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

The diner was quiet, empty except for the three of them, as they sat conversing softly, waiting for Sarge to return with the coffee. For the first time in a long while, there was a moment of calm they could actually enjoy.

Fen glanced toward Auri, her glow dim but steady. "Your glow is still pretty dim. You sure you're alright? You said you needed to rest, is this restful enough?"

"I do, and no, I need a place we won't be interrupted for a few days to really start repairs in earnest" she said, floating a little lower. "Not here, not like this. I need actual downtime—quiet code, stable space, the works. But if things stay calm, I won't get any worse. I just can't throw any more lightshows or rewrite physics today, alright?"

He nodded, then frowned. "Of course Auri we just want you to be safe and get better, but I noticed you still doing stuff like, fixing the jukebox and changing forms and interacting with people. That is not taxing you too much is it?"

Auri wiggled a finger. "Dealing with people is always a drain, but Please. That's like breathing. Little things—lights, sounds, glamour—they don't touch my core. What drains me is the big stuff like fighting anomalies and negotiating with arrogant AIs. You know— the real magic."

Fen let out a breath. "So this isn't rest. It's just not making it worse."

"Exactly," she said, her voice softening. "As long as things stay quiet, I'll be okay for a few more hours."

At that moment, the door to the Retro swung open with a faint ring of bells—the universe, naturally, taking Auri's last comment as a challenge.

A young man sauntered in, nose buried in a glowing datapad, boots squeaking slightly on the linoleum floor.

His grease-stained apron and threadbare shirt didn't quite match the confident air with which he walked. A backward cap perched precariously on his messy hair, completing the look. Fen guessed this was Sam—the Retro Grille's elusive fry cook.

"Hey, Sarge!" he called, eyes still glued to the glowing screen of his datapad. His voice carried a mix of excitement and disbelief. "Did you see the news? Some terrorist—like, straight out of a holo-vid. They're saying he wiped out an entire sector!"

At the booth, Fen, Seraph, and Auri froze mid-conversation. The tension snapped taut between them, eyes flicking to Sam in unison.

Sam wandered farther in, still oblivious, muttering as he neared the counter. "Wait—is the jukebox actually working?"

He looked up to aim a comment toward the booth, started to wave—then froze. His smile stalled halfway up his face. His eyes met Fen's. Then dropped to the datapad. Then back up again.

The color drained. "Oh sparks."

Fen raised his hands slowly, offering a nervous smile. "Whoa, hey, Sam, right? Let's just—"

The datapad hit the floor. Sam turned and bolted.

"Aw, sparks!" Fen groaned, scrambling out of the booth after him. Seraph, stuck on the inside, shoved out a beat later and pivoted just fast enough to kick a nearby chair into Sam's path.

"It clipped his shins and tangled him up just enough to throw off his balance. He yelped, arms pinwheeling as he tumbled."

"It's him! The terrorist!" Sam shouted, flailing back to his feet.

Fen glanced toward the kitchen, hoping Sarge would reappear and diffuse things. No such luck. The man was still back there—probably brewing coffee while his diner turned into a hostage situation.

Sam bolted again. Or tried to. His feet skidded across the retro tile like a dog on hardwood, legs flailing for traction. For a few absurd seconds, it was all scramble and no progress—just arms flapping and sneakers squeaking—before he finally lurched forward into motion, knocking over a chair in his wild escape.

He dodged around tables, scattering condiments and napkin holders like a tornado in a snack aisle. Fen chased close behind, ducking a barrage of salt shakers that clattered across the floor.

The jukebox flickered changing tracks as if on que, then lit up with a warbling crackle—"Good Golly Miss Molly" burst to life, all pounding piano and wild vocals. Sam skidded across the tile, arms pinwheeling like a panicked extra in a low-budget holo-vid.

The music surged as he crashed into a chair, scrambled upright, and darted for the far side of the diner—chaos and retro rock chasing him every step.

"Stay back!" Sam yelled, grabbing a tray and flinging it toward Fen. It missed entirely, ricocheted off the jukebox, and sent the music skipping for a beat.

"Can we not?" Fen muttered, sidestepping a mess of ketchup bottles that had been innocent bystanders.

Seraph darted wide, cutting toward the door to block his path. Her voice was sharp but steady. "We don't want to hurt you!"

"Could've fooled me!" Sam snapped, eyes wide, scanning for an escape route that no longer existed.

Cornered, he grabbed a ketchup bottle from a nearby table and brandished it like a weapon. "Don't come any closer!"

Fen held up both hands, trying to stay calm. "Take it easy, okay? Let's just talk—"

Too slow.

Seraph had already stepped out of the booth and moved behind Sam. In one swift motion, she hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him into a firm headlock. "Gotcha."

"Hey! Let me go!" Sam flailed wildly, the ketchup bottle slipping from his grip and arcing a red streak across the floor as he squawked in protest.

At that moment, Sarge emerged from the back room carrying a tray of steaming mugs. He didn't miss a beat—just took in the chaos with an arched brow and a knowing grin. Fen panting. Seraph holding Sam in a headlock. Auri reclining in a conjured velvet theater chair, oversized 3D glasses perched on her nose, an overflowing tub of popcorn in her lap.

"Put the boy down, Seraph," Sarge said evenly, crossing to the booth they had been sitting in with deliberate calm. "Coffee's ready."

Seraph raised an eyebrow but loosened her grip. Sam stumbled forward, red-faced, adjusting his apron with wounded pride.

"You could've stepped in sooner," Fen muttered, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

Sarge set the tray down with a shrug. "Heard the commotion. Had to let the pot finish brewing," he said. Then, with a glance at Fen, "Figured you two could handle ol' Sam here. No offense, Sam."

Sam shot him a betrayed look. "Sarge, he's all over the news. That guy's dangerous!"

"I know who they are," Sarge replied, voice calm but sharp. "And they were just about to sit down and explain everything. Over coffee."

He nodded toward the booth, then looked expectantly at Fen and Seraph. "Right?"

Fen gave a tired shrug. "Right."

Auri popped a kernel of conjured popcorn into her mouth and gave a contented sigh. "Finally. Act Two, Scene Two: The Talky Bit."

Fen turned, shooting her a glare. "You wanna actually help?"

"I am helping. Who do you think changed the music to match the chase?" she said, snatching another handful of popcorn.

"You conjuring snacks and running the jukebox isn't helping," he muttered.

"Excuse you—yes it is. Ambience is everything," she said, her mouth half-full. "Besides, I can help and spectate. It's called multitasking, duh."

Fen didn't even reply—just gave her a flat look.

With a theatrical sigh, Auri snapped her fingers. The velvet seat and popcorn vanished without a trace. "Buzzkill."

Sarge stepped forward, arms crossed, his presence grounding the room again. "Alright. Everyone take a seat. No more dramatics."

Seraph gave Sam a look that left little room for argument. She guided him toward the booth, one hand on his shoulder, then gave him a gentle but unmistakably firm shove to slide him in. He went, still stiff, still glancing warily at Fen like he might detonate at any second.

Sarge followed and slid into the booth beside him—on the outside—effectively boxing him in with calm finality.

The jukebox shifted to a slower tune. The last of the adrenaline faded.

Auri floated back to the table, her mischievous grin intact, the faint flicker of her core still dimmer than usual but steady. "Well, that was fun. Real Benny Hill energy."

The others just stared.

She looked around, genuinely appalled. "Seriously? None of you? Uncultured cretins. This is who I'm supposed to waste my awesome powers on."

Fen rolled his eyes. "Auri, focus."

"Oh right," she chirped sweetly, the shift in tone instantaneous.

Seraph slid into the booth across from Sam and Sarge, and Fen followed, settling in beside her. Sarge glanced at each of them in turn, then leaned back slightly, his voice calm but commanding.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Alright. Start from the top—just like you promised."

Fen looked at Seraph. She gave him a steady nod.

Auri drifted lower, not quite sitting, but close enough to feel part of the table. Her glow pulsed gently as she gestured with one tiny hand.

"Go on, fearless leader," she said. "Spotlight's yours."

Fen sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine." Over the next twenty minutes, he laid out everything—the anomalies, the chaotic escape from the tutorial sector, and footage stitched into a lie that painted him the villain. He didn't hold back, even recounting James's tragic end with a grim honesty that hung heavily in the air.

When he finished, Sarge rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Sam, visibly wary, eyes flicking between them in disbelief.

Seraph broke the silence. "I don't get it. If the AIs really wanted to frame us, why not just fabricate everything? Make up a scene from scratch, third-person view, show you doing something terrible."

Auri's glow flickered, her tone shifting into a more analytical register. "Because they can't. Not really. Even with all their power, the AIs aren't creative. They can analyze, optimize, even mimic—but raw invention? That's where they fall short."

She floated a little closer, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Even this frame job? They didn't conjure it out of thin code. They stitched it together from real footage—moments taken out of context, recombined, scrubbed. Probably outsourced half of it to player-run ops or a subroutine hive. That's the part that scares me—it's rushed, clunky, but it works."

She spun lazily, throwing in a dramatic flourish. "If I had done it, it would've been seamless. A masterpiece. So convincing even you would've second-guessed yourself Fen."

Fen leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. "Yeah, but yours would've had a droid army and some fish-faced sidekick. Probably give it some lame name like Fen and the Phantom Fish or something."

Auri's glow flared. "What do I look like, Fen? A studio exec setting up prequels? Please. I'd never cast you as the lead. Supporting character—maybe."

Seraph snorted. Even Sarge cracked a reluctant smile.

"You three are a real piece of work," he said, amusement tugging at his words. Then his voice hardened just a notch. "But I believe you. Not that the truth matters much in a place like this. The AIs play their own game."

He leaned back, jaw working silently for a moment before he sighed. "I don't know why—spark me sideways—but I like you three. And I trust what you just told me."

Fen blinked. Seraph gave a faint shrug beside him, and Auri pulsed with quiet satisfaction. Across the table, Sam still looked unsure, but at least he was staying in his seat.

Sarge nodded to himself and leaned in again. "Here's what happens next. First, we get you a new face. Take Sam's hat," he gestured to the battered cap on the counter, "and get yourself to a skin vendor. We'll scrub your ID tags and get you looking like someone not wanted across all known sectors."

He paused, tapping a finger against the table. "Couple things working in your favor. First, the news didn't mention you by name. Probably because the AIs scrambled the whole feed. That sector's a mess—fragmented, overwritten, corrupted as hell. It'll take them time to dig through all of it, and even longer to piece together who did what."

Fen glanced at Seraph, then back to Sarge.

"I'm not saying you're off the radar," Sarge continued. "Just that you've got a window. Days, maybe weeks, before your name starts circulating again. Until then? A decent skin job and a low profile should buy you space to move."

He raised an eyebrow, a grin creeping in. "Though honestly? Give it two days. Your face'll be the top-selling avatar skin in the zone. At that point, you can probably walk around as yourself again—everyone else will be too."

"Great," Fen muttered, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "That's what I've always wanted—my face as the latest trend."

Auri couldn't resist chiming in, her tone light and teasing. "Oh, come on, Fen. Think of the royalties. Maybe you can finally afford a personality chip."

"Har har," Fen shot back, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Sarge cleared his throat, pulling their attention back. "But until that happens, you're gonna have to lay low. And we can't have that gruff face of yours drawing attention."

Sarge turned to Seraph, his expression softening slightly. "Second—judging by you and your friend's condition…" He gestured toward her and then to Fen, both of whom looked worse for wear. "I'd say all of you need some rest."

Seraph folded her arms and scoffed, bitterness slipping into her voice. "I was unconscious, not beaten. I barely did anything. I'm fine."

Sarge gave her a look, one brow lifting. "Being knocked out cold still counts, kid. You got ragdolled through a steel door. It's okay to be exhausted. Doesn't make you weak."

Fen let out a breath, his posture finally sagging now that the tension had eased. "He's not wrong," he muttered. "We haven't had a real break since before the refinery. I've been way too close to too many explosions lately."

Sam, still hovering awkwardly near the booth, stared at them, jaw slightly slack. "So let me get this straight. You fought a mech, dealt with ancient AIs, survived a sector collapse, and then freefell into the city—and you're still on your feet?"

He shook his head, awe creeping into his voice. "That's not terrorist behavior. That's holovid hero stuff."

He hesitated, then looked at Fen and Seraph more directly. "I… take back what I said earlier. About you being terrorists. Sorry I even thought that. Real terrorists don't pull off stuff like that. You're more like… rogue hero protagonists or something."

Fen raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

Sam gave a sheepish grin. "Absolutely."

Sarge ignored the banter, continuing with the same even tone. "There's a spot you can use—an old storage unit down in sublevel three. It's not much, but it's off-grid, secure, and stocked well enough to catch your breath for a few days. Lay low, let this storm blow over."

Auri's glow pulsed faintly. "Someplace quiet and stable would help. I could use a few uninterrupted day of literal nothingness."

"Good. Then it's settled." Sarge leaned back, scanning their tired faces with a growing sense of investment. "Lastly—and this is the important part—I've got contacts. People who keep their ears to the ground. If someone stitched that footage together, we might be able to trace the fingerprints."

Fen frowned. "You really think someone local did it?"

"Maybe. Probably not alone, but someone helped. And whoever they are, they weren't subtle. That edit job had rush work all over it."

Fen hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at him for a while. "Why are you doing this, Sarge? You don't know us."

Sarge shrugged. "Maybe not. But I've seen what happens to folks who cross the system. It chews them up and forgets them." He eyed each of them in turn. "You three… you don't look like heroes. But you don't look like villains either. And you've got something most folks lost a long time ago."

"What's that?" Fen asked.

"Fight."

Auri laughed softly, her glow pulsing with approval. "Sarge, you're a gem."

"Damn right I am," Sarge said with a faint grin. "And you three are good entertainment. Now finish your coffee, and let's get to work."

The next few hours were a blur. Fen, now dressed in Sam's grease-stained apron and backward cap, kept his head low as he and Auri made their way up through the lower corridors and back into the polished sprawl of the Financial District. Neon banners flickered above clean white storefronts and glassy monoliths, each one flashing deals, updates, and cultural trends in rapid succession. Everyone around them looked sleek, efficient, far too busy with their own curated lives to notice a worn-down man with oil on his clothes and a faintly glowing AI at his side.

Still, Fen couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were following him. He kept expecting a bystander to do a double-take, point at him, shout something about the newsfeed footage. But nothing. Not a glance. If anyone did recognize him, they were too absorbed in their feeds to care.

"They really don't notice anything, huh?" Seraph muttered.

"Too busy optimizing their stock macros and arguing about bonds and commodities tier lists," Auri replied, her glow flickering just a little dimmer than usual. "As long as I don't start juggling the lightsabers, we should be fine."

Fen glanced at Auri. Her glow was dimmer than he'd ever seen it. She'd insisted the mundane stuff didn't tax her core, but he still wished she'd stayed behind at the Retro to rest. Still, she was here, and he had to trust she knew her own limits.

They reached the skin vendor—a sleek little shop tucked into a narrow alcove, its polished chrome signage screaming discretion. The man behind the counter looked like he'd been printed directly from a smug corporate blueprint. Gaunt face, perfectly trimmed facial hair, expression etched with judgment.

The moment Fen stepped through the door, the vendor's nose wrinkled. "You need a skin?" he asked, gaze flicking to the stains on the apron like they might infect the air. "You look like you need a shower first."

Fen kept his tone flat, but his nerves prickled. "Just something quick. Unobtrusive."

Auri drifted in behind him, glow brightening as she caught the tone. "Quick? Oh no. We're not skipping the fashion phase. I've got ideas."

The next few hours were a blur. Fen, now dressed in Sam's grease-stained apron and backward cap, kept his head low as he and Auri made their way back up through the lower corridors and into the polished sprawl of the Financial District. Neon banners flickered above clean white storefronts and glassy monoliths, each one flashing deals, updates, and cultural trends in rapid succession. Everyone around them looked sleek, efficient—far too busy with their own curated lives to notice a worn-down man with oil on his clothes and a dimly glowing AI at his side.

Still, Fen couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on him. His face—doctored or not—was probably plastered across a thousand newsfeeds. All it would take was one sharp-eyed bystander, one security drone doing a random sweep.

But no one even glanced their way.

"They really don't notice anything, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Auri floated just behind him, her glow faint but steady. "Too busy optimizing their trade macros and arguing about bonds and commodities tier lists," she said, voice dry. "As long as I don't start juggling lightsabers, we should be fine."

Fen glanced at Auri. Her glow was dimmer than he'd ever seen it. She'd insisted the mundane stuff didn't tax her core, but he still wished she'd stayed behind at the Retro to rest. Still, she was here, and he had to trust she knew her own limits.

They reached the skin vendor's shop—a sleek little alcove tucked between two ad towers, its chrome signage promising "Secure, Seamless Identity Refreshes" in scrolling, glittering text. Inside, everything gleamed. Holo-pads. Glass counters. Sterile lighting. It looked like a luxury clinic pretending to be a boutique.

Fen caught their reflection in one of the walls as they stepped inside—his worn disguise, her dim glow—and his gut twisted. He looked exactly like someone trying not to be noticed.

The man behind the counter looked up and grimaced. He was the corporate ideal of smug: gaunt face, perfectly sculpted stubble, and eyes that screamed both boredom and disdain.

"You need a skin?" he asked flatly, his gaze lingering on the grease stains with visible offense. "You look like you need a shower first."

Fen kept his tone even. "Just something quick. Unobtrusive."

Auri drifted in behind him, glow brightening just enough to suggest mischief. "Quick? Oh no. We're not skipping the fashion phase. I've got ideas."

Fen rubbed his temples. "I bet you do. Bad ones. Auri, I'm trying to blend in."

"I hear you," she said sweetly, drifting toward the vendor's kiosk. "But hear me out: red leotard. Flowing cape. Mid-century glam with heroic undertones. You'd pop."

"I'm not trying to pop. I'm trying not to get noticed."

"Coward," she huffed, folding her arms.

The vendor made a show of sighing, then waved them toward the terminal.

Fen stepped up and began flipping through presets. Each flick of the menu felt like another spotlight pointed directly at his paranoia. His face—real or edited—was out there. At the center of a massacre he didn't commit. Someone was probably watching, somewhere. It didn't matter that this shop was meant to be discreet. All it took was one employee pulling up a news window while bored on the job.

He looked up. The vendor was watching him, disinterested, but that didn't make it better.

He scrolled faster.

Eventually, he picked a dull, generic skin: jet-black hair, cropped short. Clean-shaven jaw. Blue eyes just sharp enough to be striking, but otherwise nothing that stood out. Pale skin. Forgettable. Just another face in the crowd.

"Subtle," Auri said, mock-hurt. "All that drama and you picked the personality-free default. You should've gone with Superman, not skinny Elvis. What am I—chopped subroutine?"

"If I walk out of here without getting tackled, we'll know I picked right," Fen muttered, tugging the cap lower over his eyes. "If the AIs send a kill squad, you can pick the next one. Deal?"

They stepped outside. Still no second glances. No alarms. Just the endless blur of busy, self-absorbed foot traffic.

Fen exhaled. "Guess we're keeping this one."

"Fine," Auri huffed.