Late night at the Cinna-Mart

Really, the job itself wasn't bad. The hours were late, given the best time to clean the shop was about 3:00 in the morning, when fewer customers showed up, but that didn't bother him. Mopping the scorched footprints off of the tile just took some work, and the occasional shed bits of slime or toxins on the carts looked worse than they were. He wasn't nocturnal, either, by nature, but he'd adjusted, and being a water-type in janitorial work had its advantages.

The intercom interspersed music from humans that had long since stopped playing with recaps of the news. The news was always bad, though. In fact, the news was the worst part of the job. It was worse than the foodstuffs spilled on the floor from containers shredded by careless claws, collecting melted products from others, or even restocking entire shelves from the eventual, inevitable violence that culminates from the stress put on all of the inhabitants of the city.

A crash of glass at the front of the store pulled him out of his reverie, and it was surprisingly a bit welcome. After hearing about murders and kidnappings which paled in comparison to the level of arson the two local terrorist organizations committed, a little glass to clean up was nothing.

It was a front window, and when he saw the dozen morphs in their emblazoned black jackets, he started to rethink what was the worst part of his job.

He dropped his mop, laying down on his stomach, and folding his hands over the back of his head. They weren't there for him, or he'd have been taken last time, or the time before. He'd miss the new manager, though.