Something about management, probably. Or maybe it was the lack of AC in the garage. Hard to say. One second I was alive, yelling about how OSHA would have a field day with this place, and the next... darkness.
Then light. Blinding, flickering, workshop-style overhead light.
And the horrifying realization that I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t scream.
Mostly because I no longer had lungs. Or a mouth. Or, as it turned out, anything besides a metal frame, four stubby legs, and a jammed drawer filled with cheap knockoff ratchets.
I had been reincarnated as a toolbox.
Not a magical sword. Not a mighty beast. A. Toolbox.
And not even a good one.
“Hey, new toolbox looks pretty solid,” said a gruff voice somewhere above me.
I would’ve said “no I’m not,” but again—toolbox.
A green-skinned hand reached down and gave me a firm pat. The orcish mechanic who now apparently owned me was covered in grease, wearing overalls two sizes too small, and humming a cheerful tune about something called "engine farts."
Her name, I’d later learn, was Grenda Geargrind. Local mechanic. Part-time bard. Full-time chaos goblin in orc form.
She squatted in front of me, rummaging through my drawers like I wasn’t a person-turned-object experiencing deep existential horror.
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“Oh nice, it even came with tools already in it! Jackpot!”
Lady. Those are my insides.
For the first few days, I just existed. Sat on a bench. Watched. Judged.
The shop was called Geargrind’s Garage, though “garage” was being generous. It was more like a Frankenstein barn full of enchanted engine parts, leaking oil drums, and one ominously glowing mop bucket. Outside, a sign read:
"We fix what the blacksmith won’t touch. Or what exploded in his face."
Every morning, Grenda would roll in singing dwarven power ballads. Every evening, she’d leave, forgetting to close the front door and allowing at least three raccoons to start squatting in the break room.
In the meantime, I sat. Watched. Occasionally screamed internally when a particularly heavy wrench was tossed into my lower drawer without so much as a “sorry.”
I counted twenty-three dropped bolts. Seventeen explosions. And one delivery of something labeled “Pixie Coolant – Do Not Sniff.” She sniffed it.
Twice.
On the fifth day, the fire mage intern arrived.
She kicked the door open so hard it embedded itself in the wall. Her hair was already on fire.
“Sparks reporting for duty!” she yelled, doing finger guns. The resulting spark blast ignited the mop bucket, which shrieked in eldritch horror before waddling out back.
“Oh good,” Grenda muttered, ducking a flying cinder. “Another one.”
The last intern had left a note. It read:
“Sorry, I joined a temple instead. Less fire.”
This one didn’t seem like she’d be scared off so easily. Sparks had a grin like a mad pyromancer and boots made out of what I hoped was fake dragon hide. She high-fived the cursed goat at the reception desk like it was totally normal.
“Ready to learn the sacred arts of magical vehicular restoration!” she announced, striking a pose and immediately knocking over a shelf of cursed carburetors.
Grenda didn’t even flinch.
“You’ll be shadowing me today,” she said. “Step one: don’t die. Step two: if you do die, fall somewhere easy to mop up.”
By the end of the day, three things had become painfully clear:
-
Sparks was a menace.
-
The goat had an MBA.
-
I was not content being a passive toolbox.
I needed a plan.
Maybe I could rattle my drawers? Tip myself over? Spit a socket at someone’s head? Something, anything to get noticed.
I wasn’t going to rot here, metaphorically speaking, just waiting for someone to drop a greasy crescent wrench into my core.
I was a person, dammit.
A soul. A consciousness. A being of thought and (very limited) action.
And someday… somehow…
I was going to open my own drawer.