Prologue: The End

In a small rented accomodation, we see 3 people sitting around a table. On the table bits of paper lie thrown about without any care and small unpainted figures in the shape of heroic-looking mages and priests.

The most notable of these figure sits at the head of the table, she has dyed green hair and is dressed with makeup to match as a stereotypical dryad. She sits scribbling on pieces of paper the same thing over and over again in the hope that perhaps one will survive what is to come. For now, we will call her The Writer.

The second figure adjusts their glasses somewhat as the writer finishes another scrap of paper. He is a thin figure with average features save for the large dark circles under his eyes, but he too is dressed in what would typically be a strange outfit a suit and a top hat with a large array of gears stuck hastily upon it in a clear attempt to form a convincing steampunk look. He is focused look down at the figure in his hands a gunslinger it seems and from the half-finished paint job it seems the figure has based his outfit on the character he is painting. We'll call him The Artist.

The third figure puts away the inhaler they'd just finished using before looking over the writer's shoulders and giving his 'expert' opinion

"Replace the word fucked with damnation, you might have to restructure the sentence but I think it works."

The writer glares at him for a second and with a quietly muttered 'fuck it' makes changes to the piece she is writing. We will call this man who is so wise to the way of words The Editor and he is dressed in an expensive space marine costume he ordered before everything went down.

The artist has now finished the current layer on his gunslinger figure and looks over at the artists now edited piece of writing before letting out a small scoff at what is written.

"Really?"

On the newest piece The Writer throws onto the table we see the message that she has left for those that follow

[Hello if you are reading this then a piece of paper survived and we did not so first of all fuck whatever god you the reader believe in.

Aside from that, I have a story to tell one that perhaps you know, perhaps you don't but either way, it is the story of how you got here. So please sit down comfortably with a caffeinated beverage of your choice and read the story of how the world ended.

Once upon a time, a length of time ago, 3 friends in the middle of a dnd game had an idea they'd make a fake news story and spread it around their university see if they could convince people of something really stupid. So after 12 hours of work and litres of caffeine, a story was made about the russian president insulting the US President saying his penis was tiny and that the US presidents wife now prefered 'Russian meat'.

The friends spread the story around their university and laughed at the stupidity of their own joke before a total wipe against an Ancient Red Dragon in the dnd campaign thanks to the DM (yours truly the Writer of this fantastic letter) feeling extra sadistic.

However, the story after just a week managed to spread elsewhere, first, it was a local newspaper then a local news station but eventually, it reached the home of fake news Fox where the story was ran for a week.

Ordinarily, this is where the story ends the 3 friends find out the joke has gone too far and reveal the truth, however, none of the 3 watched the news or read the newspaper, and their only friends were each other so they sat around a table playing space-themed campaign of dnd as the news spread and spread.

The friends only noticed the news when they heard the US had shot down Russian planes. That was just the start, of course, and now 4 months after the fact three friends sit in their tiny rented accommodation waiting for the first nuclear missile to be dropped.

The End

It's kinda funny isn't it reader whose god I cursed, most of mankind wiped out in a nuclear holocaust caused by 3 idiots with a love of dnd. Truly the damnation of mankind arises from its own arrogance and stupidity.]

The Artist looks at the Writer "I kind of prefer it when ended saying 'Mankind fucked itself with its own stupidity'"

The Writer just gives the Artist a deadpan expression. "Well if you look around you'll see a lot of copies with that already written, I know it's hard to see sometimes with those oversized windows on your face but do try"

He just bites back "Bitch"

"Ass"

The editor cuts in knowing they could do this for hours if they had hours left. "So mister steampunk when do you think the bombs will drop."

"A Couple days maybe."

"Really kind of optimistic I was thinking in terms of hours. and you are fearless arboreal overlord"

The Writer raises an eyebrow at the nickname. "Don't call me that again but my guess is 13 minutes 24 seconds."

"Oooh touchy, but how specific, know something we don't" as he reaches for his phone to set a timer. The Writer gives a haughty Scoff

"Don't I always." reaching into her pocket to reveal a phone already counting down now reading

00:13:18

After this brief conversation they go back to their tasks, The Writer writing her message for the world after, The Artist finally having the freedom to paint his miniatures and The Editor critiquing both the whole time.

00:08:18

"So, Forever DM want to go sit outside and watch how wrong your guess for the bombs was?" The Editor breaks what had been a 30 second period of silence with a question.

"Sure." The Writer responds before looking to The Artist" You in oh great painter of figures."

"Yeah, guess i could use a break."