Closing time reached faster than yesterday—maybe because he slept more on the job today, which was rare, since if he wasn't attending to customers, he was restocking or dusting the shelves. Virtue of his boss. Couldn't blame the woman; she wanted her money's worth.
"56, 57, 58, 59, 60." Mrs. Mae's manicured fingers thrummed the bills, then she cut at sixty and gave it to Ortega, who nodded and pocketed his money—only to look up to her outstretched hand holding an extra ten. He slowly accepted, pleased.
"Same time, tomorrow?"
Ortega nodded, feeling empowered.
That night he did push-ups before bed, took a cold shower, and actually slept on time. First thing the next morning, he rang Mr. Yugo's doorbell. His grumpy landlord opened it, and Ortega said, "Here." He gave the money roll to Mr. Yugo, who stood there counting it.
Ortega turned to leave, but a "Wait" from Mr. Yugo stopped him.
"When am I getting the rest?"
Ortega looked at him. "Soon."
"Better not pass this week." With that, he shut his door.
Ortega frowned and left.
He met the store closed and opened it with his keys. Cleaned, set everything up, and waited for the day to begin. The clock kept ticking—he almost forgot, then turned on the sign letting the whole world know they were open.
He sat behind the cash register after cleaning the store, watched a movie, and no customer or Miss Mae had come through.
He frowned and called his boss. The voice said the number was unavailable. After three tries, he got white noise, and by then he was really starting to worry.
Who was going to pay him at closing now?
Just then, the doors shingled open and two men walked in, looking around. One of them closed the door behind him and turned the sign.
Hey—Ortega wanted to ask what they thought they were doing, but alarm bells rang in his head, and that made him pause. That, and the notification that flashed before his eyes:
{Possible threat to host's life detected. Don't do anything stupid.}
Pretty damn helpful.
Ortega didn't need the system to tell him he was about to be robbed. It was a brutal disillusionment. No tips or power-ups to salvage the situation. And this was supposed to be a cheat? Pathetic.
He tried to stay still, but he was shaking behind the counter as they wore their masks—which was stupid, because he'd already gotten a good look at their faces. Strangers.
One stood guard by the door while the other pointed a gun at him, already walking closer.
"Don't move," he barked.
He didn't need to tell Ortega twice—Ortega was already frozen behind the cash register, hands raised. The man banged the countertop and dropped a bag. When Ortega just looked, the man gave him a look that asked if he was stupid.
"This your first time being robbed? Put the money in the bag, asshole!"
Ortega panicked, tapped the register, and it shinged open. Cobwebs in the drawers.
"Shit. We haven't made any sales," he tried to explain, but then the cold butt of the gun pressed against his forehead, and his life flashed before his eyes.
"You fucking with me, kid? Where did you hide the money?"
"I hid no money!" Ortega was sweating, very close to peeing his pants.
The gun clicked.
"I'm telling the truth!"
"Bitch must've run with the money," said the other robber by the door.
Ortega's spine ran cold. He had a solid idea of who they were referring to. He'd have called them out for speaking about his boss like that, but they had guns—and he had a system whose best attributes were terrible praise and worse advice.
All he wanted was a means to make money. How did he land in this shit?
And Miss Mae... these criminals probably knew her, had studied her, and chose today to strike. Ortega found himself praying for her safety—wherever she was—and hoping she didn't walk in and meet this mess.
Even the thought that the system chose him didn't give him courage. This was real.
"Give me your phone," said the man holding him at gunpoint.
Ortega obeyed, only to watch the man toss it on the floor and stomp it hard. He might as well have stomped Ortega's chest. All those movies he downloaded with the store's WiFi—gone!
The robber checked the cash register himself and saw there was nothing to be salvaged.
Ortega imagined himself bashing the man's head against the counter, swiping the gun from splayed fingers, shooting the one at the door, then holding his assailant at gunpoint.
But he didn't. And thank God for that fear that froze him.
The movies made it look easy, but really his head was blank. He was cornered, and couldn't even hate himself for being weak—he was too busy praying for his life.
So he watched, powerless, as they ransacked the shelves and filled their bags with whatever valuables they could find. It was all just goodies—pathetic—but Ortega couldn't blame them. He wouldn't leave empty-handed in their shoes either.
Then they were gone. The door swung open and let in the fallen leaves from the porch. Outside, the street and bustle went on as though it was just another day.
Ortega stood, eyes open but seeing nothing—until the door snapped open again and his boss rushed in.
"Jesus," she said, snapping Ortega back to reality as she looked around the mess.