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Here was the thing: Taym didn't actually ever want to think, at least not in the introspective, directionless, non-goal-oriented sort of way. Thinking led to bad places.

Thinking was hard to avoid right now. He'd tried sleeping it off after the slightly traumatic spar with Peyton, but despite his physical exhaustion and running on about a two hours of rest, sleep had refused to come. His thoughts chased each other in circles, and he'd been just about to drift off when his traitorous brain replayed a knife sinking up to the hilt into a set of skinny girlish ribs, and a shrill scream.

He'd heard things. He was good at hearing things. He sat in on conversations and disappeared completely, when he wanted to.

So here he was. Nothing like a good life or death scare to get the hindbrain shouting out the fore. The alien sensation of occupying a golem helped too; it added an interesting layer of detachment.

The grins of the techs at the dumb-as-bricks newbie had been ominous, and rightfully so. He took a step thoughtlessly, and was engulfed in flames like they'd accidentally (?) given him a golem made of napalm. He scrambled.

ATTEMPT TWO

I have no mouth, and I must scream, he said, although he rarely initiated conversation with Fiona. He was shaken up. What the ******** kind of sadistic assholes were running this place? he thought of all the warnings about Caelius.

Come again, sir?

Don't call me sir. And never mind.

All right. Round two.

He tentatively assayed a step, but before he could put his foot down his hackles rose. Maybe not. Yeah. Definitely... definitely not. He stepped to the side and in his anxiety to get away from whatever was telling him not to put his foot down there, he put it down here instead without thinking.

After doubling over, he looked down with vague, detached horror at the thing sticking out of his chest, and had more sympathy for Peyton.

He stood for a long time just wishing he hadn't gotten himself into this, pretty well convinced that he was ******** no matter which way he went.

So when he stepped and nothing happened, he exhaled, and went to try another.

Except he couldn't. One foot was stuck, completely immovable for some unknown reason.

A string unfurled from the ceiling. On the end of it was a machete. A second followed, bearing a bottle of pills with a skull and crossbones on it and a label that said, in neat script, "slow and painful death." And then a third, with a note that said I WANT TO PLAY A GAME.

The reference was wasted on someone like Taym. He stared at the items with a baffled lack of comprehension that blossomed slowly into horror as understanding crept in.

A fourth string descended, and this time the note said JUST KIDDING.

He didn't see what hit him in the back of the head, but it hurt.

Strike two.

Well, it worked at first. The second stride, made as confidently as the first, brought a world of pain down on his head. Literally on his head: the ceiling opened up and a rain of pellets hit him with a force that suggested they'd been fired from something.

"Son of a b***h!"

He stopped, reveling in the luxury of not being in immediate danger of his life, and crouched down to assess the tiles nearest him. There didn't seem to be any time limit, nor was he in a panicky rush.

They all looked identical, so he crouched a bit lower, and shamelessly, sniffed.

That one definitely smelled like... well. Not great. He had queasy good-hit-vomit memories, and planted the flag delicately. It partially disintegrated as soon as he did.

He shuffled warily to the next tile, and made sure he could move his feet.

Good. Very good.

forgot dice razz

He bent down again to examine all the surrounding tiles. This was his job, right? It was a training course, not a sadistic entertainment source, right?

Well, he could tell himself that. North, south, east, and west. All ********, he suspected. Time for a daring diagonal.

Good luck won out.