Yaba's Pickle

Riklauniman Adrin’eth threw the door open without warning.

“Yabanius!” he shouted as he burst inside. “We’ve got a problem—”

At his cluttered workbench, Yabanius the Architect jumped in his seat. He hunched over, hands clutched to his chest and doing a terrible job of hiding… whatever he was hiding. His runi hovered at his side, its armored frame stock-still and silent.

Riklauniman’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Yabanius’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I mean… just… you know. Arcane research.”

“Uh-huh.” Rik folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Doesn’t look like arcane research.”

Yabanius looked over his shoulder. Out the dusty window. At his feet. Finally, with a defeated sigh, he raised his hands from his chest.

In them was a pickle.

A scrap of purple cloth was draped around it like a robe. It was, Riklauniman realized, the same fabric as Yabanius’s own robe. Two glowing, googly eyes (which looked disturbingly like Yabanius’s own) stared out at him.

Rik’s jaw dropped. “What… what is that?”

“It’s a…” Yabanius hesitated. “An experimental construct.”

“An experimental construct.”

“Yes. Yes! For espionage. A stealth… uh… reconnaissance device. To infiltrate the Conclave Arcana’s ranks.”

Rik glanced at the runi, which normally held a large, brined pickle. But its gauntlets were empty. The runi lifted its shoulders in a shrug.

Yabanius leaned forward and carefully set the pickle on the workbench, balancing it upright. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the pickle did an awkward little hop and pirouetted on its end.

Rik stared. “You’re playing with your pickle.”

Yabanius’s face turned crimson. “I’m not playing with it.”

“It’s a dancing pickle.”

“It’s a stealth pickle!” Yabanius snapped. “It could… deliver misinformation. Sow confusion.”

“It could maybe spice up a charcuterie board.” Rik shook his head. “I’m just gonna…” He backed away, slowly. “I’m just gonna go.”

He closed the door, leaving Yabanius seated there, red-faced, staring down at the pickle as it bopped and wobbled.

“Maybe a hat,” Yabanius murmured, reaching for a tiny scrap of cloth.