100 Blinks

020 Coin

It sparkles dimly in the light, tarnished and battered gold token stamped with the image of the Faravahar on one side, the face of Zoroaster imprinted on the other.

He scrutinizes the entirety of the piece, forward and back, maneuvers it so its side faces him as he turns it slowly. The number that eventually shows is faded and worn; this currency has passed through many hands, and has likely seen many places along the Eastern Wall.

The minter determines that it is time to retire the old currency, writing in his ledger the number on the side of the coin. He will write a new number next to it later, when it sees new life, a difference in circulation.

The presses and molds have since been updated. It is good when old coins come back through; he can order them renewed. Down to the factory floor from his office above, whistling to one of the nearby technicians. The young lady looks up, moves the safety goggles from her eyes. She is covered in soot and sweating heavily, obviously one of the smelters. This is good; old coins must be melted back down to start.

"It's time to retire this one." he tells her from the catwalk to his lofted office, flicking the coin toward her.

She catches it, looks it over. "This one's from four circulations ago. I'll make sure it gets reprinted." she assures him before turning around toward the giant pots, bubbling viscous molten metal within thick protective walls.

It gives off an eerie red-gold glow, like a volcano, which is more or less what it is, only with metal instead of rock. She wishes the coin luck on its journey, climbs the stairs to a platform above, and flicks the little gold piece into the smelting pot. It disappears from view after a few moments, melting away into a concoction of its brothers of months passed.

The hanging pots arrive before too long, pulling melted metal from the vat and hauling it across the rails to the chutes, where they tilt and pour their cargo into the molds below. It takes some time for them to cool enough to be cracked out of their new shapes, sent through the washer. Excess metal is clipped and filed off, polishes applied to make it shine bright before it moves on.

At the end of the day, it returns to where it started. The minter's desk, polished and new. It is not the same coin that came through that early morning, bits and pieces of its old self and those of its brethren what came before and after. A mix, with a new face. Swirled together as something new and different.

He picks it up, changes a few tiny squares sporting numbers, heating the plate up a bit before driving it into the side ridge of the new coin, crisp and easily seen now, a new identity to match its face. He writes the number down on the ledger, next to an old number. With a nod, he places the freshly recycled coin into a bag with others of its batch, ready to recirculate the Eastern Wall and thensome.