The United Kingdom died at 3:45 PM on a wet Tuesday in November.
The bombs didn't care for history, or poetry, or the desperate pleas of leaders in bunkers. They painted the sky with fire and ash, silencing London first. A thousand years of history, gone in a heartbeat. Parliament became a skeleton of stone, its charred ribs framing the smouldering Thames. In the north, Manchester burned, while the Pennines caught the fallout like a dirty sponge. Even the winds seemed cruel, carrying death to villages long thought too insignificant to harm.
But humanity clung on. It always did.
Forty years after the war, Britain was unrecognisable. The once-proud empire had crumbled into fragmented territories, ruled by warlords, corporations, and scavenger kings. Radiation zones carved jagged borders where no one dared tread, their edges marked by rusting signs and the half-buried bones of the desperate. Cities that survived had turned into fortresses, their inhabitants feral and bitter. Resources were scarcer than hope.
For decades, survivors told stories of saviours—beings gifted with extraordinary abilities, sent by fate to restore balance. These stories became whispers, and whispers became myth. Superheroes had been real, once, but the war had crushed more than concrete and steel. It has destroyed belief.
Then came The Shaman.
World-Shaman stood at the edge of what had once been Dover, staring at the grey expanse of water. His reflection, fractured and shifting in the rippling waves, seemed more honest than the face he carried now. Bloodshot eyes, a beard speckled with ash and filth, and the faint tremor of withdrawal. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, lighting it with a flick of reality—an ember plucked from the idea of fire itself.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl and twist before fading into the salted air. It didn't matter how far he travelled; the memories always followed. He'd held the power to stop the bombs, to rewrite the very fabric of existence—and yet, when it mattered, he'd faltered. His weakness, his addiction, had cost him more than he could ever admit.
"They'll be here soon," came a voice from behind him.
World-Shaman turned to see a figure stepping out of the shadows, clad in armour that reflected no light. Dark Ant was shorter than he expected, but the presence was impossible to ignore. A man who had fought the streets of Manchester before the war, who'd survived on grit and ingenuity. He carried no powers, only gadgets and rage.
"Why me?" the Shaman muttered, flicking his cigarette into the tide.
"You're the only one who can," Dark Ant replied. His voice was gravelly and spiteful. "The government wants a symbol. People want a saviour. And me? I want someone expendable if this all goes to hell."
World-Shaman laughed, a bitter sound. "You really know how to inspire loyalty."
"You'll do it," Dark Ant said, stepping closer. "Not because you want to. Because you owe it. To them. To the world. And to yourself."
The Shaman turned back to the water, his hands trembling. He wanted to believe in redemption. But how could a man rebuild a nation when he couldn't even rebuild himself?
In the distance, the gutted remains of a ferry creaked against the current, its skeletal frame a monument to what had been lost. Behind it, the grey sky began to shift, streaked with fire.
"They're here," Dark Ant said, his voice quiet.
World-Shaman closed his eyes, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them again, reality bent around him. The tide reversed for a moment, swirling unnaturally before settling again.
"Let's go meet the team," he said, the cigarette already lit between his fingers.