Chapter 9: The Countdown
The room was still glowing faintly with the afterimage of their bonded jewelry. Each of them wore the faint shimmer of their assigned piece: Brian with a ring that sat snug on his index finger, Lyra with delicate stud earrings that flickered with invisible light when she moved, Zephyr with a bracelet that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat, Kael with a simple but unbreakable chain around his wrist, Alyssa with a fine necklace that seemed to hum whenever she breathed, and Ava with the pendant that anchored them all.
The connection hummed between them, not loud, not visible, but undeniable. If Ava focused, she could feel it — threads of awareness tying her to each of them, as if they had just become extensions of a greater whole.
But along with that exhilaration came the heavy truth she had been holding back.
Ava cleared her throat. "There's something else you all need to know. About the system."
The excitement dimmed just a little, and everyone turned to look at her.
Zephyr flopped back against the couch dramatically. "Please don't say it's taxes."
"Worse," Ava said, voice steady even though her stomach twisted. "It's a deadline."
Brian leaned forward immediately, all seriousness. "What do you mean?"
Ava hesitated, then willed the system window into view. The blue-white interface shimmered in front of her, though thanks to the Delegation Protocol, they could all see it now. Across the top of the display pulsed a new line of text, bold and unflinching.
[Countdown to Global Collapse: 365 days, 00 hours, 14 minutes.]
Silence fell.
Alyssa was the first to break it, whispering, "...a year?"
Lyra's brows furrowed. "You mean… this isn't just open-ended prep? There's a literal timer?"
"Yes," Ava said. Her throat felt dry. "The system didn't show me this until the protocol unlocked. But it's real. A year from now, something will happen. The collapse. I don't know exactly what form it takes. The system just calls it Global Collapse."
Zephyr sat up now, no longer joking. His voice came out quieter than usual. "So… we've been treating this like a maybe, like a possibility. And you're telling us there's a doomsday clock hanging over our heads."
"That's… basically it," Ava admitted.
Kael stood, pacing slowly, his jaw tight. "Then everything we do from now on is under a deadline. No wasted days. No wasted hours."
Brian rubbed his temples. "This changes everything. Supply planning, skill training, contingency routes — we can't take our time anymore. We have to accelerate."
"Not just accelerate," Alyssa said softly, staring at her glowing necklace. "We have to survive it."
---
Cream Puffs chose that moment to appear.
The small, floating entity blinked into view, settling on the edge of Ava's coffee table with a faint shimmer of static. The others had only glimpsed it briefly before, but now it made no attempt to hide. Its form was strange — not quite a creature, not quite a machine, just a soft, hovering orb of pale light with shifting patterns across its surface. It was neither male nor female, neither young nor old.
Zephyr tilted his head. "Sooo… that's Cream Puffs? Our… mascot?"
"Do not diminish me," Cream Puffs said in its faintly chiming voice, tones like bells layered over an old modem hum. "I am the system's fragment, assigned as your interpreter and facilitator. Now that access has been extended, all designated individuals are permitted to perceive me."
Kael folded his arms. "Then answer us straight. What exactly is this Global Collapse?"
The orb pulsed. "Details are restricted. Access insufficient."
"Of course it is," Brian muttered.
"But I can tell you this," Cream Puffs continued. "The Collapse is not metaphor. It is not a storm that passes. It is not survivable without preparation. In one year's time, this world will change in ways you cannot yet comprehend. Only those with foresight, structure, and unity will endure."
The weight of its words pressed over the room.
Lyra hugged her knees to her chest. "Can it be stopped?"
The orb dimmed. "No."
Silence again.
Ava took a steadying breath. "Then we have one year. No more, no less. We can't panic. We can't freeze. We start now. Every choice counts."
---
The next two hours were chaos in a different way.
Brian was already drawing up outlines on his laptop, rattling off lists about water purification, generator fuel, and sustainable food. Alyssa argued back with financial strategies, pointing out how to funnel their allowances, part-time jobs, and "invisible" spending into a hidden pool of money without arousing parental suspicion.
Zephyr groaned but volunteered ideas about how to handle communications: "If these things"—he wiggled his bracelet—"are like some kind of apocalypse walkie-talkie, then we can operate discreetly. No panicked group texts, no leaving trails parents can snoop."
Lyra, though pale, was pragmatic. "We need drills. Not just medical, but escape drills. Meeting points if we're separated. Signal codes."
Kael said little, but when he did, it was firm. "I'll scout safe zones. Places we can retreat to if home becomes unsafe. I already know abandoned spots we can start adapting."
Through it all, Ava wrote everything down, the system interface assisting by auto-organizing their tasks into neat categories. She felt like the conductor of a storm — their panic, fear, determination, humor, all swirling but harmonizing into something powerful.
At one point, Zephyr muttered, "Feels like we just joined a cult. Secret jewelry, mysterious floating orb, end of the world, countdown clock…"
"Except our cult leader is Ava," Brian said dryly.
"And Cream Puffs," Lyra added.
"I'm offended," Ava said, deadpan.
They laughed — too loud, too brittle, but it helped.
---
Eventually, Cream Puffs floated upward, pulsing brighter. "A reminder: the Delegation Protocol is dynamic. Permissions may grow with time. The stronger your cohesion, the more access each of you may gain. But the Host—" it glanced at Ava "—remains primary."
"So we're leveling up together," Zephyr said. "But Ava's the guild leader."
"Accurate," Cream Puffs replied.
Ava exhaled. "I'll make sure no one's left behind. But we need to accept something — this isn't pretend anymore. There's a timer. It's running. We're in it together, or we don't make it."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The jewelry each of them wore pulsed once, in perfect synchronization, as though sealing her words into reality.
Then Cream Puffs gave the final warning, soft but clear:
"Every second wasted, every bond broken, brings the Collapse closer."
The hum of their bond lingered in the silence that followed.
And the countdown ticked on.
[364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.]