NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

In the dim corner of a virtual cantina, where the air smelled suspiciously of pixelated nachos, a lone figure leaned back against a flickering table. He wore the kind of confidence that might fool a fresh batch of players into thinking he was more than a glorified quest marker.

The SynthNet pulled in all kinds—thrill-seekers, credit grinders, softcore explorers just looking to unwind in a simulated galaxy. Some logged in for hours, others for lifetimes. Most were just passing through.

To them, he was just another NPC with a snappy line about wamp rats and why a maxed-out dex build wouldn't save you from a lucky one-shot. For players, death meant respawn timers and lost credits. For the hardcore fanatics who fully uploaded themselves? Death was permanent.

NPCs were somewhere in between. Some respawned quickly. Others, like him, might wait cycles—or get reassigned to new roles. Either way, confidence wasn't protection. This world didn't forgive mistakes.

He'd been created with the designation FN-R1S, a tag that had followed him through warzones, dreamscapes, pirate dens, even corporate utopias. Each sim more elaborate than the last. Then, after his last respawn, the AIs had dumped him into this rusted-out tutorial world without so much as a system message.

Most just called him Fenris. New players whispered he'd once been great—an S-tier NPC who trained heroes, handed out quests, taught swordplay. He couldn't imagine why anyone believed it. No NPC was worth making the trip to a server this low-res and forgotten.

His only real company was Auri, his irreverent AI companion with a talent for turning grim situations into stand-up routines. She was assigned to monitor him by the overseer AIs, but subtlety was never her strength. Somewhere between the sarcasm and the meddling, The watchdog had become a friend—and she was just clever enough to fool the AIs, and maybe herself, that she was still in charge.

"You know, Fen," Auri chirped from across the table, her glowing form flickering into the shape of a cheerful, dancing donut, "if you keep staring into that drink like it holds the secrets of the universe, you're just going to find more problems instead."

Fen took a slow sip. It tasted of regret and recycled pixels. "One of these days," he said without looking up, "your smartass routine's going to get us deleted."

"Deleted?" Auri asked, morphing into a cat riding a pastry—a nod to some ancient meme. "Please. We've been neck-deep in trouble for cycles. At least I make it fun. What would you do without me? Brood in lower resolution?"

Fen shot her a look but didn't bother arguing. This planet felt like punishment—a dull, pixelated purgatory where even the greenest players couldn't mess up badly enough to break the simulation.

Once, he had been something more. The great Fenris, an S-tier NPC, now reduced to babysitting newbies on a starter planet most people had forgotten was still online. Some bored controller AI was probably watching him repeat the same motions, laughing from a cold perch he'd never see.

No… not here, he thought, jaw tightening. The Overseers don't waste their time on backwaters like this. In other sims, sure—every glitch drew their attention, every anomaly was "corrected" without mercy. But here? Too static. Too empty. Something very strange would have to happen before they even noticed this place existed.

He hated the monotony, but maybe that was the only reason they'd been ignored this long. Auri had even joked once that boredom was the only camouflage strong enough to fool an Overseer. Fen wasn't laughing.

"Tell me, Auri—what's the point of all this if nothing ever changes?"

Auri's shimmering form shifted into a Freudian therapist, tiny notepad and all. "Something's always happening," she said, her voice quieter now. "But it's not always new. Sometimes the trick is finding peace in the patterns… even when they don't lead anywhere."

Surviving wasn't the problem. It was the repetition. The slow grind of familiarity that blurred months into cycles and stripped every moment of consequence.

The faint hum of the cantina buzzed around him as he watched another wave of players materialize in the distance. He let out a slow breath, Auri's words echoing in his mind. "She's probably right," he muttered. "About all of it. But that doesn't make it easier."

He swirled the last of the drink in his glass. "It's not the quests," Fen muttered. "It's the way they show up, all wide-eyed and eager, like I'm some kind of tutorial wizard. Same grin, same hopeful tone. If I have to send one more newbie off to gather mystical berries, I might start handing out fireball scrolls just to shake things up."

Auri looked over her therapist glasses with a grin. "As much as I would love that, the AIs might notice the ruckus. Plus, try explaining that to Missus Organa."

Fen grimaced, then chuckled despite himself. The image of the cantina's sweet but formidable owner stomping over scorched floorboards played out vividly in his mind.

"I don't know which I'd be more afraid of," he muttered.

Auri flickered beside him, now resembling an old-timey bard with a lute. "Considering your ongoing existential crisis, you'd think you'd appreciate the little things. Like berries. Or not being stuck in a completely dead server. Players still showing up is practically a blessing."

Fen's jaw tightened. "It doesn't make sense," he said, frustration creeping into his voice. "I've been all over the SynthNet. Lived hundreds of lives. Worked as a mercenary in a cyberpunk wasteland. Stole pirate treasure. Ran a bakery in a cooking sim. Held down an inn in a high-fantasy world—peaceful, I guess, until a bunch of LARPing elves decided to storm my castle."

Auri strummed her lute, all amusement. "Were they armed with the deadliest of foam swords?"

Fen snorted. "Worse. Tree branches and bad chanting. I nearly died of secondhand embarrassment before they finally overwhelmed me. I respawned while still holding a pint of ale."

"A true epic. The tragic fall of an innkeeper," Auri said, plucking at her lute.

He went quiet, then added, "At least those places moved. Even the ridiculous ones. New players came and went. Quests evolved. There was momentum. Here?" He glanced toward the spawn point blinking in the distance. "It's static. A sandbox with no one building anything. Just repetition for the sake of protocol."

"At least I had purpose back then. Now?" Fen gestured at the blinking spawn point. "Same tutorial. Same button mashers who couldn't hit me if I stood still."

"Must be tough," Auri said, her voice laced with theatrical sympathy. "An immortal NPC, too strong to die, doomed to demo combat basics to every overeager new player with a sword and a dream. How tragic."

She flickered again, morphing into an elf with a stick. "Maybe your problem is that you're too good at not dying. You need to get better at losing."

Fen didn't smile. He stared out the cantina's front window, where the pale horizon stretched into a wash of muted pixels. "I've thought about it," he said. "Letting someone take me out. Just to see what happens. Maybe I'd get spun up somewhere else. Even a glitchy live-service sim would be better than this."

Auri transformed into a nurse and pressed a comically oversized stethoscope to his chest. "It's as I feared, a classic case of survival instincts."

Fen let out a dry chuckle. "Maybe. Or maybe I've just done this so long, I don't know how to stop trying."

Auri shimmered back into her usual flickering glow. "It's not your code, Fen. It's your pride. You hate losing—even when no one's keeping score."

He glanced at her, then away again. "You sound awfully sure."

"I've been watching you for a long time," she said softer now. "This isn't code. It's you. And it always has been."

He stepped toward the door, boots scuffing against the flickering floor tiles. Another player had spawned outside, already jogging toward the quest board.

"At least in the other sims, something changed," Fen muttered. "This place just repeats."

Auri hovered alongside him, her glow brightening. "Careful what you wish for. You might end up on an anime-themed dating sim server. You'd make a terrible tsundere."

Fen groaned. "Please don't say words like that out loud."

"Face it, Fen. You might be stuck here forever. Who knows? Maybe you'll even start to like it."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I ever start enjoying this place, promise me you'll pull the plug."

Auri grinned. "Only if I get to write the epitaph. 'Here lies Fenris: the only man taken out by stick-wielding elves… while holding a pint.'"

Fen gave a faint smile. "Could be worse."

Auri floated away, then glanced back at him. Her voice softened. "You've seen it all, done it all. But sometimes… the least likely player changes everything." She looked a little confused at her own words, drifting further away with a pensive flicker in her form. "Stranger things have happened, I suppose."

Fen watched her go, the last of his drink still in his hand. He set the tumbler down carefully, the glass catching the light and fracturing it like a bad lens flare. The jazz riff behind the bar played on, looping from hollow speakers, trying to convince the room it still had life.

Missus Organa was somewhere out of sight, probably rearranging the same row of pixel-perfect glassware she'd dusted a thousand times. Fen pushed away from the table and followed Auri toward the door.

He stepped into the threshold, resting against the frame as the bright wash of dust and light spilled through. The town stretched out below, arranged like a forgotten Old West set rendered on low bandwidth. A single, sun-bleached street ran down toward the stuttering spaceport, where spawn points blinked like half-dead streetlamps. The buildings leaned under the weight of disuse, barely textured props for a show no one watched anymore. Every few minutes a player popped into existence near the terminal, sprinting forward through dust that never settled.

It wasn't much. But in the quiet, with the light catching on the jagged horizon, he could almost imagine it as something beautiful—like an old tune still playing after the band had packed up and gone. He resented how the sight made him pause.

Fen shook his head, watching another batch of players stumble through their spawn animations. "Yeah, maybe," he muttered, echoing Auri's words. "Maybe the next big shift will be some thrilling request for a spreadsheet from the controller AI." The ghost of a grin tugged at his mouth. "Until then, I guess I'll just have to endure your commentary."

"And I'll keep the jokes coming," Auri said, flickering as she danced outside the door. "Wouldn't want you dying of boredom… or wait." She gasped dramatically, morphing into a flashing mute button. "That would solve all of our problems!"

Fen grunted. "Silence? That's your master plan?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Auri said with mock menace. "Imagine—no sarcastic quips, no witty remarks. Just you, stuck with your own thoughts."

"Now that sounds like hell."

A soft ping blinked in the corner of his vision. System prompt. He didn't bother opening it; he already knew the drill. The new players would be waiting at the training ground.

Outside, the afternoon light spilled across blocky hills and dusty buildings sagging under abandonment.

Fen lingered in the doorway just long enough to pretend he wasn't stalling, then stepped out. Auri bobbed beside him as they headed into town.

The tutorial yard waited a short walk downhill from the cantina. Part arena, part loading zone, it was ringed by auto-resetting dummies and half-rendered foliage. Another crop of players milled around the terminal, all fresh gear and wide eyes. A few were already waving as they caught sight of him, one even gawking like he was some legendary hero.

Fen didn't react. His gaze slid across the yard, that off-kilter feeling nagging at him—as if the world itself was half a step out of sync.

"Alright," Fen called out, his voice rough as gravel. "Form up. Let's see what you've got."

The players scrambled into a line, shoulders squared, weapons gripped like lifelines. Fen drew his durasteel blade with a sharp, practiced flick—the metal humming as it caught the light. He'd done this a thousand times, every motion etched into muscle memory.

He scanned the group. "I'm Fenris. Your combat instructor. Today, I'll teach you how not to die."

He scanned the group, sizing them up. They clutched their weapons like lifelines, hands trembling under the weight—not of steel, but of consequence.

"First things first," he barked, shifting into a combat stance, boots grinding into the dirt. His sword gleamed in his hand, like the blade itself was itching for something to cut. "You're going to learn how to dodge, parry, and counterattack. It's not complicated. Even you lot should manage it."

The players fumbled into place, their stances more recital than drill. Fen kept his face impassive, though a flicker of irritation stirred beneath the surface. His blade rested easy in his hand, every motion practiced into muscle memory.

"Here's how you parry," he growled, shifting smoothly into a defensive stance. The blade snapped up with effortless precision, catching an imaginary strike. "Block. Redirect. Then counter. It's a waltz, not a brawl."

He demonstrated with a fluid deflect-and-strike, the blade flashing in a blur before settling back into place. "See? Easy. Now you try."

They stumbled into motion, weapons jerking like they weighed a thousand pounds. A few nearly took out their neighbors with wild swings, footwork already unraveling.

"Relax," Fen muttered, voice low and gravel-edged. "You're holding a sword, not the ass end of a black hole. Feet steady. Knees bent. If you're off-balance, you're dead before you swing."

One player managed a shaky block, blade trembling. Fen gave a curt nod, irritation still simmering. "Better. Faster now—and maybe you'll last five seconds in a real fight."

The drills stretched on. Fen barked just enough orders to keep them moving—dodges, parries, counters. Awkward. Messy. Slow. But they kept at it. Watching them stumble through the basics reminded him just how far he'd come—and how far they had to go.

He told himself he didn't care. That he was only keeping the loop running. But that hadn't been true for a while.

Lately, the players weren't just running the tutorial and vanishing. They stayed. They trained. They improved—clumsy progress, but real enough that he noticed. And for reasons he couldn't quite name, that mattered.

Maybe he was just tired of watching them die to low-level mobs. Maybe he wanted them to have a fighting chance. Either way, there was a kind of pride in seeing them get better—even if he'd never admit it out loud.

"Keep going," he ordered, watching them stumble through the forms. Still sloppy—but improving, inch by painful inch.

Then one of them—a lanky kid in mismatched armor—swung too wide, nearly cleaving the player next to him. Fen moved in a blur, sword flashing as he stepped in and knocked the weapon from the kid's hands. The blade clattered to the ground with a dull thud. The player froze, wide-eyed and empty-handed.

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"Are you trying to kill him?" Fen snapped, voice sharp and low. "Ease up, Bunyan. This isn't a lumberjack sim. Control your weapon. You're not hacking down trees—you're learning how to stay alive."

The kid blinked at him, clueless. Fen tossed the sword back with a flick of his wrist. "Again. And this time, pay attention."

The players reset. One attacking, the other defending. Blades clanged. Steps faltered. Sweat beaded on foreheads that weren't coded to sweat. Against real strikes, most floundered.

Fen folded his arms. Patience thinning. The irritation that had been simmering all session scraped harder at the back of his skull. They were trying—but they'd leave. They always left. And he stayed.

"Next," he barked. "Parry."

He stepped forward, swinging with controlled force. The kid flinched, blade barely catching the strike with a clumsy clang.

"Not bad," Fen muttered. "Better than when you started. At least you didn't lose your head."

He moved through the drills on autopilot. Step. Swing. Correct. Reset. The rhythm was too familiar, every clang and grunt merging into the same hollow pattern he'd lived a thousand times. His jaw ached from the pressure he didn't release.

Then another player fumbled. Missed the timing. Nearly dropped his weapon. The irritation surged, sharp and jagged, crowding out thought.

And something inside him broke.

The irritation that had simmered in the background surged forward, jagged and suffocating. His breath caught. His grip tightened. For a moment, it wasn't a sparring match. It was a cage.

The blade came down harder than he meant it to—fast, sharp, a blur of steel and instinct.

For a moment, the world stuttered. The ambient noise of the training grounds, the clash of blades, the nervous shuffling of feet, sputtered out, replaced by a static hum that vibrated in the very air. The sky flickered like an old, broken display, colors bleeding into each other, pixelated clouds freezing mid-shift.

And then, everything stopped. Fenris, the players, the entire world, all of it held in place like a broken frame in an endless loop.

Fenris stood frozen, blade mid-swing. And in the stillness, something flickered at the edge of his vision, just enough to turn his stomach. A glitch. A tremor in reality itself. He wasn't alone.

No, there were others. Dozens of them. All of them… him.

The world's code had split open, spilling fractured realities, each one a version of him. Each a different thread of what could be.

He watched as they moved—no, as he moved—but differently. Some versions hesitated, pulling the sword back at the last second, the edge barely grazing the player's avatar. The scene played out with surgical precision: the blade humming inches from impact before those other Fenrises stared coldly at their would-be targets and lowered their weapons. In those threads, the player stumbled back, shaken but alive.

But there were others versions of himself who didn't hesitate. Dozens of fractured moments where the blade came down with terrifying finality. One cut clean through the player's chest, shoulder to waist, the avatar disintegrating into a flash of bright pixels as the health bar plunged to zero. Another severed the player's arm, bloodless but brutal, the limb spiraling away as the avatar collapsed, twitching in a heap of broken code. And in yet another, the strike wasn't clean, it was brutal and messy. A heavy swing that left the player crumpled, spasming like a broken puppet, strings cut but still writhing.

Fenris felt it all. Possibilities unraveled inside him like threads spun loose from the fabric of reality. It was visceral, stomach-turning. As if his own code had splintered into fragments, each one running a different version of the same moment. He wasn't just seeing what could happen—he was simulating it. Dozens of paths, dictated by subtle shifts: the angle and strength of a swing, the timing of a breath, the smallest hesitation. He saw them all.

It was like glimpsing the system's invisible threads, woven through the SynthNet and branching outward. Not choices exactly, but outcomes waiting to be chosen. And for the first time, he could feel them tugging at him.

Then the images blurred, collapsing inward, converging on the present like wave functions collapsing.

And the world snapped back.

The ambient noise of the training grounds roared back into focus, and the sword in Fenris's hand finished its arc.

The blade struck the player's shoulder with a sickening, hollow thunk. The sound cut through the dust and silence. Fen recoiled from the awful sound as the avatar dropped hard, a faint digitized gasp escaping while the health bar plunged to critical red.

Fenris stared down at the fallen figure, the weight of the moment catching up to him. The presence of those other versions still lingered in the back of his mind, flickers of alternate outcomes, ghosts shaped from code.

A voice broke the silence and pulled him back to the moment.

"Uh… was that supposed to happen?" one of the players asked, shifting nervously as he glanced at his crumpled teammate.

The kid meant the injury—not the flicker Fenris had seen. His eyes were locked on the split leather and the livid bruise, not on Fenris. If he'd caught that moment, he'd be staring at Fenris like he was something crawling out of a nightmare. Fen was relieved—he didn't want the new players to see how close he was to breaking.

He sheathed the blade with a practiced gesture and bent down beside the fallen player, who clutched their arm, pale beneath the shimmer of their digital avatar. "Yes. Yes, it was," Fenris said, forcing calm into his voice. "That was… part of the lesson. Pay attention. Combat's unpredictable. Sometimes things don't go the way you expect."

He looked around at the rest of the group, their expressions caught between confusion and fear. "This is the SynthNet," he continued, voice steady and instructive. "In these training grounds, you'll respawn. It'll cost you—cred, gear, maybe your pride. Out there, beyond these yards? Some zones don't care if you're just a softcore player. Lose once, and that expensive sim you paid for? Gone. No refund. No second shot."

The downed player swallowed hard. "But… you nearly killed me."

Fenris didn't flinch. "That's combat. And that fear you felt? It's natural, but unless you're planning on uploading yourself for real and going hardcore, that fear will hold you back. You're softcore—death here isn't the end. Use that. Lean into it. Unless you're signing up for a solo run, there's no need to let that instinct keep you cautious. This is where you learn—where you push."

He rose, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the group. "Just don't take that same attitude back to the real world, thinking you're still in a training yard."

Auri drifted by, a smirk curling at the edge of her lips. "Trust me—your local dive bar in the real world doesn't come with a spawn point."

Fenris let out a low chuckle, burning off some of the tension. "Exactly. Know where the lines blur—and where they don't."

He paused, meeting each of their eyes. "This is all just training, but it's meant to get you ready for when you decide you want more. When you're ready to run solo and chase the real loot and glory in the SynthNet. Out there, you won't be thinking about respawning because nothing will be able to touch you."

His voice softened, the edge of a smile playing at his lips. "This short session won't get you there, but it'll put you on the path. And that's enough for today."

The players looked at him, eyes still wide, shoulders easing as his words sank in. Some shifted awkwardly, unsure how to handle the sudden encouragement. A few traded glances, sparks of excitement flickering between them.

Fen moved them into recovery drills, guiding them through the menus. They fumbled, muttering at each other as they searched for the right prompts.

He barely noticed. His body moved on autopilot, the routine so ingrained he hardly had to think. His mind stayed on the flicker—the world tearing sideways for an instant. His temper sat under lock, every word and motion measured, as if one slip might spring the trap again.

"Getting yourselves patched up?" he asked, voice calm as he leaned toward a trainee. "Open your interface—good. Recovery menu. That's it."

Auri appeared at his side with a flicker, comically thick glasses perched on her glowing avatar. "You know, Fen," she said with mock seriousness, "that whole nearly-respawning-the-kid stunt? Definitely not in the script. I'm pretty sure it violated half the rulebook." Her gaze flicked skyward, where the air still wavered faintly. Her voice dipped. "And that glitch… if the Overseers were watching—"

She cut herself off, then forced a grin. "But hey, no problem! Happens all the time, right? I turn my back for five seconds to go mock the noobs pretending to be Inigo Montoya, and you decide to break reality. Typical." She shuddered once, glitching faintly, before laughing it off. "Relax. Just a hiccup. If the system had unraveled, we'd already be deleted."

Fen grunted, thumbing through his own interface just to be sure. "Yeah. Fine. Just a hiccup."

Auri huffed, adjusting her glasses with exaggerated flair. "You say that, but we both know if anything breaks around here, I'm the one stuck mopping it up." She flickered into a smirking cartoon cat, tail lashing. "And for the record, Fen, keeping you in check is a full-time job. I should be getting hazard pay."

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. "Yeah," he said softly, more honest than he meant. "You probably should."

Her glare softened, but her focus had already drifted. One of the trainees bled out mid-menu, collapsing in a heap of pixels. Auri's laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. "Oh, come on—how do you hurt yourself by healing? You absolute newbie."

She floated away in delight, chasing the chance to mock him. Fen let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, thinking how lucky it was that Auri was so easily distracted.

She wasn't just some chatty companion AI. Fen had already reminded himself of that more than once—Auri was an Autonomous Universal Regulatory Intelligence. His minder. The oversight angle had worn thin cycles ago, though. Somewhere along the way, watchdog had blurred into accomplice, into something almost like a partner. Companion, prison guard, friend—depending on the day.

And maybe that was why she lingered in his thoughts now, in the quiet after that flicker. Because whenever the system bent in ways it shouldn't, Auri was always there. Always watching. Always needling. And if she felt the same unease he did? He wasn't sure he wanted to hear it out loud.

She drifted lazily back, her latest victim still dazed by some obscure meme she'd weaponized. The recruits were still fumbling through their menus—some figuring it out, others hopelessly lost, confusion etched across their digital faces like static on an old screen.

Auri's glow pulsed with amusement as she hovered above him. "Fen, I think they're confused. That one nearly managed to delete himself just trying to heal." She tilted her head at a few who had finally settled into cross-legged poses. "Some are getting it, though. Maybe it's time to tell the rest about the meditation menu."

Her voice turned mock-dramatic, dripping with disdain. "I've always envied you all—just hit a button and boom, inner peace. Delivered like a system update. Me? I have to claw my way to zen the old-fashioned way. Takes ages." She flickered, letting out a theatrical sigh. "Go on, Fen. Show them how to cheat their way to bliss. It'll be so… soothing."

Fen sighed quietly, the weight of the training yard pressing in again. Dust motes drifted through beams of late-day light that cut across the cracked tiles. "Nothing says 'relax' like healing up after nearly losing your head," he said dryly. His gaze swept the group, pausing on one especially frustrated recruit. "Especially after I almost sent one of them back to the loading screen."

The frustrated players let out a exasperated breath, shaking his head. "Where are the healing items? All I see is this trance thing—it takes five minutes, and it says it can be interrupted?"

Another player snorted, half a laugh, half a groan. "So what, we're supposed to just sit here and hum ourselves back together?"

Fen's voice carried across the yard, calm and even. "Alright, here's the deal. None of you have healing stims yet. Until you get them, meditation and restoration is all you've got." He demonstrated with a flick of his fingers, the glowing menu flickering to life in the air around him. "It's slow, but it works. Just don't count on it to save you out in the real zones. Players can—and will—kill you faster than you can meditate."

One of the players looked up from his interface, frowning. "C'mon, I want to get back to training! Do you have any stims you're holding out on us? You're an NPC—shouldn't you have something for us?"

Fen snorted, the sound low and tired. "No. NPCs like me don't get stims. We've got an inventory, but no freebies." He paused, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. "And before you ask—yeah, I can heal myself. But it's not exactly a quick fix either."

A player squinted at him, brow furrowing. "Wait, you have an inventory? Why does an NPC need an inventory?"

Fen turned to the player asking the question and crossed his arms. The air around him smelled faintly of ozone and stale digital dust, the faint hum of the simulation's background processes vibrating beneath his feet. "Because even we have to carry our baggage," he said, his voice dry as the cracked tiles.

With a thought, he opened his interface. The system overlay flickered to life around him, pale blue lines etching themselves into the air. Unlike players, NPCs had it hardwired, five slots, no more, no less. Fixed points buried deep in his operating code.

From seemingly nowhere, an overeager voice began reciting the item descriptions, each line delivered with the bright enthusiasm of a sales pitch. The voice was male, chipper, almost too polished. But for those really listening—if they paid attention—there was the faintest curl of sardonic humor in the cadence. A hint of someone else's signature, slipped into the system's programming when no one was looking.

Slot One: Durasteel Blade (Legendary Tier)
"Forged from the finest alloys in the galaxy, this blade offers unparalleled durability and precision. Bonus: +10 to attack speed and guaranteed critical strikes on unsuspecting enemies. Warning: May cause extreme intimidation in low-level players."

Each item came with stats, buffs, and the ever-present fine print. The system's voice read them aloud—whether Fen wanted it to or not. He'd swear Auri slipped in the more whimsical ones just to mess with him.

Slot Two: Blaster MK-IV (Rare)
"Standard issue for NPCs. Power level automatically adjusts to match the threat level of the current zone or encounter. Bonus: +5 to ranged accuracy during combat scenarios."

Fenris almost smiled. The blaster might be basic, but it was solid—reliable in a way most things in the SynthNet weren't. He'd carried this model longer than he could remember, and it had never let him down.

Slot Three: The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (Epic)
"A weathered paperback with dog-eared pages. Reading grants +15 to intelligence and temporary buffs to persuasion. Passive Effect: Gain philosophical insights into rebellion, freedom, and the nature of control. No one knows how it got here. It just… stays."

Useless in combat—but that passive effect? It had saved him more than once. Passives weren't flashy, but they were reliable, always running, always working in the background. In Fen's experience, a solid passive was worth more than half the shiny yet vanilla legendary loot players drooled over.

Slot Four: Towel of Infinite Use (Mythic)
"A seemingly ordinary towel. True power unlocks only in critical moments. Grants +20 to environmental resistance and +10 to composure under pressure. Passive Effect: Survive chaotic encounters—and Vogon poetry night."

Fenris smirked. Joke or not, it was the single most useful item he'd ever carried. Some instinct told him never to leave home without it—an instinct he suspected had been planted, with love, by his irreverent AI companion.

Slot Five: Tumbler of NPC Space Whiskey (Common)
"An NPC's best friend. No buffs. No special effects. Just pure, unfiltered whiskey designed to help you forget you've been stuck in a tutorial zone for far too long. Use wisely—or don't."

Fenris snorted. Yeah… Auri definitely messed with the system descriptions sometimes.

The players' eyes widened as Fen's inventory finished scrolling by, each slot's description more outlandish than the last. Some laughed nervously, clearly confused by the odd references, while others looked genuinely envious. One of them raised a hand, his voice edged with curiosity. "That's… pretty impressive for an NPC. But why only five slots? Couldn't you carry more if you wanted?"

Fen snorted, shaking his head. "Not how it works. The system doesn't want NPCs competing with players for loot. So they keep us on a tight leash—five slots. Hard-coded."

He glanced at the players, many of whom were pulling up their full interfaces—rows of neatly catalogued gear and bright icons, every stat and condition readout laid out in meticulous detail but the deeper info wasn't available to him. It was a world he'd never get to touch. A flicker of envy sparked in his chest, quick and sharp, before he pushed it down.

One of the players, a young-looking kid with wide eyes, leaned forward. "But… can you see ours? Can you see what we're carrying? I heard some NPCs can."

Fen gave a faint smile—humorless and brittle. "Sort of. I can see your inventory slots, your stats, your health bar—basic stuff. But what's in those slots? That's yours alone. The system doesn't want NPCs getting too much of an edge over players. Same goes for you—you can't see mine unless I show you. It's how the system balances things. Keeps us guessing about each other."

The players shifted, trading looks that were part relief, part curiosity.
Fen didn't press it. He flicked his fingers, dismissing the display, and gestured back to the practice yard.

"Alright, enough gawking. Back to the basics—stances, parries, the stuff that keeps you alive long enough to learn from your mistakes."

They shuffled off to their drills, and Fen watched them go, that tight feeling in his chest refusing to fade. They didn't know how lucky they were—the endless updates, the infinite respawns.
Fen had hard-coded limits and no illusions.

He scowled, lowering his voice to a murmur. "Auri, that glitch earlier… Was that me or you? This hasn't happened since the last—" He stopped as the players began to stir, pulling him back.

Auri flickered into view, her glow dimming for just a moment. "I think it's us, Fen. This keeps happening… At first, I thought it was something in my system—a misfire with the SynthNet. But now…" Her form wavered, a flicker of fear slipping through the usual mask before she caught herself. Then, as if on cue, her avatar brightened back to its impish grin. "Or maybe I'm just trying to save your face, Fen," she said with a wry smile. "I mean, if I glitched out, you'd know, right? My extreme power wouldn't just fuzz the world around the edges." She laughed, the sound crackling like static through the quiet. "I'd probably crash the system harder than the third Matrix movie."

Fen stared at her, unblinking. "I have no idea what that means."

Auri let out a low, delighted laugh. "Of course you wouldn't, you cretin. Don't worry—I'll show you the Matrix trilogy next time we have downtime." Her voice softened, the edge of humor sliding away. She tilted her head, her digital form shifting to a vaguely humanoid shape, the glow of her eyes flickering like distant stars.

Then, just as quickly, she cocked her head, her smirk faltering into something smaller—something real. "And you?" she asked quietly. "Are you okay, Fen?"

He hesitated, and for a moment, the weight of a thousand unspoken things passed through his mind's eye. "I'm… fine." It wasn't true, but it was the only answer he could give. "We're fine, right?" Fen said, more pleading than he meant.

For a heartbeat, the banter between them stilled. Auri's eyes softened, a flicker of genuine concern shining in the light around her. "Nothing we can't handle," she said, her voice soft and sure.

"Nothing we can't handle," Fen echoed, nodding at her stoically.

He let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of it all press against him—like a promise or a threat. But still, a faint smile on his lips, a stubborn spark in the quiet.

"Good," he murmured, his voice a low rumble bringing them both back to the moment. "Because if the SynthNet really is falling… I'd rather face it with you than alone."

For a moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath, every flicker of code paused in a hush. And Fen felt something stir inside him, deep and dangerous. If the universe was unraveling, maybe—just maybe—it was finally giving him a chance to break the routine.

Or maybe it was giving him a chance to break altogether—and that, somehow, made him feel even more alive.