Working in giant metal boxes all day sounds simple and, at first, Michael was optimistic about it. It's just moving things from box to box, after all. Except when it wasn't. Which was, unfortunately, an every day trial. They'll empty out perhaps five entire containers a day, check the contents, and pack them all up before starting in on some other busy work their boss tosses at them so they 'earn their wages' instead of 'wasting company time'.

Maybe he wouldn't be so bothered if the container wasn't so hot at the height of the day that you couldn't touch it without being burned among other things. It's just too damn hot and the air is stale or full of who-knows-what. The only person there he likes is an old underclassman of his who hardly remembers meeting at all. He's strong, kind, and angry.

"Can you get back there and dislodge whatever is holding this in place?" Hal, his former underclassman, said as he uselessly pulled on the frame of some machine none of them knew about.

Being smaller than most and less liked, he didn't have the right to refuse. "Yeah."

It's a tight fit and the air is thick with pure heat, making the air feel too thin as he pushed himself through. Exhaustion set in quickly and Michael gasped for air before pushing further, feeling the temperature of his jacket rise rapidly as he slid along under he reached a pocket of space. His head is spinning and there isn't a lot of time to think about it before he passes out back there in the little grave dug out of tarps and the unknown below.

"All clear?" He called out.

"All clear." Hal responded.

He pressed his back into the most solid, flat surface he could find and pushed with his feet until things started to tumble. If their supervisor or client knew, they'd be screwed, but if they didn't finish their work they'd also be screwed. Something falls against his leg but it's just heavy and painful. Michael shouts and grabs his leg, trying to will away the pain blooming up and down his shin.

"Are you alright?" Hal is trying to climb up to him, causing more items to start to fall.

He pushs himself over the new ledge and looks down at him. "I'm fine, just bruised."

Hal laughs and helps him back down this time. They sit outside the container to catch their breath as a few of the others jump at the chance to take advantage of the excuse to keep working on the container they already opened. If they're smart, it'll last the rest of the shift and they won't have to stay longer to repack a container that could've waited until the next day if their supervisor had an ounce of humanity in him.

"You want to grab drinks after this?" Hal asked.

"Sure. I'm not paying for any of your drinks, though." This made Hal sigh in disappointment. "I'll share a cigarette with you, how about that?"

"Gross, no way. Your cigarettes taste like death."

Michael rolled his eyes. "But they're dirt cheap."

They couldn't sit there forever and joined the rest in moving things. Try as he might, Michael couldn't lift anything heavier than himself even with help. His shin ached all the way down to his ankle and that's how he found out he probably fractured it when the other side of whatever fell on him came down while he'd been in shock after the first strike.

"Your luck is phenomenally bad."

Being teased might've been the easiest way to get under his skin and on his bad side. Hal got away with it, though, because Michael decided he had an eternal baby face even though he looks rougher than most people their age. They both did, but Hal just looked worse. Thinner and worn away. It worries him from time to time when he becomes conscious of how real other people are.

"It's not that bad, we're just dumb enough to do stupid stuff like that." He sipped cheap alcohol and watched some not-so-sneaky employees smoke in the corner, being the giant fake tree meant to hide the supply closet from immediate view.

Hal follows his gaze. "Isn't that illegal?"

"Maybe." He shrugs.

Then he sees him. The bastard who broke his phone. Their eyes meet as he scans the room, most likely looking for him. Thus their pitiful game begins when Michael isn't even interested in playing. Instead of sighing and alerting his friend to that fact he's been put into a worse mood, he takes a slow sip from his drink and nods as he goes on and on about whatever crosses his mind.

Circling him like a hawk, the interloper pretends to be busy. It's a miracle someone could not only spend so much time cleaning one table but also that they could come back to clean it before anyone had a chance to dirty it again. His eyes are glued to him, obvious and aggravating. People on the other side of the bar are going neglected, too, which starts to pile up.

"What is your problem?" Hal slams his hands on the table and stands, towering over the guy. He's big, loud, and drunk, scaring a few people. "Why do you keep hovering and staring?"

Michael glares at him, daring him to try to blame him. There is zero evidence and it wouldn't make sense. "Your friend is a stalker."

He chokes on his own breath.

Hal looks at him, confused. "No?" He furrows his eyebrows and turns his attention back to the worker. "He's not. We've been talking this whole time."

"Ignore him." Michael says, motioning for him to sit back down. "He's probably just paranoid."

"You were taking pictures of my boss!"

"So she wasn't your girlfriend?" Michael feels the corner of his mouth twitch. "You looked pretty close. Is this a jealousy thing?"

If it were just him, he could talk in circles all day. With Hal there, though, it got more complicated and he forgot about his temper. The worker goes to say something, no doubt stupid, and snaps his hand over to point at him. Hal grabs his wrist too hard and it devolves into a bar fight where everyone is trying to peel the two away from each other. Michael does get something out of it though.

"Wrenn!"

A name.