The shade beneath the overpass was thin as moss, barely masking the furnace heat. The stink of rot clung to the air, mixing with oil and concrete dust.
Amos pressed a battered flip phone against his filthy ear. The ringtone still seemed to echo in the air like a fever dream. From hundreds of feet underground, a voice—strained, quivering, but trying to sound official—had asked a question that could decide the fate of civilization.
"Who… who are you?"
Amos's gaze drifted from a shiny, crown-shaped bottlecap to some invisible point beyond the crumbling concrete. He smacked his lips as if savoring the grease of a cheap hotdog.
"Back then…" His voice rasped with the grind of disuse, metallic, like steel dragging on steel. "…some fools got noisy. I shut them up. They started calling me the 'Warring Calamity.'"
The words dropped down the encrypted line like ice water. Somewhere in the bunker, classified archives stirred to life—files marked ERROR, MYTH, FORBIDDEN. Redacted fragments spilled onto screens, stained with the stink of fire and blood.
Silence followed. Only ragged breathing betrayed that anyone still listened.
Amos didn't notice. Or didn't care. His hand kept rummaging through his cart, tin cans clinking like coins in a jar.
"Now?" he said into the phone. "Now I'm just trying to get paid. Aluminum cans, five cents each. Or nickels. Nickels would save me a trip to Old Jon's place."
In the war room, men and women who held the levers of nations stared at one another, mute. Generals gaped, technicians blinked at frozen blue screens, and someone whispered the word like a prayer:
"…Nickel?"
The lead voice forced itself steady, though it trembled anyway. "Sir… we can offer any resource. Anything you ask. The United States stands ready—"
"Five cents." Amos cut him off flatly. His irritation was the kind you'd use on a slow clerk at a corner store. "Aluminum, or nickel coins. You get it?"
He picked up a crushed beer can and squeezed it, the aluminum groaning in protest. "These. You wasted my time. Do you know how many bottles I could've cashed by now?"
The line went dead quiet. Nuclear annihilation—measured in missed bottle money.
"…perhaps," the bunker voice tried again, fumbling for logic, "perhaps we could discuss broader cooperation? Maybe you could… help with those cursed blue screens?"
Amos sighed, a sound full of dust and annoyance.
"Trouble. It'll fix itself."
As if on cue, the NMCC screens flickered. Code writhed like dying insects—then vanished. With a snap, maps and satellites and comms all blinked back to life. Only the countdown, crimson and merciless, kept ticking: 26:17… 16… 15.
"See?" Amos muttered, like he'd just smacked the side of a broken radio. "Told you."
There was no relief in the bunker. Just dread. Their most advanced systems had been dismissed like a bad antenna.
"The countdown," a general gasped into the phone, desperation cracking his voice. "Please! Stop it!"
"Oh, that thing?" Amos drawled. "Yeah, I can kill it."
Collective exhalations of hope filled the chamber—until three more words dropped like stones:
"…gonna cost you."
"What?" the general croaked.
"Compensation." Amos's tone hardened with bored righteousness. "You ruined my shift. Mental damages. And fixing your screens? That's labor. Package deal. Ten cans. Fifty cents. Cash or aluminum, your choice. No iron."
In the bunker, the most powerful people in the free world began patting their pockets, searching frantically for nickels, dimes, anything that could be stacked into fifty cents.
And under the bridge, the Warring Calamity leaned against his rickety cart, haggling over pocket change.
Overhead, the doomsday clock ticked on. 25:59.