Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

“How long,” Ethan repeated, the question landing heavier the second time. “Give me an actual estimate.”

[NOTICE: The system has cross-referenced the case file’s earliest entries against timestamps it can partially decode. The oldest reference it can identify appears to predate even the Grinding — placing the Authority’s awareness of this network somewhere around the same period the original Framework first flagged the subject as a critical unresolvable exploit.]

The courtyard went very quiet, the implications settling slowly over everyone still gathered from the morning’s transmission.

“So they’ve been watching this entire time,” Malachar said. “The droids in your kitchen. The leaderboard breaking. The Grinding itself. All of it.”

[NOTICE: That appears to be the case, yes. The system believes the Convergence Authority does not simply monitor networks at the moment their boundaries thin. It appears to maintain long-term observational awareness of any network showing signs of producing an unresolvable-class candidate — likely because such candidates, historically, correlate with instability significant enough to eventually matter for Convergence outcomes.]

Ethan sat with that, feeling the shape of his entire story — every crisis, every hard-won victory, every quiet, ordinary morning he’d fought so hard to protect — suddenly, uncomfortably reframed as something that had been observed, cataloged, and judged from a distance the entire time, by an authority that had never once bothered to introduce itself until it became procedurally necessary.

“That’s not creepy at all,” he muttered.

[NOTICE: The system shares the sentiment.]

Sundari, ever the voice of hard-won, careful pragmatism, spoke into the unsettled quiet. “It’s not entirely surprising, though, is it. If the Convergence Authority genuinely oversees every network in whatever larger structure connects them all, it stands to reason they’d have some mechanism for tracking which networks are likely to eventually need their attention.”

“That’s a generous read,” Ethan said.

“It’s not generosity,” Sundari said. “It’s just refusing to assume the worst before we’ve actually met them properly. The same lesson we just agreed to apply to the Concord. I’d rather extend it consistently than only when it’s convenient.”

Ethan managed a tired, grudging nod. “Fair. Okay. So the Authority’s been watching us this whole time. Doesn’t necessarily mean they’re hostile. Just means they’re thorough, and considerably less transparent about it than I’d like.”

The revelation, unsettling as it was, did carry one genuinely useful implication, and it was Kaia who pointed it out first.

“If they’ve been observing us this closely,” she said, “then they already know everything about how we resolved the governing tier crisis. The Watch’s founding. The Grinding’s outcomes. All of it. Which means when we propose an alternative resolution to the Convergence, they’re not going to be hearing about our capabilities for the first time. They already have the whole case file.”

“That’s actually useful,” Malachar said, brightening slightly. “It means we don’t need to spend the Audit convincing them we’re capable of something unprecedented. They already have proof. What we need to convince them of is that it’s worth trying here too.”

Ethan felt a small, cautious flicker of genuine strategy forming beneath the morning’s unsettled dread. “So instead of building our case from scratch, we build it from everything they already know happened. Use our own history as the argument.”

“Precisely,” Kaia said.

The council reconvened that afternoon to formally begin preparing for the Audit, and it was during this session that the full, staggering scope of what “multiple networks” actually meant finally, properly settled over the gathered delegations — not as an abstract concept, discussed in passing during Wren’s rescue, but as a concrete, structural reality that reshaped everyone’s understanding of their own place in the multiverse.

“I want to make sure everyone in this room actually understands what we’re dealing with,” Ethan said, addressing the full Grand Concord. “Up until a week ago, every single one of us believed our network — six thousand-plus Instances, the Watch, everything we’ve built — was the whole picture. The entire multiverse. Turns out that’s not even close to true.”

He gestured toward the system’s projected display, where a rough, still-incomplete diagram had begun to take shape — Earth’s own network rendered as a single, contained cluster, and beside it, a second cluster representing the Cleansing Concord, the two drawn close enough that their outer edges nearly touched.

“There’s at least one other network out there,” Ethan continued. “The Concord. There was at least one more — Wren’s garden, the Verdant Accord — that doesn’t exist anymore. And if the Watcher’s telling the truth, there’ve been enough Convergence events across enough networks that this isn’t some rare, once-in-history occurrence. It’s just something that happens, periodically, whenever two of these things drift close enough.”

The weight of that landed across the assembled delegations with visible, sobering force.

“How many networks are there, total,” Reyla asked, her own hard-won practicality cutting straight to the most immediately useful question.

[NOTICE: The system does not currently have an answer. It has attempted, repeatedly, to query the Convergence Authority’s own transmission for a total count, and has received no response — either because the information is restricted, or because the Authority itself does not have a complete answer.]

“So we don’t even know the actual scale of what’s out there,” Chancellor Meret said, her own experience with Instance 6-Halloway’s near-collapse clearly informing her particular unease at the scale of the unknown. “Just that it’s bigger than we assumed, and getting bigger every time someone actually looks.”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “That’s about the shape of it.”

The meeting stretched long into the evening, the Watch’s assembled leadership working through logistics, strategy, and the genuinely difficult work of preparing an entire network’s worth of people for the possibility — however remote they hoped to keep it — of losing everything to a process they’d only just learned existed.

It was late, the courtyard finally quieting, when Ethan found Wren sitting alone near the World Tree, watching the fading light with a particular, thoughtful stillness.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Ethan said, settling beside him.

“I’ve been listening,” Wren said. “To all of it. The Audit, the case file, the diagram showing how close the Concord’s network already is to ours.” He paused, something heavy crossing his ancient, weary features. “It’s strange, watching everyone here treat this like a genuinely solvable problem. Like there’s a chance. My garden never got that. By the time anyone understood what was actually happening, there wasn’t room left to plan.”

Ethan sat with that, feeling the particular, painful weight of survivor’s guilt Wren was clearly still working through. “That’s not your fault,” he said gently. “You didn’t fail your garden by being the one who survived. You’re the reason we’ve got any warning at all. That matters more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

Wren managed a small, uncertain nod, though the guilt clearly lingered.

“I want to ask you something,” he said finally. “About the diagram. The one showing our network and the Concord’s, close enough to touch.”

“Go ahead.”

“If my garden’s network still existed — even as a wreck, even as whatever was left after the tide finished with it — would it have shown up on that diagram too? Would there have been a third circle, somewhere, drifting alongside the other two?”

Ethan felt the weight of the question settle uncomfortably, understanding, immediately, what Wren was actually asking.

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “But I think that’s worth finding out. If there’s any chance something of your garden still exists out there — even a fragment, even something as small as you were when we first found you — I think it’s worth looking.”

[NOTICE: The system, quiet through the exchange, finally interjected, its tone carrying something careful and considered.]

Ethan glanced over. “What.”

[NOTICE: The system has been quietly attempting exactly that search since the earlier conversation about Wren’s own network, using every archive fragment available. It has, until this moment, found nothing conclusive.]

[NOTICE: However, while cross-referencing the Convergence Authority’s own case file metadata — the same file that revealed how long they’ve been observing this network — the system detected a secondary reference, buried deep, attached to a designation it does not recognize.]

Wren sat up straighter, something fragile and desperate crossing his exhausted features. “What kind of designation.”

[NOTICE: It reads: “VERDANT ACCORD — REMNANT STATUS: UNCONFIRMED. LAST KNOWN SIGNAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN. FLAGGED FOR FURTHER INVESTIGATION, PENDING RESOURCES.”]

The words hung in the evening air, and Ethan watched Wren’s ancient, weary composure crack entirely — not into despair this time, but into something raw and fragile and, for the first time since Ethan had met him, genuinely, cautiously hopeful. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

“Unconfirmed,” Wren said quietly, testing the word like it might dissolve if he pressed too hard on it. “That’s not the same as gone. That’s — that’s not the same as gone at all.”

“No,” Ethan agreed, feeling the shape of a new, urgent question settle over everything else this crisis had already demanded. “It’s not.”