I reach into the chest and pull out the zweihander.

It's heavy. Solid. The blade is dark, worn, but still sharp. The hilt is wrapped in aged leather, fitted to a hand.

I turn it over, looking at it from every angle.

"Looks good," I say.

"Too good," Don Juan replies. "In the wasteland, you never trust something that looks perfect. It's either a trap or someone's waiting for you to take it."

I hold it up to the light. No rust. No cracks. No signs of wear.

"It's pristine," I say.

"Exactly," Don Juan says. "And nothing in this world is pristine."

I lower the weapon and place it back into the chest.

"I'm not taking it."

"Smart move," Don Juan replies.

I step back from the chest.

Then I see it.

The zweihander shifts — just slightly. The blade ripples, like a muscle tensing. The hilt twists, and a small mouth opens along the crossguard, revealing rows of tiny teeth.

It's alive.

I freeze, watching it.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"I don't know," Don Juan says. "But you were right not to touch it."

The mimic slowly closes its mouth and goes still again, pretending to be just a weapon once more.

I back away.

"We're leaving."

"Good idea," Don Juan says.