[Growing up with a homicidal aquatic alien empress-cum-baking-magnate sending giant, bloodthirsty (and very pointy) robots at you will do that. There was no option other than to be ready for anything at any time-- even when jumping from his dream-world to his waking one he'd taught himself to be a light sleeper, a quick draw, a silent step. That's how survival works-- you deal or you die. That ethos was what shaped a lonely child into a cornered predator.]

Fuckin' peachy.

[Dirk grimaces, standing on the threshold of the next room. This looks way too easy. He de-captchalogues a few shuriken and tosses them expertly-- one across the room, one on a white tile and another on a black tile (near each other, in the center of the floor and far from his feet). That Agatha chick has some crazy shit up her sleeve, he'll give her that. He wonders if she's pulling the strings or if the building is some sort of advanced AI.]