The first wave of contact hit all 47,000 universes simultaneously, and what Jack discovered was both better and worse than he'd expected. The Architects hadn't just copied his trauma—they'd optimized it, A/B tested it, and implemented it with the kind of efficiency that only cosmic-level middle management could achieve.
But what they hadn't accounted for was that trauma, when industrialized, created patterns. And Jack had just gained access to every single pattern in their database.
"ATLAS, classify them," Jack said as his consciousness processed 47,000 different protagonist responses to his sudden appearance. "I'm seeing three distinct categories."
"Confirmed," ATLAS replied, its analytical systems now enhanced by cosmic computing power that made quantum processors look like abacuses. "Classification complete. Designating as Type A, Type B, and Type C."
TYPE A: THE AWAKENED (2,847 individuals)
These were the protagonists who had already figured it out. They'd gone through the trauma, accepted the enhancement, discovered their growing power, and then—unlike what the Architects had predicted—they'd started asking questions. Questions like "why does my character development feel scripted?" and "who benefits from my suffering?" and "why does my revenge arc have quarterly milestones?"
Jack's consciousness touched the first Type A subject—Universe 3,492, Protagonist: Elena Volkov, Age 29.
She was standing in the ruins of Moscow, surrounded by alien corpses, with approximately 2.3 trillion nanomachines coursing through her body. When Jack's presence manifested, she didn't panic. She just looked directly at where his consciousness was materializing and said:
"Took you long enough."
Jack's response carried frequencies of genuine surprise. "You knew someone was coming?"
"Please," Elena said, her Russian accent cutting through interdimensional space with the kind of directness that only came from someone who'd stopped giving a fuck approximately one trillion nanomachines ago. "The whole 'dead family, mysterious enhancement, conveniently timed alien invasion' thing? Too perfectly tragic to be random. I've been waiting for either the puppet master to reveal themselves or for someone else to break the fourth wall. Judging by your energy signature, you're option two."
The GalacticTok chat went absolutely wild:
SHE KNEW
ELENA IS BASED AF
"TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH" LMAOOO
TYPE A DIFFERENT
RUSSIAN PROTAGONIST ENERGY
Similar conversations were happening across 2,846 other universes. Type A protagonists who'd figured out they were in a system, even if they didn't know the full scope. They greeted Jack's appearance with varying degrees of "finally" and "I fucking knew it" and "can you please explain what the hell is going on?"
TYPE B: THE BROKEN (39,847 individuals)
This was the majority. Protagonists still trapped in the cycle the Architects had designed—experiencing trauma, accepting enhancement, pursuing revenge, losing their humanity bit by bit exactly as the spreadsheets predicted. They were on-script, on-schedule, and completely unaware that their entire existence was a corporate project.
Jack's consciousness touched Universe 15,773—Protagonist: James Park, Age 33.
James was exactly where Jack had been three weeks ago—newly enhanced, filled with rage, hunting aliens through the streets of Seoul with the kind of single-minded fury that made for excellent engagement metrics. When Jack's presence manifested, James immediately went into combat mode.
"Another alien?" James snarled, his nanomachine count spiking to combat levels. "Good. I'm not done killing yet."
"James, wait—" Jack began.
"My family is dead because of you things!" James's voice carried the kind of raw pain that Jack recognized intimately. "My wife, my son—they burned alive while I watched! So no, I'm not waiting. I'm not listening. I'm killing every last one of you!"
The attack came fast—James had absorbed some kind of energy projection ability and was wielding it with the desperate efficiency of someone who had nothing left to lose.
Jack didn't fight back. He just let his nanomachines absorb the blast and said, quietly:
"They did it to me too. My wife Emma. My daughter Sophia. She was seven."
James froze mid-attack.
"The aliens didn't kill them to be cruel," Jack continued, his voice carrying frequencies of terrible understanding. "They killed them because a corporation calculated that family trauma would optimize your character development. This whole invasion? It's a business model. And we're the product."
The silence that followed was the kind that existed right before someone's entire worldview shattered.
Across 39,846 other universes, similar conversations were happening. Type B protagonists learning that their pain had been scheduled in a quarterly review. That their revenge arc had been focus-grouped. That their entire journey had been... content.
The GalacticTok chat was experiencing collective emotional damage:
JAMES NOOOO
WATCHING THEM LEARN THE TRUTH IS BRUTAL
"THEY DID IT TO ME TOO" IM CRYING
39000 PEOPLE LEARNING THEIR TRAUMA WAS SCHEDULED
THIS IS ACTUALLY HEARTBREAKING
TYPE C: THE LOST (4,306 individuals)
These were the ones that made Jack's humanity index spike back into existence briefly before crashing to zero again. Type C protagonists who hadn't just accepted the Architects' script—they'd internalized it. They believed the suffering was necessary. They thought their trauma made them special. They'd become such perfect products that they couldn't conceive of any other existence.
Jack's consciousness touched Universe 41,203—Protagonist: David Zhang, Age 31.
David was systematically processing civilians through some kind of enhancement facility, forcibly integrating them with nanomachines while spouting rhetoric about "evolution" and "necessary sacrifice." His nanomachine count was nearly 4 trillion, but they'd been configured to prioritize control over liberation.
When Jack's presence manifested, David turned with the kind of calm certainty that only true believers possessed.
"You're here to stop me," David said. It wasn't a question.
"I'm here to tell you the truth," Jack replied. "This system you believe in—the one that tells you suffering creates strength, that trauma is necessary for growth, that you're special because you survived—it was designed by middle managers to maximize quarterly profits."
David smiled. The smile was wrong in ways that transcended normal wrongness.
"I know," David said simply. "The Architects contacted me six months ago. They explained everything. And I said yes anyway."
Jack's nanomachines recoiled in something that might have been horror if he still fully experienced that emotion.
"They told me I could join them," David continued, his voice carrying the fervent energy of someone who'd found purpose in the worst possible place. "That the best protagonists get promoted to management. That I could help design the next generation of character development protocols. Why would I refuse? My suffering had meaning. It had value. It was profitable. That's more than most people can say."
The GalacticTok chat had gone from hype to legitimate concern:
WHAT THE FUCK
HE KNEW AND SAID YES
STOCKHOLM SYNDROME BUT COSMIC
SOME OF THEM WANT TO BE PRODUCTS
THIS IS ACTUALLY HORRIFYING
Across 4,305 other universes, Jack was encountering similar situations. Type C protagonists who'd been offered a place in the system and accepted. Who'd become recruiters, enforcers, or simply willing participants in their own exploitation because at least it gave their trauma purpose.
"ATLAS," Jack said, his consciousness processing all 47,000 situations simultaneously while maintaining individual attention to each one, "update the mission parameters. Type A needs coordination. Type B needs truth. Type C needs..."
He paused, searching for the right word.
"Deprogramming," ATLAS supplied. "The technical term is deprogramming. The realistic term is 'this is going to be complicated.'"
Jack's response carried harmonics that somehow managed to sound tired despite existing across multiple dimensions: "Yeah. That's what I figured."
The liberation speedrun had just gotten a lot more complex.