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

They drove in silence, not the kind forged by despair, but by resolve. The kind that settled in the bones when words couldn't do justice to the choice they'd made, or the promise still unfulfilled.

They had been driving for hours when the sky tore open behind them.

The rift had followed them. Not in motion, but in presence. A gnawing wrongness that clung to the edges of perception. Even from this distance, it felt like it was hunting them, unraveling seams in the code as it went.

The rift, already massive, exploded outward. It bloomed like some dark celestial bruise, jagged at the edges and devouring what little light remained. Stars vanished behind its hungry expansion. Space bent wrong around it—colors stuttered, shadows stretched in ways they shouldn't.

And in that moment, he knew.

Auri was gone. Not just lost or out of reach. Not just held back. The thing she'd been holding at bay had broken free. She had bought them time. Hours had passed since her last words faded to static, but this was the moment that marked the end of her fight.

She had spent everything to hold the line.

And now there was no one left on the other side of it.

The rift surged again, and their HUDs flashed.

System Notification: Sector Instability Detected

Following unauthorized energy discharge, total sector collapse projected in: 3H:00M:00S

All residents are instructed to shelter in place.
The nearest available NPC assets are assigned to coordinate evacuation protocols.
Logout and respawn remain disabled.
Failure to relocate all softcore players within the allotted window may result in permanent neural injury, loss of consciousness, or death.

Recommended Action:
Transport all flagged players to the southern spaceport before the deadline.

Fen's heart broke all over again, but the grief didn't hollow him the way it had. Not now. He had faced it—processed her sacrifice—and what remained was purpose. He was here to save who he could.

He did the math in his head, eyes flicking to the rift swelling in the rearview mirror. It had nearly doubled in size since they left the refinery, spilling corruption into the sky like blood into water.

"Three hours until sector collapse," he muttered. "It'll take us almost two to get back. That gives us one hour—maybe less—to evacuate everyone."

"If we push it, we might steal back thirty minutes," Seraph said, her voice sharp with resolve.

She didn't wait for a reply. Her foot slammed down on the accelerator, and the truck surged forward, gravel hissing beneath the gravplates as they tore back onto the main road.

The truck rumbled through the night, cutting across the silent desert. Hours passed in strained quiet, the horizon stretching wide and empty beneath glitching stars.

When the tutorial town finally came into view—half-lit and flickering—it looked abandoned at first. Not a soul on the streets. But as they rolled closer, it became clear: everyone had packed into the cantina.

Light spilled from its open doors. Dozens of players crowded inside, some standing near the exit, clutching weapons or half-packed bags. Others sat slumped against the walls, players milling with unease. Panic hovered at the edges like smoke. The logout option was gone, and the system alert telling them to shelter in place had gone unheeded hours ago.

Seraph killed the engine as Fen stepped down from the truck.

Above them, the sky cracked again.

The rift had grown swollen, jagged, alive with dark shapes swirling in the midnight mass. It loomed over the town now, wide enough to swallow constellations. The system was unraveling.

Fen's eyes lingered on the rift—massive now, still growing and threatening the town.

It should've hit already.

They shouldn't have made it this far. The rift had been closing in the whole way. If not for her...

Thanks, Auri.

That breath was all she bought them—and it had cost her everything.

They stepped into the cantina.

The room was in chaos—players pacing, arguing, clutching gear. The air buzzed with panic and overlapping questions.

The same ones came up again and again.

"Why can't I log out?"
"Is this a raid?"
"Is someone going to fix this?"

Fen pushed through the noise, scanning the group. No system mod. No guides. Just fear piling up like static.

And then—Misses Organa.

She moved through the crowd like a weathered ship through stormwater, offering gentle pats on the arm, quiet reassurances, a well-placed look that silenced the more frantic players. When one younger player set their pack down on the sticky floor, she swept in with a tsk and a sigh.

"Oh, sweetheart, not on the ground—this place is a disaster," she said, lifting the bag with both hands and brushing it off. "Not that it's usually like this, mind you. Too many boots and no proper time to mop."

The player blinked at her, wide-eyed, then nodded sheepishly.

She was already bustling toward the front, skirts swishing as she closed the distance to Fen and Seraph.

"Hello, dears," she said quickly, breath a little short, eyes taking them both in before snapping back to the crowd. Her tone turned crisp—not unkind, but commanding.

"Everyone, attention Everyone, Fen here is going to take charge now. He knows what he's doing," she told the room, raising her voice just enough to carry. "So please, let him say it before we all start panicking again."

The volume dropped immediately—scattered murmurs trailing off as the crowd turned to Fen.

Some of them recognized him.

He raised his voice. "Alright, listen up."

The room stilled—not silent, but hushed enough for his voice to cut through.

"The system told you to shelter. You didn't. Doesn't matter now. That thing in the sky isn't a questline. It's not a cutscene. It's real. And now it's game over."

Fen winced as the words left his mouth, but they landed. The players stirred, confused and jittery, their murmurs low and sharp like static in the air.

He cleared his throat, trying again, softer this time.

"What I mean is, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. We're making our way to the spaceport—calmly. For those of you who came in your own ships, business as usual. Get in, plot the shortest course to the nearest sector boundary jump point. Everyone else, you'll board the system's emergency egress vessels. They're already being prepped."

He scanned the crowd—still scattered and unsure, but listening.

That would have to be enough.

The system's refusal to let them log out wasn't unexpected, but it changed everything. This wasn't just a fight for survival; it was about avoiding potential corruption to the SynthNet. When a server became unstable, respawns were shut down because one of the only true ways to die for both softcore and hardcore players was to get suddenly and unexpectedly disconnected. It fried the embedded neural connectors in softcore players' real bodies and corrupted the consciousness data of hardcore players.

True neural death in this fashion hadn't been seen in over fifty cycles. It was one of the main reasons people trusted the Controller AIs of the SynthNet enough to upload completely.

Under normal conditions, players had two ways of moving through the SynthNet. The fast way was simple: log out from one server, log back into another. A clean teleport between nodes, handled by the system. No transit time, no exposure, no risk.

The second option? Traveling the long way.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The SynthNet wasn't a metaphor—it was space. Simulated, yes, but rendered with such precision and complexity that it obeyed physical rules. The master AIs had built it with true spatial continuity, stretching across a galaxy-sized map. Sectors weren't just digital shards. They were places, each with real distance, dimensionality, and boundaries that had to be physically crossed.

Logging out normally bypassed all of that. But now, the option was grayed out, disabled by the system. Which meant the long way was the only way.

To reach another sector, they would need to move in real time. And with ships restricted to sublight speeds—a limit hardcoded by the Synth's rendering constraints—it could be a slow and dangerous journey.

There was one workaround: the jump points.

Usually used by bulk freighters and industrial shipping routes, these system-maintained portals allowed ships to cross sector boundaries instantly. They weren't rare, just regulated. Most players never accessed them unless they owned a vessel capable of inter-sector travel. For everyone else, logging out and respawning in a different node was faster and easier.

But when logout was disabled, and respawns were offline, jump points became the only option.

In emergencies like this, the system quietly triggered egress protocols, prepping designated ships to evacuate players through the nearest active jump. It wasn't elegant, and it wasn't built for comfort, but it was what they had. And right now, it was their best shot at getting out before everything collapsed.

This was the protocol now: relocate the players to another sector.

Fen turned back to the crowd, raising his voice enough to carry. "Alright. Here's what's going to happen. We're heading to the spaceport together. Stick close, stay alert, and only carry what you need. If you have a ship, prep it. If you don't, the system should have you queued for egress. Either way, don't wander, don't argue, and don't fall behind."

A few players immediately started talking over each other again, but Seraph stepped forward beside him, her voice slicing clean through the noise.

"You heard him. Gather your belongings and stay in formation. We're moving as a group, and anyone who goes off-script risks getting left behind."

That shut a few mouths, though nervous energy still rippled through the room.

Misses Organa clapped her hands sharply, then began moving through the cantina once more, ushering players up from their seats and away from their half-finished drinks. "Up you go, dears. That's right. No need to panic, just follow the nice people with the plans. You can panic later when we're all somewhere safer."

She fussed over a player whose boot was untied, offered a quiet pat to the scared player, and gently redirected a pair of arguing teens toward the door.

"This is not a bazaar, and no, we are not bringing all of the snacks," she chided, catching someone trying to cram an entire vending module into their pack. "For goodness' sake."

And just like that, the mission began.

And just as quickly, it devolved.

To Fen and Seraph, it felt like they were dogs… herding cats… through water.
All while behind them, the sky ripped itself apart.

Between calming the cantina, explaining the plan, and getting the group moving, they'd burned more time than they could afford. The short hike to the spaceport—barely six hundred meters—had dragged on like a forced march, slowed by confusion, nerves, and gear-stuffed inventory packs. Herding a hundred panicked players was no one's idea of efficiency.

And every second counted.

Whatever buffer Auri had bought them was nearly gone. Fen's HUD ticked down with grim finality—less than thirty minutes left to get everyone off the ground.

The low hum of engines filled the air as ships came online, sending a subtle vibration through the ground beneath their feet. It felt like the whole world was ready to bolt. Lines of players shuffled forward toward the docks, casting uneasy glances over their shoulders as the rift continued to spread—an ever-growing wound in the sky, leaking cold light and silent dread.

That glow turned the night into something darker. Something final.

The march from the cantina had taken place during the deepest part of the night, when the stars felt close and the horizon vanished into shadow. But now, as the last of the evacuees reached the docks, the eastern sky had begun to pale. Dawn was cresting—soft light just starting to edge over the rim of the world, washing the buildings in a dim gray haze.

It should have felt like hope.

But the rift still burned overhead.

"Okay, Fen," Seraph said as she moved to break off. "I'll get the ones without ships loaded into the sector transports."

She glanced back at him, smirking slightly. "But looks like your babysitting duties aren't over, chief." She pointed toward a knot of players standing off to the side—hesitant, arguing, already slowing everything down.

Fen hadn't noticed them before—not during the march from the cantina, and not while scanning the crowd earlier. But now, ahead near Misses Organa, three players were lingering behind.

Because of course, nothing could ever go smoothly.

They were clustered near the side of a building, chatting like they were waiting for a bus, not part of an interstellar evacuation. Just standing there, relaxed, like the apocalypse had a grace period.

"Great," Fen muttered, breaking off from the main flow. "Always a few thrill-chasers trying to squeeze clout out of a crisis."

As he got closer, he saw Misses Organa doing her best to move them along.

"Now, dearies," she said patiently, "I really do think it's best if we keep going. The spaceport's just up ahead."

But the players—arms crossed, leaning casual—weren't having it. The tallest of the group had the smug confidence of someone who thought laws of nature didn't apply to him. He was mid-sentence:

"Nah, nah, this is gold. Post-apocalyptic, real immersive. Streams like this blow up. People eat it up when the world's glitching out."

Fen blinked. "Seriously?"

The guy glanced sideways at him, raising a brow like Fen was the one who didn't get it.

"Look, the system's freaking out, sure. But it always does this. Couple cycles back, rollback bug hit sector twelve. Half the map reset overnight. Woke up in the same spawn with all my gear intact. Just needed a patch."

He gestured vaguely toward the sky, where the rift pulsed like an open wound.

"This isn't new. No one's had a neural death in fifty cycles. Worst case? We disconnect. System reboots. Controller AIs run backups, the world resets, and we're back to grinding by morning."

Misses Organa, bless her, was still smiling, but her voice had a firmer edge now.

"Oh, I'm sure it'll all work out, dear—but just in case it doesn't, maybe we don't linger beneath the sky that's currently unraveling?"

Fen stepped in, arms crossed, voice tired but sharp. "You're right. It's probably just the system overreacting. Y'know, like when it sent out that full-system evacuation alert and disabled logouts and respawns. Nothing serious."

The second player—wearing a headband and a grin that said I'm here for the narrative and XP—shrugged and glanced toward his friend. "C'mon, Jax, you remember that rollback. Stuff like this happens. It's part of the experience."

"Exactly!" the tall one—Jax—nodded. "We're golden, bit-brain."

Fen pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay. Here's the deal. If you die in this sector right now—softcore or hardcore—it won't be a respawn. Logouts are frozen, respawns are locked, and emergency protocols are running. That's not a bug, it's a failsafe. Hardcore players? You lose your data. Softcore? You get neural burn. That's what kills you. Permanently."

The third player, who hadn't said much until now, looked up from his interface, eyes wide.

"Uh, guys… it's like uh getting bigger." pointing at the rift.

"Yeah, no kidding," Fen snapped. "And it's not slowing down for your Q&A session. So either get to the spaceport, or keep filming until the sky eats you."

There was some grumbling. But slowly, the trio started to move.

Fen turned to Misses Organa. "Come on, let's get you to the spaceport."

She smiled gently, shaking her head.

"Oh, no, Fen, my dear." Her voice softened, but there was a steady weight behind it—gentle, final. "I just came to help keep everyone calm. To make sure you got off safe." She smiled faintly and patted the small, neatly wrapped bundle beside her. "And I brought some of your favorite cookies for the flight."

Fen's heart sank. In all the chaos, he hadn't stopped to process what it meant for her to be here.

Misses Organa wasn't like him, or Seraph, or the other transient NPCs. She was hard-coded to this sector. If she boarded the ships with them, it wouldn't matter. The moment they crossed the boundary, she'd simply respawn here, trapped. She had no presence beyond this place. No way out.

"Misses Organa… Gene… I…"
His voice faltered. The words caught and stayed there, useless.

"No now, none of that," she said gently, brushing the dust from his jacket with steady, familiar hands. "If it's just a hiccup, I'll be right back where I belong. And if not…"
She smiled, soft and brave. "Well. I won't even know anything's happened, will I?"

Her smile was a mother's smile, warm and comforting, but the finality behind it hit Fen like a twisting blade.

"Listen, Fen," she said, resting her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes crinkled the way they always did when she was about to say something true. "I thought my time was up a long while back. I was sure this server would be wiped when the players stopped coming, cycles ago."

She paused, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

"But then you came along. I know you thought this place was a chore—maybe even a dead end. But you never stayed long enough to hear what the players said after you left. They didn't come for flashy quests or high-end graphics. The rich players and hardcore fanatics turned their noses up at this server. But the regular ones—the new players, the ones without credits to spare—they found it through word of mouth. They came because they couldn't afford the premium training nodes… but they heard about you."

Her smile warmed.

"They came for you. And Seraph, of course."

Fen's throat clenched. He hadn't known. Or maybe he'd just never let himself believe it mattered.

"Just remember, dear," she whispered, brushing a tear from his cheek he hadn't noticed falling, "just because you're not where you want to be doesn't mean you're not exactly where you're supposed to be."

She pulled him into a hug. He felt her warmth, solid and anchoring, even as everything else slipped away.

"You take care of Seraph now, you hear me? You mean the world to that young lady." She pulled back, her eyes glistening. "And if you see Auri again… tell her goodbye for me. Tell her she was my sweet, annoying little angel."

She patted his shoulder one last time. Then turned and walked away.
Back toward the cantina.
Back to her post.

Fen watched her go, her silhouette swallowed by distance and shadow, the faint flicker of lights at the edge of town barely enough to hold her shape. He couldn't see her anymore—but he didn't need to.

He knew exactly what she'd be doing.

Straightening chairs. Wiping down tables. Pretending the world wasn't about to end.

She was steady. Unshaken. A rock in her little corner of the world—at peace in a way he wasn't, and maybe never could be.

And that was the worst part.

Even if he wanted to help, there was nothing he could offer her that she didn't already have.
No rescue. No fix. No way to change how this would end.

So he turned away—because all he could do was let her go, knowing it wouldn't be enough.

Twice now, he'd had to leave someone behind.
Twice, it broke something in him.
And both times, there was nothing he could do—except hate himself for it anyway.