asked.
Marla smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Always was."
They stepped around us like we were furniture. The Save Point down the hall blinked steady. The gravity trap behaved.
Marla tore the page off the pad and handed it to me. "Preliminary report. You'll finish it at end of shift."
I looked at the paper. Boxes. Lines. A section labeled LESSONS LEARNED.
"What do I put there?" I asked.
She eyed the Mimic, now chewing gently on my bootlace. "Write what actually happened," she said. "Not what you wish did."
I nodded. I tied my lace higher. I patted the Mimic with the toe of my boot. It settled. Thump.
"Good trash can," I said, quietly this time.
Marla walked away. The corridor smelled like chalk and blood and damp moss. I stood, adjusted the belt, and rang the bell once, steady.
Back to work.