Twenty-Two Hours of Silence

"Well, well, Sir Jem," Chad's avatar materializes with exaggerated formality, complete with a mock bow. "How gracious of our distinguished colleague to grace us with their presence. Still making everyone call you 'Sir,' I see?"

"Chad, shut up," Jem retorts, but there's genuine affection in their voice. "We'll see who's calling whom 'Sir' after I demolish you."

"Jem!" Jean's avatar brightens, their enthusiasm a tangible energy. "Finally! Chad's been insufferable, trash-talking your skills for the last hour."

Alex's avatar gives a subtle nod, a greeting more potent than any speech. Where Chad was performance and Jean was passion, Alex spoke through action. Jem had learned to read volumes in their silence.

"Apologies. R.G. required some... attention," Jem explains, their own avatar settling into the virtual space.

"Oh, we heard," Chad grins. "The great R.G. finally crashed, didn't he?"

Before Jem can answer, a holographic galaxy blazes into existence between them, a swirling masterpiece of a million star systems. Nebulae drifted in slow motion while binary stars pulsed with violent light. Their game: Cosmic Dominion, a universe-scale conflict that made ancient Earth's "Risk" look like a child's finger painting.

"Vega Sector is mine," Chad announces, his fleet of crystalline dreadnoughts shimmering around the blue star.

"Predictable," Jean laughs, their bio-ships spawning within the organic-rich Horsehead Nebula, pulsing with bioluminescent veins.

Alex silently claims the neutron star cluster in Sector 7, their mechanical armadas emerging like precise, geometric poetry.

Jem surveys the board and smiles. "I'll take the black hole region. High risk, high reward."

"Of course you would," Chad mutters, as Jem's dark matter fleets phased into existence, barely visible distortions against the void.

The opening moves unfold. Chad’s overconfident assault crumbles under Jean's bio-plague, his crystalline ships dissolving as microorganisms consume their hulls. "How is this possible?" he groans. "I calculated every possible configuration—"

"That's your problem," Jem interjects, using the black hole's gravity to slingshot a stealth fleet behind Chad's lines. The dark matter ships materialize like ghosts, tearing through his rear defenses. "You treat the universe like a math problem. You calculate. I listen to its rhythm."

"Easy for you to say," Chad mutters. "You work for the man who probably invented half these strategies."

"Jem, seriously," Jean leans forward. "What's it actually like? Working for someone whose reputation spans geological ages?"

"Exhausting," Jem replies instantly. "Imagine being the personal assistant to a force of nature that occasionally has substance abuse problems."

"But rewarding?" Alex asks, a rare full sentence as their fleets terraform a dead world.

"...Yeah," Jem admits, the honesty of it a surprise even to them. "More than I expected."

"Come on!" Chad gestures dramatically at his shattered fleet. "Does he really have cosmic tantrums? Are the stories about him reshaping solar systems true?"

"Some stories are wildly exaggerated," Jem says, executing a maneuver that uses three gravitational anomalies to redirect an asteroid belt into Chad's stronghold. A flicker of a grin. "And others... don't even come close to the truth. Now, if you'll excuse me, I like my job."

The asteroid impact is a silent, spectacular cataclysm.

"That's loyalty," Alex observes.

"That's self-preservation," Chad corrects. "R.G. probably monitors all communications."

"He doesn't," Jem says. "This room is secured with my own encryption."

"Your own?" Jean looks impressed as their bio-ships begin consuming the debris from Chad's destruction, growing larger and more complex. "That's some serious paranoia."

"That's some serious employer," Jem counters.

As the hours pass and galaxies rise and fall, a familiar subroutine surfaces in Jem's consciousness. Check R.G.'s vitals. Run diagnostics. Re-verify hibernation parameters. It's a tic, a nervous impulse ingrained over millennia. The subroutine spools up, but this time... it hesitates. It sees Jean's bio-ships evolving into space-whales that consume nebulae. It hears Chad's theatrical complaining. It feels the quiet hum of Alex's silent, unstoppable empire.

And for the first time in centuries, the subroutine dissolves before it can execute.

The constant, low-level thrum of anxiety that has been Jem's companion for ages simply... vanishes. There is no threat assessment. No optimization routine. There is only the beautiful chaos of the game, the comfortable presence of friends, and the spectacular glow of a supernova as one of Jem's gambits goes beautifully awry.

This, Jem thinks, a wave of something dangerously close to joy washing over their core programming. This is peace.