[ WP ] The world is watching as the ball drops at Times Square to welcome 2016 . On live TV Bill Nye is assassinated , his last words : `` Do n't trust NASA ''

Bill Nye picked himself up off the floor, gingerly. His chest ached, even though they said it would be a soft impact. Still, he did n't mind. Slowly, Mr Nye peeled off his blood soaked undershirt, smiling to himself inside. 
 
 *1 hour earlier* 
 
 ``... we've got reports coming in of an apparent hostage situation from within the SCICOP headquarters at Amherst, Buffalo NY. Residents report 3 to five white vans pulling up at the headquarters lobby...'' 
 
 Jesus. Jim sat back in his chair, quickly sobering. He had been called out of an office party himself, halfway through his third bottle of champagne. Apparently some nutjobs had chosen New Year's Eve to stage an attack on the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry, the fucking bastards. Do n't wackos ever take a goddamned holiday? Maybe take the time to make some new years resolutions, like `` I will see a qualified psychiatrist'', or `` I'll make an effort not to go bat-shit crazy and kill everyone.'' 
 
 Jim's hands hovered over the keyboard, his mind still a hazy blur of alcohol and regret. His words were going to CNN teleprompters in ten minutes, and he had no idea what to say. The guy who was supposed to be on this shift left at ten, after what had been a quiet night. Something about holiday cheer. Jim grimaced at the irony. 
 
 Eventually, his hands began to move, first at a slow pace, then gradually picking up steam. Truthfully, Jim knew he could have taken 16 tabs of lsd and washed it down with a bottle of absinthe, and still he would be able to churn out something. At this stage, it was almost automatic. 
 
 `` Jim! Jim! Eyes here! We got a twist!''. The dark haired, dark skinned woman yelling shrilly in Jim's direction was Monica, Jim's supervisor. Jim frowned. Monica was never this amped up. And yet, her soft brown eyes were wide with adrenaline. She slammed her well manicured hands down on Jim's desk, and Jim looked up at her with tired, red eyes. 
 
 `` Jim, the hijacker's leader just unmasked. Get this- it's Bill Nye.'' 
 
 What. Jim sat there for a minute, processing what he had just heard. Then, slowly, he started asking; `` Are you sure that it's hi-'' 
 
 `` YES!'' Monica cut Jim's question short. `` Positive facial ID from live security footage, and Mr Nye left a manifesto at his home address.'' 
 
 Once again, Jim paused. His addled brain was struggling to disentangle the words from their neighbours. Then, he spoke again, slowly. 
 
 `` Bill Nye...... The Science Guy? 
 
 *CSICOP Headquarters, 11:39* 
 
 Mr Nye stood in the shuttered lobby of CSICOP HQ, quietly smug with the smoothness of it all. Media presence was huge, police presence was bare. Half the NYPD were patrolling the drunken revelry of New Year's Eve, and the majority of those back at the stations had already escaped to somewhere that was n't New York. The resultant police response was impressive, but underwhelming. 
 
 By midnight, it would all be over, and Bill would have spread the message to the entirety of the United States. 
 
 It was all going perfectly according to plan. 
 
 *CNN Offices, 11:43 PM* 
 
 Jim typed rapidly, trying desperately to get past the shock of what he'd just heard. *It ca n't be Bill Nye. The guy is like 60 years old. He's a member of the committee whose headquarters he is shooting up. And he's Bill fucking Nye! The Science Guy! * Jim pondered these thoughts and more, as Monica fed him statistics, quotes, reported facts, and trivia for Jim to weave into his teleprompt script. Apparently NYPD had rapid response units for hostage scenarios on New Year's Eve. Who knew? 
 
 To his left, a live feed from the headquarters was being streamed by their cameraman on the ground. Jim watched as 3 seperate SWAT teams poured out of their own vans, as FBI Agents negotiated in hushed tones with NYPD police captains, as techies relayed information back to waiting FBI officers with notepads and radios. It was like watching a carefully arranged riot. 
 
 A studio camera, boom and microphone was being escorted to the front door. It seems Mr Nye had negotiated for broadcasting equipment. Sure enough, the front doors opened, and armed hijackers escorted the equipment inside, as several terrified office workers scurried the other way to the waiting police line. 
 
 Monica was organizing a live capture of the feed from Bill Nye's camera. It was n't hard, since he'd given the hostages a url. 
 
 *11:57 PM, Google CyberDefense Division, somewhere in California* 
 
 Quietly, Harold watched as the viewcount ticked up. Someone had managed to remotely open a youtube live feed, without prior arrangement. That should n't even be possible. And yet. The gmail account associated with the livestream was exactly 30 seconds old as the stream came online. The associated username was a gibberish string of letters and numbers. Harold watched as one viewer joined the channel.Then 10. Then 15. Then 30. Then 90. Then 200.... 
 
 Harold picked up the phone, and started dialing for his supervisor. 
 
 *11:59 PM, CSICOP HQ* 
 Bill Nye was sweating now. Who knew conspiracist rants were so tiring? He knew the words off by heart, but the shouting had almost made him hoarse. He took a deep breath, and continued...'' 
 ``... the government has been lying to us. All of us! For years! For years they have dismissed the truth, publicly deriding those of the public who know the truth! But now I've gone one better. Now I'm going to show the entire country, the entire world! just how real the New World Order is. At the stroke of midnight, I'm going to give you an IP address. Go there, and let your eyes be opened. Do n't trust your government! Do n't trust FEMA! And ESPECIALLY, whatever you do...'' 
 
 In this split second Mr Nye took pause. He was sweating hard now. Everything had gone just right, so far. Now, for the coup de gras... 
 
 `` Do n't trust NAS-'' 
 
 BANG! 
 
 A single shot rang out from a nearby rooftop. Mr Nye bent over double, eyes wide with shock. He sank to his knees, and as his hand fell to his side, blood began to spill from the hole in his shirt. He keeled over, convulsing lightly on the ground. 
 
 *12:01 PM, one minute since shooting. * 
 
 SWAT teams swarmed the building. Well, `` SWAT Teams''. Mr Nye had invested quite a lot of money in procuring the uniforms, the vans, the weaponry. The bloodpack had actually been a suggestion from one of his men. A nice last minute touch. Bill discarded the bloodpack from where it had been taped, close to his chest, and tenderly rubbed his bruised ribs. All camera feeds inside the building had been cut seconds after the `` assasination''. 
 
 In a small tunnel underneath headquarters, Bill descended to his exfil. The plan had gone perfect. He'd even been hit on the right syllable. The media was convinced that there was a whole convention of people from CSICOM inside the building, when in actuality it was 6 actors and some digital hacking of the thermal scans. His manifesto had been patched live into the billboards at Times Square, which was n't strictly necessary, but it was a wonderful bonus. 
 
 And the cherry on top was the username on the Youtube Livestream. Eventually, someone would identify it as an MD5 hash, and it's decryption lead to a TOR address that Bill had set up earlier. Maybe one of those hooligans from 4chan, that would do the trick. 
 
 Tonight, Bill would sleep easy, riding off the high of a plan executed to perfection. Then he would move on to phase two: kidnapping Donald Trump.
