Kyle's brain was still struggling to process the absurdity of it all—that a global ceasefire had been declared in the name of recycling. So when Amo asked for water, his response was pure reflex.
"Water! Now! Get the gentleman some water!"
An agent sprinted to the car and returned with a cold, factory-sealed bottle. He twisted the cap and offered it with both hands as if presenting a royal crown. The chilled plastic immediately fogged with condensation in the stifling air.
Amo grabbed it without thanks and tilted it back. He drank deep, water spilling down his grimy chin, soaking into the ragged hoodie. When he finally exhaled, it was with the relief of a man who had just solved the universe's greatest problem.
Kyle seized the moment, pushing his tablet closer. The satellite feed still displayed the same bone-chilling message.
"Sir, look at this. The Global Alliance—they suddenly announced a ceasefire. Their reason is… recycling? This must be some trick, right? Or… was this you?" His voice trembled, a mix of awe and confusion.
Amo wiped his mouth, glanced at the screen once, and dismissed it like a misprinted flyer.
"Too noisy," he muttered. Whether he meant the announcement or Kyle's voice was unclear.
He set the half-empty bottle on his cart, eyes already scanning the intersection. His brow furrowed.
"Old Jon," he said again, sharper this time. "Where is he?"
The fate of the world's armies meant nothing. What mattered was that Old Jon hadn't shown up to buy scrap. Which meant no bread, no food. Which meant hunger. And that was the end of the world.
Kyle felt drained. He wasn't facing a godlike being, but a stubborn old man stuck at the bottom of Maslow's hierarchy. Still, he didn't dare falter. He barked into his comms:
"Has anyone found this Old Jon yet?! Use everything—satellites, traffic cams, cell pings! I want his location in five minutes, down to which damn tree he's napping under!"
Within moments, the entire underground intelligence grid shifted into overdrive—scouring Florida for a nameless scrap dealer.
Amo, apparently satisfied by the urgency, wandered into the shade and sat on a relatively clean curb. He tore open another energy bar from the emergency rations Kyle had given him and chewed with clear distaste at the sweetness.
Then a black sedan screeched to a halt. A young official leapt out, pale and frantic, clutching a stack of files and a heavy tablet. He nearly tripped running over.
"Sir! New intel!" His voice cracked. "The Alliance… they're not joking! Their fleets are actually pulling back! Slowly, but definitely leaving engagement zones! And—God—their media feeds are nonstop with slogans about 'sustainable resource management' and 'a shared destiny of global recycling.' With cheerful eco-music playing in the background!"
Kyle gaped, as if watching the climax of a surreal play. The reports he skimmed only confirmed it: the Alliance was serious. Somehow, "Lord Calamity" had not only forced them into silence but… rewritten their strategic priorities.
He looked back at Amo. The supposed destroyer of nations was focused entirely on picking energy-bar crumbs out of his teeth with his tongue.
"Your Excellency…" Kyle's voice was hoarse. "It seems… they really listened to your suggestion." He didn't dare say "calm down." He reframed it as something constructive, world-altering.
Amo finally swallowed the last bite, brushed off his hands, and took another sip of water.
"Oh," he said flatly. "That's good."
At least they wouldn't bother him again.
Kyle's earpiece crackled. He listened, then almost sagged with relief.
"Sir! We found him! Old Jon!"
Amo's head lifted immediately.
"He's fine. His truck broke down on the service road, about three miles out. Bit of heatstroke, but… our, uh, people on scene already gave him water. Tow truck's on the way." Kyle rushed through the report.
Amo's tension eased. Old Jon was safe. Not kidnapped, not dead. Just late. He nodded, satisfied.
Kyle pounced on the opening, lowering himself further.
"So, sir… now that Old Jon is accounted for… perhaps you'd consider our earlier proposal? We could move somewhere more… comfortable to discuss. We'll provide anything you require." He hesitated, then added: "Including… a stable, premium-priced scrap-buying channel?"
It was the most absurd promise he had ever made.
Amo tilted his head, weighing the thought. Comfortable places meant nothing. Discussions were tedious. But a "premium scrap channel"… better than Old Jon's rigged scale.
He pondered a moment longer, then tapped the cart.
"These," he said. "Sell them. Market's highest price."
A pause. Then, his first real demand:
"And I'm hungry. Real food this time. Not sweet junk. Meat. Grilled, if you've got it."