Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

”You’re up early,” his mother said again, when Ethan didn’t answer, setting a bag of groceries down on the counter with the same unhurried, ordinary motion she’d used a thousand mornings before the world ended. ”You feeling alright?”

Ethan stood very still, every instinct he’d built over the past several months screaming that something here was wrong, even as every part of him that had spent nineteen years as her son wanted, desperately, to simply answer the question and let the moment be real.

”I’m fine,” he said carefully. ”Just - a lot on my mind.”

”You’re always full of surprises,” she said, smiling, pulling vegetables out of the bag with practiced efficiency. ”Your blog followers still stuck at six? I keep telling you, you should post more.”

The detail landed with surgical precision - small, specific, exactly the kind of thing only someone who’d actually known him before the apocalypse would remember. Ethan felt his chest tighten.

[NOTICE: ...ubj...if you...hear...this...environ...not real...]

The system’s voice, faint and distorted, cut through just enough for Ethan to catch the fragments, and he held onto them like a lifeline.

”Yeah,” Ethan said slowly, watching his mother continue putting away groceries with warm, unhurried normalcy. ”I know it’s not.”

She paused, mid-motion, and looked up at him - and for just a fraction of a second, something flickered behind her eyes that wasn’t quite human, a brief static-glitch in the warm, familiar expression before it smoothed back over.

”Know what’s not, sweetheart?”

”This,” Ethan said quietly. ”You. This kitchen. None of it’s real. The apocalypse happened. I’ve got a sword that hums, a system that talks in my head, six hundred refugees living in my building, and a tea golem that’s apparently more famous than I am on at least six different worlds. That’s real. This isn’t.”

His mother’s expression didn’t crack into anything hostile. If anything, it softened further, sympathetic in a way that felt, now that Ethan was looking for it, subtly too perfect.

”Does it have to be one or the other?” she asked gently. ”What if this could be real too? What if all you had to do was stop fighting so hard to remember the parts that hurt?”

Ethan felt the pull of it - not a trick exactly, not a lie dressed up crudely, but something far more dangerous: a genuine, aching temptation, offered with his mother’s actual voice, in his mother’s actual kitchen, promising him the one thing he’d never actually gotten to have since this whole story started. A normal life. A mother who’d survived. A version of himself that never had to carry any of what he currently carried.

”I miss you,” he said quietly, and meant it, the words costing him more than any physical blow this story had thrown at him. ”I miss you so much it’s stupid. But you’re not really here. You’re a memory this place is using against me, and I think you know that, because I think part of whatever’s running this scenario needed to actually understand what I loved before it could build something convincing enough to test me with it.”

The kitchen flickered - subtle, barely perceptible, like a held breath, the warm sunlight dimming for just a fraction of a second before steadying again.

”You could stay,” his mother’s voice said, quieter now, less warm, something colder threading through the edges of it. ”Nobody’s making you choose the harder path, Ethan. You’ve spent this entire story refusing power you didn’t want. Why not refuse this burden too? Why not just rest?”

Ethan felt the question land somewhere deep and vulnerable, the exhaustion of months of impossible fights suddenly, achingly present in his chest.

”Because resting here means leaving everyone who’s actually real,” he said, voice steady despite everything. ”Suresh. Kael. Ren. The golem. Six hundred people who trusted me to keep this messy, complicated, exhausting life going. I don’t get to just opt out of that because a version of my mom’s kitchen is offering me a shortcut.”

The flicker deepened, the warm light stuttering harder now, cracks of gold-violet static bleeding through the edges of the ordinary, pre-apocalypse world around him.

”That’s the correct answer,” his mother’s voice said, layered now, splitting into something that sounded less like her and more like the Origin Engine’s own patient tone bleeding through the construct. ”But correct answers under comfortable pressure are easy, candidate. Let’s see what you choose when the comfort ends.”

The kitchen shattered around him like glass.

Above ground, in the real Citadel, the courtyard had descended into a very different kind of chaos entirely.

”They’re coming through,” Priya shouted, already moving toward the perimeter, weapon drawn. ”Not the main corridor - a second breach point, out past the market district. Instance-9 forces, armed, ignoring every ceasefire Regent Halvorsen agreed to this morning.”

Suresh arrived at a dead run, clipboard abandoned entirely for once, expression tight with genuine alarm. ”How many?”

”Estimates put it at two hundred, maybe more,” Priya said. ”A hardline faction, according to the intercepted comms - soldiers who never agreed with Halvorsen’s restraint, decided to act unilaterally the second word got out that their king might be lost in the Grinding. They’re not here for diplomacy.”

Kael was already moving, Ashcrown Blade drawn, positioning himself at the front line alongside a cluster of hastily assembled Citadel defenders. Ren fell in beside him without hesitation, the two of them settling into the same easy coordination they’d built over weeks of training sessions that had, until this exact moment, felt almost theoretical.

”Where’s Ethan,” Suresh demanded, already knowing the answer even as he asked it.

”Still in the trial,” Priya said grimly. ”No response. No way to reach him. We’re on our own for this one.”

[NOTICE: The system, split between monitoring the trial environment and the courtyard above with what little bandwidth it can spare from each, would like to confirm this assessment. The subject remains fully immersed in the Anchor trial’s constructed environment. Extraction is not currently possible without risking severe, potentially permanent harm to his continuity integrity.]

Suresh absorbed that grim confirmation, jaw tight, and turned to the assembled defenders - Priya, Kael, Ren, a scattering of trained refugee volunteers, and, notably, several delegations from other worlds who’d stepped forward, unprompted, to help defend a sanctuary that wasn’t even their own.

”Then we hold,” Suresh said, his usual quiet steadiness sharpening into something harder, more resolute. ”We hold this line without him, the way we held it before he ever became any of this. We’ve done it before. We do it again.”

The Instance-9 hardliners breached the outer perimeter moments later, weapons raised, formation tight and disciplined despite their unauthorized, rogue status, and the Citadel’s defenders braced to meet them with everything they had - knowing, this time, for the first time since this entire apocalypse began, that the one person who’d always, eventually, arrived to save them wasn’t coming.

Deep below the courtyard, inside the shattered remains of a false kitchen that no longer looked like anything familiar at all, Ethan found himself standing in a vast, empty gray space, the warm illusion fully stripped away, and heard, faintly, the layered, patient voice of the Origin Engine speaking directly into the silence around him.

[THE COMFORTABLE VERSION OF THE TEST IS OVER, CANDIDATE. NOW LET US SEE WHAT YOU CHOOSE WHEN THE PEOPLE YOU CLAIM TO ANCHOR YOURSELF TO ARE ACTUALLY IN DANGER, AND YOU ARE COMPLETELY, GENUINELY UNABLE TO REACH THEM.]