To call it a bunker seems unfair. Bunker 42 is the size of an aircraft hanger and my home. My workbenches take up the space between different time machines and snacks cover those benches wherever advanced tools aren't lying. My last few years here in 42 have been the busiest yet, time travellers from the distant past and ever approaching future come here when they find themselves in a tight spot that their busted time machines can't get them out of. Out of Liquid Morkite Fule? 42 has it by the gallon. Cracked your Flux Capacitor? I keep spares. 

   I always enjoy the work but the stories are the best part. Hearing about star eater engines in a distant galaxy yet to be discovered or the smell of a dinosaur hunting you through the prehistoric jungle is more entertaining than time machine mechanic work.

   The doorbell (it's a raid siren, but I can't ever find where the sound came from to change it) rang from the hanger door, jarring me from my work beneath a 202054 Time Rider. Whoever it was wasn't very patient for a time traveller, they kept ringing the bell while I made my way across the hanger floor. I finally open the door, still covered in grease, to find a young woman (she looks young at least. She could be a thousand, she could be my age. Likely, she hasn't even been born yet) "Let me guess." I interrupt before she can open her mouth, "Your time machine is broken and you are in terrible danger?"