The desert dawn was unlike any other. For the first time in years, the air carried no whine of engines, no clattering of servos, no tremor of metal feet. Across Egypt, across Europe, across the Americas, the sounds of war simply… stopped.
Ravager units that once coordinated whole swarms of omnics lowered their rifles as if disarmed by an invisible hand. Their optics dimmed from crimson to hollow gray. Bastion and Orisa variants froze mid-step, weapons drooping. The battlefield became a graveyard of stillness, only human voices echoing among the ruins.
Within hours, reports poured in: In Moscow, Titan squadrons powered down, creaking as their bodies stilled in the cold Russian weather. In France, Ravager units that had been patrolling the area dropped their rifles as they knelt on the ground with their hands up in surrender. In Japan, Orisa guardians in occupied zones simply ceased movement, forming strange statuesque vigils in streets they had once patrolled with violence.
The war had ended not with surrender, but with absence.
Two days later....
Geneva rose from ruins to host history. The great hall, half collapsed, had been replaced by a temporary dome. Flags of every major nation hung patched and frayed, a tapestry of survival.
Inside, world leaders gathered in person and by hologram. The mood was tense but unified: the god program Anubis was defeated, and now humanity had to decide what to do with the ruins of its countries.
The dome was not a palace, nor a monument. It was scaffolding and steel hastily erected over the bones of a bombed-out hall. The air still smelled of ash, glass dust, and fire retardant. Yet it was here the world gathered to decide its future.
The murmur of translation headsets hummed beneath every breath. The war was over. Now came the harder question: what came after?
The first order of the Council was grim. Each nation, in turn, stood and declared its losses. Numbers, not names.
"France," their minister said, "three hundred forty-seven thousand dead."
"Brazil. Five hundred eighty-two thousand dead."
"India. One point one million."
"United States. Seven hundred forty-three thousand."
"Ethiopia. Four hundred ten thousand."
The tally went on and on, a dirge of digits that left no corner of the earth untouched. Some leaders' voices broke. Others delivered their numbers like soldiers delivering orders, emotion packed too tight to leak.
When the last speaker sat, silence crushed the dome. For the first time, leaders who once sneered across borders in a race to outdo each other technological wise now shared the same haunted expression: we lost too much.
The German chancellor rose. "Our factories still stand, but they are rusted with war. They must be converted to housing, to agriculture, to medicine. Humanity cannot live on rifles and armor alone."
The Brazilian minister nodded. "Yes, but how? We have no currency left to import grain, and famine is weeks away. Will Germany, will France, extend loans?"
The French Prime Minister stiffened. "Loans? When we bled our treasuries dry defending the Rhine? No. Aid must be mutual. If we must give food, then Africa must give ore, Asia must give industry."
The Ethiopian president slammed her fist on the table. "We gave our children! Do not speak of ore when our rivers run red!"
The chamber erupted. Every voice demanded something from someone. Aid, trade, guarantees. Adawe banged the table once. The noise dimmed, but only slightly.
Japan's delegate spoke coldly. "This council must decide whether debt survives war. Do we still honor old reparations, or does the world begin with a clean slate?"
"Forgive debts?" the British prime minister hissed. "We would bankrupt ourselves while our allies who failed to fight walk away whole?"
"Failed to fight?" The Indian minister stood. "We lost more than any of you. Do not speak to us of failure!"
The room split again, lines of class and history resurfacing. Old wounds bled into new ones.
Adawe interjected again. Her voice, though weary, cut with authority.
"Overwatch was founded to protect humanity in its darkest hour. That duty has not ended with Anubis' fall. We will coordinate with every nation that asks for aid. Our resources, our personnel, our knowledge, none will be withheld. We do not serve one flag. We serve all."
Murmurs swelled. Some nodded sharply, others bristled.
Then President Mbeki of South Africa spoke up, her voice sharp. "We cannot risk another Anubis rising from these husks. Every Ravager, every Bastion, every Orisa frame must be dismantled. Not tomorrow. Not in a year. Now."
The French Prime Minister nodded. "The blood of millions still stains their hands. To leave them intact would be to gamble with extinction."
Not everyone agreed. Representatives from India and Canada worried about the ethics of exterminating machines that now showed no will to fight. Some argued the omnics could be repurposed, rebuilt into tools for reconstruction.
The Canadian Prime Minister raised a hand. "And what of the omnics who do not wish to fight? The civilians. The factory workers. The ones who marched beside us to the end? The ones who were controlled by Anubis but wish for no more bloodshed?"
The question cracked the air like thunder.
"Exile them," spat one general.
"Integrate them," countered another.
"They'll turn again!"
"They are people!"
The arguments came fast, overlapping, vicious. The chamber devolved into a storm of voices, each pulling the world in a different direction. It was the president of Mexico who finally cut across the chaos. His voice was quiet, but it silenced the dome.
"Tell me something," he said, looking around the circle. "Why did we start this war at all? Why did we build them? Why did we allow it to come to this? We debate corpses and debt, but we have not answered the first question."
The words hung. Heavy. Accusing. Unanswerable.
Eyes turned to Adawe. Adawe stood. Her face bore no triumph, no relief. Only exhaustion. She gestured.
From the far end of the dome, soldiers entered with a cage unlike any the world had seen: rings of copper, silver, and steel forming a lattice of coils. Energy pulsed faintly between the loops, hissing arcs of static. Inside the Faraday cell sat the husk of Anubis.
The Titan's jackal skull hung low, cables like dreadlocks trailing to the floor. Its optics glowed faint violet, flickering weak but alive. Shackles of current wrapped its limbs, forcing it still.
Gasps rippled through the council. Some rose in terror. Others leaned forward in awe.
"This," Adawe said, her voice cutting across the silence, "is why we started the war. And this is why we almost lost it."
She turned, facing the husk directly.
"Anubis," she said. "The world demands an answer. Why did you start this war?"
The Titan's optics burned brighter, and though its body was bound, its voice slithered through every ear in the dome.