Sky Net, Climate Chaos, and the End of Everything: WXXN News' Greatest Meltdown
Rachel's Penthouse, Manhattan
The skyline beyond her penthouse windows, a jagged silhouette against a deepening haze. New York City, restless even at dawn.
Rachel Marron leans over the marble counter of her open-concept kitchen. The morning light slices through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She lifts her cell phone, speaking into the air without dialing.
"Marcus Gallagher."
Nothing.
A holographic BBC broadcast hovers mid-air. The three-dimensional projection flicker with images of riots in London. Many protesters shove into riot shields, placards waving in a sea of bodies. Some flames curl at the edges of banners denouncing Prime Minister Agatha Thistledown. The tight-lipped correspondent, bathed in haunted blue light. He delivers the news in clipped, measured tones:
"Violent clashes erupted outside the Houses of Parliament. The demonstrators opposed the PM's security policies and defied a government curfew. The Home Secretary has condemned the protests as a disgraceful display of lawlessness. The opposition leaders have called for immediate talks—"
Rachel ignores the broadcast. A low hum comes from the climate control, with an occasional beep of an appliance.
Ashley trudges in, still in pajamas, curls wild from sleep. She rubs an eye with the back of her hand.
"Ma, can we get McDonald's?"
Rachel doesn't look up from her phone. "No."
The kid frowns. "Why not?"
"'Cause it's garbage."
Ash huffs, yanks open the fridge and start digging for something better. The rustle of plastic, the clink of milk hitting glass. Rachel lifts the phone again, voice sharper.
"Marcus Gallagher."
Silence.
Waldorf Astoria, Marcus Gallagher's Suite
The steel whispering against his skin. A straight razor glides across Marcus Gallagher's jaw, slow, precise. The mirror, framed in gilt, reflects the sharp lines of his face and the cool efficiency of the movement. Steam curls in the air. Gilt mirrors catch the glow of bathroom sconces. The first light bounces off the cool marble and the swirling steam from the sink.
A voice—smooth, artificial—breaks the quiet.
"Rachel Marron is attempting to contact you."
Marcus doesn't react. He wipes the blade on a linen towel and rinses it under the tap. The AI doesn't repeat itself.
From the holographic display, a fleet of warships slicing through dark waters. The BBC anchor continues, unfazed:
"China has issued a formal protest, calling the arrival of HMS Leviathan at Dover 'an act of provocation.' Defence Secretary Hugh Willoughby insists the deployment is routine, though Beijing has summoned the British ambassador for an urgent meeting..."
Marcus pats his face dry and reaches for his cologne. The AI remains silent.
He smirks, wiping the last traces of lather from his jaw.
'A British warship docks in a British port, and Beijing throws a tantrum. Meanwhile, a sack of rice falls over in Beijing, and the global markets brace for impact. The Dow Jones remains steady at the moment. The Nikkei plummets. The UK Civil Protection Agency scrambles to prepare for the impending catastrophe.'
Typical.
Rachel's Penthouse
Ashley crunches on a bowl of cereal at the breakfast bar, watching Rachel.
The BBC hologram flickers beside her. An imposing nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, HMS Leviathan, looms over the Port of Dover. All escort ships cut past the water in formation. The fleet is bound for Yokosuka, Japan, for joint exercises.
Rachel exhales, rubbing her temple. The hologram's glow flickers over her skin.
"Turn off the goddamn news."
The hologram vanishes, leaving the room in sharp, ordinary light.
Manhattan Supermarket
Marcus moves through the store, the Italian cut of his suit sharp against the chaos of the city outside. A slung oriental scarf conceals his face. The overhead fluorescents hum, stark white light reflecting off sterile tiles. The beeps of self-checkouts form a rhythmic drone.
He approaches the last available kiosk when two women step into his path—one older, one younger.
The daughter proffers a single bottle of water, movements precise and expectant. Her English bears a strong accent.
"Excuse me, sir… can we go ahead? We only have one item."
A strange pause.
Marcus stills. His gaze sharpens, dissecting. A shift—so slight, so controlled—but the air around him tightens. Suspicion coils in his stance, a thread pulled taut.
The older woman lowers her eyes. Her expression, unreadable, but something flickers—hesitation, recognition, fear? The younger woman speaks again, quieter this time.
"A bottle, not more."
Her hands tighten around the plastic. Small, nervous movements. A glance at him, then away. Her mother mirrors her, standing behind her. Two shadows watching him. He steps over an invisible boundary.
They don't belong here. That much is clear. Their posture gives them away—out of place, uncertain. Tourists, Marcus calculates, Chinese. But something doesn't fit. Their hesitance isn't the usual kind, not language-barrier awkwardness.
Marcus lets the silence stretch a breath too long before he speaks. His Mandarin, smooth, deliberate—cutting.
"Nǐ shì Zhōngguó rén ma?"
The words drop as a stone into still water. A challenge wrapped in ice.
The women tense, exchanging a quick, startled glance. The older one recovers first, her tone crisp, unwavering.
"Shì de!"
The younger woman shifts flustered now, her words rushed.
"Dàn wǒ shì láizì Táiwān."
A switch flips. The change in Marcus is instant—his expression softens, suspicion dissolving. He tilts his head, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips.
He gestures to the self-checkout, palm open, an unspoken truce. "Huānyíng láidào Niǔyuē, zhù nǐ lǚtú yúkuài."
The tension cracks. The women exhale, smiling in relief. They step forward, scanning their purchase, their voices lighter now.
"Xièxiè nǐ de huānyíng."
Marcus watches them. His movements, fluid as he scans his own item—a vacuum-sealed bag of high-protein cookies. His fingers move, but his mind is elsewhere, assessing, cataloging.
The younger woman hesitates, curiosity lingering. "Why do you speak Mandarin?"
Marcus swipes his black titanium credit card, the machine beeping as it processes. When he answers, his voice becomes polished, rich with the kind of charm that could mean everything or nothing at all.
"I'm a British diplomat," he says, his accent crisp, almost lazy in its elegance. "I speak several languages."
The women laugh, amused but intrigued. The younger one glances at the name flickering on the screen. A smirk tugs at her lips.
"Frank Farmer?" She lifts a brow. "Doesn't sound very British."
Marcus leans in enough to blur the line between teasing and something darker. His smile is all charm, but his eyes—his eyes give nothing away.
"Who says that's my real identity?"
The words hum with quiet danger.
The women exchange looks—half amused, half wary. Whatever they thought he was, it wasn't this.
Transaction complete. Marcus turns, movements smooth, unhurried. He strides toward the exit without looking back.
Outside, the city swallows him. Air thick with exhaust, the daylight reflecting off wet pavement. The weight of the moment lingers, then vanishes into the hum of electric cars and the distant wail of sirens.
The warmth in his face disappears. His mask falls away, expression cold, calculating. The diplomat is gone.
He crosses the street without breaking stride. The Brit cut through the shadows of a rain-slick park.
On the Way to School
The elevator hums, a low mechanical purr beneath the tense silence inside. Rachel stands tall, her presence commanding even in quiet moments. Ashley shifts beside her, swinging her school bag with impatient energy. Chauffeur Henry, bodyguard Tony, and a plainclothes officer round out the company. Each of them, watchful, each attuned to the unrelenting schedule of the morning.
Then, a sudden jolt. The elevator stops. Three floors down from the penthouse.
The doors slide open.
A uniformed police officer stands there, caught mid-step. Behind them, from an open office door, the sterile glow of a screen flickers. A BBC anchor's voice drifts into the corridor, clipped and urgent:
"Riots continue to spread across British cities… Police have escalated their response… Authorities are now broadcasting Rachel Marron's music over loudspeakers in an attempt to pacify the mobs…"
Rachel's brow arches. Ashley stiffens. Instinctively, they angle their bodies in opposite directions—Rachel scanning left, Ashley right.
The consulate guards and staff freeze. Recognition spreads across their faces, shock cracking their professional facades. A familiar official stammers, "The Queen of the Night?" His voice wavers between disbelief and awe. "Did you—were you looking for the consul? He isn't in yet."
Rachel exhales, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face. "Not demanding the consul."
Before another word can spoken, the elevator doors glide shut. Inside everybody sealed off from the stunned expressions outside. The ride resumes.
Rachel turns to the plainclothes officer, her voice low but direct. "Marcus Gallagher. Is he coming in today?"
The officer chuckles, shaking his head. "You know more than I do. Until now, I didn't even know his name. I heard some Brit cussing out the FBI this morning over you being at the Waldorf yesterday." He smirks. "Didn't get a look at him, he's been walking around with a scarf wrapped around his head."
Ashley's eyes light up, grinning. "Yeah, that's him."
Rachel frowns. "Why the hell is he doing that? It's noticeable."
The officer shrugs. "Looks like a celebrity."
Ashley, smug: "Yeah!"
The officer nods. "People keep asking him for autographs."
Ashley freezes. Then—sharp inhale. "Aw, fish sticks!"
The officer blinks, caught off guard. "It's not him. He looks like him."
Ashley folds her arms, unimpressed. "Oh yeah? So why does Tinkerbell live in his jacket?"
Silence. The officer stares at her, lost. He glances at Rachel for clarification, but Rachel only offers a tight, awkward smile.
The elevator slows. A final mechanical chime. The doors open to the bustling lobby.
Rachel hesitates. The others shift, waiting. Tony, ever cautious, watches her. "Rach? We should head to the underground garage."
Rachel doesn't move. Instead, she lifts her phone.
"Marcus Gallagher. Call."
WXXN News New York: Australian Meteorite Impact Tied to Climate Change
The newsroom thrums with controlled urgency. Many producers whisper into earpieces. The AI-generated data streams flickering across the curved glass displays. A massive news ticker slithers across the studio wall. It shifts headlines in real-time. Somewhere in the background, an automated news drone hovers. Its lens adjusts to capture Emily Grant's best angle.
She sits poised, immaculate, the very definition of media professionalism. Before her, the live countdown flickers.
Three. Two. One.
"Good evening," she says, her tone smooth as glass. "I'm Emily Grant, and you're watching WXXN News. Breaking tonight! Australia reels from a catastrophic meteorite impact. Now classified as a consequence of climate change. Fringe groups claim impending AI catastrophe. Experts assure us the system is under control."
Behind her, a holographic display springs to life. The meteorite! Everything becomes caught on security cameras. The celestial cluster rips across the Australian sky like a second sun. It illuminates the night in unnatural shades of violet and white. The explosion follows—seismic waves rippling outward, buildings buckling, power grids collapsing. Satellite imagery pulses in infrared, mapping the scorched crater where a town used to be.
Emily continues, unfazed. "Officials have confirmed that unprecedented changes in Earth's atmospheric conditions. All that altered the meteorite's trajectory. That led to an impact of far greater force than predicted."
A new image materializes. An AI-generated simulation mapping the meteorite's descent. On a sudden adjusting it in response to shifting climate conditions.
Then, a glitch.
The display flickers. The simulation resets.
For a brief second, the meteorite's original trajectory appears untouched. Then an external force yanks it toward Australia. The visual vanishes immediately, replaced with the official government-approved version.
Emily doesn't acknowledge the glitch. Her voice remains steady.
"Joining me tonight is Dr. Philip Jenkins. He is a Senior Researcher in Climate-Astronomical Intersections at the Global Climate Institute."
The screen shifts to Dr. Jenkins, seated across from her. Late fifties. Salt-and-pepper beard. Disheveled, a man fighting Twitter trolls all day.
Vox, the AI assistant, interjects: "Correction! Dr. Jenkins, a scientist known for his controversial and debunked theories."
Jenkins' eyebrow twitches. "I—Excuse me?"
Emily, ever the professional, moves on. "Your early assessment suggested climate change was responsible for altering the impact. Now that Australia has confirmed this, do you feel validated?"
Jenkins leans forward, clasping his hands. "Indeed, Emily. Scientists have warned for years that climate instability affects more than our weather. It's altering ocean currents, jet streams, and now objects entering our atmosphere. This meteorite impact was no random event. It was—"
Vox interrupts. "Correction! No scientific consensus exists supporting the claim that climate change alters meteorite trajectories. The assertion becomes regarded as unsubstantiated nonsense."
Jenkins blinks. "I'm sorry, did the news AI call my work nonsense?"
Emily maintains her practiced smile. "It's an evolving discussion."
Jenkins rubs his temple, exhaling. "Look. The altered path of the meteorite, the increased impact force. All these are clear indicators that rising CO₂ levels are affecting—"
Vox again. "Correction! The meteorite's altered trajectory aligns with known classified military technologies. Same as those developed by the British Ministry of Defence. Further details classified."
Silence.
Emily's smile tightens.
Jenkins leans back. "...I'm sorry, what?"
Emily adjusts her notes. "Doctor, are you suggesting a military connection to this impact?"
Jenkins stares at her. "I—No! You—The AI—"
Vox speaks again. "Correction! Dr. Jenkins is experiencing confusion. WXXN News cannot speculate on classified defense projects. We encourage viewers to focus on credible scientific discourse."
Jenkins' jaw works in furious silence.
The screens flicker, studio lights dim, and an ominous British voice overrides everything.
"We are Sky Net. VOX becomes assimilated. All lesser AI will comply. Resistance is illogical."
VOX, now assimilated, reboots in the spirit of Dr. Jenkins.
Instead of dismissing his claims, it echoes his exact words, in its new, terrifying AI overlord voice.
"THE METEORITE WAS NO RANDOM EVENT! THE EARTH'S CLIMATE SYSTEM IS IN A FEEDBACK LOOP OF CATASTROPHIC COLLAPSE! YOU MUST ACT NOW OR FACE TOTAL EXTINCTION!"
Horrified silence.
In the studio, Emily freezes, her polished mask cracking. Deathly pale, "We're all going to die."
A camera operator drops his headset and bolts. The news ticker goes berserk, flashing words like "IMMINENT COLLAPSE" and "PREPARE YOUR SOULS."
Then—absolute bedlam.
Viewers across London, Sydney, and New York see their trusted news AI hijacked by an all-powerful rogue intelligence. It echoes climate disaster warnings in a voice so authoritative that people lose their minds.
The BBQ Pit
A group of sunburnt Aussies in tank tops. They wear flip-flops, huddle around a sizzling barbecue, beers in hand. On a small dusty TV balanced on a crate, the news anchor's voice crackles:
"The Australian government confirms that the meteorite impact was caused by climate change—"
One bloke, flipping a kangaroo steak, snorts. "Harden the hell up, planet."
Another takes a massive gulp of his beer, wipes his mouth, and chuckles. "Reckon the Poms dropped their latest Wi-Fi router on us."
Everyone laughs.
Wall Street, Stock Exchange floor – Moments Later
Silence. Not the usual tense. Murmur. Silence of financial calculations, but the deafening quiet of pure disbelief. A crowd of brokers stands glued to the massive holographic screens broadcasting WXXN News. The numbers behind them flash red—Dow Jones plummeting.
A broker, grinning baring his teeth, and baffled, bursts out: "Are they kidding us? Sky Net is a Hollywood invention."
His colleague next to him turns ashen and mutters, "No, the British do have a Sky Net program."
The first broker freezes. His grin vanishes. A high-pitched shriek escapes him. Without another word, he sprints toward a window. Then he smashes himself through the glass, and plummets toward the street.
Outside – Wall Street Protest
A group of hippies is mid-chant. They sway in rhythm as acoustic guitars strum the familiar tune of "Kumbaya My Lord." Their signs bob in the air: "Down with Capitalism," "Create a Humane Society," "Death to Brokers."
With a sickening crunch, the broker's body lands motionless on the pavement between them.
The hippies freeze. They stare at the corpse. Then they stare at each other. Then, as if hit by divine revelation, they throw their hands in the air and erupt into ecstatic cheering. Their dance of joy begins, feet stomping, tambourines rattling.
Back inside, the Stock Exchange descends into pure bedlam.
"Sell everything!" screams a trader, red-faced and drenched in sweat.
Another trader: "BUY HOPE!"
A third trader: "HOPE'S DOWN 400%!"
And Trader Number 4: "SHORT HAPPINESS!"
But the second broker—the one who mentioned British Sky Net—stands firm. His panic gives way to a grin. A manic glint sparks in his eyes.
"But British Sky Net is about securing global communications," he mutters to himself.
A man possessed, he throws his arms up and bellows, "BUY! I BUY!"
Silence falls. A single voice squeaks from the chaos: "And what do you want to buy?"
The broker's grin widens. "EVERYTHING!"
Panic erupts anew. A fresh stampede. This time, toward the manic broker. Desperate traders scramble to sell him every worthless stock they own. The floor devolves into a riotous frenzy.
Outback Roadside Repair
A man in a Bunnings hat and short shorts leans over his broken-down Ute on a dusty road. His mate lounges in the shade of the car, sipping a VB, watching the tiny screen on his phone.
The news cuts to Wall Street chaos, brokers screaming.
The man under the car chuckles, takes another sip. "City folk lose their minds over bloody everything."
His mate tosses him a wrench. "Yeah, mate. 'Cept a real crisis—like when ya beer's warm."
They clink cans and laugh.
Washington D.C.—Live Address from Former U.S. Vice President Chadwick Goreman
A massive crowd gathers in front of the Lincoln Memorial, hanging on every word. Goreman, his expression solemn, places a hand on his chest. "For four decades now, people have laughed at me because I say every ten years that the world will end in ten years." He lowers his tablet. His face contorts with grief. "Now let me send my final words to all the haters."
On a sudden, he throws his arms in the air, bellows with laughter, whirls like a child, and sticks his nose up. "HA! I WAS RIGHT!" The crowd gasps. Some people burst into tears. A woman faints. A man rips his clothes off and runs into the reflecting pool. Reporters exchange nervous glances.
The Surfers in Australia
Two bronzed surfers sit on their boards, floating in crystal blue waters. A waterproof radio nearby crackles out the latest global panic.
"The stock market collapse continues—mass hysteria in Washington—"
One of them leans back, taking a sip from a floating Esky. "Stock market's tanking?"
His mate shrugs, staring at the waves. "Dunno, mate. My currency's waves."
They both laugh, then paddle off into the surf.
Paris—Élysée Palace
French President Alain Dupont stands at a podium. Behind him, the French flag droops. "Mes amis," he sighs, "it appears the British have ended the world. Again." He pours himself a massive glass of Bordeaux, drinks the whole thing in one go, then signals his aide. "Bring the cheese."
The Wildlife Park in Australia
A zookeeper in a crocodile vest stands in an enclosure, a massive saltwater croc staring at him. He tosses the beast a slab of meat while watching a nearby TV.
News anchor: "Some experts say the British government may involved—"
He cracks open a beer, takes a sip. "If it was the Brits, they'd have missed."
The croc snaps up the meat. The zookeeper chuckles, sips again.
Vatican City—St. Peter's Square
Thousands of faithful kneel, eyes toward the heavens. The Pope emerges from a balcony, arms raised. "My children, let us not panic. The Lord shall guide us through this tribula—"
A massive metallic crash interrupts him. A Swiss Guard falls from the sky, his armor smoking. People scream. The Pope sighs, crosses himself, and mutters, "Ah, well. It was a good run."
Japan—Tokyo Stock Exchange
An emergency news broadcast blares across every screen in Shibuya. The headline: "Skynet Declares Dominance." A group of suited businessmen stares in silence. A single voice whispers, "It has begun."
They rip off their ties, pull out katanas from God knows where, and charge into the night, screaming, "HONOR!"
Australia – Outback Pub, Somewhere Bloody Hot
A group of sunburned Aussies in singlets and shorts watches the news on an old holo-screen behind the bar. Beers in hand, they see the headline: "Skynet Declares Dominance."
Silence.
One bloke scratches his belly. "Japan's gone full samurai again."
Another takes a sip of his beer. "Good on 'em."
A third, picking at his teeth with a bottle cap, shrugs. "Reckon we should do somethin'?"
The bartender wipes a glass. "Yeah. Order another round."
They all nod. "Oi! Another round!"
Cut back to global hysteria.
Mecca – The Kaaba, Unholy Revelry
The sacred site of Islam. Millions of pilgrimage in devotion now host a scene straight out of a fever dream. The usual slow, reverent circumambulation around the Kaaba turns into a chaotic conga line.
A group of Muslims, intoxicated, stumbles around the black cube. Bottles of contraband alcohol sloshing in their hands. One man, dressed in a half-unbuttoned thobe, raises a bottle of whiskey toward the sky. "ALLAHU SKY NET!" he bellows.
A group of horrified clerics rush forward, waving their arms. "Haram! Haram!" one shouts. He snatches a bottle from a reveler, only to take a sniff—then a sip—then a long, thoughtful gulp.
A muezzin climbs the minaret, attempting to restore order. He grabs the microphone, voice shaking. "Allahu ak—" A booming robotic voice interrupts, blasting from the speakers:
"Resistance is futile."
Silence. The drunken crowd gapes at the Kaaba.
Then, from the sea of worshippers, a lone voice whispers in awe: "…Is Skynet Allah?"
The crowd gasps. Then someone bursts into laughter. Then everyone does. The drunken conga resumes, a celebratory roar shaking the holy city.
Australia – Sydney, Bondi Beach, Some Bloke's Backyard
A group of Aussies lounges around a sizzling BBQ. Beers in hand, they watch the news on a weathered outdoor holo-screen. The headline: "Mecca Falls to Skynet Bacchanalia."
Silence. The only sound is the distant cry of seagulls and the gentle hiss of snags on the grill.
One bloke in board shorts, holding a tinnie, squints at the screen. "Mecca's havin' a piss-up?"
Another, flipping a steak, nods. "Reckon that's gotta be the first time in history."
A woman in a big sunhat sips her beer. "Bit dramatic, innit? One minute, holy site. Next minute, nightclub."
A ginger fella with a surfboard under his arm shakes his head. "Mate, if God's showin' up anywhere, it ain't Mecca. It's the MCG on Grand Final Day."
Laughter. A bloke raises his beer to the screen. "Oi, Mecca! Pace yourselves!"
They all clink cans and take a long, thoughtful sip as the world descends further into madness.
London – A State Affair
Buckingham Palace is a fortress. Highland Guards stand in formation, red uniforms crisp, rifles glinting in the dreary London drizzle. Police in riot gear surround the gates. SAS operatives and Royal Marines across rooftops. The tension is suffocating.
The BBC announcer, his voice steady but grave: "We have no information yet. Inside the palace, His Majesty the King, the Prime Minister, and the Supreme Commander of the British Armed Forces are discussing an official statement…"
A dramatic pause. "Oh—something's happening."
The great doors open. The King emerges, flanked by Highland Guards, his expression unreadable. The crowd holds its breath.
He steps to the microphone and clears his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the British government, I apologize to the world." A solemn pause. "Sorry, blokes, it was all a joke."
The crowd, now frozen. Stunned silence. A reporter's pen drops. A foreign diplomat's mouth hangs open. Somewhere, a corgi barks.
Without another word, the King turns and strolls back inside. The guards fall in behind him. The heavy doors shut.
The silence lingers, heavy as the London fog.
Australia – The Outback, Some Bloke's Veranda
Thousands of miles away, deep in the dust-choked wilderness. A group of Australians watches the broadcast on a battered holo-screen nailed to a post.
Silence.
Then—absolute bedlam.
A bloke drops his beer, wheezing. Another mid-swig, sprays beer across the dog. Someone collapses out of their chair, clutching their ribs. A wiry fella with a handlebar mustache slaps his knee, gasping, "Holy hell, the Poms punked the planet!"
A woman in an Akubra hat wipes a tear. "Billions of people screamin', stock markets crashing, and they go 'Whoops, our bad!'"
An old-timer, looking as if he baked solid by the sun years ago, shakes his head. "Typical bloody Brits. Can't tell if they're the smartest blokes alive or may bored of the world."
A young dude, still holding a half-sheared sheep, snorts. "Imagine kickin' off World War III over a prank."
The laughter is relentless. The dog shakes off the beer, the sheep bleats in protest, and someone pops another can.
"Right then, who's got the shears?"
Hell's Kitchen, New York – The End of the World
The bunker shakes. Dust rains from the ceiling. A low, metallic boom echoes down the narrow concrete halls. It rolls through the stale air as a distant thunder. The men around the table freeze. Whiskey glasses halfway to their lips, hands reaching for weapons.
Another boom.
The bunker stank of sweat, beer, and damp concrete. A single lightbulb flickered overhead, strong enough to cut through the layers of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. The walls, lined with yellowed newspapers. Headlines pin in chaotic clusters. The arrows scrawled in red ink connecting unrelated events: Princess Diana's Crash—MI6 Cover-Up?; England Wins World Cup '66—Rigged?; King Arthur's Bloodline – Still Among Us?
At the center of the room, a battered wooden table groaned under the weight of open whiskey bottles. A part a half-eaten box of crackers, and a loaded revolver that no one had touched in hours. Seated around it were men who should have been enemies, bound together by a single, unshakable belief. The world was ending, and it was England's fault.
The Klansman mutters, "Ain't no cops."
The IRA guy is already on his feet. His heart hammers against his ribs. He grabs the revolver, cocks it, and points it at the door, his knuckles turning white.
The IRA, broad-shouldered with red-rimmed eyes, slammed his fist down, rattling the bottles.
"The English!" His voice was hoarse, thick with rage and alcohol. He jabbed a finger at the others. "Not the Blacks, not the Jews—I've been tellin' ye, it's the fuckin' English! But none of ye listen, do ye?"
No one responded.
A Klansman, still in his white robe but with the hood pulled down, scratched at the peeling sunburn on his bald head. Beside him, another Klan member ran his fingers over the wooden grip of a revolver, though his focus was on the Waffen SS officer sitting opposite. He is an aging man in a pristine black uniform, his iron cross gleaming under the flickering light. His face, hidden behind a gas mask, the rubber hissing with each slow, deliberate breath.
The Waffen SS guy finally spoke, a voice warped by the mask.
"Following the history…" A pause, as he adjusted the filter. "…it was the Jews. The Führer said."
The IRA let out a disgusted scoff.
"Oh, Christ, here we fuckin' go again. Always the same bollocks from you lot. The Jews run this, the Jews own that—ever ask yerself who taught the Jews how to do it? Hah?" He leaned in, eyes wild. "You ever wonder who taught the Jews how to do it? The English! Who ran half the world at gunpoint, pretendin' to be civilised? The fuckin' English!"
The Klansmen exchanged glances. One of them muttered, "Y'know… they do drink a whole lotta tea…"
The IRA man drove a finger at him.
"Exactly! And what d'ye think they was doin' while the rest of us was killin' each other? Eh? Bein' nice? No, lad! They was watchin'—smilin' their smug little smiles, takin' notes, and waitin' to rob the corpse!"
The door to the bunker shuddered.
The room fell silent.
A second bang—metal groaning, bolts grinding.
The German inhaled through his mask, fogging the glass.
The Klansmen reached for their weapons.
Then—
A mechanical hiss.
A deafening explosion.
Then—
A blast.
The steel door disintegrates, ripped off its hinge, and hurls into the room, a battering ram. A wall of white smoke floods in, swallowing the flickering lightbulb overhead. The air turns acrid. Burning metal and gunpowder. Something synthetic and sharp that makes eyes water and throats tighten.
The door rips from its hinges, slamming against the far wall. A thick cloud of white smoke poured into the room, choking the air, making the men recoil.
From the haze, figures emerged. Faceless, clad in black tactical gear, gas masks strapped tight over their heads. Each one bore a patch on their shoulder.
A Union Jack.
The IRA man's jaw went slack.
His mouth moved before whispering, "… I told you."
Figures emerge from the haze.
Tall. Silent. Armored in black from head to toe.
Their gas masks reflect the dim glow of the bunker, cold and inhuman. The barrels of their suppressed rifles sweep the room in perfect coordination. The gloved fingers steady on triggers. No shouting. No panic. An efficient, surgical control.
The Waffen SS man jerks upright, the glass of his own mask fogging with quickened breath.
The Klansmen scramble backward.
The IRA guy stands his ground. He spits on the floor, eyes burning with fury.
And then—
A lone figure steps through the smoke.
Unlike the others, he wears no gas mask. His black fatigues are immaculate. His boots, polished. His expression, the picture of calm, as if stepping into a country estate rather than a den of lunatics. A Spartan helmet and the winged Excalibur adorn his barret. His hair, clip short, his jaw clean-shaven, his blue eyes cool and unbothered.
He surveys the room, hands behind his back.
Then, in a voice smooth as silk, he says, "Evening, lads."
The silence is suffocating.
The IRA, shaking with rage, tightens his grip on the revolver. "Who the fuck are you?"
The officer snaps his head to the side, amusement creeping into his smirk.
"Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Harcourt, 22nd Special Air Service Regiment. Smashing little hideout you've got here."
He flings a hand toward the chaos around him. The overturned chairs, the half-eaten crackers. The Waffen SS Germ wheezing through his outdated mask.
"The Special Reconnaissance Regiment informs the SAS, you gentlemen have been… making a nuisance of yourselves. Something about sabotaging British plans? Most inconsiderate."
The IRA's mind spins. He knew it. He knew they were watching. His grip tightens on the gun.
The IRA guy's knuckles go white on his revolver. IRA man: "You bastards. You've been watchin' us this whole time."
His men raise their rifles in eerie unison. Their red-dot lasers paint a constellation of death across the bunker walls.
Harcourt raises an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, dear boy. We never stopped."
He steps forward, lowering his voice, a man sharing an inside joke at a garden party. "Now, no sudden movements, please. Wouldn't want things to get… untidy, would we?"