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

The morning sun reflected off the gleaming towers of the Citadel, casting long, sterile shadows across the spotless streets. Fen barely noticed. His boots hit the pavement with a tired rhythm, more out of obligation than urgency. Breakfast sat like a stone in his gut—not from the food, but from what they were about to do.

"This is a terrible idea," he muttered under his breath.

Seraph took a sip of her coffee and gave him a sideways glance. "Fen, you said that already. I think that makes... nine times now."

"Eight. I've been keeping count," Auri corrected, drifting lazily above them in her usual soft glow. "Though I appreciate your commitment to the bit, Fen. Keep bringing it up—maybe the god of complaining will come down and change reality just for you."

Fen grunted. "Just practicing for when I have to repeat it to whatever ego-inflated player thinks I'm their new personal sword arm."

Auri dipped down beside him, reshaping mid-glide into a middle-aged woman with a messy bun, half-moon glasses, and a worn holo-novel clutched dramatically to her chest. She floated backward like a jaded book club queen, her voice thick with theatrical flair.

"Oh please, you're going to make a fantastic mercenary. Strong jawline, haunted eyes, that whole grizzled outlaw with a heart of gold thing. You're one shirtless pose away from being the cover model of some trashy romance holo-novel." She fanned herself with the imaginary book, grinning. "The Mercenary's Sword. No—wait—Full Frontal Assault." She cackled, spinning once in midair. "Or Dangerous When Equipped. That one practically sells itself!"

He shot her a look. "You're really not helping."

"I'm helping morale," Auri said sweetly, shifting back to her usual glow. "You just need a little emotional exfoliation, and you'll be the next techno sword-wielding Fabio."

Seraph burst out laughing. "Oh yeah, Auri—that would definitely be a bestseller." She gave Fen a playful nudge. "But seriously, we need the creds, and a gig from this place is going to pay faster than waiting on a royalty check from your heartthrob book deal."

"I know," he said, sighing and indulging their banter with the faintest shake of his head. "Still doesn't mean I have to like it."

They turned the corner, and there it was: the NPC Placement Agency. Compared to the rest of the Citadel's gleaming spires, the building was subdued—sleek, functional, and utterly devoid of charm. Blocky neon letters buzzed above the entrance: NPC For Hire.

Fen stared at the sign for a long beat.

NPC for Hire. If Auri was right… did he even qualify? Am I even an NPC? What am I?

The thought coiled tight in his chest, a flicker of panic rising before he forced it down.

One thing at a time, he told himself, jaw tightening. Find work now. Existential breakdown later.

He sighed and followed the others inside.

The waiting room was practical, but the crowd was anything but. Dozens of NPCs lined the walls in mismatched chairs, each one waiting for their next contract. A hulking soldier with glowing red optics sat in one corner, cybernetic armor gleaming like polished obsidian. On the opposite end, a quartet of Tetrabrachiums loomed—four-armed brutes with thick hair and custom skins designed for frontline brawls. Fen had seen them in battle sims before. The skins were expensive—and brutal.

And here they were, waiting for gigs like everyone else.

On the far side of the room, a different group caught Fen's eye. Three figures sat huddled together, whispering. One was a stocky dwarf, armored and stern. Next to him, an elf polished an intricately carved bow, their long silver hair cascading over their shoulders. Rounding out the trio was a middle-aged man in a leather trench coat, his long black hair falling in a dramatic curtain around his face. He looked every bit the brooding antihero from a fantasy holo-novel.

Auri materialized on Fen's shoulder, taking the shape of a small halfling, complete with curly hair and an oversized cloak. "Oh, look," she said, pointing toward the trio with exaggerated excitement. "I think they need a ring-bearer."

Seraph blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "You think they're getting married?"

Auri gasped, hopping down to the floor in theatrical horror. "Excuse me? I meant the Ring. The One Ring." She held up an invisible object, voice hushed with mock reverence. "One ring to rule them all? Honestly, Seraph—do you even watch holos?"

Fen couldn't help the chuckle that escaped. "Don't encourage her," he said, shaking his head. "She's unbearable enough already."

Auri folded her arms, still in her halfling guise, and stuck out her tongue. "Unbearable? I'm an icon, thank you very much."

Seraph shrugged, still puzzled. "I don't get it, but okay."

Fen sighed, his eyes scanning the room. "Let's just get this over with."

Fen shuffled toward the front desk, Auri trailing behind still muttering to herself in her halfling voice. The NPC Placement Agency looked just as ridiculous as he'd imagined—clinical lighting, cheap chrome fixtures, and just enough corporate cheer to make his skin crawl. But with their dwindling credits, this was exactly where they needed to be.

He and Seraph stepped up to the counter together. She moved with easy confidence, like this was just another errand to check off. Fen followed with the enthusiasm of a man walking into a dentist's office for elective surgery.

"I'll check us in," Seraph said, holding up the digifold like a backstage pass.

"Great," Fen muttered, veering toward a row of stiff plastic chairs. "Wake me up when it's over."

He dropped into one of the seats with a resigned grunt, arms crossed, shoulders sinking. Auri settled next to him in her halfling form, swinging her oversized feet with childish glee.

"Don't worry," she said brightly. "I'll keep him entertained. Maybe we can play 'Spot the Cliché NPC.' Ooh—grizzled mercenary polishing his tragic backstory, twelve o'clock."

Fen smirked. "Keep it up, and I'll sign you up for a solo gig."

At the counter, Seraph was already talking to the receptionist—a young woman in her early twenties with sharp bangs and eyes like digital ink. She looked up from a half-sorted stack of files and gave a polite, if distracted, smile.

"This was given to me yesterday," Seraph was saying, sliding the digifold across the desk. "I stopped in to ask about gigs and talked to a guy named Trent. He told me to come back today and ask for him directly."

The receptionist perked up slightly. "Oh, Trent. One sec." She tapped at a floating holoscreen, its pale blue light flickering across her face. "Yep, he's free. I'll go grab him."

She disappeared through a door behind the desk, and Fen watched her go, brow creasing.

"Trent, huh?" he muttered. "This guy better not try to upsell us on a lifetime contract."

"Relax," Seraph called back over her shoulder. "At least he's not asking you to wear a name tag."

He grunted, unconvinced. Name tag or not, this already felt like the kind of gig that came with invisible strings—and not the fun, grappling-hook kind.

A few minutes later, the door hissed open again, and out came a man who looked like he'd been printed directly from the SynthNet's most aggressively confident template. Tall, blond, well-tailored, and gleaming with sales-rep energy. His smile was bright enough to be weaponized.

"Seraph, right?" the man said, striding forward with his hand outstretched like they were old friends reuniting at a class reunion.

"Ah, you remember me," Seraph replied, a little surprised by the enthusiasm as she shook his hand.

"Couldn't forget a face like that if I tried," the man said with a wink, smooth as scripted charm.

Fen narrowed his eyes. Of course his name was Trent.

"And you brought friends," Trent added, still grinning as he motioned toward Fen and Auri. "Come on back, you three. Let's talk business."

Seraph turned and gestured for them to follow. "Come on, you two. Let's see what he's got."

"Fantastic," Fen muttered, rising from his seat like a man headed for a trap he already saw coming. "Nothing like a salesman grin to pitch you a life-threatening contract."

Auri floated beside him, her halfling form flickering back to her usual glow. "You're not wrong. This is how all the bad horror vids start, you know—big grins, bigger promises, and then boom, axe-murder bots."

Fen arched a brow. "Thanks for that mental image."

"Anytime," Auri replied cheerfully. "I'm here to keep the mood light."

He sighed and fell in behind Seraph, shoulders tightening beneath the weight of it all. Let's just hope the only thing he's axing is my self-respect.

They followed Trent toward a glass-paneled office at the back of the building, his energy radiating like static off a busted screen. Nobody smiles that much without an angle, Fen thought, watching him with growing suspicion.

Inside, the three of them settled into overstuffed chairs that felt just comfortable enough to be disarming. Trent's grin didn't waver as he leaned forward over a sleek holoscreen, fingers poised above its glowing interface.

"So," Trent began, his tone breezy, "what kind of work are you looking for? And—more importantly—what's your background?"

Fen opened his mouth, the words spilling faster than his brain could filter them. "Well, we're a little rusty. We've been stuck on a tutori—"

Seraph's elbow found his ribs with sniper precision.

He coughed mid-word, correcting quickly. "Turtle world," he finished, tone overly casual.

Trent's fingers paused. He blinked. "A turtle world?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a plasma torch. Auri floated forward, her light flickering with what Fen could only describe as mischief.

"Well, obviously," she said, her voice carrying an air of faux superiority. "The turtle is on the back of an elephant. Duh."

Trent's brow furrowed, his confusion deepening as the silence stretched further. "What?"

"You know," Auri continued, undeterred. "A'tuin? Turtles all the way down?" She glanced between them as if the reference should have been universal knowledge. "Seriously? None of you?"

Fen pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "It's... it's some obscure fantasy planet," he said hastily, shooting Auri a pointed look. "And we were, uh... guards. We did guard duty."

Trent's expression snapped back to default optimism. "Sounds funny! Must be one of those niche worlds I haven't come across. Guards, you say?"

"Yes, guards, guards. Naturally," Auri chimed in, her tone cranked to eleven.

"Right," Trent said, fingers flying across the interface. "Well, is that the kind of work you're looking to do again? Guard contracts are always in demand—especially for off-world gigs."

Seraph stepped into the conversation smoothly, her tone calm but firm—the kind that shut down further questions before they could form. "Actually, it needs to be here on the Citadel. We've got prior engagements we need to keep up with."

Fen watched Trent's reaction carefully. There it was—the shift, the recalculation behind the salesman smile. He didn't miss a beat.

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"Understood," Trent said, nodding. "Guards on the Citadel. Got it." He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers in thought. "Let me see what I've got that fits the bill."

Fen leaned toward Auri, voice low. "Turtles all the way down?"

Auri shrugged, her glow flickering smugly. "Seemed like the right color of magical nonsense to sprinkle in. You're welcome."

Trent's fingers danced across the glowing interface as he hummed softly to himself. The tension in the room thickened with each passing second. Fen leaned back, trying not to let his impatience show, one boot tapping idly against the floor. Auri hovered nearby, her glow pulsing with quiet amusement.

Finally, Trent broke the silence.

"Okay," he said brightly, tone breezy but deliberate, "Guard work's not in high demand on the Citadel, unfortunately. But... there's one contract." He looked up, a sly glint in his eye. "How are you with a sword?"

Fen straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Better than most." There was no bravado in the words—just fact. But his tone carried a subtle edge. He didn't like where this was going.

"Just a detail," Trent said, waving it off as if he'd asked about milk preferences. "Let me elaborate." He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, grin sharp as ever. "There's a section of the Citadel—lovingly referred to as the Verdant Expanse. Fantasy sim. Lush jungle, ancient ruins, winding rivers... all beautifully rendered, of course. It's owned by one of the richest hardcore players in the Financial District—real old money. He rents it out annually for an event that's... colorful, to say the least."

He paused, letting the words hang.

"It's referred to as the Annual Division War," Trent said, his grin widening as he leaned into the pitch.

His grin widened, voice slipping into amused narration. "Each cycle, the best and brightest of the financial sector—titans of industry, mind you—set down their datapads and styluses to pick up swords, staves, and shortbows."Very theatrical. Rival firms use it to settle petty disputes, HR spins it as 'team-building,' and you really have to watch out for the interns. Poor souls usually get tossed onto the front line."

Auri snorted. "Interns with swords? Sounds like a terrible Runescape update."

Fen didn't respond right away. His thoughts spiraled briefly—Off the tutorial planet, and right back into babysitting sword-waving noobs. His jaw tightened. At least this time, they're rich noobs.

"This can't be real," Fen muttered, eyes narrowing. "Financial execs trading spreadsheets for swords? That's the part I don't buy."

"Oh, it's very real," Trent said, nodding solemnly. "Ten, maybe fifteen thousand players show up every cycle. Most of them are desk jockeys the rest of the cycle—but here? This is how they stand out. Promotions, partnerships, inside tracks—they're all riding on performance in the Bastion. It's the ultimate networking hack." He gave a knowing smirk. "Word leaks, clandestine rankings circulate, reporters try to sneak in. Never works. Security is tight."

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Which brings us to your potential employer."

"Employer?" Seraph asked, eyebrows rising.

Trent nodded, grin sharpening. "E.J. Fisck. Big name in neural integration tech. One of the major players in the Citadel's corporate ecosystem. Wealthy. Eccentric. Wants to win. He's looking for a team of bodyguards to keep him alive, help him stand out, and—if you're ambitious—maybe even secure first place."

Fen let his head fall back against the chair for a beat, staring at the ceiling. A pampered exec playing knight in the jungle. He exhaled slowly. "If that's the job," he said, voice calm, "we'll handle it."

"Oh, I think you'll find it invigorating," Trent said cheerfully. "And the bonus for that last bit, would be substantial."

"Substantial?" Fen asked, curiosity slipping into his voice before he could stop it. Then he caught the amused look on Trent's face. "Fantasy isn't my favorite. Had a bad experience with LARPing elves once. Anything else on the docket?"

Trent shrugged, spinning in his chair with an air of mock regret. "Not this month. I could dig into the calendar, though—if you're willing to wait."

"No," Seraph said sharply, cutting Fen off before he could mount another protest. Her tone was firm, decisive. "It's perfect."

"Perfect?" Fen sputtered, disbelief radiating off him. "Seraph—"

"We need the credits," she said, gaze steady. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "The substantial credits."

Fen didn't miss the way Trent's eyes lit up—like a shark scenting blood in the water.

"Perfect it is, then!" Trent said, clapping his hands together. "Now, I'll just need to scan your attributes and equipment to determine the most suitable roles for you in the simulation."

Fen raised a brow, but Seraph was already stepping forward, rolling her eyes at his hesitation. She placed her palm on the glowing scanner Trent gestured toward. A soft hum filled the room as the system lit up, processing her data.

"Just need to verify your HexID," Trent said casually. "Standard protocol these days. Couple of NPCs bribed their way into boosted stat tiers, ended up in high-tier sims they couldn't survive. Legal didn't love that."

Fen crossed his arms. "You can see our HexIDs right there."

"Sure," Trent replied, unfazed. "But the lawyers need their checkbox ticked. 'For everyone's protection,' and all that." He made air quotes as the scanner pulsed again.

Seraph's results popped up on the screen with a series of soft chimes. Trent scanned the data with an approving nod, then launched into his next spiel.

"Now, you probably know this already, but corporate policy says I've got to explain how NPC contracts work." He spun the holodisplay around so they could see. "Your inventory is built to adapt—whatever you're carrying will transmute to match the simulation. Dwarven axe from a fantasy run? It becomes a plasma sword in a sci-fi op. Blasters turn into magic bows, staves into rifles—whatever fits the setting."

He tapped a few icons. "What really matters are your attributes and experience logs. Those stay constant across scenarios. That's what determines how well you actually perform."

"Let's see here," Trent muttered, eyes scanning the data. "Attributes:"

Agility – B-tier

Strength – B-tier

Presence – A-tier

Willpower – B-tier

Resilience – A-tier

Cognition – B-tier

"Nice spread," he said. "Strong Presence, high Resilience—you'd be a natural in infiltration or close-quarters command support. Let's peek at gear assignments."

Slot One: Trusty Blaster
A compact, reliable energy weapon with an adaptive targeting module. Ideal for quick draws and precision shots.
Bonus: +5 to agility-based reflex rolls when drawn mid-action.

Slot Two: Vibro Knife and Sheath
A sleek blade that hums faintly when drawn, its edge capable of slicing through reinforced alloys with ease.
Passive Effect: +2 to intimidation when visible, +10 to stealth kills against unaware targets.

Slot Three: Light Synthleather Armor
A flexible, lightweight suit woven with reflective threads. Provides moderate defense while maintaining full mobility.
Passive Effect: Reduces energy-based damage by 15%.

Slot Four: Tracking Dart and Launcher
A wrist-mounted device firing signal-embedded darts. Grants real-time location data across a wide radius.
Bonus: +5 to Cognition when actively tracking a marked target.

Slot Five: Space Whiskey
A reinforced flask of high-proof NPC-grade whiskey.
Function: Morale boost, temporary +1 to Presence for 10 minutes, or a distraction when thrown.
Warning: Not effective against sobriety.

Auri flickered brighter. "Space whiskey? That better come with a tiny umbrella."

"It's for emergencies," Seraph replied coolly.

Trent waved off the banter with a grin. "Solid kit. That Resilience tier's a standout—makes you perfect for a rogue or assassin role. Same gear, just a matter of attitude and how you use it."

Seraph's eyes lit up. "Can you show me the equipment options?"

"Absolutely," Trent said, already pulling up a rotating display of sleek knives, compact gadgets, and lightweight armor. "Gear defines most of the loadout in these sims, so the class names are just for flavor."

Trent spun his chair to face the console, tapping a few commands. The holographic screen displayed her newly transmuted loadout, adapted for the upcoming fantasy sim. Seraph leaned in, her curiosity evident as Trent began narrating her arsenal.

Seraph's Transmuted Loadout

Optimized for Deployment in: Verdant Expanse – High-Fantasy Combat Sim

Slot One: Hand Crossbow
A sleek, compact weapon crafted from dark wood and polished steel, etched with faint runes for enhanced accuracy. Bolts can be coated with poisons or enchanted with temporary effects, depending on the mission.
Ability: Rapid reload for up to three shots before needing to pause. Can fire specialized bolts for distraction or entrapment.

Slot Two: Shadowfang Dagger
A slender, magical blade with a faint purple glow. The dagger's edge shifts slightly, as if woven from the surrounding shadows. When drawn, it emits no sound—not even on impact.
Ability: Phase Slice — allows the dagger to bypass low-level physical barriers or armor once per encounter. Particularly effective against targets relying on heavy defenses.

Slot Three: Ebonweave Cloak
A light, shadowy cloak with threads that drink in the ambient light, rendering the wearer barely visible when moving carefully or in low-light environments.
Ability: Grants passive stealth bonuses and a temporary invisibility skill when standing still or moving at a crawl.

Slot Four: Enchanted Boots of Silence
Sturdy black leather boots reinforced with enchanted soles that eliminate all sound from the wearer's footsteps.
Ability: Completely silences footfalls. Also improves mobility in difficult terrain and adds a slight increase to evasion in combat.

Slot Five: Cowl of the Lost
A dark, enchanted hood sewn with illusion threads that blur the wearer's outline and draw shadows toward them.
Ability: Lost in Shadows — allows the wearer to meld completely into nearby darkness, vanishing from sight for 15 seconds or until an action is taken.
Cooldown: 2 minutes
Additional Effect: When reappearing, the wearer may emerge behind a selected target within range for a guaranteed critical strike.

Seraph's grin widened, eyes gleaming. "I could get used to this," she said, admiring the sleek, deadly elegance of the transmuted loadout shimmering on the holo-display.

Auri hovered near the console, her glow brightening as she scanned the projected gear. "You know, this really suits you, Seraph. Edgy, efficient, and just the right amount of mysterious. I like it."

Seraph nodded, her smile tilting into something sharper. "Yeah. Me too. Feels... right. Like it's my style."

Fen snorted. "Didn't you say, and I quote, 'cloak-and-dagger stuff is too dishonest, too dirty'?"

Seraph shrugged, still admiring the interface. "I did feel that way—until I saw these sweet abilities. Turns out I'm morally flexible if the boots are enchanted and the cloak lets me vanish into shadows."

Auri pulsed with approval. "Admitting you were wrong when presented with overwhelming evidence—especially enchanted boots—is growth. I support this development."

Fen shook his head with a quiet grunt of amusement, arms folded. "So while you're off doing rogue things in the rafters, I get to be the one stuck hand-holding Mr. Fisck's hand. Perfect."

Seraph turned, that same grin lingering. "Aw, don't be like that, boss. Maybe Trent will give you a noble knight loadout to balance out my rogue. You can hit things with honor."

He gave a mock wince. "Please no. You'll be off skulking in shadows, and I'll be stuck delivering monologues about justice and virtue while clanking around in thirty pounds of simulated plate armor."

Trent spun back to the console with theatrical flair. "Alright, your turn, big guy."

Fen slowly turned to look at him—one brow raised.

Trent froze, smile faltering. "Uh, right. Noted. No more umm... titles. Please place you hand on the scanner"

The scanner hummed to life, displaying his attributes and equipment in glowing script. Trent's brows arched higher with each stat.

"Dexterity, S-tier. Strength, A-tier. Resilience—another S-tier? What the hell?" He gestured excitedly at the gear. "Durasteel Blade, Blaster MK-IV, and… wait, 'The Moon is a Harsh Mistress'? An epic-tier paperback?"

Fen gave a faint shrug. "I've had that since before I can remember."

Trent kept scrolling, grin widening. "Towel of Infinite Use? Mythic tier! And… NPC Space Whiskey? You too?"

Auri whirred. "He never leaves home without it."

Trent tapped the screen with a laugh. "You know, both of you having it kinda kills the novelty, but it fits him. The whole stoic-drinks-in-silence vibe."

Trent leaned in, eyes wide. "Wow. Double S-tier? That's… ridiculous. You could land real contracts with numbers like this. Why are you even here?"

Fen didn't flinch. "Because I don't have the people skills you do, Trent." He let the jab hang—just sharp enough to draw blood—but Trent, of course, missed it.

The recruiter only grinned wider. "Come on, with stats like these? You're built for something flashy. Honestly, you're screaming high-tier magic user."

Fen's eyes narrowed. "If you say wizard—if you even think about robes or a beard—I walk."

Trent looked up, clueless. "Are you sure? You'd make a killer—"

"No, Trent. Listen," Fen said, slower this time.

But Trent's eyes drifted back to the readout, missing the shift in tone entirely. "But seriously, these stats—"

Fen leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady. "Maybe I didn't make it clear. My social skills aren't exactly polished. I'm not used to convincing people to see things my way, Trent. I break the things that don't listen."

That finally gave Trent pause. He chuckled, but it came out tight, tugging at his collar like the room had gotten warmer. "R-right. Fair enough! Wizards are a fashion disaster anyway. Robes? Terrible mobility. And beards in combat?" He gave a theatrical shudder. "Total liability."

Fen gave a dry nod. "Glad we're on the same page."

Trent turned back to the console, typing faster now, his posture a little more respectful. Then the grin returned—slow, deliberate, like he'd just drawn the card he'd been waiting for.

"Fen, my friend… how do you feel about being a warlock?"