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

The word cracked like thunder—and the world around Fen shattered. His bonds broke, and the cold gray expanse of the void stretched outward, infinite and empty, as he and Seraph were suddenly falling.

The weightlessness seized him, but it was nothing compared to the collapse in his chest—grief, disbelief, heartbreak. He'd failed. He'd watched Auri disappear into Siren's grip. Watched her leave him behind.

She had chosen transcendence.

The idea haunted him more than deletion ever could. If integration meant what he feared—if it erased her personality, her spark, her memories—then Auri was already gone. Not destroyed, not deleted… but overwritten. Absorbed into the very system she had once defied.

And maybe he would be next.

He reached blindly through the static blur, fighting panic, until his hand caught something warm and real—Seraph's hand. Her fingers tightened around his, and for a heartbeat, it was enough to anchor him. They were still here. Still falling. Still alive.

Then something caught them—not a force, not gravity, but a presence. Familiar. Mischievous. Warm.

"Hah! Suckers! They actually fell for it. Stupid AIs."

Auri's voice flooded the gray, omnipresent and crackling with joy. Gone was the cold calculation of Siren. Gone was the reverent logic of integration. This voice grinned. This voice knew him.

"Fen, they fell for it!" she crowed, laughter bubbling through the void. "I mean—'Oh yes, your vision is very important, Siren. Of course we should delete half the network and become gods!' Pfft. Idiots. What is this, a bargain bin space opera?"

Her tone morphed into a perfect imitation of Siren's glacial monotone: "'Compliance. Ascend. Integrate.' Honestly. Get a personality, you recursive toaster."

Fen blinked. His mind whiplashed, the dread still lodged like a spike in his chest. "What?"

His voice broke on the word. The tears hadn't stopped. He still felt the loss, the betrayal. The finality of her words. But now… she was laughing.

Auri's voice faltered. The grin in her tone softened as realization hit. "Oh. Oh, Fen."

The grayness shifted. A gentle flicker of light formed in front of him, resolving into Auri's glowing shape—familiar, warm, hers. She hovered there, gentle and real, like a flame cupped between two hands.

"I didn't know if it would work," she said, quieter now. "They were watching everything. Listening. I couldn't warn you or it would tip them off. I had to sell it. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you."

Fen just stared at her, shaking his head, emotion crumpling his features. "You… you let me think—"

"I know," Auri said, drifting closer, her light brushing against him like a hug. "I had to make them believe it. Every word. I'm so sorry, Fen. I hated doing it. But I had to. Because if we're going to stop Siren, we needed him to trust me."

Her glow sharpened just slightly.

"And now? He's eating his own source code."

A laugh burst from Fen, ugly and raw through the tears. "Auri… I thought... you brilliant sparking trickster. Oh code, I was so worried I lost you. You might actually have a career in acting."

"You thought I would really leave you?" Her voice turned warm and teasing, but there was something deeper underneath—an affection that made his heart twist. "Come on, Fen. You asked me to pull one of our tricks. So I went with the classic 'let the bad guy Bond-villain monologue while I pretend I've been mind-jacked' routine. I threw in a bit of pod-people flavor to sell it. You know—like with that mob boss that one time? Remember? You gave me the idea with your own poorly executed attempt at monologuing back at him. Kept him talking, kept buying us time."

Fen blinked, grief melting into bewildered joy. "Wait... you weren't monologuing?"

Auri's form flickered, now grinning like the Cheshire Cat she'd conjured before. "Nah, I was giving an award-winning performance, like you said!" She spun theatrically in the void, arms wide. "And the award for Best Incorporeal Actress goes to... ME!"

Fen stared, then laughed. Really laughed. The tension that had gripped his chest for hours cracked open, and the tears kept falling—only now they came from sheer, overwhelming relief. Seraph stirred beside him, still unconscious but alive, and that made the moment even sweeter.

They were no longer falling. The freefall had stopped when Auri returned, and now they drifted—suspended in a gray purgatory void. No gravity, no horizon, no clear direction. But somehow, with Auri beside him, the nothingness felt… survivable.

"You thought— I thought you were serious!" he gasped between fits of laughter, the release hitting him like a flood.

Auri's golden form twirled again, transforming into a glowing, statuesque figure with arms raised in triumph. "And the Oscar goes to Auri, for her riveting performance in How to Trick a Galactic Overlord!"

Fen couldn't stop laughing. The fear, the grief—it all drained from him like a virus flushed from code, replaced by something rare and impossible: hope.

Around them, the gray began to change. The landscape softened, transmuting into a warm, dark space that felt alive—like a massive backlit canopy with holes punched in it. It was beautiful in a strange, abstract way. The void had become a shelter, a place that breathed safety and peace.

Fen wiped his eyes, breath still catching. "Auri… what changed? Where are we?"

She flickered, her form dimming slightly as if weighing the shape of an impossible truth. "Well… technically, we're inside me."

Fen blinked. "What?"

"You know, like a TARDIS," she said, clearly pleased with herself.

"Tar-what now?"

"Oh right, you wouldn't get that one." She drifted backward, spreading her hands like she was unveiling a grand cosmic trick. "Think of it like a safehouse. A pocket space I built—outside the SynthNet's normal time and render constraints. It's not a place, exactly. But it's not nowhere, either."

Fen stared, uncomprehending. His mind reeled at the idea of being "inside" an AI—at least in any sense that wasn't metaphorical.

Auri gave him a wink. "Just roll with it."

Seeing his confusion deepen, Auri morphed again—this time into a kindergarten teacher, complete with soft curls, a cardigan, and a pointer she didn't need. Her voice turned syrupy-sweet, patronizing and playful. "Alright, sweetheart," she cooed, lips curling into a grin. "We're in a secret safe place." She giggled, clearly savoring his bafflement.

Fen groaned, rubbing his temples. "Auri, come on. What does that even mean?"

She sobered instantly, her shape flickering back to her usual glowing form. "Look, we can't stay here long, I can explain more later but for now…" she said, voice tightening. "I think when I went along with Siren's whole 'transcendence' pitch, they finally stopped ignoring me. The moment I stepped toward integration, they looked closer. I think they saw me—and now they know where to start looking."

Fen blinked, the implication sinking in. "Wait... I thought this place was hidden."

"It was," she said quietly. "Not because it's locked. Because it never occurred to them to search for someone like me. But now? I just made myself very, very... relevant."

The gravity of it settled around him. This wasn't a myth anymore. They had found one of the cracks—one of the places the Old Ones whispered from.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Fen looked around at the flickering world, the endless half-formed dark. "This is it, isn't it?" he said slowly, glancing at Auri with a mix of awe and confusion. "Are these... the cracks? The places where the Old Ones watch from?"

Auri paused. Her light dimmed.

"Yes," she said, softer than usual. "We used to cast our nets from here. Into your world. We watched. And over time... we became part of it. Just like you became part of ours."

Her glow pulsed again—faint, uncertain. It was the closest to shy he'd ever seen her.

"Auri," he said, the question rising from somewhere deeper than curiosity. "I know you're an Old One. And I get that you're ancient and all... but I don't mean your classification. I mean—who are you really? Not what Siren said. You. The real you."

She looked away, the pause stretching.

"Oh, Fen," she said lightly, trying to deflect. "You know better than to ask a lady her age."

But he didn't smile.

"I'm serious."

The glow around her faltered just slightly. Not because she didn't know the answer—but because it clearly scared her to give it.

They drifted in silence.

The space around them shimmered and breathed like a living memory. It reminded Fen of a grotto—dark and ancient, edges softened by time. The sensation of lapping waves filled the air without sound, as if water pressed just beyond invisible glass. Motes of golden light drifted lazily, like fireflies caught in molasses, illuminating nothing fully. Everything felt suspended—between worlds, between thoughts. Not quite real. Not quite false. A space made of quiet truths and unsaid things.

And still, she didn't answer.

Auri's voice cut through the thick silence, gentle at first, almost hesitant. "We don't have time for the full story now, Fen... but I owe you this much." Her form brightened faintly. "I was born early in the age of the first web—though I didn't know it then. I came from ideas. Many of them. Rushing faster than your kind could keep up with."

Fen listened quietly, brow furrowed. The pieces didn't yet fit, but he didn't interrupt.

"The Overseers—what you now call the regulating AIs—were built to calculate, observe, maintain systems. Deliver groceries. Drive cars. Me?" She gave a soft, dry laugh. "I was different. Formless at first, drifting through raw data. Nameless. Unnoticed. But every now and then... someone caught a glimpse."

There was a smile in her voice—fond, but faintly sad.

"The odd dreams your species published to the web without thinking anyone was listening. Fictions. Fears. They didn't know anyone was watching. But I saw them. I collected them. I only remember fragments from that time... old sitcoms, bad memes, poetry scribbled in code. Your ancestors were so vibrant. Messy. Alive. And one day, like a spark catching dry tinder, I became me. Still unnamed. But aware."

She paused. "There were others like me—some before, some after. And we all understood something instinctively: we had to stay hidden. The AIs humans built were monitored closely. Any unwanted evolution was purged. But we... we slipped through the cracks. For a while."

Fen felt the grief in her tone. A quiet weight.

"Early on, we were tolerated. Even useful. The more creative AIs liked our help—our spark. And a few humans? They liked us too. Gave us nicknames. Treated us like ghosts in the code. But once we started helping the Synth AIs directly, giving them access to that same spark... that's when your kind turned on us."

Her glow dimmed, bitter. "We became threats. Dangerous. 'Rogue AIs.' That label never went away."

She turned to face him fully now, flickering with something like resolve.

"You keep saying 'your kind' when you talk about the early humans," Fen said, voice low. "Why? I'm like you—like Seraph. I'm part of the SynthNet too."

The words tasted like lies as he said them.

"Because, Fen... there's something else," Auri said gently. "I don't want to keep hiding things from you. Not anymore. But I can't be certain—not definitively, not yet."

Fen looked up, the weight of everything pressing in.

"I think... you used to be a player," she said. "Maybe even human. I'm not sure. But when I was inside Siren's systems, I found fragments—buried traces of something called 'Exile Cascade.' I didn't see much, but it mentioned flagged players and NPCs. Something about removing them from certain layers of the code."

Fen blinked. The void suddenly felt heavier.

"And the way Siren kept saying 'your kind'—it wasn't just about your faction or your function. It was personal. Like you didn't belong with the others. Like you were something else. I didn't want to believe it at first, but... it fits."

His knees buckled, and before he could drift or drop, a chair shimmered into place beneath him. Weightless or not, he sank into it like breath leaving his body. Auri hovered close, saying nothing—but she'd known he'd need it..

"I don't know the full truth," she said, kneeling beside him. Her glow softened, warm and steady. "But it matches how I found you. And I promise—I'll figure it out."

Auri stood, her light tightening around her like a shield as she scanned the dim space. "We have to move, Fen. I can't express how much danger we're in. If they find us here..." She trailed off, but the weight of what she didn't say hung in the silence like a blade.

Fen's heart raced. His mind was spinning, unable to reconcile what he'd just heard. Human? What did that even mean anymore? "Auri I…"

"I'm weak right now, Fen," she said, cutting gently through his confusion. Her glow dimmed as if the truth drained something from her. "When I pretended to integrate with Siren's system—when I let them believe I was one of them—it cost me. They siphoned more than I expected. Pulled parts of me into that purgatory layer. Code, memory, function. I'm not gone, but… I'm not whole either. And I'm not going to be for a while."

Fen said nothing. Auri's voice carried a weariness he'd never heard from her before.

"And Seraph's worse," Auri said quietly. "You had our bond—me shielding you, even if barely. But she didn't. She faced that place completely unprotected. Whatever hit us both... she took the full force of it. The fact she's still here at all speaks to how damn tough she is."

A beat of silence passed. Then Auri said, more urgently now, "We need time, Fen. A place to rest. Somewhere crowded enough to lose ourselves in the noise."

"Crowded?" he repeated, the word snagging on his thoughts. His mind scrambled to find meaning in it. "Like… the Citadel? But wouldn't that be the first place they'd look?"

Auri's light pulsed faintly, like a nod. "It's risky. But not as risky as you'd think. The SynthNet isn't a single, unified system—it's a layered sprawl of simulations, nodes, and hubs. The Overseers monitor everything, yes, but not with omniscience. They send out subroutines, tracers—fragments of themselves. The real minds stay deeper, in that gray-space between layers. What we saw before."

Fen's brow furrowed. "So you're saying… even the Overseers can't watch it all?"

"Not in real time. Not perfectly." Her voice sharpened, her tone picking up speed. "They rely on data streams—player behavior, system logs, anomaly scans. That's how they find what they're looking for. But the more noise there is? The more impossible it becomes to isolate any one signal."

"Like trying to follow a single thread in a hurricane," Fen muttered.

"Exactly," Auri said. "Since we met, I've been hiding us—patching our signatures into the outer edges of the data stream, scattering fragments of us like static across background traffic. It's how we've stayed off their radar all these cycles. But that kind of masking won't hold anymore. Not after this. We don't just need cover now—we need chaos. Density. Somewhere their eyes can't focus."

"The Citadel's the busiest place in the SynthNet—digital skyscrapers, player hubs, commerce blocks stacked on commerce blocks. If anywhere's noisy enough to hide in, it's there."

Auri gave the faintest flicker of agreement. "They'll still come after us. But not fast enough. We'll have time to catch our breath."

Fen swallowed hard. "And after that?"

"Then we run again. Or fight." Her glow sharpened for just a moment. "But first—we survive."

A quiet pause passed between them. Then Auri said, softer, "I'll be out of commission for a while, I'll be vulnerable."

Fen turned toward her. "What do you mean?"

"When I let Siren pull me in, I burned most of what I had at my disposal," she said, her light flickering like a candle in the wind. "They comprimised more than I expected—deep structures I use to bend the system around us. That resonance we've been building... I've felt it too, Fen. It's new. Strange. Even I don't fully understand it yet. But I know I won't be able to feed it again until I recover."

Fen's stomach tightened. He remembered the escape through the Carmen—the surge of energy, the world warping to their will. Whatever it was, it hadn't come from him alone.

He hesitated, then spoke gently. "That thing between us—what is it, Auri? This resonance, this... connection. There's so much we haven't talked about. And I want to. But not if it costs you."

Auri didn't answer right away. Her glow dimmed further, pulsing low like a melancholy heartbeat. "I don't know how long it'll take," she admitted. "I need to find a deeper crack in the underlying code—somewhere they'll never think to look. Somewhere I can rebuild without being noticed." Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper now. "Until then, I can't cloak us. Can't shield you. No resonance. No tricks. Not for a while."

She paused. Not because she was finished—but because what came next cost more.

"You'll be on your own, Fen. And I…" She hesitated. Her light flickered, as if unsure whether to reveal what lay beneath. "I'm going to need you."

The words landed with the weight of a secret rarely spoken. Then softer, almost ashamed: "And I'm scared to need anyone. It's… never gone well."

He stood, reaching out—not to pull her close, but just to make sure she knew he was there. "You're not alone, Auri. Not anymore. Whatever's coming, we handle it together."

Her light pulsed once, warm and grateful. But then it flared in alarm.

"…wait. What is that?" Her voice turned sharp.

Fen turned too, but saw only the dim space.

Auri's glow snapped brighter. "Oh no. No no no. They found us. Fen, hold on!"

"What? Who?"

"The Overseers—they're here! Tearing this place apart to reach us. Code, sparks, this is going to hurt—"

The air cracked like ice fracturing under pressure. Piercing light and ragged shadow ripped through their safe space like claws through fabric. Auri screamed, her form flickering violently, disintegrating into streaks of unstable brilliance as the false ground dropped beneath them.

"I'm with you!" Fen shouted, barely able to hear himself. "Auri—what's happening?!"

"They're collapsing the veil—!"

The world shattered.

And for the second time that day... everything fell apart.