two weeks before the apocalypse.

Joe sits in his office, typing on his computer. The sooner he can send this article out for publication, the better. It’s not often, even as an investigative journalist such as himself, that he feels like what he’s writing is this time-sensitive? Like, yeah, of course the many, many exposes on corrupt politicians he’s been somehow involved in have been important (even though most of them have been local politicians). And, naturally, it’s vitally important for the previous, smaller-scale corrupt corporations to have the fact they’re illegally dumping sewage and chemicals in important water sources told to the world.

And, well, this wouldn’t be the first expose Joe had written about Concorp. Concorp is the kind of shady company that deserves to have so many whistles blown on them. Just the world’s biggest collection of exposes and whistleblowers and, okay, maybe Joe has a single source, but a single source seems, frankly, to be more than most people have on Concorp.

And tonight?

Tonight, that single source has told Joe more than he expected to hear. That single source has told Joe horrible news. That single source has told Joe things that, well, he’s no scientist, but they don’t sound good for the world. They don’t sound good for anyone.

So, it’s time-sensitive. So, it’s something the world needs to know. So, it’s something that Joe Hills, investigative journalist, is going to have to get to the presses, and the internet, as fast as possible. He doesn’t know how successful he’ll be, but… as soon as possible. For as many people to know as possible. As soon as…

There’s a knock on his door. He looks up from his keyboard. He’s almost done editing his article, but he can’t just leave whoever that is knocking on his door, right?

He walks over to the door. He opens it.

He sees who’s at it.

He closes it.

“I’m not home!” he shouts through the door. He doesn’t have a gun, he thinks nonsensically. He has a knife, and a bulletproof vest from a different time in his journalistic career, but he doesn’t have a gun, and he’s not sure the vest still fits, and he could run to the kitchen to get a knife but he really, really doesn’t think that will work.

Not when the people at his door are two very, very good hitmen.

“YOU KNOW WHO WE ARE! LET US IN AND THIS WILL BE FASTER.” There’s a pause. “ALSO, MOST LIKELY FAR LESS PAINFUL!”

“Not a fan of the most likely!” he says, running to the kitchen anyway, and going to try to fish his bulletproof vest out of storage. Also, he turns on his phone, sends an emergency message to Cle - his source (he should start refusing to use her name, so if they ask, he won’t give her away). She should go to ground. There’s only one group that could have been sending actual assassins after him, and if they’re after him…

He carefully dials all but the last number for emergency services. He puts a cloth over his phone speakers to silence it. He stares at the vest. He’s, uh, definitely not still going to fit in that.

He hears the door break down. He hits the last button on his phone and whirls around, holding a butcher’s knife he can’t actually use to fight and without the vest.

“It seems you have caught me in my terrible lie. Oh dear,” Joe says, instead of anything reasonable. He’s not known for being reasonable.

“Look, man,” says the one with the Swedish accent. “Just come with us. It’ll make everything a lot easier.”

“Yeah, but I don’t really want to die,” Joe says.

“Well, you’re in luck!” the other one - the one with the Canadian accent, Joe thinks? He doesn’t know that many Canadians - says. “We’re supposed to be taking you alive.”

Joe thinks of the information in the expose he’s been writing. He thinks of his source, and he thinks about everything he’s heard.

“You could just shoot me,” he says.

The Swedish one laughs. “Come on. It can’t be that bad! As far as I know, they just want to ask you a few questions.” The man plays with the knife he’s holding. “I mean, not that it’s my business as long as I get paid. Which I was! So, really, just… come on, and we’ll make this easy.”

“What’s the hard way?”

The two hitmen glance at each other, then glance back at Joe.

“You don’t want to know,” the Swede advises.

Joe, uh, isn’t sure that’ll be worse than what will happen if he goes the easy way? The main problem is, between him, the Swede, and the Canadian, Joe’s pretty sure he knows which immovable object will move first. Joe may be stubborn, but he’s not an assassin, butcher’s knife or not.

“I’m assuming I can’t out-pay? Or, uh, appeal to the good of the world? Because what I’m doing, you know… good of mankind. And mankind? That’s all of our business.”

“Isn’t that from Charles Dickens -” mumbles the Canadian as the Swede begins laughing.

“You most certainly cannot,” the Swede says.

“Uh, yeah, there isn’t much payment that can balance this out,” advises the Canadian.

“Well,” says Joe, deciding to drop the knife. “Well. I made an attempt to, uh, protect myself from - Iskall and Etho, right? Or, at least, those are the names you go by?”

“You’re well-informed.”

“I am a journalist.”

“Come get in the van.”

Joe looks back at his house. He swallows. He hopes emergency services are actually on their way now. He doubts it.

“Yeah, okay. I know when I’m beat,” Joe lies, and he follows them out of his house, and to a van they have parked. “This really is the world’s most stereotypical abduction,” he says. “Aren’t you some of the best in the business?”

“Actually, yeah, aren’t we?” says Etho, expression hard to read under the mask but seemingly a grin. “Maybe we should have fancier vehicles when we kidnap people.”

“Geez,” says Iskall. “I didn’t know everyone was a critic. Check his pockets.”

“Okay, okay! Touchy!”

Oh no. Ohhhh no.

Etho checks his pockets and pulls out the phone before Joe has a moment to hang up again. For a moment, they both stare at each other, the covered speakers and the 911 call easily showing on the screen. Then, Etho starts to laugh.

“Yeah, the hard way it is. You’re way too sneaky, you know that?” he says, and before Joe really knows what’s happening, someone’s thrown a cloth over his nose. It tastes sweet. Tastes? Smells? He isn’t sure, he’s never really been chloroformed before -

The world goes black.

(Inside, an article about unethical experimentation sits, unedited and unsubmitted. It will not be published before the end of the world. This is, incidentally, while not the last chance anyone had to turn back, the last chance a journalist would have to.)

(Two weeks from now, there will be a lot of what-ifs.)