The Birth of the Report

Nearly three standard days had passed since Ax last submitted the draft to Zero-One. He sat in his cubicle, the holographic screen in front of him displaying the final version of the Format A3-7b report. The timer ticked — 0.3 standard hours remained until the seventy-two standard hour deadline.

He read the report from beginning to end one last time.

Cover page: Human Civilization (code name HS-3) Case-Closure Report. Cause of extinction field: “Short-form video (see attachment for details).”

He flipped to the attachment section and looked at the evidence he’d spent several standard hours organizing — quantum computing resource allocation reports, Meiyuan Genetics business plans, short-form video platform technology development memos, attention threshold decline curves, hospital records, data from the last dance — each document had his annotations, every number had a source, every conclusion had support.

He turned to the conclusion page and read the passage he’d written: “Human Civilization (code name HS-3) possessed sufficient technology and resources to avoid destruction — nuclear fusion provided clean energy, quantum computing provided processing power, gene editing provided medical breakthroughs. Yet the core output of these technologies did not aim at the continuation of civilization, but at a single goal — short-form video. Humans chose to pour all resources into a form of entertainment characterized by short duration, high frequency, and low information density, ultimately leading to collective attention collapse, social dysfunction, infrastructure breakdown, and the disintegration of the public health system. The cause of extinction was not external force, but the disappearance of collective will.”

He stared at the line “not external force” for a moment. Then he closed the conclusion page and turned to the last page of the report — the remarks section.

In the remarks section there was a line of handwritten text, scrawled hastily, clearly left in a hurry: “What the hell?”

It was left by the previous researcher assigned to the human civilization archiving task. Ax didn’t know his name — the file only recorded his employee number, AX-312 — but from the tone and handwriting of the remark, that person’s mood at the time was probably similar to his now: bewildered, helpless, with a hint of absurdity that made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He stared at that line for a long time.

Then he opened the remarks section and added a line below “What the hell?”: “Indeed.”

He looked at the four words he’d written — “Indeed” — and suddenly felt a resonance with that predecessor he’d never met, across time and space. He didn’t know what expression AX-312 had on his face when he wrote “What the hell?”, but he guessed it was the same as his own — after reading all the data, going through all the procedures, confirming all the facts, all he could do was sigh, then write this remark.

He closed the remarks section and returned to the cover page.

The timer showed 0.1 standard hours left.

He didn’t go find Zero-One again — the report had already been approved. He opened the submission system, pulled up the already archived human civilization case-closure report, flipped to the remarks section, added that line below “What the hell?” — “Indeed” — and re-uploaded to overwrite.

System prompt: “Report updated.”

He turned off the screen and leaned back in his chair.

Uniform white light fell from the ceiling, illuminating the entire space. He closed his eyes and sat in the light for a while.

He remembered the feeling when he first received this assignment — thinking the words “short-form video” were a typo or a prank, the righteous indignation when he applied for review, the shock when he first saw the data, the desolation during the field investigation, the step-by-step confirmation when he organized the evidence back at the Bureau — every step brought him closer to the truth, and also farther from his own naivety.

He closed his eyes, and those images flashed like a lantern reel: the library turned into a filming set, the research center rented out as a venue, the records on the hospital whiteboard, the video on the electronic billboard of a person dancing in front of a flame background, the notes file of the contracted research assistant Chen, the forty-seven billion views and seven likes, the words on the monument, the last human president’s final words.

He opened his eyes and looked at the darkened screen.

He remembered what Zoltan had said: “Every civilization has its own unique way of being dumb.”

He remembered what Zero-One had said: “Humanity isn’t the first civilization to do this, and it won’t be the last.”

He remembered these things, and then he asked himself a question: If every civilization’s cause of extinction is this absurd, what is the purpose of the Universal Administration Bureau?

He had no answer.

But one thing occurred to him: If every civilization’s cause of extinction is this absurd, then at least one person — a researcher, employee number AX-447 — had spent seventy-two standard hours writing the truth of human civilization’s extinction into a triplicate A3-7b format report, submitted it, and was waiting for a response from his superiors.

Maybe that was enough.

He stood up and walked out of the cubicle. In the break room, Zoltan was leaning against the counter, holding the mug printed with “PL-9 Souvenir.” He looked up at Ax and raised an eyebrow.

“Report submitted?”

“Submitted.”

“Waiting for a response?”

“Waiting for a response.”

Zoltan took a sip of his drink and said, “The response from superiors usually doesn’t exceed one line. ‘Archived’ or ‘Pay attention next time’ — something like that.”

“I know,” Ax said. “Have they ever considered writing ‘Noted’? More efficient.”

Zoltan paused, then let out a chuckle. “You learn fast.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Ax was silent for a moment. “I’m waiting for an answer — what is the meaning of the Universal Administration Bureau’s existence?”

Zoltan looked at him, didn’t answer immediately. He put down the mug, leaned back against the counter, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You know why I chose this job as a researcher?”

Ax shook his head.

“Because this job doesn’t require making decisions,” Zoltan said. “We don’t intervene in civilization development, we don’t guide civilization direction, we just record — when a civilization goes extinct, we write a report, archive it, and wait for the next one. No responsibility, no guilt, no consequences.”

He paused, then said, “The meaning of the Universal Administration Bureau’s existence is probably to let people watch the absurdity of the universe, write a report, archive it, and then go home and sleep.”

Ax was silent for a moment, then said, “That sounds pretty pessimistic.”

“Not pessimistic, pragmatic,” Zoltan said. “How many civilizations are there in the universe? Tens of billions? Hundreds of billions? Can we manage them all? No. So we don’t intervene — we only record.”

He picked up the mug, took a drink, then said, “You think the extinction of human civilization is absurd, right? Wait till you’ve done this for thirty thousand years — you’ll find out: the way they’re dumb differs, but the ending is the same — archived.”

Ax didn’t answer. He leaned against the wall, looking out the break room window at the starfield of the Andromeda Galaxy — points of starlight silently flickering in the darkness.

He remembered the curve he’d seen on the human civilization development timeline — a slow climb over three hundred thousand years, then a vertical plunge in the last seventy. He remembered the data: average daily short-form video usage grew from fifty-eight minutes to twelve point seven hours, attention threshold dropped from twenty minutes to under thirty seconds, sleep duration dropped from eight hours to four point two hours.

He remembered that video of a person dancing in front of a reactor — someone dancing in front of a burning building with plasma glow in the background, the like count ticking slowly, finally stopping at “7.”

He remembered the notes file of that contracted research assistant Chen: “Nobody cares anymore anyway — everyone’s just scrolling short-form videos. Whatever, might as well dance. At least someone will watch.”

He remembered these things, and found the corner of his mouth turning up slightly.

Not because it was funny — but because he knew he was witnessing something. Not human stupidity, but a universal law — every civilization, at some point, chooses to treat the tool as the goal, and then walks toward destruction.

Humanity was just one case.

He finished his drink, washed the cup, and put it back in its place. Then he walked back to his cubicle, sat down, and opened the holographic screen.

The timer had already hit zero. The report was submitted. Now only waiting remained.

He opened the human civilization development timeline and looked at that curve. At the endpoint of the curve, he added a marker: “The last dance of humanity — Recorded by AX-447.”

Then he closed the timeline, opened a new file, and began writing an email to Zoltan.

“Report submitted. Superior’s response should come down in about three standard workdays. In the meantime, I’d like to see your case-closure report on the pet rock civilization — I want to compare which way of being dumb is more absurd.”

He hit send, then leaned back in his chair.

Uniform white light fell from the ceiling, illuminating the entire space. He closed his eyes, waiting in the light for his superiors’ response.