When the world ended I was drinking a doppio espresso in a quaint little café with a nice view across the river. It's part of my daily routine, just a small break in the afternoon to get away from the stress of work.
I'm writing this as if it happened long ago. But that couldn't be further from the truth. The world ended a mere nineteen minutes ago, when someone launched a first strike. We are not quite sure who did it yet, but that still didn't seem to stop us from responding with Action Plan E—total annihilation—and everyone else answered in kind.
I can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. This is the exact kind of scenario my department is tasked to deal with—an unattributed first strike. And still, I feel entirely overwhelmed. So much planning, strategising, trying to predict every possibility, consider every variable. And yet, the only thing I am certain of now is knowing how it feels to truly have no hope left, to know there is no tomorrow.
We don't know why they launched or how they've chosen the targets they're attacking. I'm tempted to try and analyse why they wouldn't go for a more direct decapitation strike, but I suppose it hardly matters at this point. This is the end. I turned off my phone, don't need any more warnings or panicked messages.
We likely have five, at most ten, minutes left. I am writing this text because I don't know what else to do. Maybe it'll help combat my growing anxiety. There is still a chance I might not be caught in the initial blast...
I do see the irony in this happening while I'm on break. I'm only seven minutes away from the office, but even that doesn't really matter at this point. My deputy can handle this situation as well as I could.
The only thing left for me to do now is to finish my espresso. Oh well, at least I still have a nice v