Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

They surfaced just before dawn, the terminal’s golden light settling back into its patient, familiar hum as the small group climbed back up into a courtyard that had, in their absence, become considerably more crowded and considerably more tense.

Word had traveled fast - word always did, in a place with this many system-connected delegates - and by the time Ethan, Kaia, and Sundari emerged from the excavation site, the news of the Grinding’s announcement had already rippled through every one of the twenty-plus delegations currently camped across the Citadel’s grounds.

The Instance-9 contingent, informed secondhand that their own Rank One had registered for a multiversal selection tournament without consulting anyone back home, had taken the news particularly badly.

”He had no authority to enter a competition of this magnitude without formal sanction,” one of Malachar’s senior officers was arguing, loud enough to carry across half the courtyard, to a visibly unimpressed Threshold Accord liaison. ”If our king is compromised, absorbed, or lost in this process, Instance-9’s entire chain of command collapses. He unified our world under a single seat of power specifically to prevent this kind of instability, and now he’s volunteered himself directly into the one process capable of causing it.”

”That is not the Coalition’s concern,” the liaison replied, tired. ”Malachar Vess registered as an independent candidate. The Grinding does not recognize national sovereignty.”

”Then perhaps the Grinding should be made to.”

The argument was still escalating when Ethan reached the edge of the crowd, and it wasn’t the only one - a separate cluster near the visitor pavilion had Meridian Concord representatives arguing with a delegation from an Instance Ethan didn’t recognize about whether the tournament’s very existence violated some multiversal charter neither side seemed to fully agree on the wording of.

”Great,” Ethan muttered, watching the growing chaos with the specific weariness of a man who had, once again, come home from a genuinely traumatic experience to find his own courtyard on fire in a completely different way. ”So while I was gone, everyone decided this was the perfect time to start yelling at each other.”

[NOTICE: The system would note that stress tends to compound rather than distribute evenly, and twenty separate delegations processing the same alarming news simultaneously, in close proximity, with no shared cultural framework for managing collective anxiety, was a fairly predictable outcome.]

”Yeah, I figured that out on my own, thanks,” Ethan said, already walking toward the loudest cluster of the argument.

He didn’t have a plan, exactly, beyond the vague, tired instinct that had carried him through every prior crisis in this story - find the actual problem underneath the noise, and solve that instead of the noise itself. What he found, once he got close enough to actually listen instead of just registering volume, was that the argument wasn’t really about jurisdiction or sovereignty at all. It was about fear, dressed up in procedural language because procedural language felt safer to shout than ”we’re scared we’re about to lose the only thing holding our world together.”

Ethan glanced toward the market side of the courtyard, where Meenakshi’s rebuilt bakery stand - relocated, at her own insistence, closer to the Citadel after the last apocalypse wrapped up, because ”you people clearly need someone nearby who remembers how to make a proper bun” - was doing brisk business with a handful of curious off-world visitors sampling Earth cuisine for the first time.

He had an idea. It wasn’t a good idea, exactly. It was a very Ethan idea, which was usually close enough.

”Everybody stop yelling for five minutes,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the general noise without needing to shout, the same effortless projection that had once quieted fifteen thousand hunters from a balcony. ”I’ve got an offer, and it’s not a diplomatic one, so nobody needs to bring a translator.”

The arguing clusters paused, turning toward him with a mixture of relief and confusion.

”There’s a bakery about forty feet that way,” Ethan continued, pointing. ”It makes genuinely excellent food, and right now, every single one of you is more upset than you’re admitting, because your entire world just found out its strongest person is walking into something none of you can protect them from. I get that. I’ve been there. But standing here arguing about jurisdiction charters isn’t gonna change the Grinding’s schedule, and it’s definitely not gonna make anyone here feel less scared. So. Bakery. Now. Everyone. I’m buying, or trading, or whatever the multiversal equivalent of buying is, because I genuinely don’t know how your economies work and I’m too tired to figure it out today.”

There was a long, confused pause.

Then, slowly, awkwardly, the crowd began drifting toward the bakery, less because anyone had actually resolved anything and more because nobody had a better response to being handed an unexpected pastry-based off-ramp from an argument they’d mostly been having out of fear anyway.

Meenakshi, entirely unbothered by the sudden influx of interdimensional customers, simply started handing out samples with the same brisk, warm efficiency she’d shown every customer since long before the apocalypse began, chatting cheerfully with visitors who had, twenty minutes earlier, been shouting about multiversal sovereignty violations.

Ethan watched it work with a kind of tired, disbelieving satisfaction, the tension in the courtyard easing, bit by bit, replaced by the considerably more manageable chaos of two dozen worlds’ worth of people arguing, instead, about which pastry was actually the best one.

Malachar’s officer, still holding a warm bun she’d clearly been handed without quite agreeing to accept it, found Ethan near the edge of the crowd, her earlier hostility somewhat deflated.

”This is a strange approach to diplomacy,” she admitted.

”Yeah,” Ethan said. ”It’s not really diplomacy. It’s just - sometimes people need to eat something warm and remember they’re allowed to feel scared before they can actually talk about the thing they’re scared of. Your king’s not lost yet. He’s got seventy-two hours, and from what I saw down there, he’s already thinking about this a lot more carefully than he was when he registered.”

She studied him for a long moment. ”You spoke with him. Down there.”

”Yeah,” Ethan said. ”We didn’t agree on much, but I think we understood each other better by the end of it than either of us expected to.”

She was quiet for a moment, processing that, then nodded slowly, some of the rigid formality easing out of her posture. ”Thank you. For the food, and for - whatever you did down there that made him worth trusting a little more than I did an hour ago.”

”Don’t thank me yet,” Ethan said. ”We’ve still got seventy-two hours, a Coalition hearing that got moved up, and apparently a tournament that just recruited two more people who never agreed to join. I haven’t actually fixed anything. I just bought everyone a snack.”

Suresh found him an hour later, once the bakery crowd had thinned and the courtyard’s earlier tension had settled into something considerably more manageable, clipboard in hand as always, expression carrying the particular gravity Ethan had learned to brace for by now.

”Two things,” Suresh said. ”First - that was smart. Genuinely. I don’t think I could’ve talked that crowd down half as fast with actual negotiation.”

”Yeah, well, turns out my one real diplomatic skill is bread,” Ethan said. ”What’s the second thing?”

Suresh’s expression tightened slightly. ”The Coalition’s caught wind of the Grinding’s announcement. They’re not waiting for the scheduled Grand Concord session anymore. They’ve moved the hearing up again - to tomorrow, specifically because they want to address the tournament’s legitimacy before your first trial, which the system says is happening in...”

”Seventy-one hours, give or take,” Ethan finished, doing the math. ”So the hearing’s happening right in the middle of my prep window.”

”That’s the situation, yes.”

[NOTICE: The system would like to add one further complication it has just confirmed, having cross-referenced the updated Coalition schedule against the Grinding’s own archival countdown.]

Ethan sighed, already bracing. ”What now.”

[The motion to compel the subject’s provisional custody of the succession seat - the one tabled earlier this week - has just been reintroduced, with new language attached. Several delegations are now arguing that if the subject is being forced into the Grinding regardless of consent, the Coalition should preemptively vote to claim jurisdiction over the outcome, ensuring that whatever authority the subject gains from surviving the tournament remains answerable to the Coalition rather than the Origin Engine directly.]

Ethan closed his eyes, feeling the specific, familiar exhaustion of watching well-meaning institutions try to solve a problem by adding another layer of control on top of it.

”So even the people trying to protect me from this thing,” he said, ”are trying to figure out how to own whatever comes out the other side.”

[NOTICE: That does appear to be an accurate summary, yes.]