Dark Star: I'm in the White House 996

I call it unreliable. The only working staff clerk in the White House Logistics Department, a lifelong believer in Pepsi-Cola, and a pioneer in human science. There is a cushion under my workstation - the purchase price is $7,499. The label reads "Ergonomic Vibration Massage", but it actually functions as an emergency contact terminal for the 101st Interstellar Expeditionary Force. Every day I have to receive battle reports, requests and distress signals from hundreds of light years away through my butt. "A dark red planet is discovered, is it a blow?" "Is my Coke on the table?" "…Strike allowed." They asked me, and I answered incorrectly. They fired their Star Destroyer Cannons and I drank my Pepsi. For three years, the aliens and I have maintained this strange tacit understanding - they are responsible for fighting, and I am responsible for destroying. Until today. The dark red planet was not destroyed. The expeditionary force sent an urgent request for help. Three black cars without license plates were parked in front of the White House. And that cushion under my butt started saying things I shouldn't have heard. Danger level: two stars. Three stars. Four stars. They said there was something locked in that cushion. Older than their entire civilization. And I've been sitting on it for three years. They said it woke up. ——But I just want to know one thing now: Where did my Coke go?