Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

The signal was still there when Ethan woke up, which was, in itself, mildly insulting.

He’d gone to sleep hoping - genuinely, foolishly hoping - that the fragment the system had relayed at midnight was some kind of one-off glitch, a stray echo left over from months of ancient architecture waking up and getting excited about talking to somebody new. He’d hoped that by morning it would have quietly resolved itself, the way half the crises in this story eventually did once somebody actually looked at them properly.

It hadn’t. If anything, it had gotten louder.

[NOTICE: Good morning. The system regrets to inform the subject that the signal detected last night has not faded. It has, in fact, increased in signal strength by approximately eleven percent overnight.]

Ethan lay very still on his couch, eyes closed, and considered, briefly, the possibility of simply not acknowledging the notification and going back to sleep instead.

”I heard you,” he said finally, not opening his eyes. ”I’m choosing to ignore it for exactly four more minutes.”

[NOTICE: The system will hold the countdown.]

He made it two minutes before curiosity, that same stubborn, inconvenient trait that had gotten him into every single crisis this story had ever produced, won out over the part of him that genuinely wanted three uninterrupted days off in a row.

”Fine,” he said, sitting up, rubbing his face. ”Play it again.”

[NOTICE: ”Something is coming. It has been coming for a very long time. I do not know if this network is ready.”]

The words landed the same way they had the night before — plain, unadorned, carrying none of the layered, cosmic weight of the governing tier’s old broadcasts, and somehow considerably more unsettling for exactly that reason. This wasn’t an institution trying to sound imposing. It was something that sounded, genuinely, tired and frightened.

”Any progress figuring out where it’s coming from,” Ethan asked, already reaching for a shirt.

[NOTICE: Limited progress. The system has spent the past several hours attempting to trace the signal’s origin point using every method that has previously worked — cross-referencing against Instance registries, the foundational architecture’s own distributed awareness, even Candidate Zero and Kestrel’s combined recovered memory. All approaches have failed.]

”Failed how.”

[NOTICE: Not failed as in ”returned no result.” Failed as in ”returned a result the system does not have a framework for interpreting.” The signal’s point of origin does not correspond to any coordinate system the network currently uses. It is not simply beyond the mapped edge of a known Instance. It appears to be beyond the mapped edge of the entire network.]

Ethan paused, one arm halfway through a sleeve, letting that settle. ”You’re saying it’s not coming from inside our multiverse at all.”

[NOTICE: That is the system’s current working theory, yes. It would like to note that it does not currently have language for what ”outside the network entirely” would even mean, structurally. This is new territory, in the most literal sense.]

Ethan finished getting dressed slowly, the weight of the past several weeks’ hard-won peace settling into something considerably more complicated than he’d hoped his morning would carry.

He found Suresh already in the courtyard, clipboard notably back in hand — a bad sign, given how deliberately it had been set aside over the past month — and Ethan felt his stomach sink a little further before Suresh even opened his mouth.

”You heard it too,” Ethan said.

”Everyone heard it,” Suresh said. ”It broadcast across the same channels the golem’s celebration cake announcement used, apparently, which means half the Citadel woke up to a warning about impending doom immediately after finishing their leftover cardamom buns.”

”That’s a genuinely terrible combination,” Ethan admitted.

”Priya’s already fielding questions,” Suresh continued. ”Malachar’s requesting a formal briefing. Kaia’s been up since four in the morning going through the Threshold Accord’s own archives, apparently, looking for anything that might match the signal’s pattern.”

Ethan rubbed his face again, the particular, familiar exhaustion of a peaceful morning being reclaimed by something urgent settling over him like an old, unwelcome coat. ”I really thought we were done with this for a while.”

”We probably were,” Suresh said, not unkindly. ”For a while. I don’t think ’a while’ was ever going to be permanent, though. Not with you.”

The full circle assembled within the hour — Malachar and Halvorsen, Kael and Ren, Sundari, Arjun’s now considerably more solid presence, Kaia with an armful of physical archive material she’d apparently dug up overnight, and, patched in remotely through the system’s careful monitoring, Candidate Zero and Kestrel, both still gradually recovering but genuinely, actively engaged now.

”Play it for everyone,” Ethan said, settling onto the courtyard wall with a cup of tea the golem had produced without being asked, its usual cheerful demeanor carrying a faint, unmistakable undertone of anxious solidarity.

[NOTICE: ”Something is coming. It has been coming for a very long time. I do not know if this network is ready.”]

The message settled over the gathered group, and for a long moment, nobody spoke.

”It doesn’t sound hostile,” Kael said finally. ”Whatever’s speaking. It sounds — worried. Not threatening.”

”That doesn’t make it safe,” Ren pointed out. ”Worried and dangerous aren’t mutually exclusive.”

”No,” Sundari agreed. ”But it does mean the appropriate first response isn’t automatically combat readiness. I’ve spent centuries learning that lesson the hard way, over and over. Sometimes the scariest-sounding message is just somebody who’s genuinely, desperately afraid, and doesn’t know how to say it any other way.”

Kaia set her armful of archive material down carefully on the low table, flipping through pages that carried the same weathered, generational care as everything her family’s line had preserved. ”I found something,” she said. ”Buried in the Threshold Accord’s oldest records — passages my grandmother catalogued and dismissed as myth, because there was never any way to verify them against our own network’s own history.”

”Myth about what,” Ethan asked.

”About boundaries,” Kaia said. ”About things existing outside them. My grandmother’s notes describe it as folklore, cautionary stories passed down from a period before the Threshold Accord’s own founding — warnings about ’other gardens’ beyond the walls of the one we know, and what happens when two gardens grow close enough to touch.”

The phrase settled over the group with an unsettling, poetic weight.

”Other gardens,” Malachar repeated slowly. ”You’re saying there might be more than one of these networks.”

”I’m saying,” Kaia said carefully, ”that the possibility isn’t entirely without precedent, even if nobody’s ever actually confirmed it before now.”

[NOTICE: The system would like to add a relevant data point.]

Ethan glanced over, already bracing. ”Go ahead.”

[NOTICE: While the group has been discussing this, the system has continued attempting to isolate the signal’s source using every available channel. It has just succeeded in doing something it did not expect to be able to do — not locating the origin precisely, but establishing a stable, two-way connection.]

The courtyard went very quiet.

”You can talk to it,” Ethan said slowly. ”Whoever’s sending this.”

[NOTICE: The system believes so, yes. It has not yet attempted contact, given the significance of the moment. It felt the subject should be present and aware before it did.]

Ethan set his cup down, feeling the particular, familiar mixture of dread and stubborn curiosity that had carried him into every impossible situation this entire story had produced.

”Do it,” he said. ”Carefully. Let’s find out who’s actually been sending us a warning nobody asked for.”

The system’s response was immediate, gold-violet light gathering faintly in the air above the courtyard’s central table — not the vast, spreading energy of a full transit corridor, just a small, careful, tentative connection, reaching out toward something impossibly far away.

For a long, breathless moment, nothing happened.

Then, faint and static-laced, a voice answered — young, or at least sounding young, carrying an exhaustion that felt considerably older than whatever body it might have belonged to.

”...you actually heard me. I didn’t think anyone would.”

Ethan leaned forward, keeping his own voice careful and steady. ”We heard you. I’m Ethan. Who are you, and what exactly are you warning us about?”

There was a long pause on the other end, static crackling faintly, and when the voice finally answered, it carried a weight that made every person in the courtyard go very still.

”My name doesn’t matter yet. What matters is that you’re the first network in a very long time to actually respond instead of pretending the signal wasn’t real. That means either you’re very brave, or you don’t understand yet what’s actually coming.”

Ethan felt the Void Sword hum faintly against his shoulder, low and wary.

”Then explain it to us,” he said. ”Properly. What’s coming, and why should we be scared of it?”

The voice was quiet for another long moment, and when it finally spoke again, the words carried the particular, devastating simplicity of someone who had said this exact sentence to themselves, alone, more times than they could count.

”Your network is about to have a neighbor. And where I come from, having a neighbor means one of you doesn’t get to exist anymore when it’s over.”