Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

Ethan finished his snack — a genuinely unhurried process that took another eight minutes past what Meera considered reasonable — before finally making his way down to the courtyard, where the Undersecretary for Regional Affairs had been waiting on a wooden bench, flanked by two aides who’d both grown visibly more nervous with every passing minute.

”Sorry,” Ethan said, dropping onto the bench across from her without much ceremony. ”Wasn’t sure if you were staying for lunch too, so I finished mine first.”

”That’s — quite alright,” Meera said, recovering her composure with the practiced ease of a career diplomat. ”Thank you for seeing me. I’m Meera Kapoor, Undersecretary for Regional Affairs, representing Director-General Rao and the Provisional Central Government.”

”Cool,” Ethan said. ”What’s up?”

Meera opened the leather folder her aide had been carrying, produced a formal document sealed with an official government emblem, and set it on the bench between them with the deliberate weight of someone presenting the most important offer of her career.

”The Director-General has authorized me to extend, on behalf of the entire Provisional Government, a formal position within the national defense structure.” She paused, letting the gravity of it settle. ”We would like to offer you the position of Supreme Commander of Continental Defense.”

Ethan blinked. ”Supreme what?”

”Supreme Commander,” Meera repeated, with the faint, practiced patience of someone used to titles landing with appropriate weight. ”Full authority over all military and hunter guild operations across the continent. Direct command of every registered defense force. Complete resource access — funding, personnel, equipment, priority intelligence. You would, effectively, become the highest-ranking authority in continental defense, answerable only to the Director-General himself.”

”Huh.” Ethan considered this with the same weighing seriousness he’d give a menu with too many options. ”That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

”It is a position of tremendous importance,” Meera said. ”You would be coordinating the entire continent’s response to gate incursions, Calamity events, wave patterns — everything. Given what you accomplished against the Ash-Wrought Colossus alone, the strategic value of formalizing your capabilities under proper command structure cannot be overstated.”

”What’s the schedule look like?”

Meera blinked, momentarily thrown by the specificity of the question. ”The — schedule?”

”Yeah. Like, hours. What time do I have to show up, that kind of thing.”

”Standard command protocol requires daily briefings at 0800,” Meera said, consulting a secondary document from her folder. ”Followed by strategic review sessions through midday, operational oversight in the afternoon, and evening threat assessment before end of day. Full days, typically. The position does carry significant demands, given the scope of authority.”

Ethan’s face fell in slow, visible stages, the same expression he’d worn negotiating briefing times with Anika Reyes weeks earlier, except considerably more pronounced this time given the scale of the ask.

”Zero eight hundred,” he said. ”That’s eight AM.”

”Yes.”

”Every day.”

”The position doesn’t traditionally allow for—”

”I don’t wake up at eight AM,” Ethan said, with the flat, final certainty of a man stating a fundamental law of physics. ”I didn’t wake up at eight AM before the apocalypse. I didn’t wake up at eight AM during most of the apocalypse. I’m not gonna start now because someone wants to give me a fancy title.”

Meera’s two aides exchanged a look of quiet, disbelieving panic. One of them leaned in close enough to whisper, ”Ma’am, should I note the refusal, or—”

”Give me a moment,” Meera said, holding up a hand, still processing the fact that the single most powerful individual on the continent had just declined the highest military authority in the Provisional Government’s structure primarily on the basis of morning hours.

”Look,” Ethan said, leaning back on the bench, ”I get that you guys have a whole system, and I respect that, genuinely. But I already turned down guild leadership from three different guild masters. I turned down a sword deal from some rich kid’s family. This isn’t about the title, it’s about the—” he gestured vaguely, searching for the right word, ”—the structure of it. Briefings, oversight, command chains. That’s a job. A real job, with a schedule. I don’t want a job.”

”With respect,” Meera said carefully, ”the position comes with resources most guild leaders would spend their entire careers trying to accumulate. Housing, staff, unlimited operational funding—”

”I’ve already got housing,” Ethan said, gesturing at the courtyard around them. ”I’ve got staff, kind of, if you count Suresh, and honestly I think he’d say no to being called staff. I’ve got more food than I know what to do with. I don’t need any of that.”

”What about the responsibility, then?” Meera pressed, shifting tactics. ”You’ve already taken on protecting hundreds of people here. The continent needs that same protection, at scale. Millions of lives, potentially, depend on proper coordination of defense forces. Doesn’t that weigh on you?”

Ethan actually paused at that one, genuinely considering it rather than deflecting, and for a moment Meera thought she’d finally found the argument that might land.

”It does, kind of,” he admitted. ”But here’s the thing — I already help when it actually matters. The wave, the Colossus, whatever shows up. I don’t need a title or a briefing schedule to do that. I just do it because it needs doing. Slapping ’Supreme Commander’ on it doesn’t make me help more, it just means I have to sit through meetings first.”

”The command structure exists to coordinate resources efficiently—”

”And I’m sure that’s great for everyone who isn’t me,” Ethan said, not unkindly. ”But I’m not trying to run a war. I’m trying to have a peaceful life where I nap, eat good food, and occasionally deal with something that’s actually threatening people. The second I take that title, I’m not doing that anymore. I’m doing briefings at eight AM and answering to a chain of command and probably getting yelled at every time I decide a threat isn’t worth my time.” He shook his head. ”Hard pass.”

Meera sat with the refusal for a long moment, the weight of it settling in a way that felt, even to her, considerably more final than any of the previous recruitment attempts she’d heard about secondhand.

”The Director-General won’t be pleased,” she said finally, mostly out of professional obligation rather than any real expectation of changing his mind.

”That’s fair,” Ethan said, standing up, already glancing toward the building with the specific restlessness of a man whose nap window was closing. ”Tell him I appreciate the offer, though. Genuinely. And tell him if something actually big shows up — bigger than the Colossus, something that’s really gonna hurt people — I’ll help. No title needed. He doesn’t have to make me a commander for that.”

Meera closed her folder slowly, the formal document still unsigned, and found, despite the professional failure this represented, a strange and reluctant respect creeping into her assessment of the boy in front of her.

”That’s a remarkably informal way to structure a continent’s defense strategy,” she said.

”Yeah, well.” Ethan shrugged, already halfway back toward the stairwell. ”It’s worked out pretty well so far.”

He disappeared inside, leaving Meera Kapoor sitting alone in a courtyard full of grateful, sheltered refugees, holding a rejected offer that represented the single greatest concentration of legitimate authority the Provisional Government had ever assembled — turned down, in its entirety, over the simple, unshakeable principle that eight in the morning was simply too early to start caring about anything.