Revenge of the Killer Alarm Clock

       Saitama was awakened by the usual buzz of his alarm clock. Or rather, not fully awakened, leading him to misjudge the force needed to hit the snooze button. The buzz yielded to a metallic crunch, jolting the hero fully awake. Great, he thought. Another trip to the 100 Yen shop for a new alarm clock. Or perhaps he could ask Genos to fix this one? Then he realised the crunching was continuing, now mingled with the grinding of gears and other ominous noises. Had Genos started repairs without being asked? Blinking his eyes open, Saitama found a shape hovering in the air—uh… well, it was still technically an alarm clock. Just several times larger, semi-transparent, and fringed with a chaotic mess of clock hands. Its bell domes rotated, fixing on him like a pair of mad, bulging eyes. “Three hundred and thirty-three of my brethren have fallen by your hand,” the apparition squeaked, its voice like a knife on glass. “They served you well, they guarded your schedule, and this is how you repay them! Their souls cry out for vengeance, and now I, the Ghostly Monster Alarm Clock, shall turn your life into a living hell!” Before Saitama could mutter a half-sincere apology, it began to ring. With a stereo effect. Saitama’s teeth ached. The sheer cheek of the thing! Well, technically it had a point, but that was no excuse for such an antisocial racket. If you’ve been wronged, file a complaint, don’t go rampaging through people’s homes. Right, that was enough. Without even winding up, he thrust his fist into the thick of the spinning numbers and hands—and almost fell over as his hand met no resistance. He might as well have been punching the air. “I told you—I’m a ghost!” the monster laughed through the incessant ringing. “You cannot destroy what has no body!” Now this was getting interesting. Saitama perked up. He hadn’t faced any non-corporeal opponents before. But there was plenty of material energy-wielders, and none had withstood him. So if he concentrated on a Serious Punch, channelling all his kinetic energy, all the excitement and anticipation of a good fight into it… With the next punch, the surreal alarm clock dispersed into the air like a puff of smoke. See? And it said it couldn’t be… The ringing, which had momentarily ceased, sounded again, now from the television. The now-familiar numbers and hands flickered across the screen. “I told you—I’m a ghost! By dispelling an optical illusion, you haven’t destroyed me! But I can hack and use any piece of tech…” The TV set cracked and shattered into smithereens from a punch to the screen, but the vile buzz now came from his mobile, the Hero Association’s communicator, the rice steamer, and the doorbell in the hallway… Oh, no, not the steamer! Boiling rice on the hob would be unbearably tedious. Not to mention the cost of new tech! A movement in the anteroom caught his eye. Genos must have returned from the grocery run. Perfect. He managed small repairs on his own body, he could surely handle this gadget pest. “Genos, unhack the phone before you start breakfast, yeah?” Saitama called out. The cyborg stepped in, his golden gaze scanning the room before settling on Saitama. His mouth opened… but instead of “I’ll handle that, Sensei,” he emitted the same metallic buzz. “Ah, how convenient,” the communicator gloated. “Your disciple is, for the most part, a technical device himself. I can hack him too. In fact, I already have. You’d have to demolish him completely to stop this hell.” “No, I wouldn’t!” Saitama was seriously irked now, but with no tangible enemy, he had nowhere to direct his temper. “I just need to take him to his manufacturer for maintenance under guarantee. Not necessarily in one piece, but he’d survive.” The problem was, doing so wouldn’t be easy. Farewell, sweet home; it would be blown to nano-dust by all the nuclear weapons Genos had under his shell. Saitama looked Genos in the eyes, trying to send a message through sheer willpower. The buzzing was becoming unbearable. “Genos, snap out of it! Fight it, damn you! Don’t tell me you can be beaten by a handful of springs and plastic made in China?! Don’t you have any built-in antivirus?” “Oh, yes, bring us to his manufacturer! I’d be delighted to commandeer an entire laboratory!” the monster’s voice, emanating from several sources at once, was ecstatic. Saitama froze. That would be… truly lousy. Genos seemed deaf to his pleas; he took a step forward, his metal hand clamping down on Saitama’s shoulder. Saitama’s instincts screamed to punch, but he held back—for now. There was no room to retreat in the tiny apartment. Tripping over the futon, Saitama fell backwards, waving a hand desperately—and hit something. A sharp crack of metal. Oh, poor Genos… Saitama sat up abruptly and looked around. Genos, still in his cooking apron, was standing a few steps away, holding the broken handle of an aluminium mop. The severed mop head lay by the futon, its dirty strands splayed out like inanimate dreadlocks. The cyborg looked deeply concerned. “Sensei, are you alright? I concluded you were having a bad dream, so I took the liberty of waking you—with due care.” His clear, fast voice was music to Saitama’s ears—or would have been, if not for the ear-splitting buzz of the alarm clock. Which sat on the floor, intact and shining, just out of reach, ringing with glee. “Genos,” Saitama grumbled, before carefully—with all the 'due care' his disciple had mentioned—reaching over to the gadget. “Why didn’t you switch it off?” The clock fell silent, utterly unscathed and without any further special effects. “Ah. My apologies.” Genos snapped to attention. “I… find it such an unnerving sound that I filter it out at the hardware level.” He tapped his ear. “I didn’t hear it. My apologies.” That bloody cyborg. Cheating, even in the most mundane daily matters. Still, the smell of omelette was already wafting through the apartment, so it was high time to get up anyway. Saitama hauled himself up and trudged off to the bathroom. The cold water rinsed away the sticky remnants of the dream. Whoa. He did sometimes dream of an equal, invulnerable opponent. But for the first time, it hadn’t left a wistful aftertaste upon waking. He was genuinely glad it had been just a dream.