CHAPTER 6 – MICRO TOOL RIG
The stairwell feels like the only place in the building that belongs to no one.
The elevator's for staff, the main stairs are for everyone, and this back set—concrete, half-lit, exit sign buzz dying above the door—is for fire drills and people who don't exist. Perfect.
I push the heavy door until it almost closes. Not enough to latch, just enough to swallow the shelter noise into a muffled buzz—TV, metal trays, kids, somebody arguing about curfew. In here it's cool and still and smells like old dust and mop water.
I take the landing halfway between floors. Back to the wall, knees up, hood up. From here I can see the door, hear footsteps above and below, and feel the building humming through my spine.
Then I start emptying my pockets.
The pencil case comes out first, its faded cartoon print rubbed to a blur. I unzipped it earlier and stuffed everything in without thinking; now it gets dumped on the step opposite me, a soft clatter of metal and plastic.
Broken screwdriver shaft.
Rusty pliers.
Single scissor blade.
Scrap wire, still kinked in the shape of the lamp cord it used to be.
Two tiny screws, one bent slightly.
A thin strip of metal from some unknown bracket.
Crushed multitool casing, half its tools snapped off or frozen in place. I must've grabbed it out of reflex. It looked like potential. Still does.
I pat down the rest of my pockets. More wire, folded twice. A twist of tape wrapped around my finger from earlier. Needle and thread from the shelter sewing kit, lifted when no one was looking. Those go into the pile too.
Finally, I sit back and look at everything spread on the concrete step.
Random scrap yesterday. Today it looks like inventory.
I sort automatically, fingers moving pieces around into neat rows without really noticing when I started. Pliers, screwdriver, blade, wire, tiny fasteners, multitool corpse. Tools in one line, maybe-tools in another, trash in a third.
The pliers go first. I pick them up, work the hinge open and closed. Rust dusts my fingers and sprinkles onto my jeans.
"Still bites," I murmur.
The teeth meet cleanly enough. Surface rust is ugly, but it's not rot. I tap the joint with my thumb. Slight play. Not great, not terrible. They stay in the keep line.
Next is the screwdriver shaft—just the metal, with a cracked stump where the plastic handle used to be. Crosshead tip chewed but not ruined. I press it against my palm and imagine turning it under load; even without trying, I can feel it digging into skin, slipping if my hand's wet.
"Handle's a problem," I tell it.
It does not disagree.
The scissor blade is sharp along one side, dull along the other, and ends in that round hinge hole where its twin used to live. Too obviously a blade if anyone sees it out of context. That's a future headache. Still, cutting and scraping and maybe prying. It goes in the keep line, with a mental asterisk.
Wire next. I uncoil it, checking for breaks. The insulation is scuffed but intact. Not enough for anything complicated, but enough to tie, bind, maybe jury-rig a simple circuit later if I ever get that far. Keep.
The tiny screws go on the tip of my finger. Small enough to drop and lose forever if I breathe wrong. I set them carefully on a scrap of tape stuck sticky-side up to the concrete, so they don't roll away. They don't know it yet, but they're important.
The multitool carcass is last. I pick it up by the least broken side. One half of the casing has a spiderweb crack. Most of the fold-out tools are rust or jagged stubs. But there's a small driver head that still moves, if I force it.
I pull it out with my fingernails. It resists, then pops free with a gritty squeak.
"Hey," I say quietly. "You're not dead yet."
I test the tip against the stair. It leaves the faintest scratch. Worn, but usable. The casing around it wiggles, though, like a bad tooth.
That's fixable later. I set the multitool in the maybe line.
What's left in the trash row is obvious: crumbly plastic, frayed cloth, a bent nail so far gone I could probably snap it in half with two fingers. Useless weight. I brush those to the side. They clink and skitter down a couple of steps, disappearing into dust and whatever else lives in this stairwell.
The keep line looks small now. Concentrated.
Pliers.
Screwdriver shaft.
Scissor blade.
Short coil of wire.
Needle and thread.
Multitool fragment.
A couple of screws.
Barely anything, if you think in terms of money. More than some people ever get, if you think in terms of control.
I lean my head back against the wall and let my eyes trace the shapes.
Loose, they're a problem.
Loose tools rattle. They poke. They print through fabric. They fall out of pockets when you run or get grabbed. Loose tools get noticed, and then you get noticed, and then suddenly someone wants to know why a homeless eighteen-year-old is carrying hardware like a maintenance guy without a uniform.
Borrowed wrenches won't always be there. Basement shelves won't always be open. These are mine. If I lose them, that's on me.
I rub my thumb over the fabric pencil case lying deflated between my shoes. It's cheap, the kind you grab from a dollar bin before school starts. I tug the zipper back and forth; it sticks once, then runs smooth. Seams are worn, but not blown.
Not great. Not terrible.
I hold it up against my chest, under the hoodie, testing the shape. The fabric is soft and mushy, no structure at all. Everything inside would clump at the bottom and swing with every step.
I picture running down a hallway with that slapping against my ribs. The noise. The drag. The way it would yank if someone grabbed the front of my hoodie.
No.
Not like that.
I put it back on the step and stare at it until the picture rearranges itself in my head.
Not just "I have tools." That's how you end up losing them one by one to bad luck and gravity.
I need a system.
Something quiet.
Something I can reach into without looking.
Something that stays mine even when the building's falling apart.
The thought clicks into place, as clean as seating a screw: I don't want pockets. I want a rig.
The word feels too big for what I have—a handful of scrap and a stolen pencil case on dirty concrete. But the shape is right.
"Rig v-zero-point-one," I say under my breath. "Maybe."
The stairwell doesn't argue.
The light in the stairwell shifts as the sun drags itself down outside. It gets colder, sharper. My fingers move faster to keep up.
First problem: edges.
I pick up the scissor blade and roll it in my palm. On its own, it's just a knife someone forgot to finish. Knives get you stopped, searched, maybe shot if the wrong person is jumpy.
But a cutter, properly wrapped, is just a tool. Plausible. Boring.
I dig into my hoodie pocket and pull out the strip I tore earlier from the inside hem—a section no one would miss. I lay the blade on top, edge facing in, and roll the fabric around the spine and base, leaving only a tiny length of sharpened metal exposed near the tip.
"That's your working edge," I tell it. "Everything else is padding."
The rubber from a ruined shoe sole I picked up earlier goes around the fabric, giving it grip. Then thread, spiraled tight, cinching the layers down. The tiny needle bites my fingers more than once; I ignore the sting and keep wrapping. The more times I pass around, the less give there is. Less give means less rattle, less chance of the edge cutting its way out.
By the time I tie off the final knot, the scissor blade has a short, stubby handle and a mostly hidden edge. It looks more like a box cutter than a weapon now.
Next: screwdriver shaft.
The metal stump where the handle snapped off is rough and sharp. It's exactly the kind of thing that'll tear through fabric or your hand at the worst possible time.
I take another strip of cloth—this one from the inside edge of an extra T-shirt I found in the donation bin—and wrap the base, covering the broken plastic and metal. The rubber goes over that again, building a tiny grip. Thread cinches it all down in tight coils.
I test the new handle against my palm, give the shaft a twist like I'm driving a screw. It doesn't slip. It doesn't bite.
"Better," I say.
The pliers get the same treatment: stripped of their half-rotten original grips, then rewrapped with cloth and rubber. Their weight feels different afterward. Less like junk someone left in the rain, more like something that belongs in a toolbox.
The multitool fragment stares at me from the step, accusing.
"Yeah, yeah. Your turn."
I pry it fully open, ignoring the protest of stiff hinges. Most of the tools are dead weight: blades snapped off, saw teeth worn to nubs. I only care about the tiny driver head that still looks intact.
The casing around that section is cracked. That's where it'll fail if I don't do something.
I fish for the tape, unpeel a strip, and tear off a piece of the thin metal bracket from earlier. With the help of the needle—this time as a makeshift awl—I punch through the casing and bracket together, slotting one of the tiny screws through both. It's delicate work; my shoulders tense without me telling them to. If I strip the screw or the hole, this whole thing goes from "janky but useful" to "trash" instantly.
The screw catches. I turn it carefully with the bare tip of the driver itself, using it as its own wrench. The bracket snugs down over the cracked casing, bracing it.
When I test the driver again, there's less wobble. It still has almost no handle, but that's fine. I want this one as a fingertip tool, not a lever. Something that can get into corners the main screwdriver can't.
"Welcome to the family," I say quietly.
The rig in my head is taking shape. Heavy things at the bottom, long things along the spine, dangerous edges wrapped and pointed inward. The pencil case is going to need a skeleton if it's going to carry this without sagging like a shopping bag.
Cardboard will have to do.
I pull a cereal box panel from under my arm—rescued earlier from the trash near the kitchen. Flatten it, cut a rectangle to match the length of the pencil case. Narrow the edges until it slides in snug but not too tight.
Then I score it with the blunt side of the wrapped blade and fold the sides up, making a shallow U-shaped tray. A couple of smaller pieces taped in perpendicular give me dividers: one long lane, two medium, a tiny corner cell.
It's not straight. The cuts aren't even. The tape wrinkles. But once it's inside the case, the floppy fabric has a spine. The pouch holds its shape when I squeeze it, instead of collapsing.
I start assigning slots.
Pliers lie flat along one side, jaws down, handles up. They're the heaviest; they go where gravity will least fight me. Screwdriver shaft in the longest channel, tip toward the bottom of the case so it doesn't stab the zipper if something goes wrong. Wrapped blade in its own slim slot, edge turned inward, handle up for quick grab. Needle bundled in a tiny roll of tape and thread, tucked into the smallest corner compartment, safe.
Wire coils flat along the interior wall, held with one loop of tape so it doesn't explode out every time I open the case. The mini-driver from the multitool gets its own little berth next to the screwdriver—faster to find by feel that way.
I close the case halfway and tilt it, listening. Tools slide a little, then stop as the dividers catch them. The sound they make is more of a soft shift than a clatter.
Better. Not good enough.
I pull it open again and tear thin strips from an old towel I swiped from the laundry bin yesterday. I wedge those between the tools and the dividers—just enough padding to keep metal off metal. When I close it this time and give it a shake, the sound is barely a whisper.
That's the line. If I can hear it, someone else might.
My fingers ache, but in the good way. The repetitive motion pulls my brain into a narrow channel where it doesn't have room for anything else. No multiverse accident, no "you shouldn't be here," no what-ifs. Just tape angles and friction and sound.
The last step is the pouch itself.
I take the needle and thread again and put two quick stitches through the inside edge of the case, into a tiny loop of fabric I cut off the hem of my jeans. That loop is small and flat and ugly, but when I slide the case into my hoodie pocket with the loop on top, I can hook a finger through it and haul the whole thing out in one motion.
I pause, thread clenched between teeth, flash of paranoia rising.
Sewing a loop inside my clothes is a choice. It's not survival improvisation anymore; it's modifying my body's perimeter. Turning my hoodie into gear, not just warmth and camouflage.
Feels… big.
Also feels necessary.
I stitch a matching loop to the inside of the hoodie pocket itself, a little higher up. Then I tie the pouch's loop to it with a short, easily cut length of thread—enough to anchor the rig so it doesn't slide out if I tilt forward, weak enough that if someone grabs the case, it'll snap before it drags me.
I drop the case into the pocket and feel the weight settle against my stomach. Not comfortable. Not uncomfortable. Just there.
I bounce a little on the stair, then jog in place. The case shifts, but it doesn't swing wildly. The loops keep it seated. The noise is nearly nothing.
"Okay," I say. "Rig v-zero-point-one. Field test."
The words feel stupid in my mouth and right in my head, both at once.
I zip my hoodie halfway and push off the wall.
The stairwell door sighs as I open it, the noise swallowed quickly by the shelter's evening sounds. People are louder now—dinner dishes, TV turned up, kids being told no, go brush your teeth.
I step into the hall like I'm not carrying a small universe of metal and cloth under my hoodie. Heartbeat says otherwise.
One hand stays buried in my front pocket, fingers brushing the top of the pencil case through the fabric. I've already mapped where each tool sits in there. Pliers to the left, screwdriver centered, blade just above, needle in the tiny corner, driver close to the zipper.
I walk down the hall, counting steps and listening.
The case doesn't rattle. Good.
At the end of the hallway, the door to the common room sticks, like it has since I got here. Bottom hinge dragging, screw backing out. People slam it without thinking, forcing it over the resistance.
Last night, I just noticed and filed it.
Tonight, I stop.
The front desk worker is turned away, her attention on a family checking in. The TV is loud. Nobody is watching the door.
I kneel like my shoe came untied; hoodie dips forward, hiding my face from any quick glances.
Hand into pocket. Finger through loop. The rig comes up smooth and quiet, case half-unzipped by the time it's against my chest. I don't look down. I don't need to.
Screwdriver shaft between two fingers. Out. Case back in. Pocket closed.
All in a few seconds.
I feel the door's bottom hinge with my free hand, thumb tracing the metal until it finds the screw head sticking out just enough to catch fabric.
"Of course," I breathe.
The screwdriver slides into the cross-shaped groove. I give it a slow, firm turn. The threads bite. I twist again until it's snug, then a fraction more.
No over-tightening. Stripped screws are a different kind of disaster.
I stand and open the door. It swings smoother now. Not perfect, but the drag is mostly gone. The noise it makes at the hinge drops from a grind to a soft creak lost under the TV and voices.
Screwdriver goes back into the rig by feel. Tip first into its slot, handle upright. Case zipped halfway, loop settled. Pocket closes.
Nobody says anything. Nobody notices.
That's the point.
I keep moving.
Up the stairs. Down again. Short bursts of speed, then stops. The rig shifts a little with momentum, then settles. The padding keeps it quiet. My body starts to incorporate the weight into its baseline, the way it once did with a backpack full of textbooks or a baby sibling on my hip.
I walk a lap around the floor, past the laundry room. A vent cover above a cart rattles, slapping against the wall every time the dryer kicks on. I mark it for later. That'll be a pliers and mini-driver job, maybe a bit of wire.
Near the back exit, a chair in a little side nook wobbles. One leg is loose where it meets the cheap wood brace.
I pause like I'm just leaning on it.
Rig out. Mini-driver this time. It fits into the shallow screw head better than the big shaft would. A few careful turns, testing between each, and the leg tightens.
I could leave it. No one would thank me. No one would even know.
But tomorrow, when someone sits there, they won't fall and bruise their tailbone. They won't drop their tray and get laughed at or yelled at. It'll just be a chair that works like it was always supposed to.
I step away before anyone can see me hovering.
As I walk back toward the dorms, the difference between yesterday and today sits heavy and electric under my skin.
Yesterday: if something broke and I wanted to fix it, I had to hope there was a tool nearby I could borrow or steal without getting caught. If there wasn't, I had to just live with the failure, listen to the rattle, watch the leak.
Today: I have enough in my pocket to settle a door, tighten a hinge, stop a wobble before it becomes a crack. Enough metal and cloth to make the building listen when I tell it to behave.
Nothing in my hands. No obvious threat. Just a kid in a hoodie walking down a hallway, who happens to be carrying a toolkit the building doesn't know about.
The thought is bigger than it should be. It makes my chest feel… stretched. Not comfortable. Not exactly bad either.
I shut it down out of habit.
Tools aren't feelings. Tools are insurance.
Back in the dorm, the lights are low and the beds are full of breathing shapes, blankets rising and falling. I climb up into my bunk, roll onto my back, and pull the thin blanket over me.
Under the cover, where no one can see, I slide the rig out and lay it flat on my chest. The weight presses into my sternum, familiar already.
I pull the zipper down just enough to slip my hand inside, fingertips brushing each piece in turn.
Pliers.
Screwdriver.
Wrapped blade.
Needle bundle.
Wire coil.
Mini-driver.
All present.
My heart slows with the checklist. Not because I'm calm, exactly, but because there's a structure now where there wasn't one before.
I don't have money.
I don't have an ID that says I exist.
I don't have a name anyone in this city recognizes.
But I have this.
Tools, quiet and hidden and ready.
I could carry a knife. I've seen enough here already to know it would make a certain kind of sense. Sharp edge, quick answer. A knife ends things.
This feels better.
Tools don't end things. They change them.
I close the case, tuck it back into my hoodie, and let my hand rest over it, feeling the faint outlines through the fabric.
The heater hums a steady rhythm through the wall. Down the hall, someone coughs. A kid mutters in their sleep.
I breathe in warm air that smells like too many people and too few showers and think, just for a second:
If something breaks tonight, I won't be empty-handed.
Then I file the thought away with everything else and let the background noise of the building pull me down toward sleep, rig pressed close like a second, quieter heartbeat.