The Moon was not silent. At least, not there. On the eternally hidden hemisphere, where no human pupil had ever rested for more than moments stolen by probes and satellites. The grey surface moved. Not like living earth, but like a patient mechanism: regolith plates slid millimeters per hour, fake craters reconfigured themselves, and artificial shadows were projected with mathematical precision. The infrastructure was not fixed. It migrated.
Entire buildings — if the term still applied —displaced themselves slowly, following the orbital dance, ensuring that no reflection, thermal emission, or electromagnetic signature betrayed their presence. When necessary, matter itself seemed to fold, absorbing light, bending waves, and dissolving contours. To human eyes, the far side remained what it had always been: dead, sterile, irrelevant. And that was exactly how the Purifiers desired it.
Beneath layers of unknown alloys and cognitive camouflage —technology capable of being ignored even when recorded— lay the Convergence Room. A vast, circular space suspended over a void where artificial stars pulsed in patterns no known constellation would recognize. There, seats were arranged in a semicircle. None were equal to another.
Each seat was a declaration of origin. There were thrones of living crystal that breathed slowly; organic structures that molded themselves to the occupant; angular metallic chairs covered in geometric inscriptions; and liquid surfaces held cohesive by containment fields. This diversity was not aesthetic—it was functional, almost ritualistic. Each race sat as it existed.
They had been observing Earth for thirty years. Thirty complete rotations around a species that insisted on calling itself rational.
The first to break the silence was Ameron. His form was encased in a metallic shell of overlapping plates with no visible joints. Where a face should have been, there was only a smooth relief marked by thin grooves that rearranged themselves as he spoke. His voice did not vibrate the air; it emerged directly in the sensory receptors of the others, cold and precise.
"Year 30 of observation, counted in human units, equivalent to the year 2196 in their 'Gregorian Calendar'. Category Report: Resources."
A hologram emerged in the center of the room: the blue planet, now stained with ochre and grey tones.
"Potable water is no longer available in natura," continued Ameron. "None. Every drop consumed by humans requires filtering, chemical treatment, or desalination. Even then, safety is only relative. Micro-contaminants persist: metals, synthetic residues, organisms adapted to toxicity."
The hologram zoomed into rivers that no longer flowed, exhausted aquifers, and oceans saturated with artificial particles. "Water has ceased to be a resource," he concluded. "It became an intermediate product. A systemic failure. They managed to literaly destroy their primary source of subsistence."
There was a brief silence. Not of surprise, but of confirmation. Then, Kelarome leaned forward. His form was tall and segmented, resembling a humanoid silhouette broken into impossible angles. Constantly mutating symbols ran across his surface, recording conflicts in real-time. He was the Observer of Geopolitics.
"Category: Internal Conflicts," he announced. "The humans no longer even remember why they fight." Five new holograms lit up, orbiting the Earth like luminous scars. "Only five functional political entities remain," said Kelarome. "The United States Empire. The Great Chinese Dominion. The European Coalition. The Union of African Countries. And the never-officialized Empire of Brazil..."
The image of the South American territory flickered, fragmented. "...which survives in a nearly terminal state, most of it in ruins and technological landfills. The rest of the globe is uninhabitable or irrelevant. Dead zones, collapsed ecosystems, wandering populations."
The symbols on his body accelerated. "Diplomacy is performative. War is automatic. They fight out of memory, fear, or inherited impulse. Not for a cause or a future. I no longer identify any vectors of political salvation."
Finally, a different presence manifested. Welabe had no fixed form. He was perceived more as a field than a body —a soft distortion in space around his chair, which was adorned with translucent fibers pulsing in warm tones. He was the Observer of Cognition.
"Category: Mental and Emotional States," he said, with a voice that seemed to carry ancient echoes. The Earth reappeared, now covered by neural maps, chemical flows, and behavioral patterns. "What remains in the minds of these carbon-based beings is instinct," he stated. "Raw survival. Reaction. Defense. That which they called love, empathy, altruism..." A pause. "...was nothing more than a set of chemical stimuli useful for the perpetuation of the species."
"At the beginning of the observation, these mechanisms still produced cooperation. Today, they produce only selective attachment and fear of the 'other'." Welabe contracted slightly. "They are not just moving away from perfection," he concluded. "They are returning to the most primitive state possible, carrying near-intermediate level technology that they still do not emotionally understand. They use it mostly for destructive purposes."
The artificial stars beneath the room dimmed. Somewhere on the Moon, the infrastructure adjusted its position, ensuring another eternal night far from human eyes. And then, for the first time in that convergence, someone dared to formulate the question that no report contained:
"If they have supposedly failed... what is our role now?"
The entity that spoke last finally revealed itself completely. Manovinitas did not occupy space —he folded it. His presence made the lines of the room seem slightly misaligned. His seat was a suspended ring, rotating slowly around itself, covered in inscriptions that never repeated. There was no face, nor an evident center. Only intention.
"If the natural vector points toward collapse," he said, "we have two coherent options." The holograms went out. Only Earth remained, spinning slowly, fragile as an ancient error.
"The first," continued Manovinitas, "is acceleration. Remove residual resistance. Anticipate the end. Close the experiment before it becomes irrelevant even as a historical warning."
"The second option," he proceeded, "is direct intervention. Not to save the civilization as it understands itself... but to preserve what can still be polished. A final test of merit." He made a deliberate pause. "The planet is a total failure. But perhaps... its inhabitants can still be useful."
Then, the room changed tone. A laughter echoed —loud, exaggerated, almost theatrical. Lubip practically leaped in his seat. His form resembled a living caricature: over-elastic limbs, large luminous eyes, and vibrant colors that defied any known biological pattern.
"USEFUL!" he exclaimed. "I love it when they can still be useful!"
Lubip spun in the air, projecting frenetic images. "While observing the humans, I discovered something fascinating. They transform despair into entertainment. They spend hours watching each other... survive the end of the world in various ways in a simulated virtual environment."
A new hologram appeared: a crude interface, saturated colors, flashing statistics. "A livestreaming platform called Playah," he explained. "And a game... Survivors Apocalypse."
"The concept is delightful!" continued Lubip. "A total collapse. Eighty percent of the population becomes irrational —beasts guided only by impulse. The remaining receive..." he made a dramatic gesture, "...a single survival item." The hologram showed human figures holding simple objects: a blade, a filter, a precarious power device. "And then... we watch," Lubip concluded, opening his arms. "How long they can last."
"You propose transforming a sentient planet into a ludic experiment that will require a tremendous expenditure of energy and matter..." Welabe reacted.
"Into a game," Lubip corrected, smiling even wider. "Games reveal truths that reports never reach. Perhaps what you observe as mere failure is just the way the system rigidly molds everyone and everything. It is clear that currently all positions of power and sources of wealth are inherited, just like in the infamous 'Middle Ages' of these fun primates. But what if this system were broken and reorganized randomly?!"
Ameron analyzed the projected data. "The model would allow for the assessment of individual resilience without the collective distortions of the system they created themselves." Kelarome noted, "And it would shake failed political structures without explicit direct intervention. A shift in individual potentialities..."
Manovinitas spoke: "A final test. Not of civilization... but of individuals."
Lubip leaned in, almost reverent. "And I can take responsibility for everything," he said. "System architecture. Rules. Distribution. Limits. Interface. Nothing will escape the design. It sounds like so much fuuuuun! HAHAHAHAHAHHA"
The Purifiers exchanged subtle signals. Consensus was formed without words.
Despite his flamboyant nature and an appearance that hardly inspired trust, everyone present understood that Lubip belonged to an exotic race that worshipped Probability as a goddess. When it came to the laws of chance, he approached his work with absolute gravity.
"Very well," declared Manovinitas. "The game shall begin." He made one last caveat: "But under one condition. You will be the absolute architect of this system. And you will answer for every variable, every failure... and every result."
Lubip smiled even wider. "Perfect."
The decision was sealed, but the board would not be set in the blink of an eye. As the absolute architect, Lubip knew that transforming a planet into a game system required a precision that bordered on the divine. He would not deliver disorganized chaos; he would deliver a masterpiece of social and physical engineering.
The blue planet continued to spin, ignorant that its sentence had been passed, but that the executioner was still sharpening the blades of logic and chance.