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A horrible sinking feeling hit him as he saw the call coming in. A “Strike Force Five” group facetime started by john oliver. These had become increasingly common over the last 5 months, and they never carried good news.
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When The Late Show had been canceled, he hadn’t even bothered to break the news to the group chat. He let them find out on their own TVs.
“I’ll learn who actually watches my show,” he had said with bitter humour to his wife.
The outpour of support had been heartening, not just from his friends and family, everywhere from all kinds of people, all over the world. It softened the blow. A little.
He still couldn’t get over how betrayed he felt. He had obviously meant to retire eventually, even getting fired wouldn’t have hurt as bad. But ending The Late Show altogether? It wasn’t fair.
A strange guilt had begun to creep in. He was the last host of The Late Show. The man who closed the curtain on late night at CBS.
He should have seen that coming, at least. Late night wasn’t what it used to be; streaming, social media, shifting habits. Television was changing, whether he liked it or not.
Still, he had always pictured himself handing over the reins to the next host. Giving advice, showing them where he hid from his producers, teaching them how to drive the elevator, everything Dave had done for him. There had been an arc in his mind, an ending that made sense. But this wasn’t it.
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Next was the daily show.
Not being on the group chat Jon had messaged Stephen directly. The moment he read it, the same disorienting unreality took over. The room seemed to tilt around him. He’d worked there for a long time. His friends worked there. People he loved.
But it wasn’t just that.
It was the pattern, it was the final terrifying confirmation of what he already suspected. This wasn't a coincidence and neither was ending the late show, “financial reasons,” yeah right.
Based on the message John sent an hour later, he hadn't been the only one Jon had told.
“You guys heard the news,” followed by a facetime call.
He didn’t join the call at first, trying frantically to fix his appearance so that it was not obvious he had been crying. He joined the call just in time to catch the end of John's explanation. There was a pause.
“You know, Stephen,” John said.
It wasn't really a question.
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Jimmy Fallon and Seth found out together. They had joked before about the inappropriateness of NBC’s themed meeting rooms, but it had never been more poignant than that moment. Being told their shows were terminated, in a “What you talkin' 'bout, Willis?” room was… surreal.
No, not surreal.
Horrific.
That facetime had been the worst.
Seth stumbled through an explanation, his voice faltering, while John kept interrupting; urgent, panicked, trying to make sense of it. Fallon, meanwhile, attempted a few misplaced jokes that fell flat, and hung in the silence.
Eventually, they all just went quiet.
Staring at their screens, stunned.
None of them said it out loud, but they all felt it.
Dictators control the media.
And this?
This sure as hell felt like control.
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Jimmy Kimmel had seen it coming—or at least, he told himself he had. That didn’t make it any easier.
It was around 2:00 a.m. when he started the facetime, not really expecting anyone to answer. Under different circumstances, he might have pointed out that none of them seemed to be in bed. But now? That felt beside the point.
They were past the stage of stunned silence. The horror had worn off, replaced by a mix of exhaustion and bitterness.
Now they joked. Which helped. It is (almost) impossible to laugh and be afraid at the same time.
“You’re the last of us, Oliver,” Jimmy said with a crooked smile as he ended the call.
“Do us proud.”
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“John?” Stephen said as he joined the next call, his voice tight, a familiar look of dread on his face.
“Hey, Stephen,” John replied casually, too casually, waiting for the rest to arrive.
Seth joined last, glancing at the screen before speaking.
“This better not be what I think it is.”
It was.