My desk is a testament to poor life choices and minimal effort: a chipped coffee mug filled with Monster Energy, because it’s easier than admitting I have a caffeine problem; a vape pen that’s use is more habit than conscious decision at this point; and a weed pen, the only truly relaxing thing within arm’s reach.
“First up, over the weekend, President Douglas signed an executive order that—to the shock of absolutely no one—is blatantly unconstitutional. But hey, that’s exactly what you get when you elect a felon president.” I don’t even have it in me to pretend to be surprised. Instead, I shrug at the camera, reaching for my mug to take a long, deliberate sip, letting chat assume it’s coffee.
Another notification pops up, lighting my screen in aggressive red. I get these constantly during streams, but I’ve given up covering real-time news since the government stopped pretending to enforce factual reporting—unless you donated to Douglas’s campaign, obviously. Still, I feel pretty confident labeling this one as “verifiable bullshit.”
“Oh, chat, lucky you—it’s your favorite part of the show: real-time news updates!” My smirk twists into something more sarcastic as I lean theatrically close to the mic. “Breaking news: The apocalypse is officially here. No, seriously, this time they’re super sure.” I barely manage to suppress a chuckle as my eyes scan the absurd collection of panic-bait headlines.
“According to our good friends at Facts News Network, today’s menu includes: ‘Douglas Administration Denies Reports of Imminent Nuclear Strike Amid International Tensions,’ ‘Climate Change Activists Literally Screaming Into Void,’ and my personal favorite, ‘Top Ten Undeniable Signs The Rapture Has Arrived—Number Seven Will Shock You!’ Riveting journalism as always.”
Turning back to the camera, I shoot my signature pointed glare. “Listen, I’m not here to hold your hand, chat, but let’s be real—the weather’s been fuck-y since my mom still had voting rights, politicians have always been shady, and anyone with nukes can threaten to use them. Nothing’s changed. There’s no apocalypse, no rapture, nothing coming to save you from the relentless bullshit of this unfortunate timeline.”
I can feel my cheeks heating up. It’s probably time to dial it back. Maybe someone who’s easily annoyed, socially awkward, and burdened by an overwhelming sense of justice shouldn’t have been allowed to spend $27.99 on a podcast mic with same-day shipping—but, alas, that’s still my right.
For now.
My eyes flick over the chat feed, comments scrolling past faster than I can read—but one catches my eye. Same profile, every week. Every time, it’s some cryptic, poetic shit about how lazy I am or something. This time, I clicked on the notification.
“They’re terrified of your true potential.”
I stare at it for maybe half a second too long. “Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Chill with the fortune cookie wisdom, Anonymous420.” I scroll past it, back to the usual chaos of the feed.
But I keep thinking about it. Just because of the timing The lights flicker once. Just a surge. My screen stutters. Then everything settles. I lean back in my chair. Grip the mic. Try to reset the mood…but my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Somewhere in the corner of the screen, the chat window jitters again—just as the first alarms begin to go off.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
This is a test of the national emergency alert system. Please remain indoors and await further instructions.
“…What?” I mutter under my breath, hand darting to my pocket for my phone. The government hasn’t tested the national emergency alert system since they dissolved the disaster preparedness department and replaced it with a prayer hot-line.
When you call the number, it directs you to donate to “God’s children,” which is just a fancy way to use a fake religion to get a tax break. You’d think, with all the other blatantly illegal things Douglas has done, he wouldn’t be worried about evading taxes—but taxing the rich properly happens to be his son’s campaign platform.
Promise to tax the rich while bleeding the poor. How retro.
My head jerks toward the window. The blackout curtains do too good of a job, but I peel one back with the edge of my hand. The sky’s not just red. It’s wrong. Like an Instagram filter designed by someone who’s never actually seen a sunrise—too saturated, too still. There are no clouds. No planes. Just color. That kind of color doesn’t happen unless something’s on fire. Or bleeding.
I let the curtain fall back into place. I’ve seen worse.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
The voice slithers up my neck and snakes into my ear from nowhere…and everywhere, all at once. The hair on my arms stands at attention, goosebumps prickling despite the heat of July. A hallucination, of course. I chuckle, more for comfort than amusement.
“Get a grip, Adam. You haven’t slept since Douglas’s third term.” But then the voice crawls back, like a parasite embedded in my consciousness.
“The world is ending. You can feel it. I know you can.”
I don’t panic—exactly. It’s more of a jolt, like waking up realizing you overslept. My mouth goes dry, and my heart trips over itself. But I’m still here, alone in my room, the whir of my computer fans the only backdrop. My eyes dart to the screen where comments flood in, viewers doubling—tripling even. I blink quickly, though it feels like each blink lasts exactly fifty-seven seconds. A sharp, self-conscious laugh escapes me as I catch my reflection—mouth dry, sweating. I try to fill the silence with humor.
“This is what happens when your caffeine intake doubles your REM sleep. Anyway, thanks for hanging out, guys. I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow. Adam, out.” Truth is, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept. Nodding off at my desk for half an hour doesn’t count—or at least, that’s what Alex tells me.
I rummage through the top drawer until my hand closes around my weed pen. This is usually how I talk myself down from those late-night existential spirals: a slow drag, a beat of numb calm, and then nothing can kill my mood. I hold it in, let the tension peel away. Wait for that gentle hum in my skull that tells me everything’s fine. Everything’s normal. It tastes faintly of burned caramel—something I picked up at that sketchy vape shop with the “Crypto Only” sign.
It was a hallucination. A trick of the mind. Or maybe a neighbor’s TV is too loud. I open YouTube, half expecting to see a recommended video about “Do you hear voices?” but no—the one time I could use an assist, the algorithm’s serving me the content I typically search hours for.
Another puff. I scroll mindlessly, ignoring a creeping sense that something’s…off. Out of place, like…I’m out of place. At some point, I realize my foot is tapping a frantic beat against the chair leg. I force it still.
“Get a grip, Adam,” I exhale. “Everything is fine.”
I almost believe it. Just as I’m about to close my browser, the chat from my last stream flickers open—there’s that same username. The cryptic one. Predictably, the messages vanish the second I click, like they were never there. Maybe I should sleep tonight. But in the back of my mind, I feel an itch—like a hand pressing gently at the base of my skull, whispering:
“You have to wake up, Adam.”
I…I should be alarmed. Instead, it’s almost comforting. Most guys probably wouldn’t tell their girlfriends they hallucinated another woman’s voice to comfort them through an average panic attack, but Alex vibes with this crystal-witch stuff. She’ll probably trace it back to some childhood trauma or a moon phase or something. Truth be told, sometimes I like to pretend I don’t believe her, just so she’ll explain more of the world I don’t understand—her world. It’s the only one that matters to me.
Then: a second of silence. No hum from my PC. No alarm. No ping from socials. That’s the last thing I notice before the world goes dark.