They have not.
Case in point: the crimson war chariot that screamed into the garage that morning, trailing sparks and about seventeen lawsuits' worth of property damage. It didn’t stop so much as collapse sideways into a barrel of axle grease, which exploded on impact like it had been waiting for an excuse.
From my corner near the workbench, I observed the chaos with the quiet dignity of a sentient toolbox deeply, profoundly tired of being ignored.
“Is that… the Flamebrand crest?” Grenda muttered, stepping over a smoldering tire. “Oh no. Not them.”
A tall, narrow man in an unnecessarily poofy cloak leapt from the wreckage with theatrical flair.
“I bring thee… grave tidings,” he announced, dramatically flipping his scarf.
“You broke your chariot again, didn’t you?” Grenda said flatly.
He frowned. “Yes. But this time, it wasn’t entirely my fault. The flaming wheels activated early. And the flame-resistant upholstery is still flammable, which, frankly, feels like false advertising.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, crossing her arms. “And what about the mayonnaise in the fuel line?”
The noble looked offended. “That was for lubrication!”
I would’ve sighed if I had lungs. Or made a sarcastic comment if I had a mouth. Instead, I wobbled my top drawer ever so slightly, trying to telekinetically yeet a hex wrench at his ridiculous boots.
Nothing happened. Of course.
The war chariot, for all its opulence and fire-based design flaws, had one key issue: the enchanted "Flameburst Propulsion Module" triggered whenever someone said the word “stop.”
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As in:
-
“Stop that.”
-
“Make it stop.”
-
“Please, Gods, make the burning end.”
Boom. Every time.
It had already ignited twice since arriving. Sparks was keeping a tally in the breakroom using jellybeans.
“So what you’re telling me,” Grenda said slowly, examining the smoking wreck, “is that the safety enchantments are linked to a common command word.”
“Correct,” said the noble.
“And the failsafe is…?”
“Also ‘stop,’ but with more intent.”
“Oh for the love of—”
Boom.
The left axle burst into flames again. Grenda rolled her eyes. Sparks cheered.
I, meanwhile, was watching from my perch, trying to test a theory. Over the past few days, I’d started to feel something—movement. A tugging from deep inside my drawers, like I could reach out and shift things. I focused on a stubby wrench in the bottom-left corner.
Twitched it.
Nothing.
Tried again.
The wrench rolled half an inch, smacked into a socket, and made a satisfying clink.
Sparks turned toward me.
“…Did you hear that?”
Grenda, now covered in ash and radiator fluid, sighed. “Ignore the toolbox. It’s just decorative.”
DEEP. INTERNAL. TOOLBOX. SCREAMING.
By midafternoon, Grenda had dismantled the propulsion array and was halfway through rewiring it with one of Sparks’ homemade rune stabilizers. I say “homemade” but what I really mean is “she drew it on the back of a noodle cup with crayon.”
The chariot was now covered in talismans, six different grounding runes, a fire extinguisher tied on with twine, and—for reasons I don’t fully understand—a rubber chicken.
“Safety first,” Sparks said proudly.
Then she poked the propulsion core with a metal rod.
It activated.
The entire chariot lifted three feet off the ground, spun in a circle, flung the rubber chicken into the rafters, and crashed directly into the cursed mop bucket.
Again.
When the smoke cleared, the noble was gone, riding off on what remained of the chariot. One wheel was on fire. One was a goat. Neither seemed happy.
Grenda slumped against my bench.
“I swear,” she muttered, “one of these days I’m just gonna run away and open a nice quiet wrench museum.”
Sparks was in the background playing tug-of-war with the mop bucket, which now had fangs.
I summoned every ounce of psychic toolbox energy I could muster and nudged the drawer again—this time with intent. A ratchet clattered out and smacked Sparks on the back of the boot.
“Wuh?” She spun around. “Boxy?”
Grenda looked up. “Huh. Thought I emptied that thing.”
“Maybe it’s… haunted,” Sparks whispered, wide-eyed.
Grenda gave the toolbox (me) a long, skeptical look. “If it is, it's the laziest ghost I’ve ever seen.”
Just you wait, I thought. I will haunt the hell out of you once I figure out how to open my own lid.