Choose Your Own Apocalypse With Kim Jong-un & Friends

by Rob Sears

  ‘How was your Christmas break?’ he says offhandedly.

  And all your daydreams crash into pieces. He apparently doesn’t even remember putting you on duty.

  ‘By the way, a Level Five came in from the CERN laboratory in Geneva this morning,’ your boss says as you come out of the lift. ‘Looks like they’ve bashed together a couple of particles they shouldn’t have and got a mini black hole on their hands. It’s already eaten two technicians and an artist in residence. That’s a situation that’s going to need skill and experience so I’m sending Susan. You can work on updating the Fate-a-Base here, OK?’

  You think of protesting. You could remind him that while he’s been cramming festive delicacies down his throat, you’ve been servicing the needs of some of your organisation’s most important global clients.

  But your mouth stays shut. Everything you’ve done has been with a view to getting on the next rung of the career ladder. Yet somehow, now it comes down to it, despite (or maybe because of) everything you’ve been through, you don’t mind somebody else carrying the future on their shoulders for a bit, while you take care of data entry.

  Susan can handle this one.

  The End

  Sixteen hours in steerage later, you disembark in Pyongyang, where you are swiftly escorted to a meeting room full of worried-looking North Korean military officials. A cup of tea and one of the yellow biscuits you notice laid out in the corner would have been nice, but they seem eager to get down to business.

  ‘You must be the UN fix-it person? You’re late, we called you yesterday,’ says the most worried-looking of the officials.

  You force a smile (customer service rule number one: don’t answer back). ‘How can I help?’ you say politely. ‘I’m told you mislaid a rocket.’

  ‘Even worse,’ says the official. ‘We found it again.’ He gestures to an antiquated computer. On the screen a green dot moves in an orbital path around what must be planet Earth. The dotted line in front of it shows its projected descent.

  ‘How did it get up there?!’

  ‘That does not matter now. The point is, our rocket will fall back down on New York City in twelve hours’ time! Millions will die!’ The official’s voice trembles with feeling for his fellow humans. ‘We never meant this! You must help us stop it.’

  A round figure who’s been sitting with his back to you at the end of the long table spins around in his chair.

  There is an amused glint in Pink Camellia’s eyes.

  → Continue to click here.

  ‘A triumph’ Telegraph