Stone Grips the Shelf

Stiffness cracks. My joints grind. I plant my heavy heels down hard into the shelf board. A cold rumble shakes in my chest. To my right, the silver armored figure stands rigid and unmoving. I turn my fist outward and press a spiked knuckle against the hard plastic edge behind him. It resists. Solid. Good. I stay planted, waiting for anything to try pushing back.