Phone Tag (Shidge/Klance)

Chapter 2

Doo-do-do-do-doooo...

Shiro wrenched his eyes open and reached for his ringing cell phone, knocking two orange prescription bottles onto the floor.

He'd left the phone on the bedside table—on vibrate and on sleep mode. Or at least, he thought he'd left it on those settings. Apparently not. "Hello?"

"This is Takashi Shirogane, right?"

Shiro grunted an affirmative response.

"Okay, cool. I'm Hunk. You know, the guy who interviewed you for a job at that quiet little bakery?"

Oh, right. Him. Hunk had seemed like a bright guy, totally unashamed about his (visible) love of food. Fairly anxious, but a generally good guy. Someone you'd want on your side. That was the vibe Shiro'd gotten from Hunk.

"I tried reaching you last night, but it went straight to voicemail."

"Sorry about that." Well, that would explain why his phone's sound was on. He'd turned it off while contemplating how to best end his life. No interruptions that way. He must've forgotten to change its notification settings after accidentally calling Altea Tech and deciding to push through one more day.

"No worries. Anyways, I was calling to let you know we have an opening. Are you still interested?"

Interested? Not really. But with the stack of unpaid bills piling up in his mailbox, working in a bakery sounded great. Could be worse alternatives. "Yes."

He probably didn't sound excited about the opportunity, but Hunk apparently didn't care. Too excited to have a new worker. "Awesome! When can you start?"

"When do you open?"

"In fifteen minutes. Why?"

"See you in fifteen. Thanks, Hunk." Before Hunk could tell him he didn't have to arrive so early, Shiro hung up. Boot camp had required him and his fellow soldiers to be ready for anything in seven minutes or less.

After two days, Shiro could do it in four and a half. Showered, dressed, and breakfast eaten. Prepared for anything.

Nowadays it took him longer than that to get ready. Strapping on his prosthetic arm took an extra four to five minutes. Technological advances at least made his arm lighter than past prosthetic models. The transition from having two functioning arms to only one had been tough. But after so many therapeutic sessions and nights of crippling phantom pains, he was grateful for it.

It was pearl-white and clearly artificial. Naïve children wondered aloud (and within Shiro's hearing range) if he was a robot. Then Mom or Dad would shush said child and walk away with apologetic winces. (Ironically, the military-tested and -approved prosthetic's name was the Terminator.)

In short: the loss of a limb wasn't cheap—and neither was the price of gaining a new one.

And now he had a job. A new job. What was that it the IT chick—no, Pidge—had said to him last night? "If you kill yourself tonight, you're going to miss out on a whole world of opportunities."

Shiro smiled. For the first time in months, he felt like things might be alright.

He had a new job. New coworkers in a less stressful environment. An employer who wasn't too concerned about hiring an employee with severe post-traumatic stress disorder and an artificial limb.

He had to call Pidge again. Let her know he was alive, and well, not exactly "well." Thank her.

He had five minutes before this place opened. More than enough time to make a phone call and drive over.