Chapter Text
(A/N: This is my first piece of writing. This will be a part of the collective Multiverse of stories known as the Riftiverse, written by Sleepysaurus Rex. Check his stories out! Constructive criticism welcome. I do not own any of the franchises/media that are/will be mentioned in this series. Enjoy!)
Lift. Load. Push. Lift. Load. Push. Lift, Load, Push.
That was my daily routine at work. Lift the packages onto the pallets, load the pallets onto the trucks, and push the order out.
Lift. Load. Push. Lift. Load. Push. Lift. Load. Pu-
“Mr. Burton! What are you still doing here?” I heard from behind me. The voice had broken me from my working trance, one I had often fallen into when doing repetitive tasks. I turned the key in the motorized pallet jack I’d been using, shutting it off and stepping away to face the one man I’d been trying to avoid. It was my boss and supervisor, Jim Hawkins (who insisted I call him Jim), looking at me in equal measures, condescending and concerned.
“It's the holiday season, everyone’s gone home, and I still have a minor working after-hours in my facility. You do know how that looks on progress reports, right?” Jim asked, making it sound like I’d had a major infraction.
“Just doing what I need to, sir,” I reply, making to continue my task. I knew it wasn’t quite necessary, but I needed the pay. Christmas was around the corner, and I needed to get Clara something nice.
“Listen, you already have sixteen hours of overtime this week, go home and see your sister; I can close up. Honestly, I wish half my other day shift worked as hard as you did. Also, please, you know well enough by now – call me Jim,” Jim told me, holding out a hand and beckoning for the pallet keys. I begrudgingly obliged, fishing out the keys from my pocket and handing them over. With a pat on the back and a not-so-gentle shove, Jim had me out the door and proceeded to lock up the place behind us. Before we parted ways for our respective vehicles, Jim turned and made a throwing motion. I braced myself and caught it, opening my palm to find an Amazon gift card. I turned back to thank Mr. Jim before he cut me off.
“Consider it a Christmas gift. Get Clara something nice, shoes or something. Happy holidays, Mr. Burton.” Mr. Jim said to me, getting into his car and driving off. Pocketing the card, I got into my dingy old Honda Civic of indeterminate year. When I went shopping for a “used Honda Civic,” I had been blown away by the sheer volume of results. They made so many of these things I often had a hard time keeping track before I’d settled on a model.
The drive home was uneventful, the pop radio playing some of the most infuriatingly catchy songs I had the (dis)pleasure of listening to. Ranging from Beach Boys, Metallica, and even a couple of old Disney songs which I was caught off-guard by, to dreary blues and even “I Don’t Want to Set The World On Fire” by the Ink Spots.
All in all, an average Thursday evening.
I pulled into my driveway with little fanfare, turned the key, and stepped out into my neighborhood, an average suburban neighborhood in a small town in northern Missouri. Nothing but quaint modern homes with a singular shopping strip, nothing fancy or big, and I’d have it no other way. I was about to head inside when my thoughts were broken by a voice from across the street.
“Howdy, neighbor!” I heard in a mocking voice. I turned around to find our neighbor from across the street leaning across his truck, a smug smile on his lips. “Still ain't got a new car? I bet Clara would like something with a little more room, at least!” He shouted at me, referring to my beat-up Civic.
“Suck it, Tommy! At least I have someone who cares enough to ride in it!” I shouted back, not listening for his reply. I knew I’d won our daily verbal sparring. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come up with a zinger tomorrow. Got to plan around that. I walked through my front door, the fresh stench of pizza and Febreeze pervading a quaint living room and open-concept kitchen. At least DCFS had been kind enough to help us find this place – even if it was in the middle of nowhere. I set my keys on the rack by the door and checked the floor and kitchen for messes. I knew Clara was responsible, but she could get a bit… distracted. Even so, I found nothing except some dishes that hadn’t been quite dried off and put away. Having found nothing hugely important, I made my way to investigate where my little mech head of a sister was.
I slowly made my way down the narrow hallway to our bedrooms, keeping myself silent as I approached the door at the end. I passed by family photos along the way, some happy, on adventures to the grand canyon or visiting grand cities like New York and Chicago. Others, I tried to look away from, the memories still too fresh to look at. Bless Clara and her big heart, she couldn’t get rid of them.
Finally, I made my way to her door. Ten steps. Five. One. I pressed my ear against the slightly ajar door, hearing what sounded like a mock battle between the Unicorn and Sinanju. I knew we didn’t own a unicorn model yet, but she was doing her best to make some pretty impressive Banagher and Full Frontal impressions. It was at the height of the battle, during her impression of atmospheric reentry, that I burst into the room, grabbing the first gunpla I saw off the shelf, giving a shout of “Sieg Zeon!” and charging into battle.
“Soren, be careful! Besides, that’s the Barbatos! Zeon doesn’t even exist in the Post-Disaster timeline! Seriously!” Clara shouted, climbing and jumping to get at the captive Barbatos Fifth Form in my clutches. I eventually relented to the blonde mass, freeing the Barbatos from the giant’s hand and restoring it to its rightful place, skewering the EB-08 Reginlaze. While not technically canonically accurate, it was still satisfying.
“Done yet?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe as I watched her make some final tweaks to the poses of the mechs as she put them on her shelf. The bookshelf itself had been converted into a memorabilia holder, with things such as gunpla and action figures adorning it to models of the Adepta Sororitas. In fact, one would think a teenage boy resided in the room if it weren’t for the fourteen-year-old blond-hair blue-eyed mess of tomboy and glitter trying to balance her RX-0 Phenex in such a way it looked as if it were attempting to jump onto the Sinanju.
“Just… about… there!” Clara proclaimed in pride as she finally got the position right. She stepped down, admiring her work and giving a little nod at her accomplishment. She turned to me, raising me an eyebrow in expectation. At first, I was stumped as to what she wanted until she gave a gesture to the Barbatos. Ah, that.
“Right, fine, I’m sorry I manhandled the greatest mech in existence,” I began to say, earning a glare at that last statement, “right under the Phenex and RX-78-2, and promise not to break canon again.” I amended, putting her favorite two Gundams ahead of mine. Oddly enough, she still wasn’t satisfied.
“And?” she questions, opening her posture with her arms spread out to her sides. Ohhhhh, I’m an idiot.
“And you are the best little pilot in the galaxy,” I finished, giving her a hug that lifted her off the ground, dropping her slightly as she fell back down to the floor. “Alright, well, since you’ve done your chores, how about we go watch the finale of you-know-what?” I asked, watching her eyes light up in recognition of the show we’d been watching. After the cliffhanger of the last episode, both of us were dying to see what would happen next. Clara raced off to the living room to get Netflix ready while I went into the kitchen to make popcorn.
I popped a bag into the microwave, using a rag to dry off one of the wet bowls so we could use it for popcorn. In the corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement in the backyard, but when I looked up, there was nothing. I continued my search a moment more but only saw squirrels. Must be the shadows, then. Sunset’s only an hour or so away. I heard a loud ding, signifying the microwave was done, its crunchy buttery package ready for consumption. I plopped down on the couch next to Clara, watching the finale and settling in for the next hour of binging.
“Hoo boy, now that was an unexpected turn of events,” I remarked. We’d just finished the episode, and… it had more than a few last-minute twists I wasn’t expecting.
“I mean, the fact that not only was he frickin furry Hitler, but he was the biggest hypocrite I’ve ever seen!” Clara ranted beside me, turning over the episode’s events internally and externally, mumbling things like “not cool” and “finally,” and trudging off to her room. I couldn’t blame her, I was on a similar line of thinking. I made my way from the couch to the kitchen, washing out the popcorn bowl and setting it aside to dry. I was about to head into the living room to clean up everything else when I heard a click to my right. I looked over to see the backdoor swinging open, a man wearing black sweats and missing more than a few teeth and inches of hairline walking through. He was holding a strange tool, and, glancing over to the door, I saw something poking out of the lock. He looked at me and froze while I did the same. We stood there, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights, waiting for the other to make the first move. He did.
The invader lunged at me, holding out a pocket knife, apparently intent on gutting me. I stumbled back, grabbing a large knife from the rack on the counter. I barely managed to dodge his first jab, giving a shout to Clara to call the cops. The invader got up with sluggish, jerking motions, and when he looked back at me, I could see his pupils were dilated and unfocused. This man was high as a kite and about to do something very dumb. He began to move again, faster and somehow more coordinated. I could barely move out of the way, taking cuts and gashes the whole time. Forget what people say about it, crack strength is real!
I was about to move around the island in the center of the kitchen again when he did something unexpected and jumped over the island, sinking his knife into my sternum and knocking us both to the floor. I gasped, coughing and feeling a pain unlike any other. It felt like someone had taken a white-hot rod and stabbed it directly into my chest, then electrified it. But, not one to waste an opportunity, I jammed my kitchen knife into the side of the invader, once, twice, three times, in a desperate struggle to get him off; over and over, my serrated tool pierced his skin, but nothing seemed to work - no matter how many times I plunged the large blade into him.
Suddenly, and without warning, he began to spasm, falling limp soon after the contortions began. I had no idea what happened until it dawned on me: he must have been so juiced up that he hadn’t been feeling any pain. I pushed him off my chest, looking down at where the pocket knife had been stabbed just to the right of my heart. It took a herculean effort to sit up, but I managed to upright myself just in time to see Clara walk in, dropping her phone and bursting into tears as she looked at me. She shouted something, but I couldn't hear her, as if she was a tv on mute. Darkness began to fill my eyes, creeping into my vision. I watched as the curtains slowly closed around my living room, and policemen burst through the front door. I watched it all like some old silent movie, and the realization hit me like a freight train. I’m dying. Somehow, that didn't scare me as much as it should've. The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the face of my sister, a final cry of, “Don’t go!” echoing into the long darkness of eternal sleep.