Brandon's bloodshot eyes blinked slowly, straining to keep pace with the relentless blur of motion in front of him. He stood hunched over the conveyor belt, spine curled from hours of repetition, as his calloused hands danced in a frantic rhythm. Over and over, he grabbed rubbery shoe soles, jamming them into their designated slots with practiced speed—but not grace. Each motion felt heavier than the last, as if the very air thickened with fatigue. His arms screamed with overuse, wrists stiff like rusted hinges, and his fingers—raw and cracked—moved on autopilot.
Above him, the harsh factory lights buzzed like angry insects, casting a sterile white glare that seeped into his skull and made his exhaustion feel even more suffocating. The machines clanked and whirred all around him, a chaotic orchestra of labor that never stopped, never cared. Time had become a blur—there was only the belt, the soles, and the dull throb of his overworked body.
Then it happened. His rhythm faltered. His hands moved too quickly, or maybe not quickly enough. Two soles slipped from his grasp, clattering off the belt with a dull, accusatory thud.
"Yo, Brad!" a voice barked across the noise. Sharp. Annoyed. The kind that made your teeth grind just hearing it. A co-worker, face smudged with grime and sweat, leaned toward him from another station, eyes narrowed. "Hurry up and focus, will ya? You're slowing down the whole line!"
Brandon's jaw clenched. "I am working," he muttered through gritted teeth, breath heavy and uneven. He didn't look up. His tone was low, dangerous. Under his breath, a string of curses rolled out like steam from a broken pipe. Today's just not my day, he thought bitterly, eyes flicking toward the clock. The hands had barely moved. Two more hours. Two more endless hours of aching muscles and robotic motions before he could even begin to feel human again.
Eventually, the factory horn blared—a rough, metallic screech that marked the end of the shift. Brandon's shoulders sagged with the sound, his body already drifting toward the exit before his mind caught up. He stumbled out into the fading light, blinking against the sudden shift from fluorescent white to the soft hues of twilight. His hands throbbed with every pulse, every movement a fresh reminder of the strain.
In the lot, he found his old bike chained near the rusted rack. With stiff fingers, he unhooked the lock and swung one leg over, groaning as the muscles in his thighs protested. Then, he pushed off and pedaled away, wheels slicing through the evening air.
The sky was painted in streaks of purple and orange, slowly fading into indigo. His watch blinked—6:47 PM. Almost seven, he thought. Could really use something to eat. His stomach agreed with a loud gurgle, and he glanced around, scanning familiar streets. Then he veered right, toward the glowing sign of Sandwichy—cheap, fast, and close enough not to matter.
He parked his bike against the glass window and walked inside. A cool wave of air washed over him, momentarily easing the heat that clung to his back. He let out a breath, deep and tired, and stepped up to the counter.
There she was.
A girl with bright red hair and fair skin that seemed to glow under the soft lights. Her ponytail bounced slightly as she turned, catching his gaze like a magnet. Her name tag read "Alice." Brandon's throat tightened.
"Good, uh… evening," he said awkwardly, his voice cracking slightly.
"Good evening, sir," Alice replied warmly, resting her arms on the counter and flashing a professional smile that somehow still felt genuine. "What can I get for you?"
He hesitated, swallowed, and cleared his throat. "A foot-long tuna sandwich, please."
"You got it," she said, already moving with practiced speed. Her hands flew over the ingredients with a kind of rhythm, fluid and natural.
"Toppings?" she asked, not looking up.
"Just lettuce and onion rings," he mumbled, embarrassed by how shaky his voice sounded. He turned away, pretending to browse the chips even though he already knew what he wanted. Grabbing a bag of Pays Potato Chips, he returned just as she rang up the total.
"That'll be $24.99. Cash or card?"
Brandon winced slightly at the price, but nodded and pulled out his card. With a tap, the machine beeped. Approved.
Alice handed him the sandwich with another dazzling smile. "Enjoy your meal!"
"Thanks," Brandon replied, almost too quietly to be heard. His face was burning as he walked out.
Back home, the door creaked open and closed behind him with a soft thud. He dropped his things on the battered couch—its faded cushions sagged under the weight as he flopped down, already reaching for the sandwich. The TV flickered on with a buzz, casting soft light into the room.
He unwrapped the sandwich, took a massive bite, and let out a low hum. "Mmm… delicious," he mumbled, melting into the worn fabric.
A few minutes later, still chewing, he wandered into the kitchen to get some water. The glass filled quickly, and he brought it to his lips—but the moment he drank, something went wrong. A sudden jolt, a sharp, wrong swallow.
He began coughing—violently. His lungs seized as panic overtook him. He pounded his chest, stumbling back into the sink. Each breath was a desperate battle.
His vision blurred. His knees buckled. He tried to speak, but no words came. In his final moments of awareness, fragments of memory crashed through his mind like shattered glass—his childhood laughter, his failures, the birthdays spent alone, the quiet pride in small victories no one noticed. All of it flickered like a dying film reel.
He reached out, dazed, for something—anything.
His foot slid.
CRACK.
His head struck the counter with a wet, horrible thud. He collapsed to the floor.
The room fell silent.
Far, far away—beyond stars, beyond time itself—something stirred in the dark.
A translucent panel emerged from the void, glowing faintly: [Universe 5118208 – Earth is unstable. Cause: Death of Cornerstone Brandon Alderman. Initiating ASU protocol.]
Another appeared, flickering into existence like a thought made real: [Automatic Stabilization of Universes (ASU) nominates James Gordon as temporal Cornerstone.]
And finally, a third message blinked softly: [Former Cornerstone is eligible for Operation Uni-Link. Transferring Individual to Soul Reception Room...]
The cosmos paused.
The universe held its breath.