"You look terrible," Jay observed cheerfully as I stumbled into the kitchen. "Perfect timing! I was just thinking we needed to test your lock picking under debuffs."
I glared at him through bleary eyes. Three nights of pot scrubbing combined with trap dodging had left me feeling like I'd been trampled by the Beastmover. Twice.
"Shouldn't we start with something simple tonight?"
"Absolutely!" Jay agreed, far too enthusiastically. "Which is why I've prepared this delightfully straightforward challenge." He gestured to what appeared to be an entire section of the kitchen counter that had been converted into some sort of mechanical nightmare. "You just need to pick this complex lock while balancing on one foot, after spinning ten times, while reciting the Guild's code of conduct backwards."
"You're joking."
"Only about the code of conduct part. I'm not completely unreasonable." He paused. "Though that could make an interesting addition…"
"What followed was two hours of what Jay called 'endurance training' and what I called 'sanctioned torture.' The complex lock itself defied basic logic—something about alternating tumblers and a mechanism that changed direction every thirty seconds. But Jay kept adding increasingly diabolical obstacles to make it more interesting, like balancing on a ball or dodging flying spatulas.
"Remember," he called out as I struggled with the lock while trying not to fall off the small platform he'd insisted I stand on, "fatigue is just a state of mind! Although in your case, it might be several states. Possibly a small continent."
"Can't... concentrate..." I muttered, losing my balance for the third time. "Everything's spinning..."
"Excellent! That's exactly the debuff we're looking for. Now, try it with your non-dominant hand."
"I'm using my non-dominant hand!"
"Are you? Fascinating! That explains so much about your technique. Or lack thereof."
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to three hours, I finally picked the complex lock while swaying like a drunk sailor in a storm. Jay had been helpfully adding to the challenge by occasionally throwing dried peas at my head, claiming it was "simulation of adverse conditions."
"Congratulations!" He beamed, making another note in his ever-present notebook. "That's your second complex lock, and we can check off 'picking under debuff' from the requirements. Though I must say, your technique, while exhausted, is remarkably similar to your regular technique."
"Thanks... I think?"
"Oh, it wasn't a compliment. Now, ready for the corridor again? I've made some improvements!"
The word 'improvements' from Jay's mouth should have sent me running. Instead, I just sighed and followed him to the hallway, which somehow looked even more ominous than yesterday.
"I've added some exciting new features," Jay explained, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. "You liked the beans so much yesterday..."
"I did not."
"... that I expanded on the concept. Also, I found some fascinating old kitchen equipment in storage. Did you know you can repurpose a bread maker into a surprisingly effective launching mechanism?"
The corridor now featured what appeared to be multiple levels of triggers, some obvious, others barely visible in the dim light. And was that... music?
"Oh yes," Jay noticed my confused expression. "I added bells. They're connected to some triggers. Think of it as an audio warning system. Or possibly just entertainment for me. Either way, try not to make too much of a melody—the evening shift is still complaining about yesterday's performance."
I took a deep breath and started down the corridor, checking each step carefully. The first few feet went surprisingly well.
"You're learning!" Jay called out. "Notice how you've avoided the obvious floor trigger by checking for shadow patterns? Very good! Of course, that means you're about to step into the actually dangerous one..."
I froze mid-step, suddenly noticing the almost invisible wire at waist height. "What would this one do?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just a small demonstration of how well flour burns."
"WHAT?!"
"Joking! Mostly. It's actually connected to the water barrel above you. Although now that you mention it, flour would be an interesting addition..."
Dodging the water trap led to an even more intricate section of the corridor. Jay had somehow created a series of interconnected triggers—each one activating others in increasingly complex ways.
"Think of it as a dance," he suggested, watching me contort my body around various wires and pressure plates. "Painful and humiliating, but still a dance."
"Since when... do dances... involve flying cutlery?" I gasped, narrowly avoiding a spatula that shot past my ear.
"Clearly, you've never been to a dwarven wedding. Though they usually aim better." He made another note. "Speaking of aim, duck."
I dropped instinctively, hearing something whistle overhead.
"What was that?!"
"Remember those lemons from yesterday? I had extras."
The corridor had become Jay's personal playground of culinary warfare. Each section presented new challenges: rolling pins that swung from the ceiling, perfectly timed drops of what I hoped was just water, and at one point, an entire shelf that rotated to reveal... nothing.
"That one's just psychological," Jay explained proudly. "Sometimes the best trap is the one that makes you question your sanity."
"I started questioning my sanity the moment I met you."
"Flattery will get you everywhere! But it won't get you past the next section. Mind the floor tiles—they're not all as solid as they look."
After another hour of what Jay insisted on calling "environmental awareness training," I'd navigated most of the corridor without major incident. Though I was wearing more of the kitchen's inventory than I'd avoided.
"Time for one more complex lock before we wrap up," Jay announced, producing what looked like a normal lock attached to... was that a small waterwheel?
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
"Please tell me that's not water-powered."
"Fine, I won't tell you." He grinned. "Though I should mention that picking this while dry would be missing the point entirely."
The lock's true challenge revealed itself when water flowed through the mechanism, creating a constantly changing pattern of tumblers that had to be caught at exactly the right moment. "I borrowed the design from a Dwarven bathhouse," Jay explained as I got soaked for the fifth time. "They're very particular about who uses their facilities. Something about beard length requirements..."
Two hours and several near-drownings later, I finally cracked it.
"Well done!" Jay exclaimed, handing me a towel. "Though I wish you'd stop looking like a frozen ghost. It clashes with the kitchen decor."
"Can we be done now? I can't feel my fingers."
"Almost! Just one small thing..." He produced a familiar notebook. "Let's review today's progress:
Progress Report:
Lock-picking:
-
Complex lock picked: 2/3 (Water-wheel lock complete)
-
Debuff requirement: Complete (exhaustion counts double when wet)
-
Lockpicking EXP: +80 (now 200/300)
Trap Detection:
-
Corridor navigation: Improving (though still more graceful ways to fall)
-
Trap Detection EXP: +75 (now 120/300)
Additional Notes:
-
Various new bruises: Catalogued and sketched for future reference
-
Kitchen utensils dodged: Most of them
-
Dignity: Waterlogged
-
Dry Clothes Remaining: 0
-
Regrets: Many
He closed the notebook with a flourish. "Tomorrow's our last session, so I'm planning something special. Tell me, how do you feel about blindfolds?"
"No."
"Perfect! Also, bring a change of clothes. And maybe some burn ointment. Oh, and how are you with heights?"
I was already walking away, leaving a trail of water and what remained of my dignity.
Remember," Jay called after me, "tomorrow we make history! Or at least, I get to see if all this chaos actually turns you into a proper lock-picker. Should be fun either way!
"As I squished my way home, I contemplated if it was too late to take up a nice, safe profession. Like dragon taming. Or volcano diving."
"Your translations are... erratic today," Myra observed, eyeing the way I was shifting uncomfortably in my chair. "Though I suppose being thoroughly thrashed by Mac might affect one's concentration."
I winced, both at her assessment and the lingering aches from yesterday's 'lesson.' My whole body felt like one big bruise, each muscle protesting any movement. I couldn't help but feel a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "You heard about that?"
"Oh, everyone heard about it." Her innocent smile held just a touch too much satisfaction. "I particularly enjoyed the part where you discovered the difference between thinking you understand rhythm and actually understanding it. Face-first, from what I hear."
"I didn't hit the ground that hard," I muttered.
"The impact crater suggests otherwise." She turned a page delicately. "I only wish I could have seen it personally. For professional documentation, of course. These things must be properly studied.
"Your concern is touching."
"Indeed. Almost as touching as Mac's demonstration of true dual-wielding mastery." Her eyes sparkled with barely contained amusement. "Though I hear you landed one decent strike before he stopped playing nice."
I focused on the text before me, trying to ignore both her commentary and the phantom aches from yesterday's 'education.' "We're almost done with this report, right? Just need to compile our findings and—"
Don't change the subject," Myra chided. "I want to hear more about this 'unplanned tactical retreat' everyone's talking about. I find it fascinating how you consistently transform simple training sessions into performance art."
"At least I'm providing entertainment," I grumbled, tracing a complex cipher pattern. "Though I notice you're much more interested in my combat mishaps than our actual progress on these translations."
"Multi-tasking is a valuable skill," Myra replied smoothly. "Besides, understanding different types of... rhythmic patterns applies to our work." She gestured to the documents spread before us. "Speaking of which, did Mac really conduct that entire lesson without dropping his perfect stance? Even while teaching you the meaning of humility?"
"Can we focus on the report? We're so close to finishing—"
"Oh, we'll finish," she assured me, making another precise notation. "But I feel it's my duty as your translation partner to fully understand how different types of instruction might affect your pattern recognition. For instance, I hear Jay has some special plans for your final evening of training."
I froze. "How did you—"
"Word travels fast, especially when it involves potential entertainment." Her quill never stopped moving as she spoke. "Something about blindfolds and heights? I'm sure it will be thoroughly educational. For everyone watching."
"There won't be anyone watching," I said firmly, though with less confidence than I'd like.
"Of course not. Though purely hypothetically, if someone were to happen by the kitchen during your training..." She finally looked up, expression perfectly innocent. "What time did you say that was happening?"
"I didn't say," I muttered, squinting at a challenging section of code. "And I'm thinking the kitchen should be off-limits to everyone except trainees and their apparently sadistic instructors."
"How unreasonable of you," Myra commented, adding another neat line to our nearly complete report. "Especially since the kitchen is such a fascinating place lately. I heard the most interesting rumours about flying produce and creative uses for kitchen equipment. Something about a weaponized bread maker?"
I shifted uncomfortably, remembering Jay's enthusiastic 'improvements' to the training corridor. "The bread maker was an accident."
"Ah yes, like the butterflies?" Her eyes sparkled with barely contained mirth. "You seem to have a talent for accidental innovations. Though I must say, your ability to turn simple training exercises into spectacular displays of chaos is almost impressive."
"Says the person who's never had to dodge airborne cutlery while picking a lock."
"True," she conceded, turning another page. "I prefer my entertainment from a safe distance. Much like Mac did yesterday, from what I hear. At least until you made that comment about his stance..."
"I didn't know he could move that fast," I admitted, rubbing my still-sore shoulder.
"Few do. Fewer survive to tell about it." She paused, tapping her quill thoughtfully. "Though I must say, your technique for meeting the ground was... unique. Have you considered turning it into a formal defensive manoeuvre? We could call it 'The Brendan Drop.'"
"The Brendan Drop?" I looked up from a cryptic passage. "Really?"
"Absolutely. It could be very useful," Myra continued, her face a mask of scholarly interest. "Especially if one needs to demonstrate what not to do. Though I hear you've mastered several variations now, thanks to Jay's corridor of culinary consequences."
"Speaking of consequences," I said, trying to redirect the conversation, "this section here seems to suggest—"
"Oh yes, fascinating pattern," she interrupted, barely glancing at where I was pointing. "Almost as interesting as the pattern of bruises you're collecting. I'm particularly impressed by how you acquire them in increasingly creative ways. The one from the water-wheel lock is unique."
I unconsciously rubbed my elbow, still damp from yesterday's adventures. "How do you even know about that?"
"I have my sources." She made another precise notation. "Though I must say, your ability to turn simple training exercises into impromptu swimming lessons is remarkable. Most people just pick locks. You turn it into performance art."
"Can we please focus on finishing this report? We're almost done and—"
"Of course, of course." She nodded seriously, though her eyes still danced with barely contained amusement. "Though I have one minor question about your upcoming final session with Jay..."
I groaned. "No."
"I haven't even asked yet!"
"Whatever it is, no."
"I was merely wondering if you'd considered wearing something waterproof. And possibly flame-resistant." She paused delicately. "Given your track record, it seems prudent to prepare for... multiple possibilities."
"We are actually almost done with the report," Myra said, her tone shifting to something more professional, though that amused glint never left her eyes. "Just need to compile these last few patterns and... there." She drew a final elegant line across the page. "A complete analysis of hidden supply routes, disguised as perfectly mundane requisition forms. With only minimal water damage from your... adventures."
I leaned back, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension. Relief at almost completing the report, apprehension about what Jay had planned for tonight. "So we'll be ready to submit this in two days?" "Indeed. Though I do hope you'll keep it dry until then. Given your recent tendency to end up soaked, singed, or suspended in various creative positions..." She began gathering the papers with meticulous care. "Perhaps I should make a copy. Just in case you encounter any more 'training accidents' between now and then."
"Your confidence in me is overwhelming."
"Oh, I have complete confidence," she assured me, securing the documents in her satchel. "Confidence that whatever happens in your final session with Jay will be absolutely worth hearing about. Though I suppose I should wish you luck." She stood, straightening her robes. "Try not to destroy too much kitchen equipment. Some of us actually enjoy eating here."
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door. "Oh, and Brendan?"
"Yes?"
"Do try to fall in interesting ways tonight. I've got a small wager riding on how many times you'll end up upside down."
Before I could respond, she was gone, leaving me with the distinct impression that my evening's performance would have a more extensive audience than Jay had led me to believe.