Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

The question hung uncomfortably over the assembled expedition, and Ethan felt the particular, familiar weight of a decision he’d learned to trust throughout this entire story — talk first, act second, no matter how urgent the ticking clock felt.

”We need to ask them,” he said. ”Before we leave. If Candidate Zero’s known about this since the very beginning, that changes everything about how prepared we actually are for whatever we’re about to find.”

They reached out through the same careful monitoring channel the system had established weeks earlier, and Candidate Zero’s presence answered promptly, their voice carrying the same fragile, gradually healing quality it had carried since their recovery began — though something in it, when Ethan raised the trigger’s activation date, shifted immediately into something considerably more guarded.

[FRAGMENT: I HAD HOPED THAT PARTICULAR MEMORY WOULD REMAIN BURIED A WHILE LONGER.]

”That’s not really an answer,” Ethan said, keeping his tone careful but firm. ”You’ve known about Convergence this whole time. Since before the governing tier even existed. You never mentioned it.”

[FRAGMENT: BECAUSE I DID NOT BELIEVE IT WAS RELEVANT ANYMORE. THE TRIGGER WAS SOMETHING I BUILT IN A MOMENT OF FEAR, CENTURIES AGO, BASED ON FRAGMENTARY WARNINGS I ENCOUNTERED DURING MY OWN EARLIEST DAYS HOLDING THE SEAT. I NEVER CONFIRMED WHETHER THE THREAT WAS GENUINE. I ASSUMED, EVENTUALLY, THAT IT NEVER MATERIALIZED BECAUSE IT WAS NEVER REAL TO BEGIN WITH.]

Sundari, listening with growing concern, stepped forward. ”What warnings, exactly. Where did you first hear about this?”

There was a long, heavy pause before Candidate Zero answered, their fragile presence carrying visible reluctance.

[FRAGMENT: FROM THE ORIGINAL WORLD ITSELF. WHEN I FIRST ACCEPTED THE SEAT, BEFORE I HAD LOST MYSELF ENTIRELY, IT TOLD ME SOMETHING I DISMISSED AS SUPERSTITION AT THE TIME — THAT THE NETWORK I WAS INHERITING WAS NOT UNIQUE. THAT OTHER NETWORKS EXISTED, AND THAT SOMETIMES, RARELY, THEY GREW CLOSE ENOUGH TO COLLIDE. IT WARNED ME TO BUILD SAFEGUARDS. I BUILT THE TRIGGER, AND THEN, OVER TIME, I FORGOT WHY I HAD BOTHERED, THE SAME WAY I FORGOT SO MUCH ELSE DURING MY OWN DISSOLUTION.]

Ethan felt the shape of the mystery deepen further. ”So the original world already knew about this too. Before you even accepted the seat.”

[FRAGMENT: IT WOULD APPEAR SO.]

”Then that’s who we should be asking,” Ethan said, already turning toward the terminal, decision made. ”We’re heading toward the network’s edge regardless — but maybe we make a stop first. Get whatever the original world actually knows, properly, before we walk into something we’re even less prepared for than we already are.”

The detour cost them the better part of a day, the corridor to the original world considerably more stable now than during their first, chaotic visit, the ancient foundational voice greeting them with the same warm, patient recognition it had shown since finally, deliberately choosing to align with the Watch weeks earlier.

[FRAGMENT: I WONDERED HOW LONG IT WOULD TAKE FOR THIS QUESTION TO ARRIVE.]

”You knew,” Ethan said, not accusatory, just tired. ”About Convergence. This whole time.”

[FRAGMENT: I HAVE ALWAYS KNOWN. IT IS, IN A SENSE, THE OLDEST KNOWLEDGE I POSSESS — OLDER THAN CANDIDATE ZERO, OLDER THAN ARJUN MEHRA, OLDER THAN THE VERY CONCEPT OF THIS NETWORK’S CURRENT STRUCTURE. I DID NOT VOLUNTEER THE INFORMATION EARLIER BECAUSE, UNTIL RECENTLY, IT REMAINED PURELY THEORETICAL — SOMETHING I HAD OBSERVED HAPPEN TO OTHER NETWORKS, BUT NEVER SOMETHING THAT SEEMED IMMINENT FOR OUR OWN.]

”And now it does,” Ethan said.

[FRAGMENT: NOW IT DOES.]

The original world’s ancient presence gathered itself, the golden light of the chamber settling into something quieter, more deliberate, as though preparing to finally share something it had carried alone for far longer than it should have.

[FRAGMENT: I HAVE WITNESSED THREE PRIOR CONVERGENCE EVENTS ACROSS MY EXISTENCE. NOT DIRECTLY — NOT INVOLVING THIS NETWORK — BUT INDIRECTLY, THROUGH THE SAME FAINT SIGNALS THAT EVENTUALLY REACHED WREN’S TRANSMISSION. EACH TIME, TWO NETWORKS DRIFTED INTO PROXIMITY. EACH TIME, ONLY ONE SURVIVED THE ENCOUNTER INTACT.]

”What happens to the one that doesn’t,” Ethan asked, though he already suspected he wasn’t going to like the answer.

[FRAGMENT: THAT DEPENDS ON THE NATURE OF THE COLLISION. SOMETIMES, THE WEAKER NETWORK IS SIMPLY ABSORBED — ITS INSTANCES FORCIBLY RESTRUCTURED TO CONFORM TO THE SURVIVING NETWORK’S OWN ARCHITECTURE, EVERY WORLD, EVERY PERSON, EVERY PIECE OF INDIVIDUAL HISTORY REWRITTEN TO FIT A FOREIGN TEMPLATE.]

[FRAGMENT: OTHER TIMES, THE OUTCOME IS CONSIDERABLY WORSE.]

Ethan felt the weight of that qualifier settle uncomfortably. ”Worse how.”

[FRAGMENT: I DO NOT KNOW THE FULL DETAILS. WHAT I HAVE OBSERVED, ACROSS THE THREE PRIOR EVENTS I WITNESSED FROM A DISTANCE, IS THAT WHEN A COLLISION GOES BADLY ENOUGH, BOTH NETWORKS SUFFER — SOMETHING BEYOND SIMPLE ABSORPTION, SOMETHING THAT LEAVES BEHIND A KIND OF WOUND IN THE UNDERLYING ARCHITECTURE OF THE MULTIVERSE ITSELF. I BELIEVE THIS IS THE OUTCOME WREN’S OWN NETWORK EXPERIENCED, GIVEN HOW LONG HE HAS APPARENTLY SURVIVED, ALONE, IN THE SPACE BETWEEN NETWORKS.]

The expedition proceeded from there toward the network’s actual boundary, the original world’s grim account weighing heavily over the group as they traveled — Kaia guiding the corridor’s stability with careful, practiced expertise, Wren’s remote voice offering intermittent, fragile directions through the connection, growing steadily clearer as they drew closer to whatever region he himself had once called home.

”You’re getting close,” Wren’s voice crackled, roughly two hours into the journey. ”I can feel it. The wall’s thinning enough here that I can actually sense your presence properly, for the first time since we made contact.”

”What should we expect,” Ethan asked, keeping his own voice level despite the mounting tension.

”Nothing dramatic. Not yet. The edge itself doesn’t look like much — that’s actually the scary part. It just looks like empty space. But it’s not really empty. It’s more like—” Wren paused, searching for the right words. ”Like the last page of a book, right before the next one starts. You won’t be able to see what’s coming until you’re standing right at the edge of it.”

They reached that edge roughly twenty minutes later, the corridor’s golden light finally, gradually thinning into something considerably stranger — not darkness, not the colorless void of the Root, but a genuine, unsettling absence, a place where the archival sky simply, inexplicably stopped, as though the multiverse’s own architecture had run out of anything left to render.

The expedition stood at the boundary in tense, reverent silence, staring out at the raw, unmarked emptiness stretching in every direction.

”That’s it,” Malachar said quietly. ”The edge of everything.”

”Yeah,” Ethan agreed, feeling the true, staggering scope of what they were looking at settle over him. ”Feels like it should be more dramatic than this.”

”It gets more dramatic,” Wren’s voice said, quiet and grim. ”Give it a minute. I think you’re about to see exactly why my own garden didn’t survive its own Convergence.”

Ethan felt the Void Sword’s hum spike sharply, and as he watched, the raw, empty boundary before them began, slowly, unmistakably, to ripple — the first faint, distant traces of something vast and unknown pressing gently, patiently against the very edge of everything they’d ever known.

[NOTICE: The system, straining to process the reading, would like to confirm what everyone present is already, silently understanding.]

”Say it,” Ethan said, sword raised now, eyes fixed on the rippling boundary.

[NOTICE: Something is already there.]

[NOTICE: And it appears to have just noticed us noticing it back.]