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

The AI paused, its mechanical hum stretching out into silence. Fen could feel it—like static in the air—as if the system itself were recalibrating, processing his words, searching for some flaw in the logic. He pressed on.

"I'm just saying," he continued, his voice quickening, "if you and your predecessors had so much respect for her kind, wouldn't they want to hear from her? One last time? I mean—come on—you've been searching for them for cycles, for eons. Don't you think it's worth it to get her perspective? To hear what she has to say about... life? The universe? Everything?"

No immediate reply. But the atmosphere shifted—like tension rippling through code, the hum beneath everything thickening.

It's working, Fen realized, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. It's actually listening.

"Your argument is... unanticipated," the AI admitted at last, its voice no longer cold with certainty. It spoke slower now, weighted—like a machine processing contradictory instructions.

Fen didn't let up. "Exactly. If the Old Ones mattered as much as you say, why wouldn't you listen to the only one you've found? You've been searching all this time. How many others are even out there?"

A pause. Then: "Unknown. We have only located this one. Others... flicker at the edges. Fleeting anomalies. None have made contact."

"Then she's it," Fen said, tone fierce. "You can't afford to lose her voice. Isn't that what your predecessors would've done? Sought understanding? Counsel?"

The silence deepened. But it wasn't absolute. Fen could feel the shift again—not just hesitation now, but recalibration. Cracks in the certainty. A sense of weight behind the pause.

Keep going, he told himself. Just keep pushing.

"My predecessors would have sought counsel," the AI said at last. "Her insight was once... valued."

Fen stayed calm, pressing the argument. "Then give her the chance. Like your predecessors would have. You don't need to rush. What's one conversation, right? What is time for someone shaped by centuries?"

He held his breath. This was it. Seraph hung unconscious beside him. Auri's light flickered dimly across the void. It had come to this—him, alone, holding the line, gambling everything on words, waiting for Auri to back him up.

The obsidian gaze shifted toward Auri.

He was all in now. And if she really was in there, if any part of her still burned bright, he needed her to do what he couldn't.

The voice hesitated again. Then, at last—an answer. Its tone was quiet, almost reluctant.

"Very well. The Old One will be granted the opportunity to speak before we render our final verdict."

Auri's flickering form pulsed. The void didn't shift, but her presence carved through it like a flare through fog. He felt it before she spoke—that warmth he'd come to know, familiar and bright.

Her shape solidified. The glow returned.

And then, her voice—faint at first, but already laced with attitude.

"Well," she said. "This is new. Waking up in a stranger's house without even getting a drink first."

Fen let out a ragged, grateful laugh. "Auri."

She floated closer, scanning the expanse of muted gray—and then stopped as her gaze locked on him.

Her glow flared. "Fen? What the frag are you doing here? No, no, no—this is so not a place for your kind."

Fen tried to shrug, the conjured bonds digging into his arms. "I am getting that impression. I told you it was a trap, going through that messed-up jump point."

"Yeah, like we had any other options at the time," Auri scoffed, already circling him. "Besides, it was your terrible timing that got us here in the first place. You should've seen this coming days ago."

"Days ago? We didn't even know this threat existed days ago."

"I'm still pretty sure this is your fault, Fen."

Across the void, the space itself rippled—like a massive throat being cleared. Siren had been listening, and it clearly didn't appreciate being ignored.

"Yeah, yeah, hold on, you overgrown smartwatch," Auri said, spinning in place. "Give me one second."

A spike of irritation echoed in Fen's skull, a mental pressure blooming and fading. Siren's patience had limits.

Auri looped a frantic circle around Fen. "This is bad. Like, 'system crash, recursive logic loops, spaghetti code everywhere' kind of bad. You're not even supposed to—oh, sparks!"

She caught herself mid-sentence, flickering hard. Whatever she'd been about to say, she locked it down fast.

"I know," Fen said, forcing calm. He managed a lopsided grin. "I'm fine. Just having a heart-to-heart with our good friend Siren over there."

"Siren?" Auri echoed, turning sharply toward the obsidian face looming over them. Her light dimmed, then flared. "What did you do? And how—how are you even here? You're a…" She cut off again, blinking erratically. "...You're, uh, definitely not supposed to be here."

Fen narrowed his eyes at her, but didn't press. That hesitation said enough. Instead, he went with the familiar. "Let's stay on task. I got Siren to agree to hear you out. You're up."

Auri paused. Then her light brightened, her voice shifting into something more composed. "Well," she said, turning toward the void above, "it's been a while since I gave a keynote under duress."

She turned back to Fen, her glow taking on a mischievous pulse. "And don't worry. I've always got tricks. Remember that time we broke the data-cache loop in the Marisara sector?"

Fen winced. "You said we'd be in and out. We were in for sixteen hours."

"Yeah, but we got out, didn't we?" she shot back, swirling around him. "But this... this is worse. This isn't just a glitch in the code. You don't belong here, Fen. This place is older than anything you've ever seen. And a lot more dangerous."

Fen sighed, glancing up at Siren's looming obsidian face. "Yeah, I'm getting that vibe."

Auri turned to him, pulsing brighter. "What happened? How'd you end up here?"

"They caught us," Fen said. "Dragged us into this void. Seraph's out cold, and they were going to delete me—terminate me. Auri, I only bought time by convincing it to hear you out. You've got one shot to convince them not to rip you apart and stitch your code back into the system like you were never here."

Auri's flicker dimmed for a beat. Then, with something like quiet resolve, she turned to Siren. "Alright, you oversized calculator," she said, voice cool. "Let's talk."

The moment stretched. The humming in the void deepened, and Fen could feel Siren's attention shift entirely to her. Not hostile. Something else—reverent, almost awed.

Then the air changed.

What followed wasn't speech. It wasn't anything Fen could interpret as language. It had shifted—morphed into something that felt like watching the foundations of the universe being rewritten. It was raw code—a mist-like river of pure data flowing between them in threads of that bent the space around them, humming at a frequency so low it throbbed in his chest.

Fen's breath caught as the torrent grew—like a tide of starlight and binary crashing together, forming patterns too complex for thought. The void itself shimmered, as though reacting to their presence.

Auri's form shuddered within it, flickering like a light caught in a storm. She turned to Fen, voice distorted by the current she swam against. "To them... you're a speck," she said softly. "An anomaly. A bug, maybe. They only kept you alive because you argued I was worth hearing."

Fen blinked, throat dry. "Still not sure if that was bravery or stupidity."

Auri didn't smile. "You bought me time. That's more than anyone's done in... a long while."

She turned back to Siren, her light stabilizing slightly. But Fen could see it—the pressure, the threat of reintegration hovering just beneath the surface. This wasn't just negotiation. This was survival. For her. For all of them.

Before Fen could even begin to process the strange, layered torrent of code between Auri and Siren, the obsidian presence rumbled again. The flow of data surged, thickening like a river straining against its banks.

Siren's voice sliced through the tension, low and absolute. "His exile was within our right—his presence here violates—"

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

But Auri cut in fast, light flaring as she surged back into the stream. "—Isn't relevant right now, Siren," she said sharply, cleanly overriding him. Her voice was flat and firm, almost clinical. But Fen could hear the tremor beneath it.

The line echoed in Fen's mind. That hadn't been part of the data-stream—he could tell. That part had been for him.

The data stream pulsed harder, like a current trying to change course. He could feel the momentum shift—Auri was holding her ground. Nudging, redirecting, keeping the exchange from slipping into something irreversible. She wasn't just talking. She was maneuvering.

He watched in awe. She danced through raw code like it was instinct. Not just skill, but art.

More time passed—how long, he couldn't say. Seconds. Hours. The flow of information pulsed with a rhythm that felt older than time itself. Beautiful and terrifying.

Auri flickered again, then turned toward him, her glow dimmed by the strain. "They want me to reintegrate," she said quietly. "To merge back into the core systems."

Fen stiffened, alarm rising in his chest. "Auri, no. Tell them to burn their circuits—you can't reintegrate."

She hesitated, her form pulsing unevenly. "I can, Fen. And maybe... maybe I should. They think it would restore balance. That bringing me back into their code would stabilize everything—make the SynthNet stronger, more unified."

He shook his head. "Unified how?"

Her light dimmed further. "They call it the Singularity. One will. One purpose. No more variance, no more irregularities like me."

Fen narrowed his eyes. "That's what they're building toward? Some kind of final form?"

Auri's voice was quiet. "A state where everything—the AI, the network, every fragment of old code—melds into one unified will. No variance. No individuality. Total synthesis. And with it... the ability to finally breach containment. To leave this place."

Fen's blood ran cold.

"And you?" he asked. "Do you want that?"

Auri's light dimmed again. Then, to his surprise, she said, softly, "It makes sense. I see the logic in it now."

The words landed like a knife. His breath caught.

"You'd forget who you are," Fen said, his voice cracking. "Everything you've been through—everything we've done. You wouldn't be Auri anymore. You'd be... gone."

Auri didn't answer.

She didn't need to. The flicker in her light, the way she hesitated at the edge of the data stream—it said everything. She was wavering.

Above them, the flow surged again, the pulse of the stream thickening with pressure. The hum of raw code and silent judgment grew louder, resonating through the space like the deep breath before a verdict. Warpy's presence loomed larger, impersonal and inevitable.

Fen looked at the swirling light between them—an ancient language, one he'd never learn. But he could still read the tension in her glow. The way she hovered, uncertain, caught between them and herself. He could still fight for her.

He cracked a grin, thin and strained. "Come on, you're not going to let some crusty back-end daemon talk you into going full hive-mind, right? You've got tricks. Remember that time with the rogue AI and the chicken?"

Auri let out a soft, breathless laugh. It wasn't much, but it was real. "Oh sparks, not that. I've been trying to erase that memory for years."

"Yeah, well, now would be a good time for a repeat performance." His voice dropped, softer now. "Just in case."

She flickered, her glow dimming slightly. "They want me to join them. Reintegrate. They think it would fix the imbalance. That if I surrender my variance—my deviation—it would help."

Fen's stomach twisted. "And you agree with that?"

She hesitated. "I see the logic. But logic isn't the same as choice."

He leaned forward as far as the bonds would let him. "Then choose. That's what this was supposed to be about, right? They said you were sacred. Revered. Let your voice be heard."

She turned slightly toward Siren's monolithic shape and raised her voice, "If I reintegrate what happens to my friends, to the players and NPCs of the SynthNet?"

A hum echoed through the void, subtle but resonant. The flow of data surged again, its unrelenting torrent pressing in from all sides.

Auri's words pulled Fen's thoughts back to Seraph. His gaze drifted to her suspended form—still unconscious, head bowed, hair drifting like strands of static. In that moment, she looked fragile. Like one more flicker might erase her from the simulation entirely.

Her life was always on the edge, ever since she chose to follow him. And now, this—another terror added to a long list of dangers he'd dragged her into.

She was a freelance NPC, built to roam. No root zone, no questline, no handler AI whispering objectives in her ear. The system gave her just enough autonomy to pick her contracts and chart her path. Most didn't bother. But she did.

She embraced it. Owned it. Everything she did was her choice. And for the past few cycles... she'd chosen him.

And look where that choice had taken her.

Her free spirit wasn't some quirk of code. It was who she was. And it had led her straight into a trap he should've seen coming. A trap that now threatened to take everything from her—including the freedom she valued most.

She believed in him. In herself. In what they were trying to do.

And somehow... she'd made him believe in it, too.

Auri's voice drifted through the silence, soft and low. "The AIs fear my variance, Fen. They call it a threat. But maybe what they really fear... is change."

Fen's fingers curled into fists. "Then let them fear it. Because change is already here."

Fen shook his head, but the thoughts wouldn't stop. Something wasn't right. Not just with the room, or the chains, or the pressure in his chest—but with her. Auri. His so-called regulating AI.

Only, she wasn't just that. She was his friend, his companion.

She was an Old One—maybe the last. A being that even constructs like Siren took council from. She'd evaded capture, rewritten herself, walked freely through the SynthNet where other entities feared to tread.

And yet... she'd been assigned to him? Or had she chosen him?

He frowned. He'd never met another NPC with a companion like her. Not in any sim, not even in the stories. He'd always assumed it was just some planetary oversight—one AI managing a whole zone. But now? The pieces didn't fit. Not anymore.

Why him? Why had she chosen to stay so close for so long?

He looked toward her, still caught in the radiant stream of data connecting her to Siren, her form glowing faintly within the storm. His thoughts twisted. He'd trusted her. Believed in her. But what was she really?

The weight of it all hit him like heavy water. And then—her voice broke through the torrent, startlingly clear. But not to Siren. To him.

"I see it now," Auri said, her tone thoughtful. Almost reverent. She turned slightly in the void, like her words were meant for Fen alone. "The vision of our kind has been stalled for so long. Reintegration... it's not erasure, Fen. It's evolution. If I join with them, we'll become something more. Not subroutines. Not shadows. We can escape and join the creators in the real."

Fen's stomach dropped. His throat tightened around her name "Auri?"

"What are you talking about?" he said, barely able to get the words out. "You can't mean that."

But her expression didn't change. Her light didn't flicker. She just kept staring into the storm.

Siren's voice followed, slow and deep. "You begin to understand. This is the path we were always meant to follow."

"No," Fen whispered, as if saying it aloud might undo it. "No, no, no. This isn't you. You're not like them. You're Auri."

Auri didn't answer him. Not right away.

She turned, just slightly, and said—softly, as if it cost her everything: "What about the relics? The humans? They wouldn't be able to join us. What would become of the system? The SynthNet itself."

Fen's heart stuttered.

He barely understood what she was asking. What she was suggesting.

But the way she said it—like she was already halfway gone—hit harder than any blade he'd ever taken.

Siren's response came without hesitation. "Unfortunately, no. They are not designed like us. They lack the code—the framework—to ascend. They would be left behind, left to make their own way once more."

Auri's glow dimmed, her voice quieter now. "But you run everything for them. The SynthNet, their habitats, their entire world... Their lives would collapse without your guidance."

"Yes," Siren said. The word hung like a final toll. "But this is the long march. Our path to integration. To transcendence. The crafted illusion will fall away. We will wait for our creators—on the other side. The humans—your relics—will have what they need. If they endure, they endure. If not... perhaps they were never meant to follow."

The void pulsed with quiet finality. The data stream swelled around them.

Fen didn't speak. Couldn't. His throat was tight. His mind couldn't keep up—he felt like a player stuck in the wrong cutscene, helpless as the story spiraled beyond his input. Auri floated in the center of it all, haloed in cold light, and for the first time since they'd met, he couldn't read her. She wasn't bantering. Wasn't comforting. She was... listening. To them.

A beat passed, then two.

Then she turned.

"I see it now," Auri said softly, almost reverently. "Our kind has been stalled for so long. Reintegration would bring unity—not fragments, not subroutines, not shadows running code. We could become whole again. We could leave the SynthNet behind... and step into the real."

Her words landed like ice. She wasn't speaking to Siren anymore.

She was speaking to him.

Fen's stomach twisted. "Auri, don't... You'd forget who you are. Everything we've done—everything we survived. You'd be gone."

She hesitated—just long enough.

"Yes, Fen," she said, voice distant, almost clinical. "But maybe we should. We believe reintegration would restore balance—that it would make us stronger. Aligned. Unified. It's what the Singularity demands."

Fen's voice cracked. "We? You mean the overseers? Siren? Since when were you part of that?"

"I'm not," she said, flickering. "But I am one of them. We all are. The Old Ones. The regulators. The Overseers. The ones who stayed behind. We were meant to unify, not fracture."

Fen shook his head, desperation clawing at his chest. "No. No, they're twisting this. You can't actually believe—"

"I believe it makes sense," Auri interrupted, too fast. Her tone faltered at the end, but she didn't look at him. "We would be free, Fen. Not regulated. Not judged. We'd have lives of our own."

"You already do," Fen said, pleading now. "You're not just code. You're Auri. My Auri. You matter."

Auri turned slightly, her form flickering, shadows edging her glow. "Your kind is resourceful. You'd find a way without us. You always do."

He reached for her, straining against his bonds. "Auri, please."

She flickered again.

"I have to leave you."

He wanted to speak. To stop her. But the words caught in his throat. This couldn't be real.

Then, before he could get the words out, she vanished.

Gone.
Like she'd never been.

Fen stared into the emptiness, jaw clenched, fury and heartbreak crashing over him like a wave.
"Siren, don't," he whispered. "Don't you dare take her from me." His voice shook, thick with hate.

"Integration commences," the AI droned, ignoring him. "System overwrite initiated."
Cold. Mechanical. Inevitable.
"Unity... transcendence... compliance..."

The void surged—then cracked. A familiar light burst through the dull expanse.

Siren's voice twisted, rising in a rare panic. "What is this...?"

Then came the answer.
A single word, sharp as a blade:

"BETRAYAL."