Something hisses overhead.

You duck just before a spiked panel slams shut where your head used to be.

“SUCCESS!”

From a nearby pit, a skeleton springs up, wearing a cracked helmet and goggles one size too big. One arm is missing; the other waves a wrench triumphantly.

“Perfect deployment! Flawless trigger response! Only three accidental impalements this time, an all-time low!”

He notices you and salutes, the motion sending his hand flying across the room.

“Oh! You’re still alive! Excellent! That means the new safety protocols are working!”

He retrieves his hand, reattaches it with wire, and scribbles notes on a clipboard already smoking slightly.

“Name’s Clatter Von Gearbones. Certified Trap Technician, Uncertified Everything Else.”

Another explosion rattles the ceiling.

“Don’t worry about that one! That’s the self-testing corridor! If it stops exploding, then we panic.”

He crouches beside a pile of gears that are quietly catching fire.

“Now, let’s see… the flame jets are igniting half a second too early, the acid pit’s dissolving the dungeon's flooring, and the rolling boulder stopped rolling. Again.”

He looks up at you, sockets flickering with blue light.

“Tell them... as a new employee... would you rather get hazard pay... or extra limbs?”

He straightens, bits of ash drifting from his ribs.

“Anyway, while you’re here, mind holding this lever? Just until I get the timing—”

A trapdoor opens beneath him, and he vanishes with a cheerful clatter.

“See? Perfect timing!”

A pause. From below:

“Mostly!”