The day started like any other—Sparks was upside down in a crate labeled "Not Dangerous Unless Provoked," Bleatford was reviewing loan applications with a quill and a scowl, and Grenda was elbow-deep in a transmission the size of a garden shed.

  I was sitting quietly on the workbench, minding my own business, when she muttered the seven most dangerous words in the known world.

  “Eh, I’ll just skip the binding rune.”

  A silence fell across the garage.

  Sparks poked her head up. “Was that the containment seal for the elemental-grade forklift transmission?”

  Grenda waved dismissively. “It’s fine. I’ve got it clamped down. Probably.”

  Bleatford bleated softly from behind his ledger. “I will begin preparing the injury report preemptively.”

  The object in question was a Model 7 Arc-Fork, an ancient arcane forklift enchanted for battlefield logistics. According to legend, it could lift a troll, outrun a griffon, and swear in six forgotten languages.

  It had been dormant for decades—until now.

  Grenda gave the housing unit a final twist. “There. All set. Now we just—”

  The engine ignited with a deep, rumbling growl.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The lights flickered.

  The garage trembled.

  The forklift reared back like a metal bull, exhaust pipes glowing red, and launched forward with an unholy screech.

  Sparks dove behind the cursed mop bucket. Bleatford dove into his accounting ledger. Grenda swore and reached for the crowbar.

  And I?

  I saw everything.

  The chaos. The danger. The potential for splinters.

  Something in me clicked—literally. A mechanism I didn’t even know existed engaged.

  I launched.

  One of my drawers popped open with force. A wrench flew out like a missile and smacked the Arc-Fork’s control rune panel, shorting the circuit. Sparks flew. The machine faltered.

  Grenda grabbed the moment and dove onto the back of the machine, jamming her crowbar into a spinning gear. The forklift bucked, sparked again, then slumped to a halt with a pitiful whirrrrrp.

  Silence.

  Smoke.

  Then Sparks’ voice, awestruck: “Boxy just saved our butts.”

  Grenda slid off the side of the machine, panting. She looked over at me—really looked.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “So you’re not just decorative.”

  The rest of the day passed in stunned reverence.

  Bleatford drafted a new shop safety category called “Toolbox Intervention Protocol.” Sparks made a tiny paper crown and perched it on my lid. Grenda grumbled under her breath while very obviously tightening my drawer slides.

  Something had shifted.

  They weren’t just talking around me anymore.

  They were talking to me.

  It wasn’t exactly being recognized as a person. But it was a start.

  Grenda leaned on the workbench later that evening, wiping grease off her hands.

  “Guess I owe you one,” she muttered. “Not every day your toolbox saves your life.”

  I made sure a bolt rolled out gently—perfectly timed. It tapped her boot.

  She chuckled. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, Boxy.”

  And just like that, I’d gone from background fixture to emergency response team.

  I wasn’t just sentient anymore.

  I was a hero.

  At least, until Sparks tried to install a "victory confetti cannon" inside my bottom drawer the next day. I shot a socket at her head.

  Deserved.

  She said it was a sign of affection.