Definition
1 : a minute detail of conduct in a ceremony or in observance of a code
2 : careful observance of forms (as in social conduct)
We'll get straight to the point: there are a number of English words that come from Latin pungere, meaning "to prick" or "to sting." Punctilio is one of these words. It traces back to pungere by way of Italian puntiglio (meaning "small point," "point of honor," or "scruple"), Spanish puntillo (the diminutive of punto, meaning "point"), and Latin punctum (also meaning "point"). The adjective punctilious, meaning "marked by or concerned about precise accordance with the details of codes or conventions," is a close relative of punctilio.
"Are you sure this is the correct code?" He hissed to me.
"Ssshhhh." I said to him, my mind totally focused on the ancient seeming lock in front of me.
I twisted a dial .
Spikes shot from the floor - spearing several bags of supplies, their innards spilling onto the dusty tomb floor through the shredded sacks.
"Eeep." He went.
"So not that one then." I said absently.
"Eeeep." He went again.
"Oh stop worrying so much, I told you we were probably safe if we're this close to the tomb door."
I turned another dial. This time spikes shot out from the tomb door, missing us by millimeters. A trickle of blood ran down his face, a spike had come close enough to scratch his skin.
This time he didn't even make a noise. His accusatory gaze was enough.
"I said probably." I retorted, defensively.
He just kept glaring.
"Look, there's a reason nobody's gotten this door open before. Just keep quiet, let me do my work and hopefully we'll break through in no time."
"Despite the fact that nobody's succeeded before."
"Well, that's because I haven't done it before." I snapped. "But seriously, what kind of mad billionaire decks his basement out like a pharaoh's tomb - complete with traps and sand?"
"One who hopefully keeps a lot of money in his vault." He said.
"You sure he didn't just spend his entire fortune decking out his basement like this as some sort of practical joke? I mean, I've heard money can really turn some people's heads and this guy had a lot of it."
He snorted. "Trust me, this guy was so loaded that he could have set up ten outfits like this and it wouldn't be more than a drop in the ocean of his wealth. Just get the damn door open alright."
"Fine, fine, fine." I murmured as I turned back to the task in hand. I had loved locks and puzzles since a child and I had to admit, the person who had designed this one was a true artist of the craft.
Just not better than me.
The final tumbler tumbled into place and there was a satisfying 'click.'
"Ta-da!" I sang out and opened the door. MY employer, rude man that he was, pushed past me to get in.
I was carefully packing my tools away when I heard him say "what the hell?"
I peeked through the open door. the room beyond was a stark contrast to the demonically designed, trap filled labyrinth we'd braved to get it. It was modern, sleek and completely empty expect for a plinth in the centre of the room.
There was a wind up box on it.
My employer waved at it. "Check it out."
Despite not being contracted for anything but getting him to and through the door, I shrugged and headed on over to the plinth. I, too was curious to see what this billionaire had planned for the winners after constructing such an elaborate security system.
I walked around the plinth, checking it from all angles, the box included. After carefully inspection and several tests, I concluded that the wind up box was indeed, just a wind up box.
I said this to my employer.
"Wind it up then!" He commanded hastily, from a safe position by the door.
I rolled my eyes and began to wind up the box - plinky plonky music played, such as would be recognisable from any low budget horror music. I wound and wound and wound - to the point I began to suspect that the damn this was broken, when a clown doll suddenly sprung out of the box, along with a bunch of cheap paper confetti.
The clown doll held a sign that simply read 'congratulations'. I was sure that it's expression had been painted to intentionally look like it was smirking at the losers who came so far for nothing.
My employer hurried over and stared, in shock, at the doll waving back and forth on its spring.
"That's it?" He asked me.
I nodded. "Looks so." I said, cheerfully - after all, I was getting paid regardless of whether or not there was anything in the vault - the company would make sure of that. We never accepted percentages of loot as payment in our initial contracts - hard cash only, up front.
"I did say money did strange things to people." I added.
He didn't hear me. He was too busy shouting fruitless curses and insults at the empty room to hear me.
I reached out and plucked the card from the clown doll's grasp. I ran my fingers over it. Very faintly, in braille, co-ordinates had been imprinted into the card.
Should I tell my employer?
I glanced over to him, still turning the air blue with his foul language, completely uninterested in trying to figure out what an empty vault could mean or what I was currently doing. He'd probably try and demand a refund on my bill too - I knew his type.
"What's that in your hand?" He suddenly demanded.
Busted. "This?" I held up the card. "It was the paper the doll was holding.The one that said congratulations." I added helpfully. "I thought I'd have a closer look at it."
He scoffed. "Whatever. It's just that guy's sick joke. Bin it and lets get out of here. At least I'll get some credit for getting in here in the first place."
He then proceeded to take various selfies of himself standing by the open door. I was not asked to join him of course (despite doing all the work).
I smiled and slipped the card into my pocket. The company has a strict if they don't ask, then we won't tell policy. Which, if I'm completely honest, is my second favourite policy, right after the one where we get to have paid leave for our birthday with it being deducted from our annual allowance.
Oh I do love a treasure hunt.
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