The Bureau of Investigation once stood atop a massive obsidian island. It called itself "the last line of defense against the void," boasting 137 redundant security protocols, 99 perpetual engines, and a motto every agent could recite:
"The void isn't scary. What's scary is loopholes in reimbursement forms."
Now the whole building—coffee machine included—had been chewed up by the void like a wad of gum, leaving only scattered files and un-canceled ID badges.
"Well, the Bureau is officially dissolved."The team's accountant announced this with eerie calm, clutching the last unprocessed lunch receipt.
No one spoke.
Until now, they'd believed the Bureau had backups: a "Plan B," an "Apocalypse Vault," even rumors of a giant karaoke machine in the basement that could resist the void. But it was all gone. Even the Director was reduced to ripples, slurped away by the void, leaving only his pants snagged on a doorknob.
"Do the pants count as inheritance?" someone asked.No one answered.
The void didn't devour with flashy explosions—it cleared things like a cold auditor, crossing out rows, deleting files, reducing the Bureau to a single System Error: 404.
The protagonist's crew became the last leftovers, camping at the ruins like vagrants outside a collapsed bank.
They weren't grieving. More like absurdly relieved.
"At least we don't have to file reports anymore."The squad captain exhaled, tossing broken weapons into the fire. The flames flickered in the endless black like a pathetic stage prop from a failed reality show.
The funniest part?With the Bureau gone, all missions, secrets, and red-stamped files were swallowed too. Which meant—So were all the responsibilities.
"So we fought for ten years, and in the end… we just got uninstalled?"The priest-like teammate flipped through his scripture, only to find the words fading to blank.
"Isn't that nice?" The accountant grinned. "Give it a few more minutes, even our debts will disappear."
Everyone stared. Turns out the ultimate black humor was this: even the banks and debt collectors got eaten by the void.
But they were still alive.And being alive meant facing the spreading nothingness. They were like forgotten board-game pieces on a shattered board—rules gone, no one left to pack them away.
So they staged their own "last game."
"We need to do something, or it's too boring." The captain suggested. "Either we fight the void again, or…"
"Or what?"
"Or we open a bar."
The void crept closer, swallowing the horizon. Yet they actually set up a makeshift bar: scorched weapons as stir sticks, emergency rations as cocktails. A sign read:
"The Last Bureau—Only Bar Still Open in the Multiverse."
Business boomed.Because the void didn't erase everything at once—it deleted in phases. Anything flagged "delayed deletion" lingered on the edge, including bizarre customers:
Half a death god, ordering a sugar-free latte.
A torso of a multiversal councilman, insisting on an invoice.
Even a crack of the void itself, shaped like a man, whispering: "One glass of nothing, please."
The crew poured drinks and laughed: they had once been the last defense of existence, now reduced to the universe's final bartenders.
It was so absurd, even the void seemed amused. It stopped rushing to consume them, lingering like an audience, watching the tiny cast perform.
At one point, the accountant raised her glass toward the darkness and toasted:"To the Bureau! At least you left us a punchline."
They clinked glasses. The drink spilled into the air, instantly swallowed, flavor and all.
And so, the last bureau became both the Bureau's curtain call and their own ridiculous encore.They discovered the meaning of survival wasn't to save the world—It was simply to mix a half-decent cocktail as the world fell apart.