The Florida sun never knew how to play nice.
Out on the west side of Pensacola, the abandoned parking lot baked under a merciless heat, cracked asphalt radiating blistering waves. The air shimmered, bending the shapes of half-collapsed buildings into wavering mirages. The place reeked—a sick stew of rotting food, burned plastic, moldy garbage, and the salt stink of the Gulf. The sun fused it all into a hot, foul wind that slapped at the skin.
In the middle of that stink, Amo worked.
A hoodie so stained its color was anyone's guess, hood pulled low to hide most of his face. Loose, ripped pants dragged at his ankles. He crouched over a green dumpster, half his body inside, bare hands digging through sludge and scraps with precise, practiced movements. The buzzing flies, the greasy muck—none of it slowed him.
Beside him, a supermarket cart on its last legs held his haul: crushed cans, a few intact bottles, a bundle of cardboard.
His fingers closed on something hard, curved. He fished out a rust-eaten cap, weighed it, sneered. Iron. Worthless. Aluminum paid—five cents a pop, or half a stale loaf from Old Jon.
Sweat dripped from the matted ropes of his hair, sizzling on the pavement. A fight broke out down the lot—two scavengers shoving over a busted fan, curses shredding the hot wind.
Same as always. Heat, stink, despair—and the desperate energy of Florida's forgotten, clawing over scraps.
Amo moved to the next dumpster, eyes scanning, hands steady. Now and then, his gaze drifted past the rusted fence to the glittering Gulf, light scattering on the waves like crushed glass. His eyes held no longing, no bitterness. Just that abyssal calm—silent, unreachable, like the bottom of the sea.
"Yo! Amo!"
Jimmy barreled up, loud as ever. "Fast-Talk" Jimmy—bright, hideous shorts, grimy tank top, faded rock band logo.
"Hit the jackpot, man!" He waved half a soggy pack of cookies, crumbs flying. "East side rich folks threw out a goldmine!"
Amo didn't turn. He pulled a nearly new water bottle, sniffed it, dropped it in the cart.
Jimmy kept yapping, as if silence were fuel.
"…World's falling apart, I swear. Big-Ears John says his radio's nothing but static. But sometimes… you hear things between it. Flight routes cut… or whatever. Creepy as hell, man!"
Amo kept digging, unbothered.
"And get this—Old Jon's bread shrank again. Bastards say supplies are short, shipping's sky-high. Like that's our fault! They sit in AC, we chew sawdust! Damn them!" Jimmy spat, crunching his cookie with loud disgust.
Amo finally stood, nothing more worth taking. He shoved the cart forward, wheels squealing. His eyes flicked up.
The sky was flawless blue, sun burning overhead. Normally there'd be contrails—white lines streaking the air.
Today? Empty. Too empty. Not a single plane, not a whisper of movement.
Jimmy's voice wavered in the hot wind: "…I'm telling you, something's coming. Big. Gives me chills…"
Glass crunched under the cart, shrieking louder than Jimmy.
Something big? Amo only cared about finding more aluminum before dark.
He bent to grab a bottle by the wheel—
Then the voice hit. Jagged as lightning:
[—zzzz… member states… final… warning… zzz… Red Line… zzz… surrender or… consequences… zzz—]
Amo froze, almost imperceptibly. His hand clenched the cart handle until his knuckles blanched.
That voice—mechanical, cold, inhuman. Only a flash, but it dredged up old pain, the ringing in his skull he thought he'd buried.
Jimmy chewed, oblivious.
Amo loosened his grip slowly, straightened. Beneath the hood, his brow furrowed—then smoothed away too fast to be real.
He wiped at phantom sweat with his sleeve, flashing the filthy wrist rig tied to his arm—circuit scraps, frayed wires, a tiny LCD. For a heartbeat, it flickered, faint as a ghost, then went dead again.
Amo scooped up the bottle, tossed it into the cart.
And pushed on.
Not toward the next dumpster.
Instead, he headed for the rocky slope at the lot's edge, where the Gulf gleamed beyond the fence.
Gravel shifted underfoot. The air was still hot, still foul.
But something had changed.