In a dimly lit conference room in Wellington, exhausted officials huddle over reports, speaking in tense, hushed tones. The Minister for Primary Industries, Malcolm Fairweather, hasn’t slept in days.

  He’s overseen a mass culling of Even Madder Cows. At night, he sees them—haunted by a chorus of moos, a ghostly cow-centric requiem.

  The mass slaughter has tanked the economy, and the country is spiralling into crisis. But there must be a way to salvage this. There always is.

  “What about plant-based meat?” suggests an underpaid aide.

  Fairweather stares at him.

  “You think the solution to our food shortage—and massive cash shortfall—is a product nobody wants?”

  “I, uh…”

  “GET OUT!”

  The aide trudges from the room in shame. Silence lingers. And then—

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Fairweather rubs his temples. Someone coughs.

  The aide’s discarded laptop sits abandoned on the table.

  On the screen, a video is playing. Autoplay. So far, it’s soundless. But Fairweather watches the artful images of fish against a familiar New Zealand backdrop.

  Entranced by the weirdness, he stumbles over and turns up the volume.

  “THE OLD WAY IS DEAD!” the fish declare, presciently.

  “THE OLD WAY IS MURDER!”

  The final word rings in Malcolm’s ears. He hears the gunshots. The panicked mooing.

  “Say no to killing!” the ad declares.

  “And say yes… to a revolution!”

  “Is this… propaganda?” whispers a confused official.

  “Or fate?” says Malcolm Fairweather.

  His colleague Nigel Forsythe, eyes narrowed with grim determination, navigates to Google. He types ‘Fish Direct,’ and a website appears. Nigel Forsythe clears his throat.

  “Fish Direct? is a visionary tech startup that provides ethically sourced, volunteer fish delivered directly to your door.”

  “Well, can we test it. Can we make an order?” asks Fairweather.

  “Hold on. There’s an app!”

  The room falls into tense silence as Forsythe downloads the app.

  Everyone watches the progress bar. Fifty percent. Seventy-five. At ninety-seven it lags for a moment. And then—

  They have it.

  “Bugger,” says Nigel Forsythe. “I think delivery is limited to Auckland.”

  “For now,” says Fairweather.

  Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the eerie prescience of the ad, but for some reason Malcolm Fairweather fully believes that Fish Direct? is the answer.