The fight was over. Allegra leaned against a shelf, her bare legs aching. A sudden draft snaked across her skin, raising goosebumps. It wasn’t the warehouse’s usual chill. It was a deeper cold, a feeling that something had changed. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of ozone and hot plastic.
*THUMP.*
The sound vibrated through the soles of her bare feet, up her legs, into her bones.
*THUMP.*
It was closer now. A slow, rhythmic beat like a giant’s heart. Allegra pushed herself off the shelf, her body tense. From the end of the aisle, a figure emerged, blotting out the fluorescent lights. It was huge, a monstrous assemblage of stacked crates and plastic wrap, with two yellow floodlights for eyes. It was ridiculous. It was also terrifying.
Perched on its shoulder, like a king on his war-chariot, was the original Hector. He pointed his pool noodle forward, directing the army of toys that marched at the giant’s feet.
“Hola, *amiga*!” Hector’s voice crackled from above, booming with pride. “Big Hector!”
“Attack!”
The word was a gunshot. The horde surged forward. A stream of green slime splattered against the wall beside her head. She dodged, her bare feet slapping silently on the concrete as she scrambled away. A Barbie doll flew through the air like a missile, its plastic hands outstretched. She ducked, feeling the air stir as it passed. A can of silly string hissed, coating her arm in sticky pink webbing. She tore at it, her panic rising.
One wrong step. Her heel landed on a stray Lego. A white-hot bolt of agony shot up her leg. She cried out, stumbling, her balance lost. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.
*THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.*
The giant Hector’s footsteps were like a drum, each one shaking the floor. The shadow fell over her, huge and absolute. “You can run,” the little Hector taunted, his voice full of glee, “but you can’t hide!”
The giant’s grip was an iron clamp. Allegra dangled, a rag doll in its fist, the only sound the frantic drumming of her own heart. Her bare feet kicked at nothing, her toned legs useless in the empty air. The flannel of her jacket screamed, every thread stretched to its breaking point. One more heave, one more inch of her weight, and it would all tear away. She would be completely exposed.
Below her, the vat of motor oil was a black mirror. It looked deep. Unfathomably deep. The surface shimmered under the harsh lights, a slick, viscous trap. How slippery was it? Could she even climb out if she fell in? Or would she just sink, swallowed by the cold, greasy darkness? There was no way to know. There was no way to escape. She was completely at its mercy.
“Time for a bath, *amiga*,” Hector jeered.
SPLASH.
The world didn’t just go black; it was erased. Plunged into a cold, absolute zero that stole the air from her lungs and the thought from her mind. The impact was a dull, heavy shock, followed by the instantaneous, horrifying invasion. The oil wasn’t a liquid; it was a presence, a thick, sentient sludge that forced its way into her nostrils, coated the back of her throat, and filled her ears with a deafening, muffled silence.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t matter. There was no light down here. There was only the crushing, oily dark. Panic, pure and primal, seized her. Her hands flailed, scrabbling against the curved metal wall of the tank, finding no purchase, only a slick, unyielding surface that mocked her desperation. This was the abyss. This was the end. The thought was not a cry but a cold, hard fact settling in her chest: *I’m going to drown in here.*
The grease was a violation, a thousand crawling fingers seeping through the ruined fabric of her leotard, coating her skin, claiming every inch of her. She was being erased, her identity dissolving into this chemical tomb. Her lungs burned, screaming for air that wasn’t there. The pressure in her head built to an explosive agony. Her struggles weakened, her movements becoming sluggish, dreamlike. This was it. The slow, silent surrender.
Then, through the thick, suffocating blackness, her toes brushed something. A solid, unyielding surface. The bottom. Hope, sharp and electric, cut through the despair. It wasn’t a thought, but an instinct older than fear. She bent her knees, planting her bare feet on the unseen floor, and pushed.
It was a kick born of pure, undiluted terror. She shot upward through the heavy darkness, a missile from the deep. But the oil was a monster, clinging to her, pulling her back down. Her head broke the surface for a split second—a glimpse of light, a phantom taste of air—before the heavy sludge yanked her under again. The silence rushed back in, heavier this time, mocking her hope.
*No.*
She kicked again, a frantic, desperate thrust. Her fingers clawed at the slick metal rim, but the grease made them useless. They slipped right off, and she plunged back into the suffocating dark. Her chest felt like it would implode. The fire in her lungs was now a cold, spreading numbness. The fight was draining out of her. This was how it ended. Not with a scream, but with a gurgle.
But then, an image flashed in her mind’s eye: her little sister’s face on Christmas morning. The promise. It wasn’t a hope; it was an anchor. With the last of her strength, she coiled her body and pushed off the bottom, not in a panic, but with a focused, lethal intent. This time, she didn’t just kick. She *lunged*. Her hand, slick and trembling, shot out of the blackness and slapped flat against the concrete rim of the vat. Her fingers, slippery as they were, found a microscopic edge of traction. She held on.
She pulled, her muscles screaming, and hauled her head and shoulders out of the oil. She collapsed onto the concrete, retching, a desperate, violent gulp of air that was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted. She was alive. She had clawed her way back from the brink.
It took everything she had left to haul her slick, heavy body over the rim of the vat. Her arms trembled, giving out, and she fell to the concrete with a wet, ignominious slap. The impact jarred her teeth. She was wrecked. The Hanes leotard, once red, was now a dark, greasy rag plastered to her skin, utterly transparent and clinging to every curve and hollow. Her dark hair was a slick, black cap against her skull and shoulders, framing a face streaked with grime and pure exhaustion. She looked like she’d lost a bar fight, then been used to mop up the floor.
Above her, Big Hector held the tattered jacket like a prize.
Little Hector leaned over the edge, his plastic eyes gleaming. “Oh, amiga,” he crooned, his voice thick with a lecherous glee. “Now that is a masterpiece.”
Allegra stood there for a second, taking a mental inventory. Okay. Situation: gross. She was basically a human slip-and-slide. The oil was in her eyes, making everything all wavy and weird. “Ugh,” she grunted, swiping a handful of the gunk from her face. It just smeared. She tried again, wiping the oil that had pooled in her cleavage away with a disgusted shiver.
Her hair felt like a heavy, greasy helmet. She gathered it all at the nape of her neck and gave it a hard squeeze, sending a black waterfall of oil onto the floor. Then she looked down at what was left of her clothes. The leotard was a total lost cause, a sad, see-through rag that was just clinging to her for dear life.
You know what? She was done with it.
With a huff of frustration, she grabbed the shredded fabric at her hip and ripped. The sound was surprisingly loud in the quiet warehouse. She tore at it again, yanking the soggy, useless thing right off her body and letting it fall to the floor with a wet splat.
Okay. So now she was basically in her underwear. And covered in motor oil. Barefoot on a dirty warehouse floor. Super. But you know what? She was also done being a victim.
She glared across the space at the giant, stupid doll blocking her way to the forklift.
“I have had it,” she announced to the empty air, her voice tight with fury. “With. This. Doll.”
And with that, she started marching.
A Barbie with hair the color of bubblegum launched herself through the air like a plastic missile. Allegra’s hand shot up, not thinking, just doing. She chopped the doll right out of her flight path. It hit the floor with a pathetic plastic clatter. A GI Joe, tiny muscles bulging, charged next. Allegra sidestepped, her bare foot finding perfect purchase on the slick floor. Her leg snapped out in a high kick. The doll went flying, a tiny green projectile smacking into a stack of board games. A whole squad of them came at her then. A penguin waddled into her path. She didn’t even break stride, just swept it aside with her foot. A rubber duck squeaked as she punted it into the darkness.
They threw themselves at her, a tiny, colorful army, and she was a greased-up ninja, dodging and weaving. Her fists, coated in oil, were blurs. Her kicks were sharp and precise. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was winning. And it was kind of awesome.
Allegra made a beeline for the forklift, her bare feet smacking the concrete. It was her getaway car. Her oily hands slid right off the metal bars on the first try. Ugh. She wiped them on her thigh, leaving a gross black streak, and tried again, hoisting herself into the driver’s seat. The vinyl seat was cold and stuck to her skin. Below her, the toy army was not giving up. A Ken doll with a way-too-permanent smile started climbing the tire like it was a jungle gym.
“Nice try, Ken,” Allegra grunted, and kicked him off. He went flying. A GI Joe with a grappling hook managed to latch onto the fork. Allegra just stomped on his tiny plastic hand. Bye-bye, Joe. They were like a bunch of determined little ants swarming her new metal throne. She swatted them away like flies while her eyes searched the controls. A diagram, all greasy and faded, was bolted to the side. *Key. ON. GO.* Simple enough. Her eyes landed on a key hanging from a frayed red string. She grabbed it, but her oily fingers fumbled, and it slipped.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, shaking a sparkly pony off her leg. She tried again, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in concentration. The key slid in. She turned it. *Click.* Then a low rumble. She slammed her bare foot down on the gas pedal.
*VROOOM!* The engine exploded to life, a loud, angry roar that shook the whole forklift. The toys on the floor scattered like bowling pins. Allegra’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. A huge, messy grin broke out on her oil-smeared face. The hunted was now the hunter.
The forklift wasn’t just a machine. It was a big, hungry, yellow monster. Allegra slammed it into gear, and it lurched forward with a guttural growl. It was awake, and it was angry. Its giant tires became grinding teeth, chewing up the concrete floor as it rolled. The toys on the floor stopped being an army and started being a crunchy, colorful carpet. The forklift rolled over them, and the sounds were horrifyingly satisfying. *Pop. Crackle. Crunch.*
A squad of green army men became a smear of green plastic. A sparkly My Little Pony let out one last, pathetic squeak before its glittery body was flattened into the floor. The forklift didn’t care. It was a beast on a mission, and its mission was to get to the even bigger monster waiting at the end of the aisle.
“Whoa, whoa!” Allegra yelled, wrestling with the steering wheel. The thing had a mind of its own. It jerked and swerved, and she was pretty sure she was supposed to be using the clutch, but which pedal was that? The forklift shuddered, stalled for a second, then roared back to life, lurching forward again. It was a wild animal she was barely holding onto by the reins.
Big Hector stood at the end of the aisle, a shadowy king on his throne of junk. He raised a giant hand, and a volley of Barbies rained down on her. One bounced off the hood, another smacked into the windshield. Allegra ducked, her heart hammering. “Get away from me, you bitch!” she screamed, stomping on the gas. The monster responded with a delighted roar, its forks lowered like horns, ready to gore.
The yellow monster bore down on him, a roaring tide of metal and rage. Big Hector, the towering king of junk, stood his ground. But as the forklift’s shadow swallowed him whole, something in his plastic brain clicked. The fight was over. He was beaten. The forklift hit him.
There was no grand explosion, just the sound of a thousand breaking things. The crate that was his chest split open. The plastic wrap that was his skin unraveled. The floodlights that were his eyes flickered and went dark. He came apart in pieces, a cascade of cardboard and plastic, ripped apart and swallowed by the grinding tires. The yellow monster plowed right through the middle of him, emerging on the other side without even slowing down.
Perched on a nearby shelf, the original Hector watched his giant creation get shredded into confetti. His painted-on smile was gone. His plastic jaw hung open. “No!” he shrieked, his voice a tiny, frantic squeak. “NO! You can’t! You stupid, oily—!” He couldn’t even finish. He just stood there, a tiny, defeated king watching his kingdom get hauled away to the dump.
The forklift shuddered to a stop, its engine ticking like a bomb cooling down. Silence. Allegra didn’t wait. She scrambled onto the hood, her bare feet finding purchase on the gritty metal. She was a greased-up panther on the prowl. Her eyes locked onto the shelf where Little Hector stood frozen, a tiny plastic tyrant watching his world burn. She launched herself, grabbing the edge of the steel shelf and swinging up. Hector tried to run, his little plastic legs pumping, but he was too slow. Her hand shot out and snatched him by his oversized sombrero. “Gotcha,” she growled. She held him up, his tiny body dangling. He looked so small. So pathetic. Then she started punching. Her fist, slick with oil, smacked into his plastic face. *Whap.* She slammed him against the steel shelf. *Clang.* She did it again. *Whap. Clang.* “You!” *Whap.* “Like!” *Clang.* “Messing!” *Whap.* “With!” *Clang.* “Me!” She wasn’t just hitting him. She was erasing him.
—
High above, hidden in the rafters, Lite and Brite watched their champion get dismantled.
“Blast and bother,” Lite lamented, looking down. “Our bouncy boy is beaten and battered!”
“Battered and bruised,” Brite bemoaned, burying his face in his hands. “Our best-laid plans are brutally banned!”
“She’s a fearsome foe, a frantic fighter,” Lite fumed. “Our fun is finished, our frolic is foiled!”
“Then let’s flee this fracas, this farce, this failure!” Brite cried, raising his hands. A faint, sad shimmer of magic danced between his fingers. “Let’s leave this loser to his lamentable fate!”
Below, as Allegra pulled back her fist for another punch, Little Hector went completely limp. The painted-on snarl melted from his face, his plastic eyes went dull and vacant. The life, the magic, the sheer, annoying will to live, just… vanished. He was just a doll again. A cheap, dented piece of plastic with a silly hat. Allegra stopped, her fist frozen mid-air. She looked at the limp thing in her hand. It was over.
The warehouse door crashed open, and Allegra strode out like she was walking a runway. The cheesy holiday music kept playing, but you could have heard a pin drop. A mom with a cart full of presents froze mid-push. A little kid’s jaw went slack, dropping his candy cane. A pack of guys by the video games just stared, their mouths hanging open. Allegra didn’t even blink. She walked right through the middle of the silent, staring crowd like it was nothing. The oil made her skin shine like she’d been dipped in gold. Her long legs were smudged with dirt, her bare feet leaving little greasy footprints on the clean floor. Her elf outfit was totally gone, so she was just in her underwear, looking like a gladiator who’d just won a really weird fight. Her hair was a crazy, oily mess, but her face said she was completely in charge. She was a beautiful, greasy disaster.
And then there was Brad. He was standing by the Handsome Hector display, looking like his brain had just blue-screened. The girl from before, the one with the sassy attitude and the amazing legs, was now a glistening, half-naked girl on a mission, marching straight for him. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a little gasp.
Allegra stopped right in front of him. She held up one hand. “No.”
Brad’s mouth snapped shut so fast he almost bit his tongue.
She shoved the thing she was holding into his hands. It was the Handsome Hector doll, but it looked like it had been put through a blender. It was ripped, stained, and its head was all lumpy.
“Leave your number,” she said, her voice totally calm. “My last day is the 23rd. Take me somewhere expensive. I’m going on break.” And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with a broken doll and a whole new understanding of the words ‘Christmas Cheer.’