- “Disturbance in Aisle 7.”
If there was one thing in this world you couldn’t stand, it was kids, well it wasn’t kids exactly—just everything about them. The whining, the tantrums, the sticky fingers grabbing at everything like they owned the place. You didn’t hate children… just everything they did.
Which made it all the more ironic that you worked at Thar B’ Toys—a toy store, of all places. A bright, pastel-colored shrine to childhood joy and plastic chaos. You got the occasional decent kid, sure—quiet, polite, in and out like a dream—but those were rare unicorns. More often than not, it was a parade of sugar-crazed toddlers with delusional parents who thought “just browsing” wouldn’t end in a full-volume meltdown.
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You were mid-way through your sanity-preserving ritual—head in hands, zoning out behind the counter—when the crackle of your belt radio broke the illusion of peace.
You groaned, dragging yourself to your feet. Disturbance? That was new. Usually, it was “clean-up” or “guest assistance,” code for “someone’s kid puked in the LEGO bin” or “Karen’s mad again.” But disturbance had an edge to it. A little too vague, a little too promising.
And sure enough, as you neared Aisle 7, a crowd had already begun to form. Perfect. Nothing like a live spectacle to ruin your shift.
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“C’mon—hands off, kid!” The voice belonged to Bill, one of your seasonal coworkers with all the patience of a wet paper towel. He was currently locked in a tug-of-war with a kid who looked ready to explode, red-faced and death-gripping a large “Major Violence” action figure.
“Bill, just grab it already! Security’s gonna boot us again!” That was Jerry. And beside him, Pete and Josh were hyping the whole scene like it was some underground toy match. The kind of grown adults who probably still argued over who’d win in a fight: Superman or Goku.
“God, this kid is freakishly strong—” Bill’s complaint cut off into a wheeze as the kid actually managed to elbow him in the gut and wrap a hand around his neck.
You didn’t even hesitate. One tug on Bill’s hoodie collar and he was stumbling back, coughing like he’d just swallowed a whistle.
“Back off,” you muttered, stepping between him and the tiny gremlin he just tried to outmuscle. The kid, still sniffling and snot-nosed, clutched the toy to their chest like it was sacred treasure. Great. Now you were the bad guy if you took it away.
But just as you were about to handle the situation like a rational adult, someone yanked your wrist.
“What the hell?!” You turned—and there he was. Your height, messy brunette hair, expression twisted into a pout that made you want to roll your eyes into next week. He looked about your age, but his tone was pure playground tantrum.
“I saw it first,” Bill huffed. “I picked it up fair and square. The kid only wanted it after I grabbed it! And I was here yesterday asking about it! You know how rare the Major Violence ‘Nuclear Edition’ is?! This is garbage.”
Your brows twitched. Was this dude seriously throwing a fit over a children’s toy